Looks lovely on you

After she was done with her meal,

Sherry hesitated, her breath catching in her throat as she peered into the dimly lit bathroom. The absence of a proper door sent a shiver of apprehension coursing through her. This was no ordinary sanctuary; it was a place that could easily become a stage for shame if the master of the house chose to enter unannounced. She still bore the vivid memories of her previous days—stripped bare, exposed alongside other Captives, all subjected to the whims of those who viewed them as mere possessions.

The water was an inviting temptation, a promise of solace against the grime that clung to her after the fall. As it flowed over her skin, the dirt and sweat surrendered, swirling away in murky tendrils until the tub transformed into a murky brown pool. She lost herself in the sensation, pouring fresh water over her head, allowing it to trickle through her tangled hair, loosening the knots that mirrored her chaotic thoughts.

But a shiver slithered down her spine, a reminder that she was not alone in this house, nor was she entirely free. She had to step out of the tub before the chill seeped into her bones. Grabbing the towel, she wiped her skin with care, ensuring it remained pristine. The last thing she wanted was to leave any evidence of her filth on the plush white fabric.

After glancing cautiously around the curtain, Sherry slipped into the floral dress left for her by the butler, Nickison. It was pale and delicate, adorned with flowers that danced across the fabric. The lace at her waist teased the curves of her body, and her fingers trembled as she fumbled to tie it. She spun slowly, allowing the lace to cinch her waist before tying a discreet knot, hiding it from view as if it were a secret.

The dress accentuated her figure—a small waist flaring into soft hips, the hem cascading down elegantly. The sleeves were short, barely brushing her shoulders, giving her an ethereal quality that seemed too grand for someone of her station. Perhaps being a captive had its unexpected privileges, she mused. But as she admired her reflection, a frown creased her brow. Why was she dressing up? What did it matter when her life was dictated by another’s whims?

Before she could lose herself further in thought, the door creaked open. Her heart raced as she turned to face Dallion, the man who had purchased her. He was striking—tall, with hair slicked back save for a few rebellious strands that hung over his forehead. His full lips were pressed into a straight line as he surveyed her, and she felt a mix of admiration and trepidation.

“The dress looks lovely,” he declared, his voice smooth like silk as he stepped into the room. “Don’t you think? I was worried it wouldn’t suit you, but I have a knack for choosing well.”

While he reveled in his self-praise, Sherry remained silent, her throat tightening at his words.

“Now, you can take off the dress,” he commanded suddenly, a wicked glint in his eye.

Sherry’s heart sank as she instinctively stepped back, her gaze locking onto his.

“Little mouse, you can’t possibly be attached to that dress,” he tilted his head, examining her expression. “It was bought for the daughter of a high figure in my world. She’s been begging me to shop with her, and I thought what better gift than this?” He held up a hand, indicating her diminutive stature compared to his towering form. To him, she was a mere mouse.

When he snapped his fingers, it broke her reverie, and annoyance flickered across her features.

“I should teach you a lesson in obedience, or perhaps I’ll send you back to the Bluebeard establishment for some proper discipline. That’ll show you not to make faces at this master,” he taunted while pointing at himself, and her heart dropped at his words. She quickly schooled her expression, lowering her eyes to the floor.

Dallion was relentless, and she regretted ever hinting at her feelings of being more than a mere captive. The marks of her past loomed over her like a shadow, a constant reminder of her status—she was a nobody, a captive he bought, she was forever bound to him.

“You didn’t think I’d dress my little mouse like a lady, did you? Your clothes are right here,” he said, pointing to a stack of clothes in the small cabinet beside the massive wardrobe in his room brandishing a stuck of new simple, dull dress. The garments looked like they had seen better days in the hands of their tailor, a stark reminder of her reality. It pained her to realize how far she had fallen. Though she despised her situation, the beauty of the dress she wore contrasted sharply with the simple fabric he offered.

“It’s a folly to think he’s kind,” Sherry thought bitterly as she took the dress from his hands, feeling its coarse texture against her fingers. She felt trapped between the allure of her current attire and the humiliation of her servitude.

His words cut deep, a jagged reminder of her place in his world. She was no longer the woman she once was; now, she was merely a possession, a shadow of her former self. Unlike servants who could leave or change their fates, her life was shackled to the man who had bought her.

Taking a deep breath, she retreated into the bathroom, the sanctuary where she could momentarily escape the torment of his gaze.

“How are you doing?” he called out, his voice dripping with feigned concern.

Annoyed, she remained silent, but he pressed on, “If you don’t want me asking questions while you change, I can always make it more… interesting.”

If only her glare could incinerate him, she thought as she closed her eyes, her pulse quickening.

“I'm hungry,” she finally admitted, exhaustion creeping into her tone. It was better to be honest with him than allow him to twist her words. He thrived on control, bending everything to fit his desires.

“Ah, I see. Don’t tell me you’re a glutton. I thought you had a bowl earlier.” His taunt stung, and she pressed her lips together, pulling the dress from her body.

The nerve of him! Sherry’s indignation flared as she fought to maintain her dignity. Though she was now a captive to him, her pride had not been completely extinguished. But did pride matter more than her hunger? Her stomach growled softly, betraying her.

“I need more food,” she admitted, the truth slipping from her lips despite her frustration.

“Don’t worry, little mouse. You’ll be fed, but first, you must wear your clothes,” he said with a smirk that sent a chill down her spine.

As she donned the second dress—an unsightly sack-like garment—she felt her spirits sink. The fabric scratched against her skin, a constant reminder of her plight. Yet a rebellious thought flitted through her mind as she narrowed her eyes at her reflection.

She pulled on the loose threads of the dress, unraveling it with quiet determination, each tug fueled by a sense of defiance.

When she stepped out of the bathroom, a surge of satisfaction coursed through her at the sight of Dallion’s brightening expression.

“Look at you, simply radiant!” he proclaimed, taking the tattered dress from her hands. “Come now, let’s get you fed.” Without waiting for her to respond, he opened the door and beckoned her to follow.

They descended the grand staircase, Sherry kept close, her heart pounding with uncertainty. The lavish mansion surrounded her with an air of opulence that felt foreign to her existence.

They entered a spacious dining room, where a long table was set, lavishly adorned with delicacies that made her mouth water. Four people sat at the table, their presence commanding and intimidating. Nickison stood beside an older man who occupied the head seat, and it didn’t take long for Sherry to notice the crimson glow of their eyes—a telltale sign of their Mafia lineage.

Her heart raced as the realization sank in. Had Dallion lured her into a den of predators? The thought of becoming their meal sent icy dread pooling in her stomach.

“Welcome, little mouse,” Dallion said with a devilish grin, oblivious to her rising panic.

The table was set for a feast, but she felt like the main course, her instincts screaming at her to flee.

“Sit,” he commanded, gesturing toward an empty chair.

Torn between fear and obedience, Sherry sank into the seat, acutely aware of the predatory gazes that locked onto her. The atmosphere crackled with tension around her, and she felt exposed, as if every secret and vulnerability were laid bare.

“This is my family,” Dallion announced, gesturing to the others, “and we’re eager to get to know you.”

Their eyes glimmered with curiosity, their expressions inscrutable as they observed her with the intensity of hunters sizing up their prey.

“Why don’t you tell us about yourself?” the older man said, his voice low and commanding, sending shivers down her spine.

As she opened her mouth to respond, the weight of their stares bore down on her. The mask of her composure slipped, and she felt the walls closing in. Would they see her as more than just a commodity?

But before she could gather her thoughts, Dallion leaned closer, his voice a whisper that felt like a caress laced with danger. “Don’t worry, little mouse. You’re safe here—at least for now. Just remember who holds the power.”