Genesis

Three days.

Three suffocating days since they dumped me in this lifeless mansion. It felt like I’d been dropped onto another planet—a world too pristine, too quiet, too alien. No Monica. No Mark. No Jimmy. No screaming, no beatings… nothing.

I should have felt relieved, but the dead silence only kept my nerves shredded.

When I first arrived, I thought it would be like my old hellhole. Strict rules. Barked orders. Instead, this place was a ghost town. The butler, Richard, brought me food daily, but I barely touched it. The plates were piled high with unrecognizable dishes. Meat dripping in rich glazes. Sweet-smelling bread. It was too much.

I wasn't allowed to eat like this before. Why would I be now?

My stomach clawed with hunger, but I only dared to take a few bites. What if this was a sick test? What if stuffing my face meant a beating?

Then there was the bathroom—bigger than my entire bedroom at Monica’s. Gleaming tiles, massive mirrors, and shiny silver fixtures I didn't understand. I hadn't touched a thing. How could I? Monica’s cruel sneer still echoed in my head: Filthy freaks like you don’t deserve nice things.

So, I steered clear. I hadn't bathed or changed in three days. The bedroom reeked of stale sweat and urine, but no one said a word. The silence felt like confirmation: I wasn't allowed to use it.

I slept on the hardwood floor, wrapped in the soiled bedspread. It was safer than ruining the pristine mattress. I kept waiting for someone to storm in, scream at me, and backhand me for the mess. Nobody came. The isolation was choking me.

I just needed the rules. If someone would just lay down the law, I could blindly obey.

Curled up on the filthy fabric, hot tears tracked down my cheeks. My stomach violently protested, but I ignored the pangs, screwing my eyes shut to force myself to sleep.

The door clicked open.

My muscles locked.

Blinding light flooded the room. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying that if I played dead, they’d leave.

But the voice that followed froze the blood in my veins. Deep. Sharp. Pissed.

"What the actual fuck."

It was him. My husband.

I didn't dare twitch. My heart hammered against my ribs, threatening to crack the bone. His low, disbelieving tone sent violent shivers down my spine.

I braced for the inevitable: threats, pain, fists. That’s what always followed a tone like that.

I peeked through my lashes. He filled the doorway, his broad frame silhouetted against the hall light. His dark eyes darted around the room, taking in the squalor. The stained sheets. The untouched mattress. The rotting food still sitting on the silver tray. And finally... the pathetic mess curled up against the baseboard.

I wanted the floorboards to swallow me whole. Deep shame clawed at my chest, but I stayed frozen. Moving always made the beatings worse.

Slow, heavy footsteps broke the dead quiet. I flinched at the creak of his leather shoes, shutting my eyes tightly again. I could hear his ragged, uneven breaths.

"What..." His voice cracked. He let out a harsh exhale, fighting to rein in his temper. "What the hell is going on in here?"

The question hung in the air like a blade. My jaw parted on pure instinct, even though my vocal cords were dead. I couldn't speak, even to save my life.

He moved closer. Fabric rustled as he crouched down, his massive body radiating heat.

"Hey," he murmured, his tone dropping a terrifying notch. "Look at me."

I couldn't.

"Genesis," he commanded. It wasn't a yell, but it demanded obedience. I didn't know what his endgame was. What he was going to do to me.

Trembling, I turned my head. My cheeks burned with humiliation as I kept my gaze locked on his designer shoes instead of his face.

A heavy silence stretched between us.

When he finally spoke, it was a hoarse whisper, meant for himself. "What the fuck happened to you?"

My stomach bottomed out. Was he furious? Obviously. But why hadn't he hit me yet? Was he just too disgusted? I couldn't crack his code.

He raised a large hand. I cringed, bracing for the strike. But the blow never came. Instead, he rubbed a hand exhaustedly down his face and barked over his shoulder.

"Richard!" The booming roar made me jump out of my skin.

I scrambled to my feet, my heart hammering in sheer panic. What rule had I broken now? Was he calling backup to punish me?

Moments later, Richard practically ran into the doorway, his face chalk-white. "Y-yes, sir?"

"Scrub this damn room," Kier snapped. "And find her some clothes. Sweats, something comfortable. And get hot food up here. Now."

Richard gaped like a dying fish, totally thrown off guard.

"Move!" Kier roared, leaving zero room for debate.

Richard scrambled down the hall. Kier turned his dark gaze back to me. I ducked my head, staring blindly at my dirty fingernails, praying to turn invisible.

"Come with me," he ordered, rising to his full height.

Fresh tears tracked through the grime on my face. This was it. I steeled my spine. I could survive whatever he did to me. I'd survived worse.

Nodding mutely, I trailed behind him. He shoved the heavy bathroom door open and stepped aside. "Inside," he instructed.

I obeyed instantly. Blind compliance kept me breathing; I had learned that the hard way. I shuffled into the gleaming bathroom, my filthy soles smudging the flawless marble.

"Shower," he demanded.

I froze, totally lost. Was this a sick trick? But his hard tone brokered no argument. With trembling hands, I reached for my hem. I peeled off the rancid dress and stripped away my soiled cotton panties, carefully setting the rags on the vanity to avoid his gaze. Naked and shivering, I kept my eyes glued to the floor tiles, awaiting my next order.

"Once you're undressed—" His voice completely died in his throat.

I peeked up through my lashes. He was staring at my naked body, his dark eyes blown wide with sheer shock before he violently jerked his head away, staring at the tiled wall.

"Jesus, how did you strip so fast?" he choked out, completely thrown.

His blatant disgust felt like a physical slap. More tears spilled over my lashes. The ugly, jagged scars littering my frail body must have made his stomach churn.

He let out a ragged breath, dragging a hand through his hair. When he finally looked back, he kept his gaze dead-locked on my eyes, explicitly refusing to let his gaze drop to my bare breasts or scarred torso. "Get in the stall," he muttered softly.

I nodded, spinning around to step toward the glass doors. But then he closed the distance. His massive body radiated heat against my bare spine.

"What the fuck is on your back?" he gritted out, his voice thick with dark tension.

I seized up, scrambling into the shower stall like his gaze had physically burned my flesh. His eyes tracked me, burning with an intense emotion I couldn't translate. Pity? Pure rage?

"Fuck," he cursed under his breath, vigorously massaging his temples. When he spoke again, the edge was gone, replaced by a forced calm. "Wash up. Use whatever the hell you want—the body wash, the shampoo. It's all yours."

I blinked, completely dumbfounded. Mine? Nothing was ever mine. It had to be a trap.

My panicked eyes darted over the complicated silver dials and jets. How the hell did this work? At Monica's, I had a plastic bucket and a freezing garden hose.

I hesitated, terrified to expose my utter uselessness. Panic hitched in my throat as I randomly cranked a silver dial, praying for the best.

A jet of scalding water blasted from the wall, hitting my bare chest dead-on. I flinched violently. A silent scream tore from my throat as I stumbled backward, tumbling right out of the glass enclosure.

I slammed hard against his solid chest. His strong arms clamped around my bare, dripping waist on pure instinct, hauling me flush against him to keep me from falling.

"Whoa, what happened?" he demanded, his deep voice laced with raw panic.

The question short-circuited my brain. He wasn’t pissed. He wasn't screaming at me for being stupid. His large hands remained surprisingly gentle as they gripped my naked hips, steadying my trembling body.