Chapter 1: wrap your fingers around my neck…

The bedsheets lingered with the scent of alcohol.
A ray of sunshine stretched across the torn mess of the room, cutting through the stale air and settling against Skye’s worn-out face.

Dust floated lazily in the beam of light, drifting over overturned bottles and crumpled clothes scattered across the floor. The curtains hung half-open, one corner torn from the rail as if someone had pulled it down in the middle of the night. The faint smell of cheap liquor mixed with something sour, clinging to the sheets and the walls alike.

Skye lay motionless among the tangled bedding, her hair spread across the pillow in dull, uneven strands. Her head throbbed with the dull ache of too little sleep and too much of everything else. The sunlight caught the dark circles beneath her eyes, tracing every sign of exhaustion carved into her expression.

For a moment she didn’t move. She only stared upward, blinking slowly as the light forced its way through her half-closed eyes. Somewhere in the room a bottle rolled slightly when she shifted, the soft clink echoing in the quiet like a reminder of the night she could barely remember.

The morning felt too bright for a room that looked like it had survived a storm.

Before she could push herself up, his hand caught her arm.

The grip was sudden. He pulled her back, forcing her against the wooden bed frame. The edge dug sharply into her back as he leaned over her, close enough that she could smell the faint scent of smoke clinging to his jacket.

“Going somewhere?” he muttered.

Skye’s pulse kicked against her ribs, but she forced her expression into something dull, uninterested.

His thumb rose to her face, dragging slowly along the line of her cheekbone. The touch wasn’t gentle…it was deliberate, almost mocking, as if he were inspecting something damaged.

He tilted her chin upward slightly.

“You look like shit,” he said quietly, eyes flicking over the dark circles under hers, the mess of her hair, the exhaustion written into every part of her.

Skye gave a small, bitter laugh.

“Then stop looking.”

For a moment his expression hardened.

His thumb pressed a little more firmly against her cheek before he leaned closer, his voice dropping to something low and cold.

“You really think you get to shut me out after last night?” he murmured.

His thumb dragged slowly along her cheekbone again, lingering there like he was testing her reaction. His eyes flicked over her face, taking in the exhaustion, the dull anger sitting just behind her gaze.

“Oh…” he added, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “How desperate you were.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and ugly.

“I like you best when you’re drunk.”

Skye’s jaw tightened. For a second she didn’t look at him, her eyes fixed somewhere past his shoulder, like she was refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her react.

His hand dropped from her face, the softness gone just as quickly as it had appeared.

“Get up.”

The command was short and flat.

But Skye didn’t move.

She stayed exactly where she was, slouched against the bed frame, one knee bent lazily on the mattress. Her eyes dragged up to meet his, slow and unimpressed.

“What if I don’t?” she said, voice rough from sleep and alcohol but steady.

The sunlight crept further across the room, catching in the mess of bottles on the floor and glinting faintly against the edge of the bed frame. Skye pushed a hand through her tangled hair and leaned forward slightly, refusing to look small under his shadow.

“Didn’t realize you were giving orders now.”

“You really gonna test me now? Look at yourself. You’re a mess.”

A snicker slipped from him as his hand came up to her neck, fingers pressing against the side of it, not enough to cut off her breath, but enough to pin her back against the bed frame.

“Fuck off. I know I’m a mess.”

Skye rolled her eyes.

The reaction was small, careless.

But it landed.

His expression went completely still.

For a moment he just stared at her, like he was deciding something. Then his grip tightened slightly, fingers digging more firmly into the side of her neck as he leaned down closer to her face.

“Did you just roll your eyes at me?” he asked quietly.

Skye didn’t even try to hide it this time. Her gaze slid back to him slowly, irritation written all over her face.

“Yeah,” she said flatly. “I did.”

Something in his expression darkened.

A humorless laugh escaped him, low and sharp.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his head like she’d just proved a point. “You wake up in a room you trashed, reeking like a bar floor, and you still think you’re in a position to give me attitude.”

His thumb pressed against her jaw, forcing her head slightly to the side so he could look at her properly.

“You know what your problem is?” he continued, voice dropping colder. “You act like you’re above everything… like you’re too good for the mess you make.”

His eyes flicked briefly across the room—the bottles, the chaos—before returning to her.

He yanked at the tangled strands of her hair, dragging her across the room like she weighed nothing. Every step she stumbled, every muffled breath caught in her throat, made him smirk.

“Look at you,” he hissed, pushing her roughly until she stood in front of the cracked mirror. His face hovered just behind hers, close enough that she could see the harsh glint in his eyes.

He let go of her hair, not completely, just enough that she could stand, trembling, but couldn’t escape. “See this?” he spat, gesturing toward her reflection. “This is the disaster you’ve become. And you think you get to act all high and mighty?”

His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, icy and venomous. “Pathetic. That’s what you are. Always desperate, always weak. And the worst part? You love it when I see it.”

He circled her slowly, like a predator inspecting prey. “I’ll make sure you never forget who’s in charge here… who owns every inch of this mess… you included.”