He was her everything, her love, her life, her soul and every fibre of her physical and psychological self. He hurt her, in ways you wouldn’t understand. Grabbed those gossamer strands and forced her against cold marble. Broke those boards like a thin twig in two. She owed him her life, still. Though a killer at heart, he was her life. She was nothing. She was a white rabbit in the snow waiting for someone to find her before something else did. Lace and porcelain skin couldn’t save her now. She didn’t exist before the monster took her, tore at her and choked her, before he made her something, physically pulling her to her dainty feet and shoving her into the silk sheets that restrained her. He was a ribbon stringing her together, the soft silky kind, dusty pink and oh so alluring. That ribbon wound around her ribs, pulling them so tight they punctured her lungs and cracked against her paper skin. She was unspun. All that was left was the ribbon.



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