Chapter 2: The First Nightmare
El grito se le ahogó en la garganta, un suspiro ahogado que la dejó sentada de golpe en la oscuridad, con el corazón latiéndole con fuerza, como un pájaro atrapado contra las costillas. Las sábanas de seda se enredaban alrededor de sus piernas, empapadas en sudor frío. El aroma a bergamota y lino limpio era asfixiante. Megumi se llevó las manos al vientre, un escudo instintivo, mientras sus ojos recorrían la negrura.
No era el armario. No era la oscuridad húmeda y maloliente. Esta oscuridad era vasta, silenciosa, interrumpida solo por el suave resplandor de las luces de la ciudad que se filtraba por los bordes de las pesadas cortinas.
Pero el olor a tabaco quemado parecía aferrarse a su memoria, acre y real. El fantasma del dolor, una quemadura aguda y concentrada en la clavícula, la hizo estremecer. Retrocedió a trompicones hasta que su columna vertebral chocó contra el cabecero, con las orejas pegadas al cráneo, un siseo bajo e involuntario escapó de sus labios. La mullida cama se sentía como una trampa, las sábanas frías como ataduras.
Ella tenía que mudarse.
Sus piernas, temblorosas, la llevaron fuera de la habitación, hacia la oscuridad del pasillo. El suelo pulido estaba frío bajo sus pies descalzos. Se deslizó por la pared junto a su puerta, acurrucándose en una bola, con los brazos alrededor de las rodillas y la cola enroscada alrededor del tobillo. Los temblores comenzaron en lo más profundo de sus huesos y se extendieron hasta que le castañetearon los dientes.
Un pequeño rayo de luz apareció bajo la puerta al otro lado del pasillo. Se abrió sin hacer ruido.
Satoru permanecía allí, a contraluz por la tenue luz de una lámpara de mesilla. Vestía solo unos pantalones de pijama holgados que le llegaban hasta las caderas. Su cabello plateado estaba despeinado, y su rostro, desprovisto de su habitual expresión juguetona, se percató de ella. Sus ojos azules, penetrantes incluso en la penumbra, la encontraron al instante.
No se apresuró. Caminó lentamente y se arrodilló a unos metros de distancia, quedando a su altura. No la tocó.
—Una pesadilla —dijo, con la voz ronca y adormilada.
No podía hablar. Solo miraba fijamente, con sus ojos verdes muy abiertos y sin parpadear.
—El cigarro —adivinó, bajando la mirada hacia las tenues cicatrices circulares de su clavícula—. O el armario.
Un único y brusco asentimiento.
"Dime."
Sacudió la cabeza violentamente, hundiendo el rostro entre las rodillas.
—Megumi —dijo con voz suave pero firme—. Cuéntame sobre el armario.
Su voz era un susurro entrecortado. “Oscuro. Tan oscuro. No podía… no podía moverme. Él… él lo cerraba con llave. Durante horas. A veces con… con el…” Hizo arcadas, tragando bilis.
—Con la quemadura aún fresca —terminó él por ella, con un tono desprovisto de emoción—. Para que el olor se impregne.
Se estremeció, un espasmo que recorrió todo su cuerpo. Eso fue todo. El cálculo preciso y cruel de todo aquello.
Un silencio denso y pesado flotaba entre ellos. El ático zumbaba, como un latido mecánico y lejano.
“You’re not there,” he said, finally. “You’re here. With me.” He shifted, sitting fully on the floor, leaning back against the opposite wall. He mirrored her posture, knees drawn up. “You have choices now. You can go back to your bed. Or,” he paused, “you can sleep in my room. There’s a chaise lounge by the window. It’s long enough for you to stretch out.”
Her head lifted slightly. Sleep in his space. The predator’s den. Her instincts screamed against it, but the echoing terror of the dream was louder. The closet was worse.
“Your room,” she whispered.
“Okay.”
He stood and held out a hand. She stared at it, then, with immense effort, unfolded herself and took it. His grip was warm, firm, encompassing. He pulled her to her feet and then, in one smooth motion, bent and slid an arm under her knees, the other behind her back, lifting her against his chest. She went rigid, a small sound of alarm catching in her throat.
“Shhh,” he murmured into her hair. “Just carrying you. You’re trembling too hard to walk.”
He was solid, unyielding. The heat of his bare skin seeped through her thin camisole. He carried her into his bedroom, which was larger, dominated by a huge platform bed. True to his word, a deep, plush chaise sat bathed in moonlight by the window. He laid her down on it, the cushions soft and welcoming. He fetched a blanket from the foot of his bed and draped it over her, tucking it around her shoulders with a surprising, clinical gentleness.
“Try to sleep,” he said, and retreated to his own bed, slipping under the covers without another word. He left the door to the hallway open, a rectangle of softer darkness.
She watched his silhouette in the dim light, the slow, even rise and fall of his breathing. The lingering panic slowly receded, replaced by a wary exhaustion. Her tail, a tense coil against her leg, began to relax, the tip unfurling just slightly.
Sleep, when it came, was a shallow, uneasy tide.
She woke to the feeling of being watched. Dawn was a grey smear behind the drapes. Satoru was leaning against the bedpost, already dressed in dark trousers and a untucked white shirt, sipping from a porcelain cup. He was just looking at her.
“You talk in your sleep,” he said casually. “Whimpers. Nothing clear.”
She pulled the blanket higher, a shield.
“The doctor is coming today. To check on you. And the baby.”
Fear, cold and fresh, jolted through her. “No doctor.”
“Yes, doctor.” His tone brooked no argument. “You’re malnourished. You have old injuries that might need attention. The baby needs to be monitored. It’s non-negotiable.” He set his cup down and approached the chaise. He didn’t sit, but hovered over her. “You’re mine now, Megumi. Every part of you. That includes your health. Your well-being. What grows inside you.” He reached out and she froze, expecting his hand on her belly. Instead, his fingers brushed a strand of wild hair from her forehead. The touch was fleeting, proprietary. “I protect what’s mine.”
The words should have felt like a cage. Part of her screamed that they were. But another part, a weak, desperate part worn thin by fear and survival, heard ‘protect’ and went still.
The doctor came later that morning—a sharp-eyed, older woman who spoke in soft, direct tones. Her hands were clinical but not unkind. She palpated Megumi’s belly, measured her, used a small handheld monitor to amplify the swift, galloping rhythm of a heartbeat. Megumi flinched at every touch but endured it, her eyes fixed on Satoru, who leaned against the doorframe, observing everything.
“She’s underweight, but the fetus is surprisingly strong,” the doctor reported to him, as if Megumi weren’t there. “The bruises and burns… they’re superficial now. Healing. Stress is the main concern. She needs calm. Security. Good food. Rest.”
“She’ll get it,” Satoru said, his gaze never leaving Megumi’s face.
After the doctor left, a quiet fell over the penthouse. He worked from a laptop in the living room. She wandered, a silent ghost, finally curling up in the large armchair by the window, her small hands absently kneading the velvet. She watched the clouds scud past the towering buildings, felt the sun warm her through the glass. It was so quiet. So clean.
Night fell again.
She ate the meal left for her on a tray—seared fish, steamed vegetables, rice. It was delicious, every bite a minor revelation. She showered alone, the water hot and limitless. She put on another soft, provided nightdress. The fears of the night before lurked, but they felt more distant, blurred by the relentless monotony of safety.
She stood in the hallway, looking at her room, then at his slightly ajar door.
She pushed his door open.
He was in bed, reading a tablet, the glasses he rarely wore perched on his nose. He looked up, his blue eyes magnified and even more piercing.
“The chaise?” he asked.
She nodded, padding silently to the familiar cushions. She lay down, pulling the blanket over herself. He returned to his reading.
An hour passed. The room was dark save for the glow of his tablet.
“Satoru.” Her voice was tiny in the vast dark.
“Hmm?”
“What do you want from me?” It was the same question from the bath, but softer, frayed at the edges by something like exhausted curiosity.
He set the tablet aside, took off his glasses. “I told you. Potential.”
“That’s not… that’s not all.”
He was silent for a long moment. Then the covers shifted, and he got out of bed. He didn’t go to the chaise. He walked to the window and looked out, his hands in the pockets of his sleep pants. His back was to her, a broad, strong silhouette.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, the words flat, factual. “In a broken, feral way. You’re resilient. You carry life despite everything that tried to crush it out of you.” He turned his head slightly, his profile sharp against the city lights. “I want that strength. I want that life. I want to be the reason you finally stop flinching. I want your fear to turn into something else. Something that belongs to me.”
He turned fully now and walked toward the chaise. He knelt beside it, his presence overwhelming the small space. “Your previous owner,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register that vibrated in her bones, “he took from you. He burned, he cut, he locked you away. He treated you like a thing to be broken.”
His hand came up, and his knuckles grazed the line of her jaw. She didn’t flinch. She held her breath.
“I don’t want to break you, Megumi. I want to…” He searched for the word, his eyes roaming her face. “…reassemble you. Around me. Every piece of you, every gasp, every sigh, every fucking heartbeat—I want it to be because of me. For me.”
His thumb brushed her lower lip. “He marked your skin.” His other hand came to rest, warm and heavy, on the curve of her belly over the blanket. “I’ll mark everything else.”
Then he leaned in and kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle. It was a claim. His mouth was hungry, insistent, swallowing her small gasp. His tongue swept past her lips, tasting her, dominating the space. One hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back to better plunder her mouth. The other hand slipped under the blanket, under her nightdress, and settled on the bare skin of her swollen stomach. His palm was scalding hot.
She froze, a statue trapped in the heat of him. Her mind fractured. This was danger. This was a man taking. But his touch on her belly was… possessive, yes, but not violent. It was covering. Shielding. And his mouth, while demanding, didn’t hurt. It was a different kind of consumption.
A low, involuntary sound bubbled up in her throat—a confused whimper.
He pulled back an inch, his breath hot on her lips. “Tell me no,” he whispered, a dark challenge. “Push me away. You can.”
She stared into his endless blue eyes. She didn’t move.
A slow, triumphant smile touched his mouth. “That’s what I thought.”
He pulled the blanket away. His hands slid up her thighs, pushing the thin nightdress up to her waist. The cool air hit her skin, followed by the searing heat of his touch. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her simple cotton panties and pulled them down her legs, discarding them.
She lay exposed, her legs parted by his kneeling position between them. Her small breasts rose and fell rapidly under the fabric of her nightdress. She was painfully vulnerable, her body heavy with pregnancy, still marked by the shadows of old violences.
“Look at you,” he breathed, his gaze crawling over her. “All mine.”
He bent his head and his mouth found the inside of her thigh, just above her knee. He didn’t kiss it. He bit, gently at first, then with more pressure, until she cried out. It would leave a bruise. A new mark, from him. He did the same on the other thigh, savoring her sharp intake of breath.
His hand cupped her sex, his fingers sliding through her folds. She was dry, tight with fear and tension. He made a disapproving sound against her skin.
“We’ll fix that,” he murmured, and lowered his mouth to her.
The first stroke of his tongue was a shock—intimate, wet, startlingly direct. She jerked, a shocked gasp torn from her. He held her hips down, pinning her to the chaise, and licked a firm, slow stripe from her entrance to her clit.
“Satoru—!” His name was a question, a plea, a protest.
He ignored her, his tongue delving, exploring, coaxing. His nose pressed against her, his breath hot. He was relentless, learning her shape, her taste, working her with a focused intensity that was utterly foreign. It wasn’t love. It was worship of a terrible, selfish kind. He was tasting his property.
And against all reason, her body began to respond. Heat pooled low in her belly, a traitorous warmth spreading outwards. A slickness gathered under his ministrations. Her breath came in short, sharp pants. One of her hands flew to his hair, not to push him away, but to clutch at the silver strands, her fingers tangling in them.
He growled against her, the vibration sending a jolt through her core. He slid two fingers inside her, curling them, fucking her with slow, deep thrusts while his tongue circled her clit. The stretch burned, then melted into a shocking, full feeling. She was wet now, soaking, her hips beginning to move of their own accord, seeking more of that maddening pressure.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice thick. “Come on my tongue. Let me feel you.”
The command, the sheer arrogance of it, tipped her over an edge she didn’t know she was approaching. A tight coil in her abdomen snapped. Her back arched off the chaise, a broken cry ripped from her throat as pleasure, sharp and bright and devastating, crashed through her. He rode it with her, his tongue fluttering, his fingers pumping, until she collapsed, shuddering and oversensitive.
Before the last tremor had subsided, he was moving. He stripped his sleep pants down, freeing his erection. He was fully hard, thick, the head glistening. He positioned himself at her entrance, his body caging hers, his hands braced on the chaise on either side of her head.
He looked down at her, his face a mask of intense, focused desire. “This,” he said, pushing forward, “is mine.”
He entered her in one slow, inexorable thrust. She was slick from her orgasm, but still tight, stretched around him. She cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders. He buried himself to the hilt, his pelvis flush against hers, the weight of him pressing her into the cushions. He held there, letting her feel every inch of him, the intimate, brutal fullness.
“Fuck,” he groaned, dropping his forehead to hers. “You’re so fucking deep. Taking me so well.”
He began to move, pulling out almost completely before driving back in. It was a steady, possessive rhythm, each thrust a punctuation to his claim. The chaise creaked. Her pregnant belly shifted between them, a firm, living barrier. He angled his hips, and on the next thrust, he hit a spot that made her see stars.
“There,” he grunted, pounding into that spot again. “Right there. You feel that? That’s me.”
Ella gemía con cada embestida, una mezcla de agobio y placer creciente y vergonzoso. Era crudo, explícito, degradante en su pura fisicalidad. Él usaba su cuerpo, marcando su interior con la misma minuciosidad con la que había marcado su piel. Pero también observaba su rostro, leyendo cada estremecimiento, cada jadeo, buscando las reacciones que la hacían poner los ojos en blanco.
—Dilo —exigió, acelerando el paso. Estaba perdiendo el control—. Di de quién eres.
No pudo. Las palabras la ahogaron.
Deslizó una mano entre ellas, su pulgar encontró de nuevo su clítoris, frotándolo con movimientos circulares duros y ásperos. El doble asalto fue demasiado. Un segundo orgasmo, más intenso, surgió desde lo más profundo de su ser, arrancándole un grito.
“¡Dilo!”, rugió, sintiendo cómo aumentaba su propio clímax y sus embestidas se volvían salvajes.
“¡Tuyo!”, sollozó, la palabra arrancada de algún lugar profundo y rendido dentro de ella. “¡Tuyo!”
Era todo lo que necesitaba. Con una última y brutal embestida, se vació dentro de ella, un torrente ardiente y palpitante. Se mantuvo dentro, frotándose contra ella mientras cabalgaba las olas, su gemido fuerte y animal en la silenciosa habitación.
Se desplomó sobre ella un instante, su peso la aplastó, su aliento caliente le rozaba el cuello. Luego, con cuidado, se giró hacia un lado, tirando de ella para que quedara medio encima, con su pene flácido aún dentro de ella. Ambos estaban empapados en sudor, su camisón arrugado hasta la cintura y los pantalones de él bajados hasta los tobillos.
Le acarició la espalda, sus dedos recorriendo las curvas de su columna vertebral. Le dio un suave roce en la parte superior de la cabeza, donde sus orejas de gato se movían, sensibles y alertas.
—Bien —murmuró, con la voz cargada de satisfacción—. Eso estuvo muy bien, Megumi.
Yacía allí, aturdida, dolorida, llena. La marca fantasmal del cigarrillo en su clavícula se sentía fría y distante. Una nueva huella, más profunda y fundamental, se había posado sobre ella. Su cuerpo vibraba con el eco de él. En la habitación silenciosa y oscura, su cola se deslizó para enroscarse tímidamente alrededor de su muñeca, un vínculo frágil e inconsciente.