Chapter 3: Breakfast Betrayal
The cool silk sheets were a cruel memory. Ethan lay sprawled on the hardwood floor beside Almas’s bed, limbs heavy as lead, the phantom bite of velvet cuffs still circling his wrists. Dawn’s grey fingers crept around the blinds, painting stripes of weak light across the rumpled bedspread, the discarded crimson lace panties lying like an accusation near his elbow. He hadn't moved since she'd uncuffed him hours ago. Couldn't. Every muscle felt alien, disconnected, humming with a low-grade tremor of shock and residual, unwanted sensation. The taste of her, salt and sandalwood, lingered on his tongue, stubborn as shame. Zara’s perfume on the pillowcase beneath him was a nauseating counterpoint.
A soft sound. The bedroom door clicked open. Almas stood silhouetted against the brighter hallway light, already dressed in sleek black leggings and a cropped workout tank top, her damp brunette hair pulled back. She looked crisp, energized, utterly untouched by the darkness that had swallowed him whole. She stepped over his prone form without a glance, heading towards the en-suite. The scent of her shower gel – sharp, citrusy – washed over him, momentarily eclipsing the lingering ghosts of sex and surrender. The slap of the bathroom door closing echoed in the quiet room.
He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the cool floorboards. Thank you. Her praise echoed, colder than the tile. The words had flayed him more effectively than her hands ever could. He hadn’t meant it. Hadn’t wanted it. And yet… a treacherous flicker deep in his gut, a sickening warmth at the memory of her weight, her control. He bit down hard on his lip, the pain a welcome distraction from the spiralling shame. He needed to get out. Needed to crawl back to Zara’s room, bury himself under her duvet, pretend none of this had happened. That he hadn’t begged. That he hadn’t swallowed.
The shower stopped. He tensed, muscles locking. He heard the bathroom door open again, bare feet padding across the floor towards him. He kept his eyes shut, feigning sleep, feigning unconsciousness, feigning death. Anything but facing her again.
Her footsteps paused beside him. He felt the weight of her gaze. Then, a sharp nudge against his ribs with her bare toes. "Up." The command was flat, devoid of the purring menace from the night before, but no less absolute. "You're making the place look untidy."
He forced his eyes open, blinking against the light. She was looking down at him, green eyes coolly assessing, a trace of amusement playing on her lips. She held a towel in one hand, rubbing it over her damp hair. "Kitchen. Now. I want coffee."
He pushed himself up onto trembling elbows, the world tilting slightly. Every movement felt monumental, weighed down by exhaustion and humiliation. He didn't meet her eyes. He focused on the grain of the wood floor, the discarded lace. Gathering the shattered remnants of himself, he managed to get to his knees, then, swaying, to his feet. He was naked. His clothes were a crumpled heap near the door where he’d shed them last night before… before.
"Better," Almas said, turning and walking out of the room. "And Ethan? Leave the self-pity on the floor. It’s boring."
He scrambled for his sweatpants and t-shirt, yanking them on with clumsy, fumbling hands. The fabric felt rough, alien against skin that still hummed with the memory of her touch. He followed her numbly down the short hall, the scent of brewing coffee hitting him as he neared the kitchen.
The kitchen was a jarring contrast to the predatory darkness of Almas’s bedroom. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The worn wooden table held a fruit bowl and a scattering of mail. Mismatched mugs – one chipped with cartoon cats, another plain white – sat near the coffee machine, which gurgled cheerfully. The air was rich with the warm, inviting aroma of dark roast. It felt like Zara’s domain, cozy and safe. Or it should have. Instead, the cheerful clutter felt like a stage set, the pleasant smell an olfactory lie masking the tension coiling beneath the surface. The very walls seemed to hold their breath.
Almas was already pouring coffee into the white mug. She didn’t look at him. "Sit."
He hesitated, then pulled out a chair at the table, sitting gingerly on the edge. His body screamed in protest. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the final sputters of the coffee machine. Almas added a splash of milk to her mug, no sugar, stirring slowly. She finally turned, leaning back against the counter, cradling the mug. Her gaze, sharp and unreadable, landed on him.
"Sleep well?" she asked, her tone conversational, almost pleasant.
He stared at his hands, clenched on the tabletop. Knuckles white. He couldn’t speak. His throat felt raw, sealed shut.
She took a slow sip of coffee, her eyes never leaving him. "Cat got your tongue? Didn’t seem to be a problem last night." She paused, letting the barb sink in. "Or this morning, for that matter. When you were so… appreciative."
He flinched. The memory of his broken 'Thank you' scraped like sandpaper over his nerves. He forced a breath, ragged and shallow.
Almas’s lips curved into a faint smile. She pushed off the counter. "Here." She walked towards him, holding out the chipped cat mug now filled with black coffee. Steam curled upwards. "Drink it. You look like death warmed over."
He automatically reached for it, his fingers brushing hers. He jerked his hand back as if burned, the coffee sloshing dangerously. Almas’s grip tightened, steadying the mug. Her smile widened, edged with malice.
"Careful," she murmured. "Wouldn’t want you to make a mess. Not again." Her gaze flickered down, deliberately, towards the front of his sweatpants, a reminder of his panicked flight in the bathroom the previous day. Heat flooded his face, scalding.
She placed the mug firmly on the table in front of him. "Drink." She didn’t move away. She stood beside his chair, watching him like a specimen under glass.
He wrapped his hands around the warm ceramic, trying to stop the trembling. He lifted it to his lips, taking a small, scalding sip. It tasted like ash. The silence was suffocating. He could feel her presence beside him, a dark, magnetic force. Every nerve ending was screaming. He kept his eyes fixed on the swirling black surface in the mug.
"Zara called," Almas said casually, breaking the quiet.
His head snapped up. Panic, sharp and icy, lanced through him. He searched her face, desperate for any sign of what she’d told her sister. Had she…? Had she already…?
Almas watched his reaction, her green eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Just checking in." She took another slow sip from her own mug. "Says she misses us." She paused, letting the word 'us' hang in the air, loaded and poisonous. "Wonders how you’re coping without her." Her gaze swept over him, taking in his dishevelled state, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his hands still shook slightly. "I told her you were… managing."
He swallowed hard, the coffee burning a path down his tight throat. "What… what did you say?" His voice was a hoarse rasp.
Almas tilted her head, feigning innocence. "Exactly that. Managing. It sounds better than 'crying into his sister-in-law's panties and then eating her out while handcuffed to her bed', don't you think?" She chuckled softly, a low, cruel sound. "Though I suppose that is one way to manage your… urges."
His knuckles cracked as his fists clenched tighter. Humiliation warred with a useless surge of anger. "Stop it," he whispered, the words barely audible.
"Stop what?" Almas leaned down slightly, bringing her face closer to his. Her expression was pure, mocking curiosity. "Stop telling the truth? Stop reminding you of what you did? What you are?" She straightened up, her smile turning predatory. "You seemed to enjoy the reminders well enough last night, Ethan. You thanked me for them, remember?"
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block her out, block the memories, block the awful truth. Thank you.
"Look at me," Almas commanded, her voice losing its mocking edge, becoming hard and uncompromising.
He opened his eyes, unable to disobey. The raw command in her tone was too reminiscent of the night before.
She held his gaze, her own eyes cold and unwavering. "You belong to me now, Ethan," she stated, matter-of-factly. "That’s the price. That’s the consequence of your little… indiscretions. Of your weakness." She gestured vaguely towards the hallway, towards her bedroom. "Zara thinks you belong to her. But we both know the truth, don’t we?" She didn’t wait for an answer. She knew he couldn’t give one. "So, we need to establish some ground rules." She placed her mug on the table near his. "Rule One: When I tell you to do something, you do it. Immediately. Without question. Like last night. Like coming in here. Like drinking the coffee." She tapped the rim of his mug with a perfectly manicured fingernail. "Rule Two: You will learn proper gratitude." Her lips curved again. "You made a start last night. But we need to reinforce that lesson."
A cold dread seeped into his bones, colder than the kitchen tile beneath his bare feet. He knew what was coming. He could see it in the ruthless glint in her eyes.
"Under the table," she said, her voice dropping to a soft, dangerous murmur. "On your knees. Now."
He froze. Panic seized him, locking his muscles. The kitchen. Sunlight. Zara’s mugs. The cheerful coffee smell. It felt like sacrilege. "Almas, please…" The plea escaped, weak and pathetic.
"Now, Ethan," she repeated, the steel returning to her voice. "Or would you prefer I pick up my phone right now? Show Zara the photo I took of her sweet, devoted husband sobbing into my sheets? Or maybe describe the sounds you made? The taste?"
He flinched violently. The threat was absolute. The photo. She had proof. Tangible, undeniable proof of his degradation. He had no leverage. No escape. The fight drained out of him, leaving only a hollow, shivering terror. Slowly, trembling violently, he pushed his chair back. The legs scraped harshly against the floor. He slid off the chair, sinking down onto the cool linoleum. The underside of the wooden table loomed above him, dark and confining. He shuffled forward on his knees until he was positioned beneath it, facing Almas’s legs. He kept his head bowed, eyes fixed on the pattern of the tile between her bare feet. The scent of her sandalwood lotion was strong here, mixed with the clean smell of her workout gear.
"Better." Almas’s voice came from above, calm, almost pleasant again. He heard the scrape of her chair as she sat down at the table. He could see her knees beneath the table edge, the sleek black fabric of her leggings. Then, her bare foot slid forward.
He recoiled instinctively, but there was nowhere to go. The solid table pressed against his back, the cupboard doors on either side boxing him in. Her toes pressed firmly against his shoulder, then slid upwards, cool and demanding, tracing the line of his collarbone. He shuddered, a full-body tremor.
"Look up," she instructed.
Trembling, he lifted his head. She was leaning slightly to the side, looking down at him beneath the table. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes held that same chilling focus. In one hand, she held her phone casually. The screen was lit. He couldn't see what was on it.
Her foot continued its path, sliding up the side of his neck, her toes brushing the sensitive skin behind his ear. He tensed, every muscle locked in resistance he couldn't act on. Her foot moved to cup his cheek, the pressure insistent, forcing his face slightly upwards. Her big toe rested near the corner of his mouth.
"Hold still," she murmured, her voice a soft purr above the frantic drumming of his own pulse in his ears. She lifted the phone, angling it down towards him. He could see the camera lens pointed directly at his face, trapped beneath the table, her foot possessively framing his cheek.
Tears welled, hot and blinding, spilling over instantly. His breath hitched in ragged sobs. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it was useless. The humiliation was a physical weight crushing his chest.
"Look at the camera, Ethan," Almas said, her voice calm, almost gentle, as she composed the shot. "Show Zara how much you miss her."
He shook his head minutely, a silent, desperate plea. Please. Don’t. He opened his eyes, blurry with tears, meeting the cold, unblinking eye of the camera lens. He saw his own reflection – pale, tear-streaked, utterly broken – framed by Almas’s bare foot. The utter degradation of it stole his breath.
Almas smiled, a small, satisfied curve of her lips captured in the phone’s screen. She tapped it softly. The shutter clicked. The sound was obscenely loud in the sudden stillness of the kitchen.
He whimpered, a low, broken sound escaping his throat.
"Perfect," Almas breathed. She lowered the phone, tapping rapidly on the screen with her thumb. He could hear the soft, rhythmic taps as she typed.
Her foot slid down his cheek, the pressure increasing, pressing his tear-streaked face sideways, forcing his cheek flat against the cool tile floor. Her toes curled, the pad of her big toe pressing firmly against his trembling lips.
"Say hi to your husband, Zee," Almas murmured above him, her voice light, conversational, as if commenting on the weather. She held the phone where he could, just barely, see it. She tapped the screen one final time. Send.
The soft whoosh of the message leaving her phone was the loudest sound Ethan had ever heard. It echoed in the sudden, absolute silence of the kitchen, beneath the table, with Almas’s foot pressing his face into Zara’s clean floor and her toes curled possessively against his lips. The scent of coffee turned suddenly acrid in his nostrils. The cheerful mugs on the table above seemed to mock him. He lay frozen, crushed, his world reduced to the cool tile beneath his cheek, the warm pressure of her foot, and the dreadful, echoing silence waiting for Zara’s reply. Almas didn’t move her foot. She just held him there, pinned, waiting, her thumb hovering over the phone screen, ready for whatever response would crackle back through the suddenly sinister air. His tears pooled on the tile, warm against his cold skin, a silent testament to the photo now winging its way to his unsuspecting wife.
The vibration cut through the silence like a physical blow. Ethan flinched, the buzz resonating up Almas’s leg, through her bare foot, and into his cheekbone pressed hard against the cold tile. He felt it deep in his teeth. Almas didn’t jump. Her foot remained an immovable weight, pinning him. She just let the phone buzz, the sound filling the kitchen with its insistent, electronic tremor. Once. Twice. Stopped. A beat of terrifying quiet. Then it started again. Zara was calling.
"Ah. Prompt," Almas murmured, her voice casual, almost bored, above him. She finally shifted, lifting her foot just enough to slide the phone across the floor towards his trapped hand. It bumped his knuckles. "Answer it. Put it on speaker. Now."
The screen lit up, blindingly bright in the dim space under the table. ZARA - VIDEO CALL. Her smiling face filled the thumbnail. Ethan’s breath hitched, a strangled sound escaping his throat. He stared at the phone like it was a live grenade.
"Do it, Ethan," Almas commanded, her voice dropping, sharp as shattered glass. Her toes pressed warningly against his jawline. "Or I describe last night's performance in vivid detail. Right now."
Panic seized him, cold and absolute. He fumbled, his fingers slick with sweat and tears, smearing the screen. He swiped desperately. Accepted. Switched to speaker. Zara’s face bloomed into view, pixel-bright and cheerful, her familiar smile like a punch to his gut. She was sitting in a sunny hotel room, hair slightly messy, wearing a robe.
"Hey, you two!" Zara chirped, her voice tinny but warm through the speaker. "Caught you! Saw the pic Almas sent – what on earth was that? Ethan, honey, you look like you lost a fight with a dust bunny under the table! Rough night?"
Almas’s laugh was light, effortless. "Something like that, Zee. He was just helping me find a runaway earring. Took a little… dive." Her foot nudged his ribs gently, possessively, hidden from the camera’s view but a stark pressure against his side. "Didn’t you, Ethan?"
He couldn’t speak. His throat closed. Tears blurred Zara’s smiling image. He managed a jerky nod, the movement scraping his cheek raw against the floor. The pattern of the tile was imprinted on his skin. He could smell the faint lemon scent of Zara’s floor cleaner mixed with the sandalwood clinging to Almas’s skin.
"Ethan? Babe? You okay?" Zara’s smile faltered, concern creasing her brow. "You look pale. And seriously, why are you on the floor? Did you hit your head?"
Almas shifted slightly above him. He felt the subtle pressure of her leg against his shoulder. "He’s fine, just clumsy and a bit embarrassed. Aren’t you, Ethan? Say hi to your wife." Her tone brooked no refusal. Her toes dug subtly into his side.
He forced air into his lungs. "H-hi, Zara." His voice was a cracked whisper, thick with unshed tears. It sounded alien, broken.
"Okay, you don't sound fine," Zara insisted. "Did something happen? Alma, what’s wrong with him?"
"Just a minor mishap," Almas soothed, her voice smooth as silk. "He’s feeling a bit… under the weather. And maybe a little shy after his impromptu floor inspection." She paused, letting Zara’s worry hang. "Actually, Zee, he wanted to ask you something. Didn’t you, Ethan?" Her foot pressed harder. A silent command: Perform.
Zara leaned closer to her camera, her face filling the screen with genuine worry. "What is it, honey? Ask me anything. You're worrying me."
Ethan’s mind blanked. Terror choked him. What question? What could he possibly ask that wouldn’t shatter this awful charade? He stared into Zara’s concerned eyes, the eyes of the woman he’d betrayed while her perfume still lingered on the sheets beside him last night. The words Almas had beaten into him last night rose like bile. His vision swam. He felt Almas’s expectant stillness above him, the phone hot and heavy in his trembling hand.
"Th-Thank you," he rasped, the words scraping out. He couldn’t stop them. "Just… thank you. For calling." It was pathetic. Meaningless. Yet loaded with the horrific weight of Almas’s training.
Zara blinked, confusion replacing concern for a second. "Thank you? For calling? Ethan, I—"
Almas’s laugh cut her off, bright and dismissive. "See? Told you he’s just out of sorts. Probably still half-asleep on the floor. Jet lag hits everyone differently, even when they haven’t flown, apparently." She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping conspiratorially towards the phone. "Don’t worry, Zee. I’ll take good care of him. Make sure he… rests."
The promise in her words sent a fresh wave of dread through Ethan. He saw Zara relax fractionally, buying the lie, her smile returning though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Okay… well, thanks, Alma. Ethan? Love you. Feel better, weirdo. Call me later?"
"Love you too," he choked out, the lie burning his tongue worse than the coffee. Almas’s foot nudged his hand holding the phone.
"Alright, Zee, duty calls," Almas announced breezily. "This lump needs coffee poured directly into him. Talk soon!" She didn’t wait for a reply. Her hand, swift and sure, darted down, snatched the phone from his grasp, and ended the call. The screen went black, plunging the space under the table back into relative gloom, leaving only the echo of Zara’s final, worried "Bye!" hanging in the air.
Silence descended again, heavier than before. Thick with betrayal and Almas’s triumphant stillness. She didn’t move her foot. Didn’t speak. He could feel the heat of her gaze boring down into the darkness where he lay broken on Zara’s kitchen floor. He tasted salt – tears and the lingering phantom tang of last night. The phone, now dark and silent in her hand above him, felt like the only conduit to his old life, brutally severed. Almas’s bare toes tapped lightly, rhythmically, against his jaw. Waiting.