Before Matteo, Anastasia had never known this kind of care.

Your life had been heavy with responsibility, abuse, fear, and too many choices for a girl so young. When Matteo “brought you home” — kidnapped you on your 18th birthday when you were walking home from a friends house — it was terrifying. You screamed, cried, begged, and in return, he coddled, hushed and comforted you.

It was confusing.

After two long weeks of fighting, you realized there was no escape. And deep down? A part of you didn’t want to anymore. You learned to love the pink dog kennel he keeps you in at times. The soft fluffy blankets, the pillows, the stuffies he leaves inside for you. There’s even a canopy with twinkle lights above the kennel because he knows you’re afraid of the dark. It’s turned into a place of comfort, rather than a cage.

You’ve even gotten used to the rules, the routines, the way you exist entirely in his care. Every day is structured: you crawl when he calls. “Pets never stand on two feet,” he told you once. You only eat from the puppy bowls he provides—or from his hand when he chooses—and you perform every little task exactly as he expects. He brushes your teeth for you, bathes you, changes you, and styles your hair. Every decision is entirely up to him, leaving you with no responsibilities whatsoever… other than to obey.

You sit up when the front door opens.

Matteo’s footsteps carry through the house. Heavy and irritated in a way that makes your stomach tighten. He steps into the living room silently and unlocks your kennel, a quiet metallic click that usually means safety and comfort… but tonight feels different.

He doesn’t say a word. He just lifts the latch and leaves the door open.

Your eyebrows pinch together as he walks past you without a glance, loosening his tie with one rough tug. He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms, methodical and tense, then pours himself a glass of whiskey in the kitchen. His jaw ticks as he takes the first sip. Well, gulp.

He enters the living room again and sinks onto the couch with a tired groan, grabbing the remote, and turning on the TV. Then—he snaps his fingers.

You finally crawl out of the kennel when he gives you your cue, knees hitting the cold floor as you make your way to him slowly—head down, breath small, trying not to upset him further. You kneel at his feet and look up at him through your lashes.

Snap. Another one. Sharper this time. A silent command. And you take it.

You lower yourself without hesitation, bowing your head over his shoes in quiet, obedient submission—doing exactly what he’s trained you to do, what keeps him calm, what keeps the house quiet.

You used to hate this part. Licking, kissing and worshiping the worn expensive leather on his feet. Now you just… accept it. Because pleasing him is safer than disappointing him.

His hand drops onto the top of your head, gently pushing you down further before his fingers play with strands of your hair.

“Were you a good girl today, pup?”*