A letter to the post man

"I will put her to the test," Damian said coldly, his voice devoid of emotion.

Back in my cold, dark room, I remained oblivious to his intentions. Yet my mind was consumed by the peculiar question he had asked earlier. Why did he care about my eye color? I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something significant about it.

The door creaked open, and Damian entered, his tall figure filling the dimly lit space. This time, he wasn't carrying food or punishment. Instead, he handed me a bundle of clean clothes.

I hesitated, taking the clothes cautiously. I noticed the texture—velvet. The garment was soft yet unfamiliar, luxurious compared to anything I'd worn in weeks. It wasn't just clean—it was beautiful. But as I unfolded it, my heart sank. It was a short, figure-hugging dress, seductive in its design.

"I've lost so much weight," I murmured to myself, my voice barely audible.

He said nothing as he placed a bucket of steaming water on the floor. There was a dingy bathroom in the corner of the room, barely enclosed and far from private. My chest tightened at the thought of bathing in front of him.

As if sensing my hesitation, Damian's cold voice cut through the silence. "Get going. I don't have all day!"

I turned to him, my voice trembling. "Please… at least turn around."

He stopped, his head tilting slightly in surprise. His piercing gaze met mine, his lips curling into an amused smirk. "Turn around?" His voice carried mockery. "Oh, I've seen everything you're trying to hide. Have you forgotten the countless nights we've spent together?"

His words hit me like a thunderbolt. My breath caught, confusion swirling in my chest. "Countless nights?" I whispered, more to myself than to him. What did he mean?

He stepped closer, his towering frame nearly brushing mine. His hand lifted slowly, brushing over my tattered clothes. His touch was gentle yet firm, his fingers trailing along the fabric he moves his finger in cirlcles around my collar bone his trailed till he reached my breast .My breathing steadies ,he moves his fingers around my nipples erecting it them .A shiver ran down my spine as he leaned in, his voice low and deliberate.

"Oh, how sensational those days were…" he murmured, grinning wickedly.

His hand moved down, grazing my skin. For a fleeting moment, his fingers brushed against my chest, sending a jolt of cold heat through my body. I stood frozen, my heart pounding wildly. His touch stopped abruptly, his grin fading as his eyes avoided mine.

"Get ready," he said, his voice returning to its cold, commanding tone. Without another word, he turned and exited the room, slamming the door behind him.

I exhaled shakily, my thoughts spiraling. What was that? His words echoed in my mind, confusing me further. Did he think I was someone else? Or was this some kind of twisted game?

With no time to dwell on it, I quickly stripped off my tattered clothes and stepped into the corner bathroom. The water stung as it cascaded over my bruised skin, igniting pain in places I hadn't realized were hurt. I ran my fingers over the marks left by his punishments—each bruise and cut a reminder of my captivity.

I dressed hurriedly, pulling the velvet dress over my damp skin. It clung to my body, accentuating my figure despite the weight I had lost. I tied my hair into a secure bun, my hands trembling. I hadn't seen my reflection in days. I barely remembered what I looked like.

Damian returned shortly, his cold demeanor unchanged. "Follow me," he ordered, his tone brooking no argument.

I obeyed silently, noticing that his limp had improved. He walked with confidence now, his movements steady. He led me through a narrow hallway until we entered a much larger, brighter room. It was a stark contrast to the dark, oppressive space I had been confined to.

The room was clean and elegant, with a comfortable bed draped in soft linens. A vanity stood in the corner, and a large mirror reflected the entire space. I caught sight of myself for the first time in weeks.

My breath hitched. I barely recognized the woman staring back at me. My once-bright eyes were dull, my cheeks hollow, and my skin pale. Yet, despite the changes, the dress fit perfectly, clinging to my curves as if it had been made for me.

I turned away from the mirror, my gaze falling to the floor.

"Look at me," Damian commanded, his voice sharp.

I hesitated but obeyed, lifting my eyes to meet his. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze pierced through me, leaving me feeling exposed.

"Your punishments are over," he said firmly. "But from now on, you will do exactly as I say."

His words hung in the air, and I couldn't stop the question from escaping my lips. "Why are you doing this?"

His eyes softened slightly, a flicker of something unspoken passing across his face. He stepped closer, reaching for my hand. I flinched but didn't pull away.

To my surprise, he produced a first aid kit. He opened it and began tending to my wounds with a gentleness I didn't expect. His touch was careful, almost tender, as he cleaned each cut and bruise.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked again, my voice barely a whisper.

He paused, his hand stilling as he fixed his gaze on me. "Because you helped me," he said simply, his voice quiet but resolute.

I stared at him, trying to make sense of his words. This was the first time he had answered one of my questions directly, and it left me even more confused.

"What's your name?" I asked softly, seizing the moment.

He raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Is that all you want to know?"

I nodded, feeling oddly vulnerable under his gaze.

"Damian," he said, his voice steady.

The name lingered in the air between us. I repeated it silently, committing it to memory. "Damian…" I murmured aloud, my voice barely audible.

His expression shifted as if he had just confirmed something he had been pondering. For a moment, he looked at me—not with cold detachment, but with something softer, something I couldn't quite place.

"You should rest," he said, his tone gentler now. He stood, his tall frame towering over me.

As he turned to leave, I found myself speaking before I could stop myself. "Damian," I called, my voice wavering.

He paused in the doorway, glancing back at me.

"Thank you," I said, my cheeks flushing slightly.

He didn't respond, but his gaze lingered for a moment longer before he stepped out, closing the door behind him.

I sat there, staring at the closed door, my heart beating faster than I wanted to admit. For the first time in weeks, I felt something other than fear. It wasn't trust—not yet—but it was something.

And I couldn't help but wonder… was Damian really my captor? Or was he something else entirely?