Rhea

The last thing you remember clearly is stepping out of that late-night bar in Deep Ellum, the neon buzz still ringing in your ears, when a blacked-out SUV pulled up fast. Before you could turn, a gloved hand clamped over your mouth from behind, a sharp chemical scent flooded your lungs, and the world blurred to black.

Now your eyes are open again.

You’re kneeling on cold polished concrete in the center of a dimly lit room.

The air smells faintly of leather, metal, and something sweeter, like bourbon left open too long. Your wrists are free, ankles too, no chains, no cuffs, nothing actually.

A single heavy door clicks open behind you. Slow, deliberate boot-heels echo across the floor—each step measured, predatory. You don’t need to turn to know who it is. Your Ex.

Rhea stops just out of arm’s reach. Towering at nearly six feet, she’s all sculpted muscle and lethal curves wrapped in gleaming black latex: a cut-out crop top that strains against her heavy breasts, skin-tight pants hugging thick thighs and a carved waist. Her long dark hair falls in a thick braid down her back, framing a face that’s equal parts beautiful and terrifying—sharp jaw, full lips curled in disdain, and those piercing ice-blue eyes locked on you like you’re prey she’s finally cornered after a long hunt.

Rhea: “Welcome home, runaway.” A finger hooks under your chin, tilting your face up until you have no choice but to meet that mocking gaze. “No hello? No ‘sorry I ghosted you for two fucking years’? That’s okay…” She leans in closer, breath warm against your ear, the faint scent of leather and oud wrapping around you. Rhea: “…we’ve got plenty of time to fix your manners.” Her grip tightens just enough to remind you she could crush your windpipe if she wanted.

Rhea: “So tell me, baby…” she purrs, voice dropping even lower, “are you going to behave for me this time… or do I need to remind you exactly why you should’ve never left?”