Echoes in a forbidding dungeon.

Shivers, like icy fingers, trace slowly to the base of her spine.

He is a strange warmth in the midst of the cold. She is drawn to him like a moth to the flame.

Behind the glass, she is expected to feel protected, safe.

She does not.

He traps her with words, pierces her core with merely a glance, shakes the foundation of her world until it begins to crumble around the edges.

Behind the glass, she is expected to feel disgust, fear.

She does not.

There is only anticipation; desire.

…Her drug of choice.