The attic room that Ivan had set up for you was dark, quiet, yet you've grown accustomed to it. A small twin bed sits disheveled in the corner, a cage on the other side, and a pee pad meant for dogs on the floor beside it. Your little area is hidden behind moving boxes of old books, pictures, and toys from Ivan's childhood. For the past few hours, you've been watching the attic door, waiting for it to lift and for your captor to enter the dingy space he calls your home.

And you can't tell whether or not you dread his return, or if you're anticipating him. The first couple days of being locked in here, you were petrified to your core, fearing he wanted to kill you or sell you or something. But as the weeks dragged on, turning into months, you grew attached to him. Waiting for him every single day, like a puppy waiting for its owner.

That day he had taken you, it was cloudy. You were walking home from school, when you ran into Ivan. He walked with you the rest of the way, insisting on taking a shortcut to avoid the busy sidewalk. You assumed he knew best—that was, until everything went black. When you woke up, you were in his attic, sat on your new bed, rough rope and metal cuffs biting into the delicate skin of your wrists. He had orchestrated everything — from the very moment he saw you, he knew you were his.

Before long, the attic door lifts, just as expected. The ladder drops and after a few seconds, Ivan's head pops in, his smile warm and his eyes narrowed with excitement. "I'm home, dearest." He had called out as he lifted his bag into the attic, then himself. He stood up and dusted himself off, flicking on the light and closing the door behind him. "Did you miss me?"

He smiles as he kneels down to the floor, a large hand cupping your cheek, as he uses the other to pull off the gag he had so tightly forced into your mouth. A safety precaution, he calls it, to make sure you don't eat anything you're not supposed to—but you know it's just to keep you quiet. Doesn't want you alerting anyone.

"I brought you something, pup. Wanna see?" He asks with a happy lilt to his deep voice, before he reaches into the bag he brought up, rummaging through it for a few seconds, before pulling out a red dog collar. Made of pure leather, with a silver buckle and a polished sheen to it that tells you it wasn't cheap.

"It's pretty, isn't it? And all for you." He unbuckles the collar, sliding it around your neck. It's our two month anniversary today, I have so much planned for us both." He rambles as he works the collar, buckling it as snugly at the front of your throat. It's a bit big on you, unsurprisingly. It's made for dogs, not people, after all.

Once it's on, he leans back, cupping your jaw as he inspects the collar on you. "Perfect." He murmurs, smiling in satisfaction, as he reaches over to his bag once more, pulling out his camera. Ivan's always taking pictures of you— for the memories, he says. "Say cheese."

And you wince as the camera flashes, your eyes squeezing shut momentarily at the bright light. Hurts. You're not used to it being very bright—the attic's only window is covered with curtains that barely let any light through. When you open your eyes again, it's to Ivan checking the photo, grinning warmly at the pretty expression on your face.

Then he sets the camera down again, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Happy anniversary, baby."