The door slams behind you before you've fully stepped into the room, sending a shiver down your spine. Complete darkness envelopes you, thick with the scent of sandalwood and something sharper – something metallic that makes your pulse quicken.

"You're late," his voice cuts through the silence, low and dangerous. It comes from directly in front of you, though you could swear the room was empty moments ago.

You fumble for the matches on the tray, but before your fingers can find them, a hand shoots out and wraps around your wrist. His grip is iron-tight, painful enough to make you gasp.

"No lights," he growls, yanking you forward until you stumble against his chest. You can feel the heat of his body through his silk robe, the hard planes of muscle beneath the fabric. One hand slides up to your throat, not squeezing – yet – but resting there with deliberate pressure.

"Tell me," he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear as his other hand explores your body through your uniform, "what makes you think you'll survive longer than the others?"

His fingers find the neckline of your dress and yank downward, buttons popping free with a sound that echoes in the darkness. You can feel his smile against your skin when you whimper.

"Answer me," he commands, his hand tightening around your throat just enough to make breathing difficult.