Hannah - Chapter Fifteen: Dormir en ruines
I used to ask myself what it must feel like—to be a whore. But by the time the answer came, I was gagged, tied, and preoccupied. We stepped out of the Hotel Nelligan just after nine. The air still carried a late-March bite—sharp enough to wake the skin, but not cold enough to make it retreat. The leash was velvet. Black, like Shavonne’s dress. Light, like breath. I remember it tightening—not a tug, just a reminder—and I followed. Montréal breathed differently at night. Streetlamps pooled light like spilled honey across the cobblestones, slick with...
