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"Doesn't concern you." Another lie. Everything about her concerned me now, haunted the edges of my conscience. What the fuck was happening to me?
I left the room, my steps heavy, my mind heavier. I wanted her. All of her. To strip away the innocence and see if she'd still look at me like I was someone worth seeing.
"Fuck," I muttered to myself, stalking down the corridor. Loyalty to the Cinder Crew, to Priscilla? That shit was getting harder to stomach. Ella was the wrench in the works, the flaw in the plan.
And God help me, I wanted to be flawed.
Eight: Ella
The door creaked open, a low moan of hinges that made the hairs on my arms stand at attention. Chris' hand pressed against the small of my back, not gentle but not forcing either. My breath hitched as my eyes adjusted to the dim light. Walls lined with leather whips, metal cuffs, and an array of sex toys that would make even a seasoned sinner blush.
"Priscilla’s orders," Chris growled. "You're to be trained for your buyer. He ain't no fucking prince, sweetheart. Last girl couldn't survive his... tastes."
His words were like a cold slap, jolting me from the daze of fear. I twisted around, pleading in a whisper, "Please, oh God, don’t do this. You can’t..."
He just stared down at me, his expression carved from stone. Slow, deliberate fingers reached up, peeling away the black bandana masking his face. The sight of him struck me—gorgeous wasn't a word rich enough for the man beneath the outlaw facade. Blue eyes that could have been plucked from the sea, tattoos crawling up his neck like dark vines. But his lips...
Goddamnit. I thought, my mind a traitor to my terror. "There are worse ways to learn about dark pleasures than from a tattooed god."
"Better me than some sick fuck who won't care if you break,” he smirked.
Shit, I didn't realize I said that part out loud.
Desperation clawed at my chest, his body caged me now, heat and muscle and an undeniable threat.
Cold metal kissed my skin as Chris's fingers started pulling the dress over my hips.
"Wiggle," he commanded, the dress freeing from the swell of my breasts before coming off entirely. My bare legs quivered, not from cold but from a primal fear that knotted my insides.
"Good girl," he grunted, approval lacing his coarse voice. "Now for your real lesson."
His hands, rough from years of dirty work, grazed my arms, guiding me to the bed centered between shadows and light. The monstrosity had four-posts – one on each corner, its frame solid, like the man who now blindfolded me with a strip of satin.
Sight stolen, my world shrank to the sounds of my erratic breaths and the pounding of blood in my ears.
"Can't see shit," I muttered, the darkness amplifying every touch.
"Exactly," his breath was hot on my nape.
"Arms up," he ordered, and I obeyed, compelled by something more than fear. There was power in his voice, command in his presence. For once in my life, I felt truly driven to obey without a fight.
His fingers laced together my wrists with a rope, binding them tight enough to feel the bite but not break skin. My heart sprinted, chest rising and falling with shallow gasps as he secured my bonds to the bedpost. I was spread before him like a feast to be devoured.
"Fuck, you're actually doing this," I breathed, disbelief tangling with a surge of unwanted arousal.
"Priscilla's orders," he snapped.
"Is she watching?" The question left my lips before I could stop it, an image of her cold eyes dissecting my vulnerability sending a shudder down my spine.
"Doesn’t matter. Focus on what I'm teaching you." His reply was terse, the clink of metal loud in the small room as he selected a tool. God, I hope it's not a knife. I'm not into being cut. I think.
"Teaching or breaking?"
"Both," he admitted, a shadow crossing his voice, heavy with something I couldn't name. Fear? Regret? It didn't matter. His hands on my body were all that existed—mapping, claiming, seizing territory with every press of his fingertips.
"Remember this, Ella," he murmured, a dark promise threaded through the words, "It's only pain if you let it be."
The velvet darkness pressed against my eyelids. My skin prickled with vulnerability, each sound magnified—a creak of the bed, Chris's steady breaths, the soft rustle of his clothes. Wait, why was he still clothed?
