Page 122 of Villainous Intent

This was where he’d broken me. This was where I’d screamed his name and begged him to use me.

I reached out, my fingers brushing the silk. It was soft, slippery. I felt a shiver of excitement but I turned away. It was too much, too big, too empty, a monument to everything I was certain I wasn’t going to get again.

In the corner, tucked away from the severe machinery of restraints and apparatuses, was a low chaise lounge piled with fur-lined blankets. This was the recovery spot. This was where he’d carried me after he’d broken me.

I sank onto the furs. They were obscenely soft as they swallowed me up. I stared blankly across the room, the red lighting turning the shadows into pools of dried blood. My mind, usually so good at filing and categorizing, simply stopped. It drifted, unable to process the volume of humiliation I was feeling.

Time became a slippery thing. I didn’t know if I sat there for five minutes or an hour. But when the static finally cleared from my head, it was replaced by a sharp clarity.

I wasn’t the first.

Obviously. You didn’t build a room like this, stocked liked this, for a one-off kidnapping.

I closed my eyes, and suddenly, I could see them. Faceless, lithe women with confidence I couldn’t buy. Women who knew how to wear the silk masks without trembling. I saw Cipher kneeling here, on these same furs, holding a glass of water for someone else. Someone who didn’t need a safeword.

And the mornings... God, the mornings had to be different for them.

I imagined him waking up in that massive bed, the sheets tangled around his hips, reaching for a woman who belonged there. He wouldn’t leave her to wake up to a tablet and a henchman. He would roll over, pull her flush against his hard body, and fuck her slow and lazy in the morning light because he wanted to be there.

I stood up abruptly, the furs sliding off my lap. This was ridiculous. I was ridiculous. I didn’t belong here. I felt sick.

I turned toward the door, determined to march back to my quarters and embrace my role as a prisoner. Then I saw the wall.

I had walked past it earlier, too focused on the knives, but now it caught my attention. It was a panel of impact instruments. Paddles. Canes. Straps of leather.

My feet dragged to a halt.

Despite the hollow pang in my chest and the jealousy corroding my insides, my body reacted. My pulse kicked in my throat as I stared at the instruments and wondered how they felt.

Would the cane sting or burn? Would the leather strap leave a bruise? I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to know.

I reached out and my fingers brushed against a riding crop. It was black, braided leather, stiff and unyielding. I ran my fingertips down the length of it, imagining the swish-crack sound it would make cutting through the air. Imagining the heat it would leave on my ass.

“Are you picking out a toy?”

I jumped, snatching my hand back.

Cipher was leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest.

He pushed off and walked toward me, his stride eating up the distance. “Well?” he asked. “Do you want to feel it?”

He was mocking me, that was the only explanation. He’d seen me on the cameras, watched me mourn the loss of an intimacy I hadn’t even truly possessed, and he’d come down here to twist the knife. He wasn’t offering; he was taunting. He wanted to hear me admit that I was curious about the pain, just so he could dismiss me again and go back to his precious soldering iron.

I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

“I was just leaving,” I said, my voice tight. “Going back to my room.”

I made sure to give him a wide berth as I went, hugging the wall of restraints to avoid the gravitational pull of his body. He didn’t move to stop me.

I reached the door and waited for the sensor to catch my movement.

Nothing happened.

I frowned, stepping closer, practically pressing my nose against the metal. I turned slowly when it still didn’t open. Cipher hadn’t moved. He was still standing there, watching me.

“Why won’t it open?”

“Because I didn’t permit you to leave.” The words were calm, spoken with the absolute authority of a man who controlled the oxygen in the room. “I asked you a question, Annie. Do you want to feel it?”