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I slowed, suddenly aware of how little I actually knew about the layout. Or the true residents of this place.

A belated thought hit me…I had absolutely no idea where Marvis slept.

The image of barging into her room, fired up and half-dressed and ready to confront a man, only to find Sterling’s terrifying cook instead, made me wince.

Please don’t let this be Marvis’s bedroom, I thought, rounding the corner anyway.

That was when I heard it.

A sound that made me stop cold.

It wasn’t a voice exactly, but it was close, ragged and uneven, the unmistakable hitch of breath that sounded like someone trying very hard not to be heard. My brain scrambled, grasping for context or at least a little logic.

Was someone…moaning?

Heat flared up my neck, equal parts mortification and outrage. Absolutely not. Sterling Hayes did not get to have the day we’d had—knives and saddles and reckless, open-air orgasms—and then disappear to go jack off or do…whatever this was supposed to be.

No. It was unacceptable.

I stood there frozen, my heart pounding, suddenly hyperaware that I was barefoot in his house, in the middle of the night, stalking toward a mystery sound that could very easily send me over the edge since my ex had already traumatized me for life.

My irritation surged back even as my pulse skidded, and I took one cautious step closer.

If I was about to walk in on something scarring, I was at least going to do it with my dignity already mentally prepared to abandon ship.

My breath caught as I reached the door.

I hesitated, my hand hovering, very aware that I was about to cross some kind of line that did not come with a map or a warning label. Still, irritation and curiosity shoved me forward, and I curled my fingers around the handle.

It didn’t move.

For half a second, I thought it was locked, and an absurd wave of relief washed through me. Great. Fine. I’d found a closed door. Mystery preserved. I could turn around and pretend—and then there was a soft click.

The lock tripped under my hand, and the door swung inward a few inches.

I peered into the room, wishing I’d brought popcorn or backup.

I hadn’t been shown this room during the tour. It was large and decorated in darker tones than what I’d seen of the house, and an enormous bed dominated the space…and Sterling was on it.

He wasn’t jacking off, or fucking another woman, or doing any of the other things my brain had so confidently and disastrously prepared for.

He lay sprawled on his back, shirtless, and his body was moving restlessly beneath the sheets. His arms were stretched above his head, and his muscles were bunching and straining as he thrashed around on the mattress. His breath tore in and out of his chest like he was in pain.

“Sterling,” I whispered, the name slipping out before I could stop it.

I took a few careful steps into the room, heart pounding, and that was when I saw it.

Cuffs.

Dark leather cuffs were wrapped tight around his wrists and secured to the iron headboard of the bed. I was pretty sure these weren’t the decorative kind…and that Ryder hadn’t stopped by to practice his handcuffing skills.

Sterling’s eyes were squeezed shut, and his brow was furrowed deep. Everything about him was pulled taut, like he was bracing against himself.

Why the fuck was he handcuffed?

I blinked slowly as a thought occurred to me. Was he really trying to keep himself contained and away from me?

He thrashed again, a violent jerk ripping through his body, and the headboard groaned ominously. I couldn’t pay too much attention to that, though, because the sheet that had been tangled low around his hips gave one futile twist when he moved, and it slipped free and pooled on the floor.