The first time he bends me over the desk between meetings, I’m genuinely surprised. One minute he’s walking his lieutenant to the door, shaking hands and making plans for dinner next week. The next minute the door clicks shut, and he’s on me, shoving me face-down across the polished wood surface. He doesn’t even fully undress, just unzips his pants and pushes inside me, fucking me hard and fast like I’m just a convenient hole to use. When he finishes, he pulls out, tucks himself back in, and sits down to answer emails while I’m still sprawled across his desk, trying to catch my breath.
It becomes routine. Morning fuck, office work, midday fuck, more work, evening fuck, dinner, night fuck, cage. Rinse and repeat. My body is perpetually sore, covered in bruises and bite marks in various stages of healing. The collar never comes off. The cuffs only get removed when he wants my hands free for something specific, and they go right back on afterward.
Honestly? Part of me finds the whole thing darkly amusing. The sheer audacity of keeping another person—another dominant alpha, no less—as a literal sex slave in his office. The shamelessness of fucking me while conducting business calls. There’s something almost impressive about how thoroughly he’s committed to treating me like property.
And if I’m being completely honest with myself, it’s hot as hell. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? A dominant alpha strong enough to actually dominate me, to use me however he wants without asking permission or worrying about my feelings. Suha doesn’t coddle me or check in to make sure I’m okay. He just takeswhat he wants, when he wants it, and expects me to submit. His pheromones are so strong they make my head spin, and every time he knots me I feel that bone-deep satisfaction of finally being claimed by someone powerful enough to keep me.
But.
There’s a difference between getting what you want and being trapped. And I’m definitely trapped. Suha is possessive to a degree that borders on obsessive. He keeps me within arm’s reach basically every waking hour. Even when he’s working, his hand is usually touching me somewhere—gripping my neck, tangled in my hair, resting on my shoulder. Like he needs the physical contact to remind himself I’m still there, still his.
At night in the cage, I lie awake and think. The problem is I’m never alone. Suha sleeps maybe ten feet away, and he’s a light sleeper. During the day his guards are always present, and even when they’re not, there are cameras everywhere. I’ve counted at least six in the office alone. The house is massive but heavily secured, with guards patrolling the grounds and sophisticated alarm systems on every door and window.
Plus there’s the bond. I can feel it now, a strange awareness of Suha’s presence even when I can’t see him. It tugs at something deep in my chest, making me hyperaware of his moods, his location, his needs. The bond wants me to stay close to him, to please him, to submit. Fighting it gives me headaches and makes my skin feel wrong, like I’m wearing clothes that don’t fit.
I start paying attention during Suha’s business meetings. Not obviously—I’m still kneeling at his feet like a good little pet, head bowed, hands cuffed behind my back. But my ears work just fine, and Suha doesn’t seem to think I’m smart enough to retain anything useful.
Big mistake.
I learn that the Crimson Serpent Family has been pushing into Phantom Lotus territory in Itaewon, trying to take overthree of their nightclubs. I learn that there’s tension between Suha and one of his territory division heads, some guy named Seo Donghyuk who’s been skimming profits from the gambling operations. I learn about a shipment of weapons coming in through Incheon next month, about a politician they’re bribing who’s getting cold feet, about internal power struggles and external threats.
I file it all away. Not because I have some grand plan to use it—I’m not stupid enough to think I could take down Phantom Lotus with a few scraps of overheard conversation. But information is currency, and right now I’m broke as hell. Knowing things gives me leverage, even if I don’t know how to use it yet.
Suha’s in the middle of a phone call with someone he keeps calling hyung, discussing a real estate deal that’s obviously money laundering, when he reaches down and tangles his fingers in my hair. Not pulling, just holding. His thumb strokes absently along my scalp while he talks numbers and percentages, his voice completely level like he doesn’t have a naked man collared at his feet.
When he hangs up, I decide to test the waters.
“Does your accountant know you’re terrible at math?” I ask conversationally.
His hand tightens in my hair, yanking my head back so I’m forced to look up at him. His expression is flat, unimpressed.
“Did I say you could speak?”
“You didn’t say I couldn’t.”
His eyes narrow. For a second I think he’s going to hit me, but instead he releases my hair and goes back to his laptop. “Shut your mouth before I put my cock in it.”
I grin despite myself. “Is that supposed to be a threat or a promise?”
He ignores me, typing something with sharp, annoyed keystrokes. I count it as a win.
Over the next few days, I keep pushing. Little comments here and there, testing how much conversation he’ll tolerate before he shuts me down. Sometimes he tells me to be quiet and actually fucks my mouth to enforce it. Other times he answers, brief and curt, like he’s forgotten I’m supposed to be furniture and not a person.
I learn he takes his coffee black, no sugar. That he has a scar on his left shoulder blade from a knife fight when he was nineteen. That he sleeps on his stomach and wakes up at exactly six every morning without an alarm. Small things, useless things, but they make him feel more human and less like an untouchable mob boss.
One afternoon he’s reviewing contracts at his desk, and I’m sitting on the floor with my back against the side of his chair because my knees hurt from kneeling. He hasn’t told me to move, so I’m taking liberties. His hand drops to rest on top of my head, fingers playing with my hair while he reads.
“Your mother teach you to speak like that?” I ask, because he just told someone on the phone that if they fucked up the delivery again he’d personally remove their intestines through their throat.
His hand goes still. The temperature in the room seems to drop about ten degrees.
“I don’t have a mother,” he says, his voice flat and cold in a way that makes my survival instincts scream at me to shut up. “I had two fathers. One’s dead.”
I should absolutely leave it alone. I should keep my mouth shut and let it drop. But I’ve never been good at self-preservation.
“What about the other one?”
“Might as well be dead.” His fingers tighten in my hair, not quite painful but getting there. “Will be, if I ever find him. Omega trash abandoned me the day I was born.”
