It is tedious, painful work. My shoulders scream from being held in an awkward position. My wrists burn where the metal cuffs have already chafed the skin. Every few minutes, I have to pause, let my hands rest, and listen to Suha’s breathing to ensure it hasn’t changed.
The first lock clicks open after what feels like an eternity. The sound is impossibly loud in the silent room. I freeze, my heart hammering against my ribs. Suha does not stir. He merely sighs in his sleep, his arm shifting to drape more heavily across his own chest.
I let out a slow, controlled breath and move to the next lock.
One by one, they give way to me. The right wrist, the left ankle, the right ankle. Each click is a tiny victory. Each released chain feels like shedding a piece of a weight I had willingly put on.
Finally, the last lock opens. I am free. I carefully, slowly, gather the chains in my hands to prevent them from rattling, and slip out from under Suha’s loose arm. I stand beside the bed, and my legs immediately buckle. I have to grab the bedside table to keep from falling, biting down hard on my lip to stop a pained groan. Every step is a lesson in agony. My ass feels like it has been used as a punching bag, and my thighs tremble weakly.
I limp to the walk-in closet, moving as quietly as a ghost. I find another black button-up shirt, softer this time, and a pair of dark gray lounge pants. They are both too long and too broad in the shoulders, but I roll the cuffs and cinch the drawstring tight. I forgo shoes again; the idea of pulling anything onto my feet is too much to contemplate.
I pause at the bedroom door, listening. The mansion is silent. I crack the door open and peer into the darkened hallway. Empty.
My escape route is the same as last time. The window, the balcony, the trellis. Getting the window open silently is a challenge. Climbing out and onto the balcony makes fire shoot up my spine. Swinging my leg over the balcony railing is an exercise in pure willpower.
The climb down the trellis is the worst part. Every grip of my hands sends pain lancing through my sore wrists. Every foothold jars my entire body. I am sweating by the time my bare feet touch the cool grass of the garden below, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps that I try desperately to muffle.
I crouch in the shadows, waiting, watching the patrol patterns of the guards. They are still complacent, still looking outward. When the path is clear, I move, a limping, awkward dash across the open lawn. Scaling the outer wall is a special kind of hell, requiring a burst of strength I barely have. I haul myself overthe top and drop down onto the other side, landing in a heap in the alley, a strangled cry finally escaping me as I impact the pavement.
For a long moment, I just lie there on the cool ground, panting, waiting for the stars to clear from my vision. Every part of me hurts. I am a collection of aches and stings and deep, throbbing pains.
I push myself up to my hands and knees, then slowly, agonizingly, to my feet. I take a step, and then another. My gait is wide, unsteady. A low, pained chuckle bubbles up in my throat.
Damn. Suha’s dick is a lethal weapon. I am going to be walking like I have spent a week on a horse for days.
But as I limp away from his mansion, melting into the labyrinth of backstreets that will lead me home, a slow, satisfied smirk spreads across my face. The pain is a good pain. The bruises are trophies. The exhaustion is the kind you earn.
He fucked me raw, chained me up, and thought that would be enough to keep me.
He has another thing coming.
The game is still on. And I am already looking forward to my next move.
The ache in my ass is a persistent, smug little reminder as I limp my way across the city, a private souvenir that makes me smirk every time I shift my weight wrong. It’s been three days since I slipped out of Suha’s bed, and the physical echo of his rut is finally starting to fade from a screaming protest to a dull, satisfied throb. The problem is, the other ache isn’t fading at all.
It’s the bond. It sits in my chest like a fist wrapped around my sternum, tightening whenever I think about him, which is, annoyingly, all the damn time. It’s not just a craving for his knot or his pheromones, though fuck knows my body is throwing a tantrum for those, too. It’s... missing him. Missing the sharp cut of his voice, the way his eyes go dark right before he loses his temper, the sheer, unapologetic weight of his presence. I’ve spent my whole life being the most dangerous thing in any room, and now I’m hooked on the one person who makes me feel like prey. It’s pathetic. It’s also the most fun I’ve ever had.
Which is why, after laying low for a few days to let the literal heat die down, I get this itch under my skin. A game isn’t any fun if you don’t poke the bear. Running away was one thing. Coming back just to be a nuisance? That’s the good stuff.
Wooil’s hacking skills come in handy again. It takes him less than an hour to dig up the details of some corporate charity dinner Suha’s company is sponsoring tonight at one of those stupidly tall hotels in Gangnam. The Phantom Lotus Syndicate, putting on its respectable lotus-face for the public. The mental image of Suha in a tuxedo, making nice with politicians and CEOs while probably fantasizing about breaking their fingers, is too delicious to pass up.
The hotel looms over Gangnam like a glass dagger. I lean against a lamppost across the street, watching the stream of black cars disgorge an array of similarly dressed people. Tuxedos and gowns, diamonds catching the city glow. Suha’s kind of crowd, or at least, the crowd he wears like a mask.
I don’t bother with the front. Too many eyes, too many guys in suits with earpieces who look like they chew nails for breakfast. I circle the block, slipping into the service alley that runs behind the building. It smells of dumpsters and diesel, a welcome slap of reality after the perfume and money out front. A metal staircase zigzags up the back, leading to a series of terraces. I take the steps two at a time, my boots echoing softly on the grated metal.
The third terrace up is smaller, secluded, shielded from the main event by a wall of frosted glass. And there he is.
Suha stands with his back to me, one hand braced on the railing, the other bringing a cigarette to his lips. The city sprawls behind him, a tapestry of neon and shadow. He’s still in his tuxedo jacket, but he’s loosened the bow tie, and the top buttons of his shirt are open. He looks less like a CEO and more like a king surveying a kingdom. The perfect picture of controlled power, alone in the dark.
My footsteps are silent on the concrete. I come up right beside him, close enough to feel the heat coming off his body in the cool night air. He doesn’t startle. He doesn’t even turn his head. He just takes a slow drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing bright in the dimness.
I reach over and pluck it straight from between his fingers.
He finally looks at me then. His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes do. They sharpen, going from distant annoyance to focused irritation. I bring the filter to my lips, where his mouth was just a second ago, and inhale. The smoke is harsh and familiar. I blow it out in a thin stream toward the skyline.
“Still mad at me?” I ask, my voice a low rasp.
He watches the smoke dissipate. “What the fuck do you want?”
