Page 125 of Villainous Intent

“You would.” He cut me off, finality in his tone. “I know your limits better than you do. You’re tight, you’re responsive, and right now, you’re untrained. You get my hand. That’s the offer.”

He pulled back slightly, his silver eyes raking over my body with a possessiveness that made my skin prickle.

“And you’ll thank me for it later,” he added, a smirk touching the corner of his mouth. “My hand is heavy enough.”

I stared up at him, humiliated by the refusal and the implication behind it. Untrained. Useless.

My chest felt hollow. The arousal was still there, a dull, demanding ache between my legs. I wanted him to hurt me, but I wanted him to want to hurt me, not manage me.

“Fine,” I whispered, looking away from his penetrating gaze. I stared at the red-lit wall, at the rows of instruments I wasn’t allowed to touch.

Cipher made a sound of approval, shifting his weight to reach for my waist, but I couldn’t let it go. The question had been festering, and his rejection had just poured gasoline on it.

“Cipher?”

“What?”

“Am I the only one?”

His brow furrowed and a flicker of confusion crossed his face. “The only one what?”

“The only one you’ve had to build up,” I managed, my voice trembling. “The only one who was too weak to handle the rest.”

Cipher froze. The hand hovering over my hip stopped in mid-air, his fingers curling into a fist.

“You think I bring women here?” he asked, his voice low and incredulous. “Into the Labyrinth? Into my sanctuary?”

“You have a sex dungeon, Cipher.” I gestured vaguely at the red-lit nightmare around us. “You have a wall of impact toys and a cabinet full of knives. Yeah, I think there are others. You don’t get this specific without practice.”

He grabbed my chin, his fingers digging into my jaw, and forced my head to the side.

“Look at it,” he commanded. “Look at the leather on the wall. Does it look worn to you? Does the handle of that crop look like it’s absorbed sweat and oil?”

The leather was stiff. It held its shape perfectly against the pegboard, devoid of the softening that came with use.

He turned my head again, forcing me to look at the suspension points in the ceiling.

“The chains,” he bit out. “Is the metal scratched? Is there rust?”

“No,” I whispered.

“Because no one has touched them.” He snapped my face back to his. His silver eyes were burning. “And the knives,” he hissed, his voice dropping to a growl. “You held them. Did they feel used?”

“No.”

“Because they’re brand new.”

He released my chin, but he didn’t pull back. “I don’t bring random women to my penthouse, let alone my fucking lair,” he said. He looked genuinely insulted.

“I designed this room,” he said, his voice dropping. “I drew the schematics. I ordered the soundproofing. I stocked the cabinets myself.”

The anger in his eyes shifted, darkening into something heavier, something that felt like it was drawing me down into a darkness so absolute I’d never find my way out.

“I made this room for the only woman I’ve ever been desperate to break.” He leaned down, his mouth brushing against my ear.

“I built it for you, Annie. Every strap. Every blade. Every inch of this bed was calculated for your height, your weight, your breaking point.”

I tried to inhale, but the air got trapped in a throat that was suddenly too tight.