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“Strip.” His command rumbles through the air, shaking through my quivery bones, tearing away my will in the gust of a single word.
My hands start working, slowly but surely, tugging at the hem of my blouse. I have it halfway over my head when I hear two clicks of Grigory’s heels, bringing the oppressive sensation of his presence closer.
I barely have the blouse off before he yanks it from my hand and throws it aside.
My heart does a double beat. He’s going to be rough tonight. I sense it in the brutality crackling in his every motion and the distance between us—marked by the bearskin that he doesn’t step on.
It scares me. But it also has my blood coursing a bit faster with the anticipation of his overpowering dominance. I need it like I need the very air in my lungs. It doesn’t matter that he’s mad or that it will hurt. All that matters is that I’m going to be his.
I proceed to take off my pants and bra, and Grigory rips each item from my hands with the same force.
Finally, only my panties remain—the last sliver of protection. I hesitate, overcome by a wave of vulnerability. No matter how much I want to belong to him, his temper scares me. Once I remove my panties, I’ll have nothing left. I’ll be fully at his mercy, ready for him to punish and use.
“Everything,” he says, but this time there’s a note of softness in his voice. It gives me the courage to proceed, and I slip my fingers under the lace and slide my panties down my legs and step out of them.
This time, Grigory doesn’t rip them from me but lets me hand them to him, and a humming sensation awakens in my skin when his huge hand brushes my small one.
I want to lift my eyes to see if the softness is also reflected in his face, but I don’t dare to.
“Gather your hands behind your back,” he orders, and I obey, exposing myself further as I square my shoulders, making my breasts jut out. My only cover is my hair, which hangs loosely over my face, hiding the wealth of emotion flickering across my face.
But not even this do I get to keep.
Grigory reaches out to cup my chin and lifts my face. The feeling of his warm hand is like hot water on ice-cold hands—painful even as it’s soothing. I thought I’d never get to feel that hand again. I thought I’d never get to experience the overpowering mix of his steady authority and comforting calmness.
The sensation has a wealth of different emotions blubbering to the surface. Sadness, longing, guilt, regret. Desire. Burning, scorching hot desire.
Moisture gathers in my eyes as I try to process it all, and my gaze automatically flickers down.
“Look at me,” he says, still softly.
But there’s nothing soft about his expression when I lift my eyes and stare into his. There’s no sign of mercy. Only unrelenting desire to punish.
Still, the sight is like a jolt of lightning setting fire to my submission. It takes everything I have to not fall to my knees and press my forehead to his shoes.
“I’m sorry,” I say, but the words can’t possibly describe the regret wrenching at my chest. I can’t believe I hurt this man so badly—the man my entire heart craves to please. I can’t believe I disobeyed him so directly when he ordered me to stay.
“Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of opportunity to repent tonight,” he says like it’s supposed to reassure me and not scare the shit out of me.
To my surprise, it works both ways. I want to repent. I want to show him that I’m in this one hundred percent. That I’ll give everything to belong to him.
But as Grigory keeps watching me with unforgiving intent, the fear wins. It twists and turns in my stomach, giving rise to a queasy sensation.
I glance at Markus, seeking his protection. But there’s none to find. He simply watches with an impassive expression. It’s scary to see him like this. His eyes are void of emotion, his arms crossed in a rejective stance.
Or maybe there is something. I see it in the tic of his jaw. Hurt, fear, or sadness. Maybe this is his way of covering it up?
I want to go to him and wrap my arms around him. Tell him too that I’m sorry.
But Grigory captures my attention when he reaches for a leather cuff on a side table and grabs my wrist. He makes quick work of strapping leather around my wrists and ankles.
Next, he proceeds to fasten long ropes to each cuff, which he ties to hooks in the wooden beam above me and rings embedded in the floor on each side of the bearskin. His movements are quick and efficient, the brief softness from before gone as he yanks my arms up and tightens the ropes with hard tugs.
When he’s done, I’m spread out in an X, my hands so far apart I’m effectively trapped even though the cuffs aren’t locked. Panic makes a slow crawl up my spine as I blink back and forth between my wrists. I’m at the mercy of a man who seems to have lost all compassion and is hell-bent on making me pay for leaving him. I’m trapped in the woods, trapped in the ropes, trapped by his will. I’m not even sure he’ll heed my safeword.
I’m his now.And those words might mean so much more than they ever did with Markus.
Relief lets me take a deep breath when Markus gets up and approaches me. But with three small words, he sends ice-cold water running through my veins.
