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My vision darkens then clears, revealing Desmond standing before me, his nostrils flaring. His hand slides up my arm, gripping my neck. I keep my head up, my gaze defiant and unyielding, despite the fear that tries to creep in. Over his shoulder, I can just make out a long bench, a cross, and something that looks like a pommel horse for gymnastics.
“We need to talk,” he states, his voice dropping low, carrying a tone of dark authority.
“Fuck you,” I spit out, the defiance lacing my words fueled by anger and frustration.
“Colorful,” he deadpans, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “I went into my office this morning, into my safe, where I kept a certain file—a file that was missing when I went to get it. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
I grind my teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. Fate, however, has its own cruel plan. The two-way mirror lights up, and Desmond turns my head to Lyric and Matty on the other side. In Lyric’s hand is my backpack.
My heart rate picks up as he pulls the folder out of my bookbag and tosses it on the end table, a silent accusation. I remain quiet, even as Desmond’s hand tightens and his nose brushes along my neck. “Your heart rate is spiking, kitten.”
The sensation of his breath against my skin sends a shiver down my spine, fear and a twisted sort of exhilaration blending together. I refuse to break, to give him the satisfaction of seeing me crumble, but beneath the façade of defiance, a seed of doubt takes root. How deep do his suspicions run? What does he truly know?
I swallow past his grip, the intimacy of the moment mixed with the turmoil inside me. On the other side, Lyric and Matty sit on the sofa, their gazes locked with mine. Lyric looks amused, reveling in the drama, while Matty appears fearful, torn between loyalty and apprehension.
I have no idea which way this is going to go, but I won’t surrender easily.
“Nothing to say?” Desmond chuckles, his voice a dangerous caress that skims my skin. “Torture it is, kitten.”
“What?” I turn to him, my mouth drying up. “You wouldn’t.”
“Of course I would,” he retorts, his grip firm yet possessive. With his hand still on my neck, he slowly pushes me back until I hit the wall directly in front of the mirror. Defiance rises within me, mingling with a twisted sort of desire. “You’ve been keeping secrets from me, kitten.”
“Fuck you, Desmond. You’re the one keeping secrets,” I hiss, my voice laced with both insolence and a strange undercurrent of desire as he grabs my hand and locks it in a cuff. It’s a soft restraint, a reminder of his control, and it ignites a peculiar, sensuous tension between us. “If it weren’t for Harlow…”
Shit.
Desmond hums, the sound vibrating through the tense air. “Already loyal to you, I see,” he remarks, his voice unfazed as he secures my other hand.
I need to fight, plead, and do anything to break free. My mind screams at me to move, to resist, but my body freezes. I worked so damn hard not to freeze, but here I am, succumbing to the familiar sense of helplessness. A shiver works through me. I never got the chance to change, and the cold seeps through the scant fabric of my shorts and tank.
Caught between loyalty, self-preservation, fear, and desire, I teeter on the precipice of something unknown, something that will redefine the contours of my world, and as the shadows dance around us, I realize that the real torture isn’t just the physical restraints.
Desmond places his hand on my neck, his dark eyes trailing over my face. “If you’re going to run from us, you’ll talk about it, and if you choose not to talk…” He leans in, nipping my ear. “Then I’ll torture you, and, kitten, I am dying to torture you.” He moans against my neck.
I swallow hard, attempting to retain some semblance of control. “You get off on torturing people?” I ask, sensing his arousal. It’s in the way he moans and presses his body into mine.
“There’s just nothing else quite like it on earth,” he confesses, his words intimate and laced with desire. He speaks directly against my ear, his warm breath sending shivers down my spine. His feet nudge one of mine to the side and back, then the other. “If you kick me, I won’t make this easy on you,” he warns, the undertone of arousal heightening the charged atmosphere.
Sinking to the floor, Desmond keeps his intense gaze fixed on me, waiting for any sign of resistance. I suppress the urge to kick him, fighting against the restraints holding me in place.
“Good girl,” he praises, and confusion washes over me as he secures my feet to the wooden planks that form a cross.
Panic sets in. My breaths come quicker, my chest rising and falling rapidly. This situation spirals out of control, and a sense of dread washes over me like a tidal wave. Each click of the cuffs and echo of my own heartbeat amplifies the fear. I’m trapped, both physically and emotionally.
Desmond steps back, his gaze fixed on my every movement, like a predator assessing its prey. There’s a dark hunger in his eyes, an insatiable craving for power and control. My mind races, trying to find a way out of this nightmare, but all I see are shadows, dancing and mocking me in the dim dungeon.
As my panic rises, a strange cocktail of emotions floods my senses—fear, desire, anger, and an odd feeling of surrender—and I realize that the battle ahead is not just physical, but a twisted struggle of wills that will test the limits of my strength, resilience, and the dark secrets that bind us all.
“What the fuck is this?” I murmur, trying to wrap my mind around the situation, but no logical explanation brings comfort.
“Torture, kitten,” Desmond responds, rising and stepping back, his gaze appreciative. “Are you ready to talk yet?”
I frown, defiance still burning within me. “No,” I say firmly, my voice carrying a determination that surprises me. I am not ready to talk to him. I am not prepared to delve into the depths of that folder or the contents that could unravel the core of my existence.
Pleased, Desmond turns away, shrugging off his suit jacket and hanging it on the far wall. I cast my eyes to the cold concrete floor, noticing a drain at the center and chains nearby. They meticulously designed the room for torture and easy cleanup. My gaze shifts to a wall with what looks like a workbench, but I can’t imagine what horrors might be associated with it. The whole room reeks of pain and suffering.
In the corner, there’s a sign pointing to a door resembling a laundry chute. However, it reads, “incinerator,” ruling out any innocent function.
