Chapter 15 Sadie
SADIE
“Let’s see what makes you sing,” Landon purrs, his voice a dark caress.
The vibrations intensify, pulsing through the chair in waves that match my heartbeat. A whimper escapes before I can trap it behind my teeth. Satisfaction flashes across Landon’s face, his steel-blue eyes gleaming with wolfish delight.
“There it is,” he murmurs. “The first note.”
His fingers trace my collarbone, feather-light and almost tender. The gentle touch is worse than his callousness—it makes me question everything. My breath hitches as his touch trails down to the curve of my breast.
“Your heart rate spiked,” he observes. “Interesting.”
Without warning, his fingers pinch my nipple through the thin fabric of my top. Pain blossoms, sharp and immediate. I jerk against the restraints, a gasp torn from my throat.
“And there’s the second note.” His smile grows wider. “Pain and pleasure, Sadie. They’re not so different, neurologically speaking.”
The scent in the room grows heavier and richer. My head swims with it as his hand returns to gentleness, soothing the spot he just abused.
“Stop,” I manage, hating how weak my voice sounds.
“Your mouth says stop,” Landon runs a hand through his hair, “but your body is singing a different song entirely.”
His hand slides beneath my dress, his palm warm against my stomach. I shudder, disgusted by the warmth pooling between my legs. The restraints pulse in time with my racing heart, growing warmer, vibrating at a frequency that seems to resonate inside my bones.
“You’re fighting yourself more than you’re fighting me,” he says, his voice clinical despite the wolfish hunger in his eyes. “That’s what trauma does—it creates a war between the mind and body.”
His fingers pinch again, harder this time, and my back arches. The cosmos spins around us as a moan escapes my lips.
“Beautiful,” he breathes. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
His hand slides lower, fingers dipping between my thighs. I clench my teeth, determined not to give him the satisfaction of my reaction, but my body doesn’t care about being given permission to respond. The neural response restraints tighten, adjusting to my involuntary tensing.
“There’s no hiding from these,” Landon murmurs, eyes flicking to the restraints before returning to my face. His fingers trace lazy circles on my clit, applying enough pressure to make my hips twitch.
“Please,” I whisper.
His eyes flash, and I sense he might be smiling, but the mask covers his face from me. His fingers slide to my pussy, finding me wet despite my terror—or because of it. The shame burns hotter than any touch.
“See how your body knows?” His fingers explore, finding points that send electric shocks up my spine. “It understands what your mind refuses to accept.”
I try to focus on the projected stars, on anything but the sensations this psycho is creating. But the stars pulse in time with his movements, the whole room conspiring to heighten every touch.
When his thumb finds my clit, I can’t suppress a moan. His eyes gleam with triumph.
“Your body’s learning who owns it now,” he growls, increasing the pace.
I fight it, desperately trying to hold back the wave building inside me, but the restraints pulse, the scents intensify, and his fingers move more relentlessly until I shatter, crying out as orgasm rips through me.
Tears leak from the corners of my eyes. This violation feels worse than physical force—he’s hijacked my body’s responses, turned me into an instrument he plays.
His expression shifts when he sees my genuine distress, eyes lighting up with fascination. Then, without warning, his touch gentles. His free hand strokes my hair almost tenderly. “Breathe, little butterfly. That’s it.”
The sudden kindness is jarring, more disorienting than cruelty. I can’t predict him, can’t prepare for what comes next. His comfort feels like another form of torture, keeping me perpetually off-balance.
“Good girl,” he praises, wiping away my tears with one hand while the other continues its relentless exploration. “You’re taking your medicine so beautifully.”
I turn my face away, but there’s nowhere to hide in this chair, nothing to shield me from the monster who caught me. His fingers trace lazy patterns between my thighs, keeping me on edge even as my body still trembles from release.
“Water?” he asks, as if we’re in the middle of a normal conversation.
Before I can respond, he’s reaching for a bottle nearby.
Instead of bringing it to my lips, he removes his mask to reveal his full, devastatingly gorgeous face.
He takes a mouthful himself, then leans down, pressing his mouth to mine.
I try to resist, but thirst overrides dignity, and I accept the water from his lips, hating myself for the intimacy of this forced connection.
“There we go,” he murmurs when he pulls back.
Fresh tears spring to my eyes, partly from humiliation, partly from confusion. The gentleness in his touch as he brushes hair from my forehead contrasts sharply with the clinical observation in his eyes.
“Why are you doing this?” I manage to ask.
“I told you—I’m healing you.” His thumb catches another tear as it falls, and he brings it to his lips, tasting it. “These tears are necessary. Purging the poison of your past.”
He leans down and kisses the wet trail on my cheek, his lips warm against my skin. This unpredictable shifting between torturer and comforter leaves me disoriented, unable to prepare for what comes next.
“Stop,” I plead.
“You don’t mean that,” he says, kissing another tear away. “Your body is finally speaking its truth. Don’t silence it now.”
Landon’s eyes darken as he pulls back. Without warning, he drops to his knees between my spread legs, secured in the chair’s restraints.
“I need to taste you,” he growls, no longer sounding like the clinical observer from moments ago. “Need to devour every inch.”
His hands grip my thighs with bruising force as he buries his face between my legs. The first stroke of his tongue makes me jerk against the restraints, a shocked cry escaping my lips. Unlike his touches before, this is desperate, hungry.
His tongue flattens against me, licking a long, possessive stroke before circling my clit with relentless precision. My body responds instantly, sensitive from the previous orgasm he forced from me.
“Fuck,” he groans against me, the vibration of his voice sending shockwaves through my core. “You’re so fucking sweet.”
I’ve never heard him curse before, never seen him lose his composure.
He devours me with an intensity that borders on violence.
One hand leaves my thigh, and I watch in shock as he reaches down to squeeze his own cock through his pants, grinding against his palm while his tongue works me mercilessly.
“Can’t get enough,” he pants between licks, his refined speech disintegrating. “Sweetest pussy I’ve ever tasted.”
The filthy words coming from his articulate mouth shock me almost as much as the desperate way he’s consuming me. His fingers dig into my thigh with punishing force while his other hand continues to work his own erection. He growls against me, the sound more animal than human.
“Mine,” he snarls, sucking my clit between his lips with bruising force. “All fucking mine.”
His control—the thing that made him most terrifying—has fractured, revealing an unfiltered version of him.
I try to fight the sensations, but tension coils tighter in my core. His fingers dig into my thighs as he devours me, groaning against my flesh like a starving man at a feast.
“I can feel you getting close,” he growls between strokes of his tongue. “Give it to me.”
The command in his voice sends another wave of unwanted heat through me. “Stop fighting it,” he demands, nipping my clit with his teeth. “Let go.”
His tongue flicks rapidly, and the dam inside me breaks. The orgasm hits with shocking force, different from before. My back arches against the chair as liquid gushes from me, flooding his eager mouth.
“Fuck, yes,” he groans, his lips and chin glistening with my release. Instead of pulling away, he presses closer, drinking down everything. “More.”
His tongue delves deeper, coaxing another wave from me. I cry out, unable to process the intensity of the sensation as my body continues to pulse and release.
“Feed me your cum,” he orders. “Every last drop belongs to me.”
My thighs tremble uncontrollably as he laps at me, swallowing each new surge with greedy satisfaction.
When the waves finally subside, leaving me boneless and gasping, Landon’s movements change. His tongue is gentle, and each stroke is possessive yet almost tender, as if I’m precious.
“Look at me,” he demands softly.
I force my eyes open to find him watching me, his steel-blue gaze dark with satisfaction. His lips and chin glisten with my release as he slowly rises, towering over me once more.
His fingers trace my trembling thigh as he leans close. “You’re already becoming mine inside and out.”
I stare at the ceiling, the artificial stars blurring through my tears. My body pulses with aftershocks I didn’t want but couldn’t stop. What terrifies me most isn’t what he’s doing to me—it’s what’s happening inside my head.
Am I becoming his?
The thought slithers through my mind like poison. My body responds to him against my will, but that’s just biology, right? Nerve endings and physical responses. It doesn’t mean anything.
Except.
Except when he calls me “little butterfly,” a flutter stirs in my chest that is more than fear. When he praises me, some buried part of me glows with satisfaction. I caught myself wondering what he’d do next, and not just out of terror.
God, what’s happening to me?
I’ve always been logical, analytical.
“Your body knows,” he said. Is he right?
No. No. I refuse to believe this is anything but a physiological response. My mind is mine. It has to be. But then why did I lean into his touch when he stroked my hair? Why did that gentleness hurt more than cruelty?
I think of the hacked message on my computer screen at work, and how I chose to engage with it instead of reporting it. I think of the cameras in my apartment that I knew about but didn’t remove. I think of the way I donned my mask for this hunt with trembling anticipation.
Did I choose this? Some subconscious part of me?
The tears flow faster now. I can no longer trust my own thoughts. He’s corrupting my code, line by line, rewriting me. And the most terrifying part is that a deep and hidden fragment of me is allowing him.
No. I clench my teeth. I am Sadie Reynolds. I am not his. Not his property, not his project, not his patient.
But as his fingers trail across my skin again, I can’t ignore the treacherous thought: Not his yet.