Chapter 17
DOVE
Something is seriously wrong with me.
Understatement of the fucking century.
It’s not just the particularly violent and aggressive flavor of sex that I gravitate to, either. If it was just that, I could forgive myself or at least give myself a little grace there.
As dark as my kinks are, I’m not the only one in the world who has them. Lots of people gravitate to free use, or CNC, or rape play. A lot of women who went through the sort of trauma I did, or far worse, will actively seek those sorts of fantasies out.
One of my therapists told me it’s a way for people to relive their trauma in a controlled way. It’s why safe words exist. Why “consensual” comes before “non-consent” in that particular kink.
So no, I don't think I’m broken because I want far from vanilla things in the bedroom.
I think I’m broken because of who I’ve chosen as a partner. Out of all the people in the world, with Tinder, or FetLife, or any of the other dozens of other options out there, I’ve ended up exploring them with Bane.
I could say that he’s forcing me; that he made me sign our fucking contract under pain of ruining my life. But after spilling my guts to Evelina the other night, that threat isn't so scary anymore.
I know I could end this. I could give Bane the finger, sit down with my friends, and empty my veins. Would it be hard to uncover those parts of myself to them?
Definitely.
But it would render Bane’s threats moot. I’d be free of him.
And yet, here I am. Not telling anyone. Moving into his house.
Submitting to the man who was in love with my best friend, who took her virginity and used to touch her the same fucking way he touched me last night, putting me over his knee in the bathroom and spanking me while I watched myself in the mirror, face crumpled with raw need as I came on his fingers.
“He spanked me last night. Like a LOT lol. And it was super fucking hot.”
Lark’s teenage-hormone-soaked diary entry has been echoing in my head all day. Because Bane did the exact same thing to me last night.
Darkness coils inside me.
Shamefully, in some extremely fucked-up way, part of me wonders if that was one of the reasons I came so hard.
I exhale as I sink into one of the chairs by the window, sipping my coffee. After what happened last night in what I’m sure was Bane’s quarters, he led me down the hall to a slightly smaller bedroom and announced this was where I’d be living.
Then he thrust an oversized t-shirt and a huge pair of sweatpants that both smell like him at me, and that was that.
At least we aren't sharing a room.
Also, I’m not locked inside my new room or anything, thank fuck, so I’ve been able to roam the two-level penthouse totally unhindered this morning.
In fact, I don’t think Bane’s been home at all.
I almost wondered if I had the place to myself, but then I walked into the kitchen and almost screamed at the man in a dress shirt cooking eggs at the stove.
Alfred, who I guess is also the cook and maybe Bane's housekeeper as well as the butler. I still can’t quite believe that a guy who dresses all in black, with a voice like a dark anti-hero and who lives basically in a gothic cathedral, has a butler named Alfred.
I politely declined Alfred’s offer of breakfast. But I did take him up on coffee, which I drank slowly while I explored the dark opulence of the penthouse. But now here I am, back in “my room”, wondering what the hell to do with myself. There’s no rehearsal today, so I'm at a loose end.
I jolt, almost spilling my coffee when the door to my room opens. Bane steps in, wearing a suit instead of his usual uniform of black jeans and black t-shirt.
Jesus.
The charcoal-gray suit fits him perfectly, from the hems of his trousers sitting precisely on the dark brown polished dress shoes, which match the belt, to the tailored jacket over a crisp white dress shirt.
He’s clean shaven, and when he breezes into the room, I get a whiff of woodsmoke and leather, so damn masculine that it makes my pulse quicken.
“Enjoying your morning,” he says evenly.
I nod. “Uh…yeah. I was kind of surprised there wasn’t a lock on my door.”
He frowns. “You’re not a prisoner.”
“Does that mean I can move back home?”
He tips his head slightly to the side as the seconds of silence tick by.
“No.” He turns toward movement outside the room. “In here, gentlemen.”
He steps aside, and a couple of men in moving company jumpsuits start coming into my bedroom carrying boxes, a familiar side table, a mirror…
What the fuck.
“Those are mine,” I blurt in alarm, standing up.
Bane looks over at me with an almost amused expression on his cold, beautiful face. “Of course they are.”
Right.
Because I live here now.
“You packed up the carriage house?”
“Were you planning on commuting to Brooklyn Heights every morning to brush your teeth?”
I give him a fake smile, ignoring the way his jaw tightens when I do.
Something I’m quickly learning is that Mr. Dry Sarcastic Biting Comments can dish it out, but gets all butt-hurt when you dish it back. I’ve filed that away as Very Useful Information.
When the moving guys finally finish stacking the neatly labeled boxes along the wall near the door to the walk-in closet, my brows knit.
“Wait,” I say, eyes running over the collection of things. “This isn’t everything.”
Bane cocks a brow. “It is. Your stepmother let the movers in and supervised while they boxed everything up.”
Fuck you, Felicity.
“I didn’t even realize she had a key,” I groan. “She must have taken all my painting stuff before she let the movers in.”
Bane’s brow furrows. “You…dance.”
“I paint, too,” I sigh with exasperation. “And none of my stuff is here.”
Bane is silent as he strokes a tattooed hand over his razor-sharp jawline. “I’ll look into it.” He clears his throat and reaches into his inside jacket pocket to pull out a folded paper. He sets it on top of one of the towers of boxes.
“What’s that?” I ask, puzzled.
“A reminder.”
I walk over and pick it up. I open it, and feel my face heat when my eyes land on the bold-font line at the top.
Contract of consent to physical and sexual activity between Bane Antonov and Dove Marchetti.
My eyes flick to Bane’s, and I shiver when I see the dark, slightly amused, hungry look in his gaze.
“I don’t need to be reminded of our agreement,” I hear myself snap as my pulse hammers in my veins. “I’m well aware of what living here entails.” I glare at him defiantly over the top of the page in my hands.
Bane just flashes a cold, venomous, predatory smile.
“Not yet, you’re not.”
Without another word, he turns and strides from the room, closing the door behind him and leaving me with goose-bumped skin and trembling hands.
Not yet, you’re not.
The fuck does that even mean?
When I signed the fucking thing, I expected Bane would have me sleep with him. Obviously. I think part of me was even willing to. For all that he's a monster, he’s not exactly unattractive.
He’s tall, in insane shape, with a honed, muscled body covered in tattoos. I’ve met his father, Nikolai Antonov, and he’s a very good-looking man himself. But Bane’s mother must have been a model or something, because Bane is just…
It’s a little unbelievable just how fucking attractive he is, from a purely physical standpoint. High cheekbones. That razor jawline. Perfect lips. Intensely dark, deep-set eyes with thick, masculine brows.
I shiver, shaking the thoughts of Bane’s physical attractiveness from my head.
Bottom line, I’ve been expecting I'd have to sleep with him, but I signed that contract more than a week ago, and it hasn’t happened yet.
Other things have. Like last night, for example. But spanking me and fingering me into oblivion isn’t the same as Bane fucking me.
And the problem is, the more I think about it, the more I find myself groaning at myself because I'm frustrated that he hasn’t yet.
Like, what the fuck, self? Do I actually want him to fuck me?
No. Obviously. For all of the reasons, but mainly the one spelled L-A-R-K.
But the longer things stretch out with this…thing hanging over me, the more it creeps into my thoughts. Tap-tap-tapping at the windows of my reality. Lingering in the shadows as I'm trying to fall asleep.
It’s like waiting for a jump-scare in a movie that doesn’t come, and my nerves are shot.
And that’s why I find myself walking through the penthouse toward Bane’s home office, which I found earlier while I was skulking around.
I open the door without knocking, because apparently that’s not a thing we do in this house. Bane’s eyes snap to mine as he looks up from his desk, his phone to his ear and a black expression etched across his very, very angry face.
Shit.
He barks something in Russian brusquely into the phone. I quickly turn to leave, realizing what an enormous mistake I’ve made barging in here. But as my fingers touch the knob, his voice slices through the room.
“Stop right there, little bird.”
A dark, ominous sensation ripples up my spine, wrapping like claws around my nape and keeping me pinned where I am. I shiver as I glance back, seeing his phone lying on his desk with the mute button now lit up.
I swallow nervously when Bane lifts his hand and crooks a finger at me.
“Come here.”
“It's okay, I can see you’re busy with—”
“Come. Here.”
The words drop from his lips like a tiger’s purred growl. My core tightens, my pulse skipping as I slowly walk across the room toward him.
“What did you need,” he murmurs.
I stop a few feet away from him and shake my head. “Nothing.”
Bane’s eyes pierce into mine. He remains quiet, but I can feel the black energy rolling off him and ensnaring my ankles, stopping me from turning and running.
“Nothing. Really,” I stammer.
He still doesn't speak, just slowly stands from his desk. My breath catches as he towers over me, dark eyes stabbing into mine. He raises his hand, and beckons me again with two fingers.