Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
Ibolted awake.
My heart hammered so hard it stole my breath; my body braced for impact—hands, weight, the familiar pressure of a man taking what he wanted from my flesh and bones. For one awful second, I was back there again, pinned, spread, aching between my legs from a phantom touch.
It was just a dream, like so many before.
I sucked in a shaky breath and stretched, forcing my limbs to move, grounding myself in reality and the quiet of the room. As my eyes adjusted, reality slid back into place with sickening clarity.
This wasn’t a dream.
I was still here. A prisoner in a gilded cage, at the mercy of the most ferocious man I’d ever met.
Lucian, a name still foreign to my tongue, had thrown me for a loop.
My mind snapped back to The Ledger—the moment I’d turned and caught the fury radiating off him, dark and lethal. I’d known the universe had jolted then. I’d felt it. But never in my wildest dreams had I imagined Mr. Shadowman being that unhinged for me.
When he’d charged the stage, I thought he was coming to end me. Instead, he’d buried a knife through the King’s hand like it was nothing.
Why had he been so angry?
Wasn’t I just a job to him? A means to manipulate my father and squeeze the political machine in his favor, like all the others? Where did that kind of rage come from?
Maybe it was just who he was—or maybe his life depended on pleasing the boss.
Either way, the penthouse told me enough.
He was high-ranking. I didn’t know much about the mafia—only what I’d overheard—but I wasn’t stupid.
They lived by their own violent rules, and the men at the top always had the money.
Even in Spain, they were the men we feared, the ones you hid from if they walked into the club.
I pushed myself upright and immediately swayed.
It was still dark outside—the wee hours of the morning. My head swam, the champagne and shots catching up to me.
Whoa. Yeah. That was a lot of alcohol.
And—oh God—I had to pee.
I stumbled to my feet and half-ran down the hallway toward where he’d pointed out the guest suite.
I flung open the first door and nearly stopped short, gobsmacked by the room—warm tones, rich fabrics, a massive four-poster bed dressed in linens so plush they looked obscene, like something fit for a queen.
No time.
I yanked open the next door—a closet, big and empty.
The next—thank God—was the ensuite.
I barely made it, sitting down with a breathless laugh of relief. When I finished, I leaned back and took in the swanky bathroom—white marble everywhere, a soaking tub big enough to swim in, a shower encased in glass with more knobs and features than I’d ever seen.
It was layer upon layer of luxury.
I stood at the vanity and froze when I caught my reflection in the large mirror.
Whoa.
My hair was a mess, curls springing in every direction as if they’d staged a rebellion. Mascara streaked down my cheeks, remnants of smoky shadow clinging to my eyes. I looked wrecked. Goth. Like I’d crawled out of a very bad night—which, honestly, that tracked.
I opened a drawer and found an array of cleansers and lotions, the kind you’d expect in a five-star hotel. Under the sink, a neat stack of towels and soft facial cloths waited like a small miracle.
Yes. Thank you.
I washed my face slowly, methodically, happy that the water carried away the makeup, along with the residue of fear. When I finished, I patted my skin dry and looked up again.
Better.
I was awake now and a little more clear-headed.
Still trapped—but steadier. And steady was something I could work with.
God, I wished I had some pants.
I tore through the bedroom, yanking open drawers, checking everywhere, and came up empty.
Nothing but hangers and the faint smell of clean linen.
No clothes. At least he’d given me a shirt.
A lot of men like him would’ve made a point of leaving me bare—humiliation was the point, a reminder of who was in charge.
But Lucian hadn’t.
If anything, he’d acted as if seeing me naked was physically painful.
I frowned, unsettled by that more than I wanted to admit.
I mean, I wasn’t some ethereal beauty, but I wasn’t hideous either.
My boss ensured we all stayed lean, and I preferred hard work behind the bar, running drinks to working the floor whenever I could get away with it.
Of course, that wasn’t enough to pay the bills.
Sometimes I had to have dates. I never tried to impress anyone and had earned a reputation for being boring, which suited me just fine.
The men who owned the place didn’t love it, but they rarely punished me for it.
Years of boarding school and the convent had taught me how to disappear. Out of sight, out of mind.
I drifted back into the living room. There was no sign of the man, and the place was silent. To entertain myself, I started snooping again.
That’s when I found the cabinet in the foyer by the elevator.
It wasn’t hidden. Just located for easy access on the way out.
Unlocked, I peeked inside: guns, knives, and other hardware that made my pulse spike.
Panic crawled up my spine as I scanned everything. This was a man who expected trouble—and wasn’t afraid of it.
Among the weapons, there was a type of knife I vaguely recognized: a switchblade. I picked it up, surprised by the weight. Curiosity made me press the button.
The blade shot out the front with a vicious snap.
I yelped and dropped it, heart hammering, then crouched to pick it up again. This time I experimented carefully. You push the button to pop the blade out, then pull the end cap back to retract it. Simple and efficient.
And it fit my hand perfectly.
Before I could overthink it, I shut the cabinet and kept the knife.
The rest of the apartment told me nothing. Normal things. Expensive things. No papers. No photographs. No clues about who he really was. I didn’t dare go down the hallway toward his office. I wasn’t interested in waking the beast.
Then I noticed the stairs that climbed up beside the kitchen.
I went up slowly, telling myself it was just another room, and besides, he’d told me to make myself at home.
At the top was a vast open space—a full gym with gleaming equipment, and more floor-to-ceiling windows.
Outside, a patio wrapped around the building.
From here, I could see the matching space next door, where his brother lived.
There was even a narrow walkway connecting the two.
Along the interior wall sat a single door.
Curious, I walked up to it and turned the knob, surprised to find it unlocked.
I flung it open to find no windows, no natural light, just darkness until my fingers found a switch.
The lights snapped on.
Oh.
Oh, shit.
My hand flew to my mouth.
It was a BDSM playroom.
The room was overwhelming—steel and leather, discipline and restraint.
A St. Andrew’s Cross stood against one wall, imposing and unmistakable.
A padded bondage table sat beneath overhead beams, with chains and carabiners hanging neatly, ready to be used.
A spanking bench was angled in the corner.
An examination table sat with a cold, clinical sheen.
There was a chair—no, a throne—designed for restraint.
My feet carried me forward even as my mind screamed.
In the center of the room stood a solid cabinet, and mounted on top of it was a rack of implements—crops, paddles, floggers—organized with deliberate care. Candles, masks, and gags rested beside them, organized instead of scattered.
It wasn’t chaos.
It was extravagant control.
And the bed.
God, the bed.
Luxurious burgundy satin, velvet, and leather linens framed a heavy headboard and deep wooden posts, with steel attachment points set into every corner.
Nothing here was accidental, and every piece had a purpose.
Oh, shit, I screamed in my head.
He said he wouldn’t break me.
He said he’d keep me breathing.
But there was a whole lot of room inside those promises for everything else. For making me his sex toy—or worse, his sex slave. For fucking me until I forgot my own name. For spreading my legs and deciding I belonged to him simply because he could.
Panic exploded into my mind.
What if he locked me in here? What if he were more brutal than the men at the club? Worse than that bastard who’d ripped my virginity away and taught me what pain really meant?
My pulse hammered against my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I had to clamp a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.
No.
No, no, no.
My life couldn’t get any worse. God—why were you punishing me like this?
Then I remembered the knife in my hand. My vision tunneled, blood roaring in my ears. If he was asleep…if I was fast…I could sneak up on him. Slit his throat. Drive the blade into his heart.
A red haze flooded every sense I had.
I was done being trapped.
Done being used.
Done waiting to see what kind of monster that man decided to be.
Blind with panic, irrational, and shaking, I fled the room, moving on instinct. I tiptoed down the stairs as quietly as my trembling legs would allow. My heart slammed so hard against my ribs that it was the only thing I could hear.
Don’t think. Don’t breathe too loud. Don’t mess this up.
The hallway was dark. Keeping tight to the wall, I crept forward and cracked the first door open just enough to look inside.
An office. No one inside.
I shut it gently and kept going.
The next door sat at the end of the hall.
My hand closed around the knob—and shook so badly I had to pull it away. I wiped my damp palms against the hem of his shirt, switching the knife from one hand to the other. Then I reached again, turning the knob with painful slowness.
The door opened a crack.
I peeked inside.
He was there.
Lucian lay sprawled across a massive bed, facing opaque windows, the glass glowing faintly with the city’s muted light. Some kind of high-tech privacy glass, I guessed. Of course it was.