Chapter 16
Corwin
I lean against the doorway, watching Garron scroll back through her photos and videos, his thumb pausing over the trackpad every time she moans. He doesn’t look up when I walk in. Doesn’t have to.
“You’re staring again,” he says, like it’s just a fact and not an accusation.
“I’m thinking,” I answer, pushing past him to the shelf where the spare masks sit. Most are old, failed versions, discarded ideas. Too clunky. Too cheap. Too human.
He grunts, not interested. “She’s fine with it. You saw her. She didn’t even try to run.”
“That’s the problem.” My fingers slide over molded plastic and rough leather. “She’s fine with it because you made it too easy.”
His head finally turns. That little smirk of his makes me want to wipe it off his face. “Easy?”
“She’s playing along because you let her.” I pick up a mask and turn it over in my hands, weighing it. “She needs to feel something real, Garron. Not that pretend danger you gave her. I want to see if she can stand when her knees want to give out.”
He sits back in his chair, stretching his legs out like he owns the whole room. “You just want to scare her.”
I shrug. “Fear’s honest. You can’t fake it.”
Evander’s sitting in the corner, quiet as always, tapping ash into the tray balanced on his knee. His eyes flick between us, taking everything in without committing to a side. He’s like that, keeps his cards close until he’s ready to play them.
“You’re going to push her too far,” Garron says.
“Or maybe you two didn’t push her far enough,” I shoot back.
We stare each other down. Evander exhales smoke into the space between us, breaking the line like a referee calling time.
“Let him try,” Evander says finally. “If she’s as strong as you think, she’ll handle it. If not…” He shrugs, crushing the cigarette out. “We’ll know.”
That’s all the permission I need.
I take the blank mask down from the shelf. No smooth lines this time. I cut into the cheekbones, sharp enough to catch the light. I carve the mouth open just a little wider than it should be, the teeth jagged.
Garron watches, but he doesn’t say anything else. Maybe he’s curious. Maybe he’s waiting for me to fail.
The mask takes shape in my hands. Not pretty. Not inviting. The kind of face you see in a nightmare, right before the lights go out. I paint the inside of the mouth dark, so it’s a shadow when I breathe. The eyes stay hollow.
When I’m done, I hold it up to my face and look in the mirror. No softness. No charm. Just the shape of something that doesn’t ask…it takes.
Perfect.
I don’t need Garron’s permission for this. I don’t need Evander’s either. This is my turn.
I’ve been sitting on the plan for weeks, waiting for the right moment. Tonight, it falls into place. One borrowed key, one cloned number, one short text from her friend Kira that gets her where I want her.
Me: Meet me at the shop. Need your help. Urgent.
Garron and Evander trail her from the house while I wait in the dark. They text when she’s parked and walking the strip. Through the front window, I see her moving under the streetlights, her hair catching the glow, Crocs hitting the sidewalk like she owns it.
The bell above the shop door gives a dull jingle when she pushes it open. She steps inside, pausing just over the threshold. Her eyes adjust to the dark.
“Kira?” she calls out.
Her voice is careful at first. Then sharper.
“Kira, are you here?”
I stay still. Let the silence work on her.
She takes another step, fingertips brushing the wall as she searches for a light switch. “What the fuck… Kira, where the fuck are you?”
When she moves past me, I slip in behind her and wrap my arm across her waist. My other hand covers her mouth before she can do more than inhale.
“Don’t scream, Little Horror,” I murmur against her ear.
She stiffens, hands going to my forearm. Not to claw or fight, just to test the hold. I pull her back toward the door, shutting it with my heel before flipping the lock. Then I steer her toward the back room, my grip never loosening.
The door closes behind us with a hollow thud. I let her go just enough for her to spin toward me.
“Which fucking one—”
I cut her off by grabbing the front of her shirt and ripping it straight down the middle.
The sound is loud in the quiet of the empty shop.
Fabric gapes open to reveal black lace, thin straps digging into her shoulders.
I yank the bag from her shoulder and toss it behind us, the thud of it hitting the floor sharp in the stillness.
“You fucking asshole!” She steps toward me, hand fisted like she’s ready to strike, but I’m already moving.
The over-the-door restraint is already set up and waiting for her. A few upgrades since it left the catalog; wider cuffs, heavier buckles, small padlocks instead of clips. Not the kind you slip out of with a twist of the wrist.
I catch her wrists before she can swing, twisting them behind her.
She fights, shoulders rolling, feet lashing out to catch me in the shin, but I drive her back into the door.
She stiffens, breath sharp through her nose, and I feel the fight coil tight inside her.
I shove one wrist into the padded cuff and snap the lock shut before she can rip it free.
The other takes more effort. She jerks hard, her fist landing against my ribs, but I wrench her arm down and force it into place.
But I get it in place, the second lock clicking home.
Only then do I tear open the roll of black tape. I press it over her mouth in one smooth pull, the adhesive sealing across her lips. Her sound cuts off into a muffled noise, half curse, half shock.
“Better,” I lean my weight in, pinning her. “Don’t make me hurt you before I’m ready,” I say low against her ear.
She’s still glaring at me when I step back, chest heaving, eyes wet at the corners from the strain. I grab her thigh, rough, lifting and turning her so she presses flush to the door. She kicks at me, Croc catching my hip, but I catch her ankle mid-swing and strap it in.
Her Crocs scuff the floor as she twists, trying to keep her other leg free. I drag it in, buckle the leather snug but not crushing, then lock it. The final click feels good in my hand.
Now she’s held in place, wrists high above her head, ankles secured, the length of her body stretched and taut, like a starfish. She’s still testing the give, pulling against the cuffs, jaw tight, eyes locked on me through the mask like she’s daring me to keep going.
“Keep thrashing,” I murmur near her ear. “It just makes me want to tighten them.” I watch her for a beat, letting the fact settle between us. Then I take my blade from my pocket.
Her eyes follow the movement, tracking the flash of steel as I catch the hem of her shirt. One clean slice under each sleeve where it stretches tight over her arms. The fabric gives with a soft rip, sliding off her shoulders in pieces until it’s nothing but scraps on the floor.
The lace of her bra is nothing to me. I slide the blade under one strap, feel the tension snap as I cut. Then the other and finally the center between her perfect tits. The bra gapes, barely clinging. I tug it away from her arms and let it drop.
Her nipples tighten immediately in the cool air. I take each between my fingers, rolling them until they’re peaked and flushed. She hisses through her teeth, her body leaning just slightly toward the touch even though her jaw stays set.
I let go and reach toward the counter behind me. The alcohol wipes tear open with a sharp rip. Her eyes widen when I press the cold pad to her left nipple. Her chest rises. Falls. She doesn’t make a peep, just stares at me like she’s waiting to see what the plan is.
She thrashes when her eyes land on the needle, twisting against the cuffs until it creaks in the doorframe.
I set the needle down, slow, and take the blade instead.
The tip drags a lazy line down her stomach, tracing the dip of her navel before gliding toward her hip. I press just enough to break skin.
A bead of blood swells bright against her pale flesh.
Her eyes blaze, pure fury, but her breath is thicker now. I can smell the arousal rolling off her, threaded with the sharp metallic tang from the cut.
I grin behind my mask, swipe my thumb over the blood, and lift it to her mouth. She turns her face away, but I see the way her chest rises, the way her thighs shift.
The knife clatters on the counter when I pick the needle back up. Her gaze follows it, but she doesn’t make a sound. Not when I press the cold alcohol back to her nipple, not when her chest lifts and falls like she’s counting every breath.
The steel glints under the low light. I don’t ask if she’s ready. I push it through with steady pressure. I follow with the barbell, twisting it gently until it sits just right. She inhales sharply through her nose, her body tensing hard against the restraints.
Blood beads, red and perfect. I bend down, my mask brushing her sternum, before lifting it just enough to take her nipple into my mouth. My tongue circles the fresh barbell, cleaning the copper taste before sucking deep.
The moan slips out of her then, low and uncontrolled.
I pull back, wipe the blood again, and move to the right. Another cold wipe. Another slow, deliberate push of steel through flesh.
“This should be easy after piercing your cunt, Little Horror. I can’t wait to play with that pretty,” I tell her.
I claim that one with my mouth too, letting the metal rest against my tongue before pulling away.
Two perfect little marks. Two claims. The skin of her chest is flushed and hot under my hands. I clean them again, slow, knowing the sting will ride her all the way home.
“You wear them for me now,” I tell her.
She doesn’t argue. Just meets my eyes like she’s burning every second into memory.
I reach into my back pocket and pull out my phone. She watches me as if she’s waiting for the next sharp thing.