Chapter 65Collared by the Devil
Collared by the Devil
Isabella
I’m floating, and heavy all at once.
My mouth is desert-dry. My tongue feels swollen behind my teeth, and there’s a fuzz in my skull that makes the walls look like they’re pulsing in and out. A groan claws its way up my throat as I try to roll over, only to find one of my arms won’t move. Dead weight. No—restrained.
The pain behind my eyes flares as I blink into consciousness.
The vision sharpens slowly, and when it does, everything in me stills.
I know this room.
I remember our conversation.
I remember the empty wine bottle, but did I drink that much?
The dark, padded walls. No windows. No lights other than the artificial strip high above.
One stained mattress on the floor. A chair that looks like it’s never been sat in.
And the camera. The red recording light in the corner, blinking like a heartbeat.
The door, smooth and gripless, camouflaged into the wall.
Terror snakes its way into my chest, curling around my ribs.
I sit up fast, too fast. My head reels, the remnants of wine and whatever else he gave me roaring like static through my system. I nearly fall back again. My arms strain forward on instinct, but they don’t move far. Leather groans against leather.
That’s when I see them.
Thick black belts wrapped around each of my thighs, anchored to matching cuffs around my wrists by short, silver chains. They pin my arms down against my legs, and I yank—hard.
They don’t budge.
“Aslanov!” I scream, hair clinging to my damp face as I whip my head to the side. My voice cracks. My pulse is racing, sweat prickling along my spine and making the leather itch against my skin.
No response.
I glance down. Lace bra. Panties. Pale skin exposed in the flickering overhead light. There are more belts around my ankles, loose but locked. Decoration, or preparation. I don’t know which is worse.
“Shit…” I whisper, yanking again, the edges of the cuffs biting into my skin. Panic starts to bloom, thick and ugly.
“Aslanov!?” I shout again, and it comes out as more of a sob. My voice echoes back to me in this hollow, padded tomb.
But I know.
He’s watching. He always watches first.
He wants the desperation. Wants to see how long it takes for the illusion of control to break me. And it’s working. My skin is slick with heat, the room is too warm, or I am. My body aches in the most humiliating ways, part pain, part something far worse.
I try to center myself, to remember that I asked for this.
Remember that he wouldn’t hurt me, remember that fear turns me on.
I draw in a sharp breath and lean forward as far as the restraints allow.
“I’m thirsty,” I say. It comes out cracked, hoarse. I swallow, but there’s nothing. “May I please have a drink?”
Still nothing.
“Please, Aslanov, I’m—”
The sound of the door unlocking slices through the air. I go still. Even my breath pauses.
It swings open, and light floods the space, bright enough to make me flinch. I drop my gaze instinctively. I fall into the pose he likes. Kneeling. Humbled. Small. Exposed.
And there he is.
Aslanov steps inside like a storm, slow, assured, inescapable.
Black shirt clinging to his broad frame, tattoos wrapping around his arms and crawling up his neck like inked chains.
The scar between his eyes looks deeper than ever in this light.
There’s no emotion in his expression. Just…
ownership. He’s been waiting for this. No weak man is coming through this door.
He shuts the door behind him and locks it. Just the two of us now.
He stops just short of me, and I’m hyperaware of my body; how my knees are slightly parted, how my skin has flushed with heat, how the sweat slicking my thighs makes the leather belts chafe when I twitch.
My chest rises and falls rapidly, nipples pressing against the lace of my bra, too aware of how little fabric shields me.
His eyes drop to the black straps around my limbs, and the corner of his mouth tilts, not a smile. Something sharper. Something proud.
He doesn’t speak at first.
Just watches me like a man studying the effect of his own creation. His gaze sweeps across my body—pausing at the glint of the locks, the way the restraints dig into my skin. I’m breathing so hard now it feels like I’m the only sound in the room. Humiliated, heated, helpless.
Aslanov moves toward the chair, deliberate in each step, like a predator who knows his prey won’t run, can’t run. He sits, spreading his legs slightly, his posture as relaxed as it is commanding.
He places the water bottle on the floor at his feet.
“Come here.”
The command slices through the silence.
It lands between my legs like a jolt, making my thighs twitch with instinct. I feel the pull, low and insistent. His voice has always done that to me. Rough and low, carrying that steel-wrapped threat of consequence behind every word. My thighs clench involuntarily, and I pray he didn’t notice.
But of course, he always notices.
I hesitate only a second. Then I obey. I shuffle forward on my knees, awkward with the chains, arms pinned tight to my sides, the belts resisting every move. My skin sticks to the mattress before I manage to slide onto the cold floor. It stings my knees.
He says nothing as I crawl toward him, each motion a reminder of my place. The closer I get, the more my breathing falters. I reach him and kneel between his boots, my body trembling as I settle at his feet.
I know better than to look up.
Here, like this, I’m his. No control. No power. Just obedience.
I close my legs tightly, instinctively, foolishly, as if that will keep him from seeing how wet I am. But I know better than to think anything escapes his gaze.
He finally reaches down, unscrewing the cap of the water bottle. My heart lurches at the sight of it. I hadn’t realized just how badly I need it until I smell it, clean, cold, teasing my senses.
Then his hand comes down, locking onto my jaw with a grip that says ‘you’re mine’ in every knuckle.
My head is jerked upward, eyes forced to meet his. I wince, more from the lack of movement my restraints allow than from the pressure. I can barely move my arms, barely lift my head. And he knows it.
“I can’t—” I start, voice small.
“I didn’t ask,” he interrupts. His tone is calm, a warning painted in velvet. “You’ll take what I give you.”
Then he lifts the bottle to my lips.
The moment the water touches my tongue, I moan. Shame burns my cheeks, but I can’t stop myself. I drink greedily, gulping as fast as he allows, desperate and messy.
“Take your time, solnyshko ,” he murmurs, and there’s something cruel in the softness. “We’re not in a rush.”
I slow down, but only just.
Another gulp, and the water dribbles over my lips, down my chin. It traces the curve of my throat, over my bare chest. The lace of my bra soaks through. More slides down my stomach, catching in the hollow between my ribs.
His gaze follows it like a promise.
I pull away slightly, the tip of my tongue still wet, my lips tingling with the relief of that first drink. My throat works around the last swallow, and my voice is barely more than a whisper.
“Thank you.”
The words escape like they’ve been stolen from me. Voluntary and involuntary all at once. Gratitude and resignation, laced with something rawer. Something I don’t want to name.
‘‘What happened?’’
‘‘I put something in your last wine glass.’’
The bastard, he drugged me before we even had the conversation.
My head bows again, my gaze finding the floor.
“Eyes on me, solnyshko ,” he says.
The words are firm but not loud. Still, they land like a commandment.
I don’t lift my head.
I can’t.
I kneel there between his legs like a pet, breath shallow, muscles shaking, and the only thing missing is a collar, and I know, with the way he’s watching me, that it’s not far. I can feel it. The weight of his intent. The shape of what’s coming.
And then, he moves.
His chair scrapes back a fraction, and I feel the shift in air behind me as he rises. My skin prickles violently with goosebumps, each hair standing in alert reverence as he moves behind me. Every cell in my body braces.
His hand grips the back of my hair.
He yanks my head back, forcing my line of vision toward the ceiling with a sharp cry falling from my lips. My spine bows, restrained arms tightening uselessly against the belts at my sides. The vulnerability is total, perfect. A masterpiece of helplessness.
Then, he wraps it around my throat.
Heavy. Bulky. Cold leather pressing against my bare skin. It smells like oil and command. His fingers work deftly, threading the straps, adjusting them until the weight is even. Balanced. Unforgiving.
Then— click.
The sound echoes through the cell like a shot.
My breath stalls in my lungs.
He lets go of my hair, my red strands slipping through his fingers like blood through water. My head doesn’t fall.
It can’t fall.
I try.
A twitch of movement, a reflex. My neck doesn’t obey. My jaw tightens as I strain against the unfamiliar weight. The leather digs into the tender skin under my chin, holding my gaze up, holding it steady.
He returns to his chair and sits down.
And now, I see him.
I’m forced to.
Every angle of his face. The scar between his eyes. The cold, measured look in his eyes. My neck won’t turn. My head won’t drop. I’m tethered to the image of him like he’s the Devil and I’ve been chained to worship.
I fight it. I try to shift, just an inch, but the moment I do, the leather around my wrists bites in, unforgiving and absolute. I whimper in frustration.
Aslanov leans back slightly, spreading his knees, his arms resting over the chair’s sides.
“That’s more like it,” he murmurs.
I swallow hard, tears brimming from the strange overwhelm of it all. “What’s… on my neck?” I ask.
His smile is slow and terrible.
“It’s a posture collar,” he replies. “To help you remember how to behave.”