Chapter 4
Loki
The rope station was in the far corner of the main floor, framed by soft pools of light and neatly coiled bundles hanging from polished hooks. I kept my pace even as I guided her toward it, but my mind was still back at the moment I’d first seen her with Dottie.
I’d known her the second I saw her.
Polina Morozov.
The dossier’s photos hadn’t done her justice, not even close. Those were static, safe images. Controlled. The woman who’d stepped through Midgard’s doors was something else entirely.
Her statuesque frame carried that black, skin-tight dress like it had been poured over her curves, every line of it engineered to test a man’s focus.
And when she’d stepped into the ultraviolet light near the bar, the dress had come alive, flaring in brilliant streaks of orange and violet flames licking over her body. A moth wouldn’t have stood a chance.
Neither, apparently, did I.
I’d had to look away. Had to clamp down hard on the instinct to watch her glide across the floor on those impossibly high red-soled heels, the slow sway of her hips drawing eyes like a magnet.
Even now, walking beside her, I could still see the moment she’d turned her head toward me when we’d gone over her limits, those almond-shaped, ice-gray eyes locking on mine.
Hunger had flashed there. Need. The kind that didn’t come from curiosity alone.
She wanted something real. And it pulled at me in ways I didn’t like.
Her voice had been measured, confident when she’d answered my questions, but it hadn’t masked what was underneath.
There was defiance in her, yes, but also a dangerous kind of hope.
The kind I’d spent years avoiding in partners because hope came with expectations.
And expectations could get people hurt in my world.
I reminded myself that this is a job. Get her trust, get inside, plant the program, and walk away.
But for the first time in years, I was looking at a woman who interested me for reasons other than just her body.
And that was a problem.
A big one.
I cursed under my breath and reached for the nearest coil of rope, letting the texture bite into my palm, grounding me. Focus. Control. No matter how tempting the flame, the moth always burns in the end.
I stopped a few paces from the shibari rig, letting the soft halo of light above it spill over her.
“Shoes first,” I said, my tone calm but leaving no room for hesitation.
She reached down, unbuckling the thin straps of her Louis Vuittons. The click of the heels on the floor faded away as she stepped onto the cool wood, her bare feet grounding her in the moment.
“Dress.”
Her hands slid the black fabric over her hips and down, revealing the long, elegant lines I’d already imagined when she’d been standing across the bar from me. The flame-thread pattern flared once more under the UV glow before disappearing as the fabric fell away entirely.
I let my gaze move slowly, deliberately over her. Not just taking in the sculpted lines of her legs or the soft curve of her hips, but the way she carried herself even now, shoulders back, chin lifted. Confidence was in her posture, not just the dress she’d worn.
“Arms behind you,” I said. “Arch your back.”
She obeyed, her movements fluid, and the slight lift of her chest drew my eyes to the elegant curve of her collarbones, the long column of her neck. Grace wasn’t just how she moved, it was in how she held herself when she wasn’t moving at all.
“You’ve done rope before,” I said, letting my gaze meet hers, “but have you ever had your hair restrained?”
A flicker of surprise crossed her face. “No.”
I reached into the inner pocket of my jacket, drawing out a simple black hair tie. “Then tonight you’ll learn how much control can be in the smallest details.”
Stepping closer, I gathered her hair in my hands, feeling the silky weight of it slide through my fingers. “While I’m decorating you with rope,” I murmured, “this will make you acutely aware of every movement you make. Even the ones you think are small.”
I pulled her hair back into a firm ponytail, letting the gentle tug tilt her head just enough to remind her she’d yielded to me.
“Now,” I said, drawing a length of jute rope from the coil at my side, “this is called a Klemheist Hitch.”
Her eyes stayed on mine as I began to work, the rope rasping softly as it slid over itself.
“It’s a friction hitch which means it grips under tension, slides when I want it to.
Around your hair, it’s not meant to hurt.
But…” I guided the rope up through the polished ring suspended above her head, “if you shift your weight, even a little, the rope will pull more.”
I gave the rope the barest tug. She felt it. I saw it in the slight widening of her eyes, the way her breath caught.
“It will teach you stillness,” I said softly. “And make you aware of every inch of yourself in a way you’ve never been before.”
I took a fresh length of jute from the coil, letting it play through my hands so it picked up the warmth of my skin.
“We’ll start with a Hishi Karada—diamond harness,“ I told her, circling to stand behind her. “It’s decorative, but functional, and distributes pressure evenly. And it frames the body beautifully.”
Her head tilted slightly at that last part. She’d caught the choice of words. Good.
I looped the rope around her torso just below her breasts, pulling the lines snug, not harshly, but with enough tension to make her exhale. Crossing them at her sternum, I stepped around to face her, keeping my touch controlled, professional… at least on the surface.
Damn you, Nikos.
Businessmen, smug politicians, drunken mobsters—I’d gone undercover with all of them.
But this? This wasn’t the same. BDSM had always been separate for me.
Clean. A space built on trust and honesty, even if you played with pain and control.
Using it as bait to manipulate someone was the lowest sin you could commit in this world.
I angled the rope over her shoulder, drawing it diagonally down her back. She moved with the guidance, smooth, instinctive, like she already knew how to yield without collapsing. That wasn’t learned behavior from a bratva family princess. That was… something else.
I wrapped the rope around her waist, cinching the center diamond at her stomach, then dropped to one knee to start the next set. “Lift your foot.”
She obeyed instantly, toes pointed, graceful even barefoot. I bound the rope around her thigh, the coarse texture sliding over her pale skin before knotting into the diamond pattern I was building downward.
She didn’t fidget. Didn’t preen. Just… breathed.
Controlled, measured breaths that told me she was keeping herself in check.
But beneath that control, I could see it, small, subtle cues in her body language.
The faint twitch of her fingers. The slight press of her tongue against her cheek.
The way her chest rose faster each time my hand brushed a new section of skin.
Something inside her was vibrating, aching to be let out.
I knew how to read bodies; it was my stock in trade. And hers was speaking volumes she probably didn’t want me to hear.
And that made me want to explore her, not trick her.
I looped the rope below her knee, weaving the last of the diamonds before moving to the other leg.
My hands worked automatically, but my head wasn’t in the rhythm.
If she’s in her father’s business, she’s hiding it well.
Too well. She didn’t exude the arrogance and cold calculation typical of those running in illegal circles.
Her cracks showed me a woman who loved letting go of control, because in the rest of her life, she had none.
I cursed myself again inwardly. This was supposed to be a job. Access the computer, plant the program, and get out. But the more I tied her, the more it felt like I was binding myself into something I hadn’t agreed to.
The final knot cinched into place just above her ankle, and I sat back on my heels, letting my eyes travel the length of her. Rope diamonds embraced her body, each knot a small point of control.
“You wear rope well,” I said quietly.
She looked down at me, and for a heartbeat, something raw flickered in her gaze. Not fear. Not submission. Something closer to… relief.
And I knew I was in trouble.
I rose slowly, letting my hands trail lightly along the rope as I came up, reacquainting myself with each line I’d laid on her body. It wasn’t just for show. Every touch was a check. Tension. Alignment. Symmetry.
When I reached her shoulders, I stepped behind her again, my palm brushing her upper back as I moved the tail of the rope in my hand.
The smooth column of her neck was bare, her hair already pulled into the ponytail I’d tied earlier.
The rope from the Klemheist Hitch still hung from the ring above, waiting.
I gathered the tail from the harness and worked it up along her spine, weaving it cleanly through the lines that hugged her shoulders.
“I’m going to connect you here,” I said, my voice a mere breath on the shell of her ear.
“The rope from your body to your hair. Every move you make will remind you exactly how bound you are.”
Her breath stuttered, almost imperceptibly.
I fed the rope through the hitch at her ponytail, tightening until the connection was firm but not biting.
“You’ll feel it most when you lean forward, or if you try to turn your head,” I explained.
“It’s not about pain; it’s about awareness.
Of your body. Of me. Of the fact that right now, your movements aren’t your own. ”
It was more intimate than I should have allowed. The connection between hair and body made her part of the rig, part of my design.
And that was the problem.