Chapter Twenty-Three
Violet
Sexual ache is a living, breathing thing, and it is currently coiling low in my belly.
Every slight shift against the silk ropes sends a fresh jolt of frustration through me. I’m spread open on the bed, wrists bound to the headboard, and my ankles secured to the foot posts. Not painfully, but perfectly. A display of my own helplessness.
Skye left an hour ago. Maybe two. Time has dissolved into a single, throbbing point between my thighs.
She was methodical.
After her quiet, brooding fury had settled into a decisive calm, she led me to the bed without a word.
Her hands had worked the ropes, not as a punishment of pain, but of denial.
She’d touched me everywhere, winding me up with her mouth and fingers until I was begging, and arching off the mattress.
I could feel the orgasm building like a tsunami about to crash over my line of control.
Then… she stopped.
Just fucking stopped.
Her hand pulled away, and she sat back on her heels, her dark eyes watching the tremors that wrecked my body. My hips strained uselessly against the bonds for any friction to relieve myself.
“This,” her voice low in the silent room. “Is what happens when you remove my claim. You’re left wanting, baby girl.”
She’d leaned down, kissed my forehead, a gesture so tender it made the edge of denial even sharper, and stood up. She smoothed her clothes, put on her jacket, and looked down at me.
“Cassie will have a copy of the room key. She’ll be here after her plane lands. Think about why you’re waiting for her, and not me, to set you free.”
I gasped, my mouth fell open as I stared up at her like this was some sick joke.
“I told you before, and I’ll say it again,” she said quietly as she folded her hands in front of her. “This isn’t your typical romance story.”
Then, she winked and turned for the door. I waited for her to stop and turn around. To come back for me and finish me off before she untied me.
But she didn’t. The door shut behind her, locking me in this agonizing limbo.
And the truth is, beneath the physical torment, there’s a weird peace that comes along with it.
My secret is out. The huge, terrifying thing I’ve been carrying with me for years is now a shared weight. Skye knows about Solace. She knows about the company, the threats, and the double life. She knows me. The relief of that is almost as profound as the need screaming in my veins.
Almost.
So, I lie here. I ride the waves of the aftershock, each one a little weaker than the last. I stare at the textured ceiling and think about her words. About the collar.
She was right, though. I should have told her. I chose the prison of fame over the covenant of her ownership, and this aching, hollow want is the consequence.
Could I have told her everything without worrying she’d tell anyone? Absolutely. I’ve known Skye for two weeks, and I know her well enough that I should have felt safe giving her my secret. She opened up to me when she told me about Alisha, and I didn’t give back to her in the same way.
Not that our stories compare in any way. But the act of giving up a part of her couldn’t have been easy, yet she did it anyway. And I was stupid enough to hold back on my own secret.
A soft electronic beep at the door makes me jump, the ropes biting gently into my skin.
The door opens, and Cassie walks in, a garment bag slung over her shoulder. She’s mid-sentence on a phone call with someone at the hospital, “just tell them the chart is on the counter in his…” her words trail off as her eyes scan the room and find me on the bed.
Her phone lowers slowly. Her dark eyebrows climb toward her hairline as a snort escapes her. Then another. And then she’s full body, unglamorously cackling at my situation.
She drops her suitcase and her purse, clutching her stomach before she hangs up on the person she was on the call with.
“Oh, my God, Vi. Oh, ow.” She wheezes, wiping a tear from her eye. “I knew you two had dynamics, but this is… this is art. This is commitment. Should I call a photographer? We could sell this as an album cover. ‘Bound he is a magnet for misfortune.
He fumbles on an easy pass in the first period, leading to a breakaway goal.
He is taking a stupid retaliation penalty in the second, and the other team scores on the power play.
But the third period… the third period is absolute poetry.
We are up by one point. Hope flickers in the arena as Theo gets the puck behind our own net.
“Oh no,” I mutter, a premonition shivering down my spine.
“Oh YES,” Cassie hisses, leaning forward, her eyes wide with anticipation. “Do it. Do the stupid thing. I believe in you.”
He does the stupid thing. Instead of clearing it, he tries to stick-handle through two checkers, a phrase I learned from Skye’s last game.
A poke check, the puck pops loose, and in a panic, Theo spins and takes a wild swing at it.
The puck launches off his stick in a full masterpiece. It pings off the inside of the crossbar before dropping into our own net.
The sound that leaves the crowd isn’t a groan; it’s a physical exhale of agony. For three full seconds, there is dead silence as the puck settles into the netting.
Then, the noise returns, filled with boos and thrown hats. Cassie shoots to her feet, nearly spilling both of our beers. She isn’t booing. She’s applauding. Slowly and sarcastically, with a huge grin on her face.
“Bravo,” she yells, her voice cutting through the chaos. “AN ARTIST. HE PAINTS WITH FAILURE.”
On the bench, Theo looks like he wants the ice to open and swallow him. He just stares at his skates.
The winning goal for the other team is scored in the last minute. A mercy killing. Sending the other team to the gold medal game.
The buzzer sounds, and chaos ensues. Cheers from the other half of the arena, and utter defeat buzzing from everyone else.
Cassie finally sits down, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. “That was better than any revenge fantasy I could have scripted. He didn’t just lose, lose; he composed the loss.” She slings an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close, and takes a selfie. “This one is getting printed.”
She pulls up Instagram and gets to writing a caption. “A letter from the hockey gods to my bestie,” she talks while she types. “#Theoplaysforeveryone, #TheoversusTheo.”
I can’t help laughing as she drags his name through the ground on social media.
We file out with the grumbling crowd, bumping and tripping through the chaos. The noise disperses as we hit the parking lot, and Cassie’s phone buzzes. She glances at it and smirks, showing me the screen.
Her post is trending, and the hashtags have caught on.
“He’s famous now, just not in the way he’d hoped.” She pockets her phone. “Feel better?”
I look back toward the emptying arena, where Theo’s night has gone up in the flames of his own making. The tight knot of anger from his earlier intrusion has loosened, replaced by something lighter.
“Yeah,” I say, and mean it. “I do.”
“Good.” Cassie steers me toward the car. “Now, let’s go get something that makes us feel bloated afterward. We’ve earned it. And text your girlfriend. Tell her the universe picked up your disciplinary shift tonight, and it went above and beyond.”
I chuckle, looping my arm through hers as we walk through the parking lot in Milan.
Sighing, I lean into her. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
She squeezes my arm. “I am too, babe. And once you’re done being punished, I can’t wait to meet your scary girlfriend.”
“She’s not scary,” I argue, nudging her as we get to the car.
“The fuck she isn’t.” Cassie’s eyes widen. “Broody, famous, dominant. She’s the trifecta of scary.”