Chapter 27 Lia
LIA
Ilie beside Vane on the platform, our bodies slick with sweat. My muscles ache in that delicious way that only comes from being thoroughly satisfied. Despite how spent I feel, desire still smolders between us, a flame that even time couldn’t extinguish.
Vane's fingers trace the shallow cut on my hip. “Are you going to run from me again, wildflower?”
I turn to face him, studying the harsh lines of his face, softened now in the aftermath of pleasure. “No,” I whisper. “I'm done running.”
His eyes darken. “Why did you run all those years ago? Why not just face me?”
The question pierces through me, bringing memories I've tried to bury. The fear, the confusion, the overwhelming intensity of everything I felt that night.
“I'm not ready to talk about that,” I say, my voice stronger than I feel. “Not yet.”
Something like disappointment flashes across his face, but he doesn't push. Instead, his lips curve into that dangerous smile I remember from high school.
“Want to be the first to make it to the orgy room?”
“The what?” I prop myself up on one elbow, staring at him.
“The orgy room,” Vane says, as casually as if discussing the weather.
“It's the center of the maze. The next portion of the Hunt is conducted there. All hunters and their prey gather there.” His fingers continue their lazy exploration of my skin.
“The bell hasn't chimed yet, so we'd probably be the first ones there. You can grab a bottle of water when we get there, keep hydrated. Maybe a protein bar, too. I want you strong enough to keep fucking the entire duration of this Hunt.”
“And what happens in this orgy room other than refueling?”
“Exactly what it sounds like.” His eyes never leave mine. “The hunters who didn't catch someone often get to participate.”
A flutter of anxiety rises in my chest. “Are you planning to share me?”
Vane's expression turns feral, possessive. “Over my dead body.”
Relief washes over me at his words, surprising me with its intensity.
Over my dead body.
Four simple words that shouldn't affect me this way, yet they do.
I've never been possessive or exclusive in my time at The Red Room. I enjoyed the freedom, the multiple partners, the sharing—it was liberating after years of rigidly controlling every aspect of my life. In New York, I reveled in the anonymity, in being passed between partners.
But with Vane? The thought of him allowing another man to touch me makes my skin crawl.
I press my lips together to hold back a smile. I won't give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his possessiveness pleases me. How much I want him—only him—after fifteen years of pretending I didn't.
“So you're the jealous type,” I say instead, trying to sound casual, as if my heart isn't racing at the fierce look in his eyes.
His fingers drift to the cut on my hip, pressing just firmly enough to remind me it's there. “It's not jealousy when something already belongs to you.”
I should tell him I don't belong to anyone. That's what the independent, successful woman I've built myself to be would say. But the words don't come.
Because here, beneath his touch, I'm not the gallery director or the sophisticated New Yorker. I'm just Lia—the same girl who gave him everything on prom night and then ran scared.
“I've shared everything in my life,” Vane continues, his voice low and dangerous. “My home, my food, even my clothes with my brothers. But not you.” His grip tightens. “Never you.”
I nod, not trusting my voice, and hate how much I love hearing those words.
Vane helps me to my feet, his hand warm against my lower back. My legs tremble slightly from our encounter, and I'm acutely aware of my nakedness. My dress remains behind in the rope room, along with any pretense that I'm in control of this situation.
“Ready?” He asks, his voice rough.
“I'm naked,” I point out, though it's obviously not a revelation to him.
His lips curve into that infuriating smirk. “Yes, you are. And you're going to stay that way.”
I don't argue. There's something oddly freeing about walking through these corridors with nothing to hide behind. No designer clothes, just my skin, the rope marks and the shallow cuts on my body that mark me as his.
Vane guides me through the maze, never hesitating at intersections. It's clear he knows the layout intimately.
“Almost there,” he murmurs, his hand possessively gripping my waist as we turn down a wide corridor lined with plush red carpet.
The sounds reach us before we see anything—deep grunts and rhythmic movements. When we step through the ornate archway into the orgy room, the scene unfolds before us.
Three men occupy the center of the space, their muscular bodies entangled on a large platform bed. One man is on his hands and knees, being penetrated from behind facing away from us, while pleasuring the third with his mouth. They move together so beautifully, lost in their shared pleasure.
I feel Vane tense beside me, perhaps expecting me to be shocked or uncomfortable. But I'm not.
“I guess we're not the first after all,” I say, my voice steady.
I study the three men, mesmerized by the raw passion they display. Their bodies glisten with sweat in the dim lighting, muscles flexing with each thrust and pull. There's something primal and beautiful about watching them lose themselves in pleasure.
Vane's arm tightens around my waist, and I feel his eyes on me rather than on the scene before us.
“Does this bother you?” He asks, his voice low against my ear.
I shake my head, still watching. “Not at all.”
One of the men throws his head back, a deep moan escaping his throat as he climaxes. The sound sends a shiver through me.
“You like seeing men together.” It's not a question the way Vane says it, but I answer anyway.
“Yes,” I admit, turning to face him. “I think men who fully own their sexuality have so much power. There's something incredibly masculine about it—being confident enough to take pleasure in that way.”
Vane's eyes darken as he studies me. “That's not what most women would say.”
“I'm not most women.” I hold his gaze steadily. “I spent years at The Red Room. I've seen and participated in just about everything you can imagine.”
His jaw tightens slightly at the reminder of my past, but he doesn't look away.
“I think all sex is beautiful,” I continue, my voice softening. “When it's consensual, when people are genuinely connecting and experiencing pleasure together—what could be more natural? More honest?”
Vane's expression shifts, something unreadable flickering across his face. He pulls me closer, his hand splayed possessively across my bare hip.
“You continue to surprise me,” he murmurs.
Vane's attention shifts from me to the ceiling of the orgy room. I follow his gaze upward to where several sets of heavy chains hang from reinforced anchor points.
“What do you think about those?” He nods toward the chains.
My breath catches. “For me?”
“For you.” His voice drops lower. “I want to bind your wrists and suspend you just enough that you're on your tiptoes.”
Heat blooms across my skin despite my nakedness in the cool room.
I glance around and notice the impressive array of implements arranged on sleek black shelves along one wall.
Floggers of various materials—leather, suede, rubber—hang in graduated sizes.
Beside them, softer implements: feathers, silk scarves, and fur mitts for sensory play.
What catches my eye most is the fire play station with its small torches, special wicks, and bottles of alcohol. I'd experienced fire play exactly once at The Red Room, and the memory of that delicious heat dancing across my skin makes my pulse quicken.
“I see what's caught your interest,” Vane murmurs, following my gaze to the fire implements. “Have you ever had someone trace flames across your body while you're completely helpless?”
I shake my head. “Not while restrained. Just once, on a table.”
“The sensation is entirely different when you can't move away. When you have to simply accept whatever I give you.”
Vane's words send a shiver of anticipation through me. The idea of being completely at his mercy while he traces fire across my skin makes my pulse quicken. I glance at the chains hanging from the ceiling, imagining myself suspended there, unable to escape the heat.
“I want that,” I whisper.
His eyes darken with desire as he leads me toward the chains. “You'll tell me if it becomes too much.”
It's not a question, but I nod anyway. “I will.”
He selects a pair of padded leather cuffs from a nearby shelf and fastens them around my wrists with practiced ease. The leather is butter-soft against my skin, the padding ensuring no marks will remain when he removes them.
“How many times have you done this before?” I ask.
“I've practiced,” he admits, his voice low. “For you.”
The distinction isn't lost on me. While I explored my desires with countless partners in New York, Vane prepared for me.
He adjusts the chains until I'm balanced on my tiptoes, arms stretched above me, completely exposed. The vulnerability is intoxicating—being naked and bound while he remains fully clothed, his green mask back in place.
“Perfect,” he murmurs.
I watch as he selects his tools from the fire station—a small torch, alcohol, and specialized wicks. His movements are methodical, precise. This isn't impulsive desire; this is calculated passion.
“Do you know why I chose green as my color?” He asks, preparing the wicks.
I shake my head, unable to look away from his hands.
“Envy,” he says simply. “I've always been consumed by it. Watching others have what I wanted. What I deserved.” It explains the tattoo on his hand.
All these years, his obsession wasn't just desire—it was possession, ownership, entitlement.
“And now?” I ask.
Vane approaches with a lit wick. “Now I have exactly what I want.”
The first touch of fire against my skin sends electricity through my entire body. I gasp, the chains above me jingling as I instinctively try to move away from the heat—but can't. The sensation dances along my collarbone, a delicious burning that never quite crosses into pain.
“Breathe,” Vane commands, his voice husky behind his mask.
I do as he says, drawing air deep into my lungs as the flame traces a path down between my breasts. The alcohol on my skin creates the briefest moment of heat before cooling, leaving my nerve endings singing.
“You're so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, circling me with deliberate steps. “Suspended. Helpless. Mine.”
I can't see where he'll touch me next, and the anticipation is its own exquisite torture. When the flame kisses the curve of my hip, right above where he cut me earlier, I cry out.
“That's it,” he encourages. “Let me hear you.”
The flame travels lower, along the outside of my thigh, and my body responds with a violent shudder. My toes barely touch the ground, forcing me to rely entirely on the chains for support as my muscles turn liquid.
Vane moves behind me, his body heat mingling with the controlled fire in his hand. I feel his lips against my shoulder blade, a startling contrast to the flame that now traces my spine. Each vertebra receives attention—first his tongue, then the fire, a pattern that drives me wild.
“Please,” I beg.
His free hand slides around to cup my breast, thumb brushing over my hardened nipple. “Please, what, wildflower?”
The fire travels lower, tracing the curve of my ass, and I whimper. My body is a live wire, every nerve ending desperate for more. I'm suspended between agony and ecstasy, completely at his mercy and loving every second.
“More,” I manage to gasp. “I need more.”
His laugh is dark and promising against my ear. “Oh, I'm only just getting started.”
Vane steps away, and I strain against my chains, desperate for more of his touch. He returns with a sleek black vibrator in his hand, his eyes gleaming behind the green mask.
“Let's see how much you can take,” he murmurs, turning it on.
The first touch of the vibrator against my clit sends electricity through my suspended body. I jerk in the chains, a cry tearing from my throat. Just as the sensation builds to an almost unbearable point, he pulls it away.
The flame appears instead, dancing dangerously close to my clit. The heat radiates just above my pussy, not touching but close enough that I feel my skin tightening in response. My hips buck involuntarily, seeking more.
“Stay still,” Vane commands. “Or I'll stop.”
I force myself to obey, though my body trembles with the effort. He rewards me by pressing the vibrator against my clit again, harder this time. The contrast between the intense vibration and the teasing heat of the flame as he alternates between them drives me to the edge of madness.
“Fuck, Vane,” I gasp, my legs shaking so hard I can barely maintain my tiptoe stance.
“That's it,” he growls, pressing the vibrator directly against my swollen clit while the flame dances ever closer to my pussy. “Come for me. Let me see how fucking wet you can get.”
The dual sensations push me over the edge violently. My entire body convulses as an orgasm tears through me. I feel a gush of wetness between my legs as I squirt, something I've rarely experienced before.
“Holy shit,” Vane groans, watching me with undisguised hunger. “You're fucking drenched. Look at you, squirting all over yourself like the perfect little slut you are.”
His filthy words only intensify my pleasure as I hang limply from the chains, aftershocks still rippling through me.
A loud horn suddenly blares through the room, echoing off the walls.
“Perfect timing,” Vane says, his voice thick with arousal. “That's the signal. Everyone will be joining us soon.” He leans close, his lips brushing my ear. “I'm going to tease you to tears before I fuck you in front of all of them.”
He sets down the fire implements and the vibrator, returning with a soft white feather that looks deceptively innocent. As he drags it lightly across my oversensitive nipples, I whimper, knowing this is just the beginning of pure, exquisite torture.