Chapter 28
I ’ve been kidnapped by a sadistic sex god in a mask.
Okay, maybe that’s dramatic. Technically, I walked into the Masquerade on my own.
Technically, I knelt in front of the Devil on purpose. But the part where I was thrown over the shoulder of a security guard like a duffel bag? That was not voluntary.
The moment the doors closed behind him, the guard carried me down ten flights like I weighed nothing and tossed me into the backseat of a matte-black SUV with windows so dark I couldn’t see a damn thing. No explanation. No instructions.
Just slammed the door shut and disappeared.
I didn’t bother asking questions. No one answered me the first three times I tried.
At a red light, I reached for the handle, a surge of rebellion in my veins…until I remembered I was barefoot, wearing a sheer nightie with no bra. Not exactly ideal attire for a dramatic escape through Manhattan.
So, I stayed put. Stewed. Simmered.
And thirty minutes later, the car turned into a gated driveway so long I couldn’t see the house until it crested into view. A sprawling, single-story estate appeared like something out of Architectural Digest—dark slate exterior, rich wood accents, sharp lines and clean elegance that made my breath hitch.
Modern. Minimalist. Masculine.
The Devil’s house.
The driver finally opened the door, barely looking at me. “Go inside. The door’s open.”
Then he shut it behind me, and a loud beep followed by the click of a lock echoed behind my back.
I spun and yanked on the handle. Nothing.
The door was locked. From the outside.
I’m stuck here. Trapped. In someone’s fortress, dressed like a fantasy and completely alone.
My voice carries down the empty entryway. “Hello?”
Silence.
I try another door. Locked.
Another. Locked.
One opens—just a crack—and reveals a pristine garage with three sleek cars inside. Midnight black, blood red, gunmetal gray. They gleam under soft overhead lights like predators resting before the next hunt.
The rest of the house is eerily quiet. No music. No ticking clock. No signs of life.
I find a bathroom. Freshen up. Splash cold water on my face and fix the smudged liner under my eyes.
The kitchen is stocked—everything arranged with meticulous precision I would expect from him. I grab a bottle of water, cracking the cap as I wander further down the hallway near the garage.
That’s when I see the last door.
It’s different from the others. Thicker. Heavier.
I hesitate for a second before reaching for the handle.
It’s unlocked.
And the second it swings open, I gasp—because I know exactly what I’ve found.
The Devil’s den.
His personal pleasure room.
The air inside is warmer, thicker. Heavy with the scent of leather and something darker beneath it—smoke, spice, and power. It clings to my skin the moment I step inside.
The room is stunning. Every inch of it curated. Designed. Owned.
To the right, a four-poster bed draped in jet-black sheets. The posts are thick and sturdy, with discreet cuffs hanging from the corners.
Directly across from it is a Saint Andrew’s cross, polished and menacing. Shelves line one wall, holding coils of rope in every color imaginable—some thick and braided, others thin and delicate like silk thread.
There’s a bench. A sling. A swing suspended from the ceiling.
It’s not decoration.
It’s used. Maintained. Loved.
I feel it in the air. The energy of dominance and submission lingering like a scent. Like a memory.
A mirror covers the ceiling above the bed. Of course, it does.
This isn’t just a room. It’s a stage.
A place to perform. To be worshipped. To be broken.
My body flushes hot.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t… this.
I wander toward the bed, fingertips grazing the soft bedding. My skin tingles with every step.
It feels wrong to be in here without him.
And yet, I can’t bring myself to leave.
Because this room tells me exactly what he is.
What he wants.
And something deep inside me—something dark and desperate—wants it too.
A voice slides through the room like silk-draped steel, dark and rich and laced with a wicked edge.
“I like seeing my prey wander around my toys.”
I spin around, startled, my bare feet hitting the polished wood with a quiet thud. My eyes scan the room, but there’s no one there—only the echo of his voice drifting down from the recessed speakers in the ceiling.
It’s him.
The Devil.
“Why am I here?” I demand, my voice stronger than I expect it to be. “Why bring me here just to leave me alone?”
“Because we made a deal,” he replies, smooth and certain, like he’s been waiting for me to ask.
“A deal based on trust,” I shoot back. “And it’s hard to trust someone who locks me in their house.”
A low, rich chuckle rolls over me like thunderclouds gathering above the horizon. It settles in my chest. Between my thighs. Everywhere.
“You’re not locked in, little rabbit.”
I blink.
“You have a choice,” he says, casually amused, like this is the simplest thing in the world. “The SUV is still parked outside. The front door is unlocked. Open it, and you’ll be taken home. No consequences. No questions.”
There’s a beat of silence, heavy with tension. I hear the low, growling hum of a motorcycle engine cutting through the city.
He’s coming.
“Or…” His voice dips, hungry and dark. “You can stay. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
The air thickens as he continues, his voice lowering to a velvet command.
“When I arrive, I want you naked. Blindfold on. Strapped to the cross in my playroom.”
That’s it.
No further instructions. No coaxing. No promises of pleasure or safety.
Just an invitation.
And then silence.
My heart kicks into a sprint.
He’s racing to me.
I walk to the front door with trembling legs, reaching for the handle. It gives under my palm, not locked like it had been a moment ago. I crack it open, just enough to see the car waiting in the long driveway. Its black matte paint absorbing the faint glow of the house lights.
Freedom is right there.
All I have to do is step through.
But my feet won’t move.
Because I asked for this. I chased him down. I begged the Devil to feast on me—and now he’s coming. All I have to do is trust him.
Just like the painting from the gallery. The one with the man gripping the woman’s throat—possessive, protective, dark.
Trust.
I wave the driver off and close the door slowly, staring at the handle. Then I reach down and slide my panties off, the thin scrap of black lace damp from arousal.
With a smile that’s half defiance, half invitation, I hook them around the doorknob like a flag. A message.
I’m still here.
I make my way back through the dark house, down the hallway to the room I was so captivated by only moments ago.
The door closes behind me with a soft snap, and I let the sheer nightgown fall from my shoulders. It flutters to the floor like smoke as I approach the cross.
It looks more imposing now.
Its wide base. The arms stretched just above my head. A monument of submission, carved from wood and metal and dark promise.
“I’ll feast on your greedy cunt until you beg me to stop.”
His voice still echoes in my mind.
Before I can talk myself out of this—before fear can take root—I grab a blindfold. One of many hanging from the wall.
Turning around, I put the cross behind me. I bend down and slip my ankles into the thick leather cuffs, securing each one with care.
They lock in with a heavy click.
It’s not lost on me that I’ve been here before. Not physically. But that first night at the Masquerade—when I walked in and saw the woman bound to the cross, body arched in ecstasy—I wanted it.
I wanted this.
And now, I’m here.
I smile, breathless and nervous and buzzing with adrenaline.
I fix the blindfold around my head, not quite on just yet.
Reaching up, I slide one wrist into the cuff. When I pull it, the strap cinches tight. My heart races as I look at the other cuff still hanging loose. I know once I slide my wrist into it, I’m locked in. Exposed. At his mercy.
And yet, I don’t hesitate.
Pulling the blind over my eyes, the room is instantly dark. I slide my hand into the cuff and give myself to him.
The click of the clasp making me flinch. So final. Ominous.
I’m spread open and strapped to the Devil’s cross.
And all I can do now… is wait.