Chapter 8
Dahlia
I hear the elevator hum before I see him.
All day I’ve been pacing this penthouse like a caged animal. No phone. No laptop. No tools. Just the sound of my own anxiety echoing back at me from polished marble floors and glass walls.
He’s planned this . That’s the part that stings. That makes the fight in my chest burn hotter. Because if Dante O’Driscoll has planned this, it means he’s known who I am for longer than I realized. And I hate being outmaneuvered.
There’s a room in this glass palace that I hadn’t dared return to after one glimpse this morning.
A closet—or rather, a boutique . My measurements.
My style. My name scrawled in delicate gold foil on boxes I didn’t ask for.
Lingerie so delicate it might vanish if you breathed too hard. Dresses that slide like sin over skin.
And in the corner, a desk. With a brand-new laptop locked in a case I couldn’t crack without explosives.
The temptation mocked me all day. But what really fucked with me? The message taped to the screen in Dante’s perfect handwriting.
Earn this.
I’m still burning from it when he steps into the marble-floored foyer. And adding to the pile of things I hate? I can’t stop myself from devouring him.
Dark suit. Dark shirt. No tie. Coat slung over one mile-wide-linebacker shoulder. Black hair tousled from wind and probably some high-powered criminal meeting with people on my shit list.
He looks at me like I’m already on my knees. I stand taller because fuck that.
“Pacing suits you,” he murmurs. “Like a lioness in heat.”
“Screw you,” I snap even while flames dance beneath my skin because he’s confirmed there are cameras in here. And he’s been watching me.
He smiles. Fuck , I hate when he does that.
“Strip,” he says casually, walking past me into the living room.
My breath catches, my pussy melts and my nipples sting. “What?”
“You heard me.” He sets down his keys, loosens his cuffs. “Clothes off. All of them.”
I cross my arms. “No.”
He turns to face me. Not angry. Not threatening. Just expectant . “This isn’t about sex, Dahlia,” he says softly. “It’s about trust.”
I laugh, bitter. “Trust? Why the fuck should I trust you? You kidnapped me.”
“And yet here you are. Waiting. Watching the door.” His gaze drops to my feet then trails back up, leaving a path of fire. “Wet.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “I am not?—”
“You’re not stupid. So don’t act like you don’t know what’s happening here.”
I hate how calm he is. How measured. Like I’m already halfway into his palm and we’re just negotiating the speed of my fall.
“I want to show you something,” he says. “But I won’t touch you unless you follow the rules.” His eyes return to my feet again, bare because when my clothes were miraculously returned my boots weren’t.
He seems… fascinated by them.
Does Dante O’Driscoll have a foot fetish?
Gah, I don’t want to know. “What rules?”
“The rules I’m about to give you.”
He walks over to me slowly. Doesn’t touch. Just stands close enough that I feel the heat of his body like a current under my skin.
“Strip, Dahlia,” he murmurs. “That’s rule number one.”
My breath trembles. I should say no. But my fingers are already moving.
Belt. Cargo pants. Turtleneck. I pause. He waits, not even an eyebrow raised.
I swallow. Bra. Panties. Each piece makes my skin feel thinner. By the time I’m naked, I’m fighting tremors and the urge to clench my thighs.
He walks behind me. I feel his breath at my neck. A little faster, hotter than normal.
“Hair down,” he instructs. And his voice is hoarser too.
Dante isn’t as unaffected as he projects. I revel in the tiny punch of power even as I raise my hands and obey his instruction. The weight of my long hair caresses my skin, expanding every shiver of awareness. Making my breath shorten more.
“You’re going to kneel now. Not because I forced you. Because you choose to.” His voice darkens, low and dangerous. “Because you want to know what it’s like to be handled properly.”
I hesitate.
Every stubborn cell in my body screams at me to defy him. To smirk. To spit some smart, bitter line about consent or autonomy or how men like him always think they’re in control. But none of it makes it to my lips.
Because something else is stirring.
A pressure beneath my skin, heavy and undeniable.
It’s not fear. Not even lust. It’s gravity.
Like I’ve been resisting the pull of something for so long that I forgot what surrender feels like—and now, standing here, stripped down to nothing but nerve and instinct, I feel it pressing into my bones.
A strange, aching need to let go, just enough to see what happens when someone else takes the reins.
I sink to my knees.
Quietly. Without drama.
Without any show of reluctance—because that would be a lie. The marble is cold against my skin, but that’s not what makes me tremble. ?It’s the silence that follows.
The slow, deliberate way he breathes as he looks down at me. As if he’s known all along that I’d do it. That part of me wanted this— craved this. And I hate that he might be right. I hate it so much… it almost makes me wet.
Nah, forget almost .
Dante walks in front of me, crouches to my level. “Look at me.”
I do.
“This isn’t about you giving up control,” he says. “It’s about learning where it feels best to let go. You fight everything. Everyone. But I know you, Little Dahlia. I know what you need.”
My breath hitches. “You don’t know shit.”
He smiles again, and it’s dangerous .
“Rule number two,” he says. “You will speak when spoken to. Ask permission to come. And always tell me the truth.”
Fat chance. But my jaw clenches, halts my protest. He hasn’t given me permission yet.
He reaches out—slowly—and runs his knuckle down the center of my chest. Not quite touching my nipple. Just close enough to make me ache. To make me move towards him. Make me hate him a little for it.
“Do you understand?”
My mouth is dry. It shouldn’t be able to form the word. Yet… “Yes.”
He leans in, lips grazing my ear.
“Good girl. Rule three. You belong to me during your training. Your pussy. Your clit. Your pleasure. The air you breathe. All mine. And I’ll use it or deny it as I see fit.”
My thighs clench involuntarily. “I haven’t agreed to anything,” I whisper.
“No,” he says. “But your body has.”
His hand slides between my thighs—barely a brush—and I flinch. “Already wet for me,” he croons. “And I haven’t even touched your pretty little clit.”
His fingers hover. So close. So maddening. Then—one perfect stroke.
My head falls back. A moan tears out of me before I can stop it. But just as fast, his hand disappears. I choke on a protest.
He leans down, lips brushing my jaw. “That’s your first lesson. Remember, you don’t come unless I let you.”
I’m kneeling. Naked. Breathless. Furious .
And desperate for more.
“Up,” he says as he stands, adjusting his cuff. A tiny flex of sophistication totally undermined by the savage hunger pulsing from him. By the fat steel rod pushing against his fly.
I obey before I can stop myself.
He takes something from his pocket. Slim. Leather. Expensive. Gold clasp.
A collar.
“No,” I breathe, pulse leaping. “Fuck no.”
“This isn’t a leash,” he says patiently. Far too fucking patiently. “It’s a promise.”
He holds it up, one inch from my nose. For an eternity. Then, whatever he sees in my face, he nods and steps behind me. “Say the words, Dahlia.”
A promise. Of what? Why does every cell in my body want to know? Why is the three-letter word shivering to be on my tongue, crowding, crowding, crowding, desperate to get out?
Thirty days… well, twenty-nine now.
I sincerely doubt Dante intends to let me out of this penthouse. He planned this meticulously, knew no one would miss me publicly because my laptop is my office. Dad will lose track of time until I contact him, remind him I exist.
I lick my lips. Rationalize.
If no one sees me in it, then surely it’s fine, right? This breaking and wanting and surrendering and collaring will only be between us. Our little filthy secret.
“Yes.” The word falls out before I can stop it.
Still, he waits. My jaw clenches, but again, it’s not enough to uproot my next response from my soul.
“Yes, Sir,” I breathe.
“Good girl,” he murmurs again. Then he fastens it around my neck. Not tight. Just present .
He steps closer, wrapping his power, his aura around me. “You belong to me now, Dahlia. And when I say kneel, you’ll kneel. When I say come, you’ll come.”
He steps in front of me again. Brushes a knuckle down my sternum.
He tilts my chin up.
Then Dante’s mouth crashes into mine—hot and hard and everything .
A promise and a punishment all at once, and I don’t have time to think—I only feel . The heat of it. The hunger. The way his hand fists in my hair, dragging me closer, angling my face so he can take exactly what he wants, how he wants it.
He’s fully clothed and I’m a naked accessory for his pleasure.
And holy shit, why does that light me the fuck up?
His lips are firm, commanding, coaxing mine open with a flick of his tongue, and the second I let him in, I know I’ve made a mistake. Because it’s not just a kiss. It’s an invasion. A seduction. A branding .
It’s him mapping every inch of my mouth like he already owns it. He tastes like sin—dark and expensive, whiskey-laced and wicked—and he kisses like he wants to ruin me from the inside out.
My body betrays me instantly, heat sparking low in my belly, knees going soft as my fingers curl into his shirt without permission.
I tell myself I hate it. That I hate him .
That this is a game and I’m just playing my part—but the lie rings hollow when I realize I’m kissing him back with just as much hunger.
Maybe more. Because his kiss feels like everything I’ve ever denied myself.
The absence of control. Craving. Safety wrapped in danger.
And God help me, I want more. I need more.
Even as my pride screams at me to pull away, to slap him, to do anything but moan into his mouth the way I do now, I stay pressed against him like he’s the only solid thing in a world that’s always shifting beneath my feet.
By the time he pulls away, my knees are weak.
He grips my waist, thumbs stroking my pelvic bone, back and forth, back and forth. Then he whispers against my lips. “Go to bed, Dahlia.”
I stare at him, stunned. “Are you serious? You’re leaving me like this?”
“Of course,” he says, voice low and full of dark promise. “Obedience starts with denial .”
He turns. Walks away.
And leaves me there—collared, wet, empty…
And… terrifyingly… already halfway his.
In a daze I watch the door click shut behind him.
The moment I’m alone, my knees go weak for real. I don’t collapse—but it’s close. I scrabble up my clothes and hightail it to the bedroom I used last night.
My skin feels too sensitive to put them back so I dump them on the bed and shrug into the robe I used this morning.
My shaking hand rises to my neck. The collar is still snug around my neck. Light. Elegant. Mocking. I finger the clasp, already knowing bone deep that I’m going to leave it on.
My body is still trembling. From his touch. His voice. His kiss. His restraint .
God, I hate him. I hate that I can’t stop thinking about how close his fingers were to my pussy. How easily he denied me. How much I wanted to obey.
But hate is sharp. Useful. It gives me just enough clarity to focus on what really matters: Escape.
Or if not escape … leverage.
I move back to the door, stop, listen. Then I step back out into the hallway and walk through the penthouse with a purpose. Barefoot. Silent.
He thinks I’ll go to bed like an obedient pet.
Newsflash, I’m a fucking thief .
I return to the room and head straight for the desk. The laptop case is still there. Untouched.
A keycard opens it. Not a password. That was the first layer. I figured that out this morning. But now I see the second: a fingerprint reader.
And a tiny port at the back for an external interface.
Amateur hour, O’Driscoll.
I take out the hairpin I grabbed from the vanity in the room I suspect he made up for me. Use the spiral to trigger the latch on the case. It clicks open.
The screen lights up. A security prompt flashes.
Welcome back, D.
My lips curl. Cocky bastard.
I bypass the start screen with a cloned instance of his OS—a mirrored shadow shell I planted during my last heist. I only had a few seconds of proximity, but I got enough metadata to exploit. Enough to trick the machine into thinking I’m him—for five minutes max.
My hands fly over the keys.
Folder after folder. Financials. Blackmail. Offshore accounts.
One file named “Ironveil: Access Protocol.”
Another flagged “Wraith.” Encrypted.
That second name makes my stomach twist. It was my codename once.
From another life.
From before my mother died.
Before I started calling myself Specter.
Before I decided I’d rather hunt monsters than grieve like a good daughter.
Coincidence? Maybe.
I don’t breathe as my fingers hover, hesitating—but the urge to know is louder than the instinct to stay safe. Fuck it.
The screen flashes RED.
ALERT.
Unauthorized Access Detected.
Lockout Sequence Initiated.
Unsurprising but still… shit . The desk hums beneath my palm.
And then the collar around my throat vibrates. A single pulse.
What the hell?
My fingers fly to my neck, memories of some Z-movie character dying with a collar-shock freewheeling through my mind.
Surely he’s not that crass. That inelegant. Because that would be… disappointing.
The gold clasp warms—just slightly. Not painful. Not yet. Just a warning. A reminder.
And then a message appears on screen:
Disobedience earns punishment, little thief.
Go to the playroom.
Kneel.
Wait.
I freeze. My heart starts to hammer like it’s trying to escape. He knew I’d try. He left this here like bait. Like a fucking test. Again. And I walked right into it.
The collar cools. My skin still tingles with shame. With something darker.
Now I have a choice.
Run? Try to hack my way out of the penthouse altogether, take my chances with the cops? With death?
Or… obey?
God help me—I stand, walk out, head to the other room I discovered in my fury tour today. The room with more toys and gadgets than The Club app that landed me in this shit in the first place.
I walk to the center of the room.
And I kneel on the leather mat reserved for my shame.
In the room he built just for this.