Chapter 25 #3
“Don’t tell me what I need. If Edward is connected to the Second Circle, I plan to figure out why.” I snapped.
Rowan’s expression was tight. I’d never seen him like this—genuinely frightened beneath the authoritative exterior. Whatever Second Circle was, it terrified him in a way shifters and murder apparently didn’t.
“There’s something else,” I said finally. “Two vampyres have been. . . persistent. At the club.”
“Vampyres?”
“I mean, I don’t know if they’re actually vampyres.
” I rushed to clarify. “But based on what you’ve told me about these.
. . supernaturals as you call them? They match the description.
Pale. Beautiful in that uncanny valley way.
They don’t breathe regularly—I’ve watched them.
And they’ve been trying to get me to go to a private room with them for the last week. ”
“Them.” Rowan’s voice had gone deadly quiet. “As in plural. Two vampyres?”
“Twins, I think. Or at least they look identical. Both male, dark hair, heterochromic eyes.” I shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned despite the unease that crawled up my spine whenever they watched me dance. “I’ve been declining, obviously. But they’re getting more insistent.”
“Names.” It wasn’t a question.
“They haven’t given me names. Just keep calling me ‘beautiful girl’ and saying they want to ‘taste’ me.” I rolled my eyes. “Very original.”
Rowan was across the room before I could blink, his phone in his hand. “We need to identify them, and I need to know if management is aware they are hunting dancers.”
“Hunting?” The word sent ice through my veins. “Rowan, they’re just customers. Creepy customers, but—”
“Vampyres do not simply watch, Violet. They do not show persistent interest without intention to feed.” His jaw clenched hard enough that I could see the muscle jump.
“And twins hunting together is significantly more dangerous than a single vampyre. They coordinate, trap prey between them, making escape nearly impossible.”
“I haven’t agreed to go anywhere with them.”
“Good. You will continue to refuse.” He looked up from his phone, and the expression on his face was pure lethal promise despite the tension between us.
He cared. Possibly more than he should. Definitely more than I deserved.
“Okay.” I kept my voice calm. “I promise I’ll stay away from them, but not from the Second Circle.”
Some of the tension bled from his shoulders, but his expression remained serious.
“Thank you.” He set his phone down and returned to me, his hands gentle as they cupped my face.
“I know you can take care of yourself, Violet. You are one of the strongest people I have ever met. But you are also mortal and breakable, and vampyres are neither of those things. Promise me you will not take unnecessary risks.”
“I won’t make a promise I can’t keep,” I said with a sad smile, “especially if it involves Edward.”
He sighed before he kissed my forehead—soft, gentle, completely at odds with the violence simmering beneath his skin—then stepped back. “The tie is finished.” He gestured at my bound torso. “Do you want to see?”
I nodded, and he produced a full-length mirror from beside his closet, angling it so I could see my reflection.
My breath caught.
The rope created an intricate pattern across my chest and ribs—geometric shapes mixed with organic flow, the cerulean blue stark against my light caramel skin.
It looked like art. Like I was the canvas and he was the painter, and together we’d created something beautiful from vulnerability and trust.
“The Hishi Karada. Also known as the Rope Dress. You can wear it underneath clothing,” Rowan said, his voice soft with pride.
“It’s beautiful. I feel. . . held.”
“You are held, volchok.” He moved behind me, his hands settling on my bare shoulders. “And you are safe. Always safe with me.”
The word echoed in my mind again—safe—and this time I didn’t push it away.
His hands began to move, sliding from my shoulders down my arms with deliberate slowness. Not the clinical efficiency of rope work, but something else entirely. Something that made my skin flush and my breath quicken.
“Rowan. . .” His name came out uncertain, a question and a plea.
“Do you want me to stop?” His palms glided back up, over my shoulders, down to rest just above the rope at my collarbones.
“No.” The admission was immediate and honest. “But this is probably a bad idea.”
I let my head fall forward, giving him better access. His fingers dug deeper, finding knots of stress and methodically releasing them. Pleasure radiated from each point of contact, washing through my body in waves that left me boneless and pliant.
“Oh my god,” I breathed. “Why does that feel so good?”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and into my back where we touched. “You do not take rest days, Violet. Between dancing, riding Hyacinth, and Jiu-Jitsu, you are constantly using your body. I am surprised you have not collapsed from exhaustion.”
His hands moved lower, following the line of the rope down my spine. Each vertebra received individual attention—press, release, move to the next. Clinical and sensual in equal measure, the dichotomy making my head spin.
One hand trailed to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair before gripping firmly at the base of my skull.
I gasped, my neck arching instinctively, baring my throat in a gesture of submission that should have terrified me. I never thought I’d be okay with a man having this kind of control over me.
But this was different. This was Rowan. And somehow, that made all the difference.
“You watch me so closely,” I managed, my voice rough. “It’s almost creepy how much attention you pay.”
“Almost.” His breath ghosted across my exposed throat. “But you like it.”
I wanted to deny it, to maintain some shred of pride and independence. But his other hand had found the bandage on my thigh, where my snake and roses tattoo was still healing. The slight pressure through the protective covering sent jolts of sensation racing through me.
“You don’t know me. . .” My protest was weak and unconvincing.
He laughed. It was a genuine laugh, the sound warm and infectious. “I know you better than you think, princess.” His fingers traced the edge of the bandage carefully, avoiding direct contact with the healing ink beneath. “Does it hurt?”
“I’ll survive.”
His hand left my thigh and came back in a light slap—not hard enough to truly hurt, but sharp enough to send competing signals of pain and pleasure singing through my nerves.
I cried out, my hips jerking forward involuntarily.
“Not what I asked.” His voice held amusement and warning in equal measure.
“Don’t get soft on me now, Rowan.” I fought to keep my breathing steady. “I use the pain to stay focused. To remind myself that I’m here, that this is my body to use how I want. Not because someone else commanded me to.”
“And yet you take orders so well when I give them.” The note in his tone suggested he saw straight through my defenses.
“Maybe I need a better handler.”
“Maybe you need to stop being a brat.”
His grip in my hair tightened—not yanking, but firm enough that I felt thoroughly caught. I couldn’t suppress the gasp that escaped, couldn’t hide the way my thighs clenched together, couldn’t disguise the arousal flooding through me.
I wanted this man to use me, call me his filthy volchok, and it scared me.
I’d never imagined—never in either life—that I would be okay with a man exerting authority over me. After Edward, after years of being commanded and controlled and treated like property, I’d sworn I’d never submit to anyone again.
But this wasn’t submission. Or maybe it was, but it was submission I chose. Power I gave rather than power that was taken.
The difference felt cosmic.
“Then it’s no fun, Rowan.” I managed to inject challenge into my voice despite the way my body trembled.
“Must you always be pushing boundaries?”
“If you can’t take it, then let me go.”
He leaned down, and I felt his lips press against my collarbone—soft, almost chaste. The gentleness of it contrasted sharply with his grip in my hair, and the juxtaposition made me dizzy.
“And leave you alone to fend for yourself?” His mouth moved along my shoulder, trailing kisses that felt like brands. “I think not.”
My neck was beginning to ache from the angle, and somehow I knew he was aware of it. Reading my body’s signals, monitoring my comfort, ensuring he pushed right up to my limits without crossing them.
“I am capable of taking care of myself.” But the words lacked conviction.
His teeth found that spot on my neck—the one he’d discovered weeks ago, the place that made my brain short-circuit, and my cunt clench with need—and grazed it with just enough pressure to make me whimper.
“You are, Violet.” He released my hair, both hands moving to massage where he’d held me. The relief was immediate and exquisite. “Fuck, you are very capable.”
His palms worked the sore muscles with practiced skill, and I melted under his touch.
“But when you are with me. . .” He pulled back, and I felt him shift position behind me. “Let me take care of you.”
My heart stuttered in my chest. Full-body shivers cascaded through me, raising goosebumps across every inch of exposed skin.
“Oh god.” The word came out shaky, overwhelmed. “Why was that so hot?”
I felt his smile against my shoulder blade before I saw it. When he moved back around to face me, that tantalizingly smug expression I’d learned to love was firmly in place.
“Because you want me.” He eased me down and settled between my spread thighs, his hands resting on my knees. “You just do not want to want me.”
The truth of it hung between us, undeniable and terrifying, cementing the weeks I had tried to deny myself the truth he had so casually spoken aloud.