Iskra
His words hit me like ice water, pulling me back from the rage. I wasn’t surprised he had planned to keep me underground. I had never truly believed he would let me live—not in the beginning, not when I was just a function and a contract and a womb he needed to fill.
He leaned down and slid his hand beneath the hem of my skirt, past my knee, moving toward my inner thigh. Sergei’s eyes were closed and I wasn’t wearing anything beneath the dress.
“I had every intention of leaving you down here,” he continued, his fingers brushing against me. “Only visiting when I needed to unload inside you.”
I closed my eyes as his fingers began to circle. His other hand found my breast—grasping, bruising, the way that bypassed thought entirely.
Just the way I had learned I enjoyed it.
“Why don’t I show you?” he said, pushing his fingers inside me.
My head fell back against him. He would do whatever he wanted regardless of what I said—we both knew that, had always known that.
I groaned when he pulled back only to push deeper.
The silk of the dress hanging off his hand, the cool basement air against my skin, the heat he was building underneath it all.
The contrast of it.
God. I’d let him.
I’d let him take me in front of that man of all people.
It made me want to kick his face.
I grabbed Vadim’s lapel and used the grip to try. He caught me before I could make contact.
“So small, yet so very angry,” he murmured, tugging me toward the door.
“I’m not done yet,” I said, my voice flat.
“Neither am I.”
Before I could fully register the warning in those words we were back in the hallway. Another door opened. A trap—but like everything else in this house, I walked into it willingly.
One large black wooden X against the wall. A stand to one side. A table and bench with a case laid open, holding items designed for a different kind of torture entirely. I stepped closer, drawn by curiosity, when the door slammed shut behind me and I jumped.
When I turned I saw the small metal-framed bed with cuffs attached.
“I see you’ve had company down here,” I said stiffly.
His speculative glance made me uncomfortable enough to look away. The heavy beat of his shoes followed. His fingers curled around my neck.
“You left me, remember?” he said—but without the fury that had been there before. Something quieter in its place.
His face moved closer. He rubbed his forehead against mine before tilting my head to one side with his grip. Hungry lips grazed my jaw.
“This room was created for one woman,” he murmured.
I looked around, trying to decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing. The conclusion I reached wasn’t entirely comfortable.
“Now get out of that dress before Runa needs you again,” he said, releasing my neck.
I began to unbutton it even as the feel of his fingers remained around my neck.
No matter what he did or said—the fact that he knew Runa’s routine almost as well as I did was undeniably hot.
I peeled the cardigan and dress off together, ignoring the cold of the basement. Vadim took them from my hand and laid them on the table beside me.
The only things he had removed were his jacket and tie.
Typical.
He backed me against another table—solid wood, no padding. I placed my hands behind me to stop the edge digging into my rear.
“Sit,” he said, tapping my hip.
I gripped the silver pole and lifted myself onto the table, legs dangling. That’s when I saw the cuffs hanging from two poles on either side. He moved behind me. I glanced back quickly.
On the table, there were three thick metal loops. Two sized for wrists. The middle one clearly for a neck.
“If my daughter is upset that you’re late,” he drawled, “you’ll find yourself back down here once she’s fed.”
I tore my eyes from the restraints and closed them for a moment—caught between self-preservation and the automatic calculation of Runa’s next feeding time.
At least two hours away.
For a crime lord he had an abundance of time on his hands.
His fingers pulled at my hair until I lay back, my hair dangling off the edge of the table. Or the torture instrument. The distinction was becoming less clear.
The metal snapped around my neck before he locked it into place. He had left the door open—I could hear Sergei coughing faintly from the other room. He took my left wrist and bound it.
“Do you know how humiliating it was for me?” he asked, snapping my right wrist into place. “To look everyone in the eye while they all knew about my little runaway wife.”
I tracked his movements as he walked around the table and crouched to grip my ankle.
“And what of my humiliation?” I asked softly.
He didn’t pause in wrapping the leather cuff. I could practically hear him thinking—that silence of his that meant something had landed and he was deciding what to do with it. He moved out of sight and his hand curled around my other ankle. By the time he was finished my legs were spread wide.
“Perhaps we should stop keeping tally,” he said, tugging each strap before he moved away again.
I turned my head. The cold metal dug into my neck.
“So you’ll be fair with me?” I asked, not bothering to hide the scepticism.
His chuckle joined the click of his shoes as he returned.
“One thing at a time,” he said, placing something on the table.
He removed his cufflinks and slipped them into his trouser pocket.
I nibbled the corner of my lip as he began to roll his sleeves up in his usual methodical manner—unhurried, deliberate, every movement designed to be watched.
He was watching me watch him and that’s when I understood he knew exactly what his tattoos and forearms did to me.
“You’ve been so accommodating lately,” he said, blowing into a latex glove.
He pried it onto his hand then did the same with the other.
He rested both hands on my thighs—the rubber not quite preventing his warmth from reaching me.
He slid them up toward the poles before trailing back down toward my inner thighs.
I used the restraints for leverage and arched my back, trying to lift my hips.
His fingers moved. He didn’t touch me where I needed him to.
“He’s probably dying next door,” he said, reaching for something I couldn’t see.
I tried to lift my head. Impossible.
“And here you are,” he continued, “soaking wet for my cock.”
I stared at him, waiting for him to arrive at a point.
“Yes,” he said, pointing at me as though he’d made a great discovery. “That look. That insolent, defiant look.”
He seemed entirely too pleased about it.
If he were clever he’d have noticed from the very beginning. It might have saved him some remodelling costs.
“Let’s see if I can make you scream louder than Sergei,” he said, his smile slow and wicked.
He unscrewed a tub and scooped out lubricant with three fingers, making sure I could see every movement. I gasped as he smeared it over me—cold against heat—and then his hand moved lower.
“That’s right,” he said, circling his fingers around my back passage. “You get a bonus load in this hole today.”
I closed my eyes as his fingers slid into my pussy. Then the pressure built—deeper, more insistent—until he worked a finger into my ass. I pursed my lips and grunted, refusing to give him the satisfaction of more than that.
“And you can’t do a single thing about it,” he said, easing back and forth with the patience of a man who had nowhere else to be.
Even through the latex I could feel his fingers moving against each other.
One in each hole.
A moan slipped out before I could stop it.