Chapter 5 #2
I don't know what brings me back in. I tell myself it’s strategy. Control. I’ll get him to drop his guard and then I’ll make my move. But it’s a lie. A pretty, pitiful little lie.
Because the truth is… I want to see him again.
I open the door, and the heat hits me like a kiss. Steam curls around my ankles, rising to kiss my skin like phantom fingertips. The bathwater glows faintly still, casting halos of golden light across the polished black walls of his chamber.
He hasn’t moved.
Still reclined like a beast at ease, utterly at home in his den.
His eyes flick toward me, slow and unhurried, like he knew I’d return.
“Ayla,” he murmurs. Just that. My name. But it wraps around me like silk rope.
I should say something sharp. I should tell him to go to hell.
Instead, I approach.
Slowly. As if in a dream.
The air between us hums, charged like a power cell on the brink of detonation. My skin tingles before I even touch him.
I kneel beside the tub again, but I don’t reach for a cloth this time. My hand lifts of its own accord, trembling only a little, and I brush my fingertips along his jawline.
He doesn’t move.
His skin is warm, impossibly smooth for someone so deadly.
The stubble at his chin scratches lightly against my palm.
I slide my fingers down, exploring the curve of his throat, the hard line of his collarbone.
I don’t stop. My hand brushes his cock, and it twitches hard in response, heavy and hot against my knuckles.
A flexible spur along the crown of his cock extends slowly, deliberately, like a cat’s claw testing the air.
It feels so awfully, terribly good to touch him.
And he lets me.
His eyes never leave mine. Red. Glowing. Devouring.
“I see,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in honey, “you need assistance in obeying my commands.”
His smile is dangerous. But it’s not cruel.
It’s possessive. Pleased.
And that… scares me more.
He rises from the bath with unhurried grace.
Water sluices off him in rivulets, tracing the sharp planes of his chest, his abdomen, the thick length of his cock hanging heavy between his thighs.
I don’t turn away. I can’t. My body feels like it’s already leaning toward him, already saying yes before my mind can catch up.
He dries himself quickly, powerfully, and then crosses the room to the black chest set into the wall.
The latch releases with a hiss.
When he turns back toward me, what he holds steals the breath from my lungs.
Reaper lingerie.
It isn’t just clothing. It’s raiment. An artwork of leather, bone, and living synthesis. The material shifts in his hands like it’s alive, gleaming obsidian threaded with silver veins. Curved spines and carved filigree accent every edge.
It looks like it was made for me.
Because it was.
“You’re the only one I’ve ever chosen,” he says, low. Almost reverent.
That shouldn’t mean anything.
But it does.
He steps closer, and I lift my chin. If I’m going to be dressed like a toy, I’ll do it with dignity.
The first strap touches my skin and something in me breaks.
It’s cold for half a second, then warms instantly, molding to my body like memory leather.
My arms are drawn back, wrists secured together behind me in a firm but careful bind.
My breasts swell against the crisscrossing bands, nipples tightening, aching, visible beneath the mesh detail.
The spine of the corset digs in just enough to remind me who dressed me.
The look in his eyes as he fastens the last buckle makes my thighs tremble.
Worship. Hunger. Victory.
“You are exquisite,” he breathes.
I should tell him off.
Instead, my pussy clenches.
He leads me to the padded dais in the center of the room. I go willingly. His hand on the small of my back isn’t forceful—but it is commanding.
He sits.
I kneel.
Not because I have to.
Because I want to see his reaction.
“You test me, little flame,” he whispers.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“No,” he agrees softly. “But you will be afraid of how much you want what comes next.”
He leans forward, hands framing my face. His thumbs stroke my cheeks. Gentle. Almost tender.
Then he begins.
Not with force.
With torment.
One finger traces from my jaw, down my throat, over the swell of my breast. He circles a nipple once, slowly, and I gasp, hips jerking forward in instinctive need.
The lingerie tightens minutely with each breath I take, amplifying every sensation.
“Already wet,” he murmurs, amused, as his fingers slide lower and find my pussy slick and aching beneath the straps. “You deny yourself so much… but your body never lies.”
His finger presses between my folds, teasing, not entering. The spur on his cock flexes again as he watches my reaction.
I writhe.
I burn.
He doesn’t give me what I need.
Not yet.
“Say it,” he murmurs, mouth brushing mine. “Tell me what you want.”
“No.”
His hand wraps around my throat—not choking. Claiming.
“I can wait,” he purrs. “But you’ll beg before I’m done.”
Time dissolves.
His fingers finally slide inside my pussy—one, then two—stretching me slowly while his thumb works my clit with merciless precision. I cry out, back arching, body shaking as pleasure builds too fast, too sharp.
“Please,” I sob at last. “Please, Kallus… take me.”
He growls, low and primal, and lifts me as if I weigh nothing.
The lingerie dissolves at his command, melting away like mist.
Then he pushes me down onto the dais and positions himself between my thighs.
I stare at his cock—thick, ridged, gleaming—and the white bone spur at its crown, already flexing in anticipation.
“Look at me,” he orders.
I do.
He pushes inside my pussy slowly, stretching me inch by inch until I’m gasping, shaking, split open around him. The spur brushes my inner walls and I scream, the sensation sharp and overwhelming and perfect.
“Too much?” he asks, voice strained.
“No,” I sob. “More.”
He fucks me.
Hard.
Deep.
Every thrust drives the spur exactly where it makes me see stars, makes my pussy clench uncontrollably around his cock. He pounds into me like he’s claiming territory, like he’s carving himself into my soul.
“Mine,” he growls.
“Yes,” I cry. “Yes—”
My orgasm hits like an explosion. I come screaming, body convulsing, pussy clenching so hard he roars and slams into me one final time, spilling himself deep inside me.
When it’s over, I’m shaking. Destroyed.
Whole.
And I know—without fear, without doubt—that I will never be the girl my family tried to cage again.
Because I chose this.
And he chose me.