“We’re going in,” Estella declares, picking up on my hesitation before I even speak.
I’m not scared. Concerned, yes—because the man we killed will be discovered eventually, and it won’t take long for people to start searching for him. I worked with the cameras, but once they catch it, they’ll begin wandering around the mansion.
Still, I nod, stepping forward first. “If anything feels wrong, we leave,” I warn, my voice tightening under the weight of possibilities. My brain is already painting scenarios—me stepping onto a hidden panel, a dozen spears shooting out ofthe walls like something out of a deranged aristocrat’s idea of entertainment.
Wouldn’t shock me. Rich people build all kinds of bullshit when normal luxury stops being enough. They’re bored almost the same way we are bored.
Crossing the threshold, I inhale sharply, bracing for the worst. I can practically feel Estella breathing against my back, her gaze darting everywhere, trying to solve the room before I can.
I take one more step, and suddenly, a motion sensor triggers, flooding the chamber with light.
“Fuck. Me,” Estella breathes behind me.
I blink hard, needing a moment to confirm I’m not imagining what I’m seeing. The room is dimly lit by thin strips of red LED glowing like a horizon line along the ceiling. The color washes over everything—leather, metal, the polished floor—dyeing it all in a deep, saturated crimson that feels less like interior design and more like a warning.
I walk farther in, analyzing every detail, struck by the profound silence. Temperature-controlled. Sterile in the way a private laboratory is sterile.
Rails run along the red-washed walls—brushed steel, polished so impeccably they catch every flicker of crimson light. They’re arranged with the precision of someone who worships order. Leather harnesses hang from them, not tossed or tangled, but folded and conditioned, their surfaces gleaming softly. Some pieces are tucked into black velvet pouches, each labeled in discreet silver embossing. The drawers beneath them sit unlocked, matte black handles disappearing into equally black furniture.
On the rails, imagination has endless fuel. Handcuffs lined with different shades of fur, ropes in every thickness and length, whips, floggers—each item haloed by the red glow that bleedsacross the room, casting them in a dangerous sheen like a warning whispered to anyone bold enough to step inside.
A massive bed dominates the center, draped in satin sheets, pillows, and blankets of slick, shadowy black. Around it, velvet couches and chairs mirror the same dark palette, arranged deliberately to frame the room like a private theater.
“This is a fucking pleasure room,” Estella says, brushing past me, sending a cool ripple across my shoulder. She doesn’t stop moving—her eyes flit from object to object, never settling, hungry. Her fingers drift over a leather mini-bench at the room’s core before she hooks one of the first drawers open. “God fucking damn it.”
A quiet laugh rises in my chest, one I swallow before it escapes.
I move closer, leaning near her shoulder as she lifts a pair of heart-shaped nipple clips, twirling them in her fingers. “Is that even… is it safe?”
“If the person putting them on you isn’t a fucking idiot, then yes,” I tell her. “They push sensitivity to its edge.”
Cautiously, she sets them down, then crosses to the opposite side of the room. Silk scarves for bondage, blindfolds folded with clinical care—she drags her fingertips over each item. When she bites her bottom lip, my cock stirs in my pants. I already know the thoughts crowding her mind.
But I hold my tongue, letting her move freely. She touches everything, plucking the drawers open, skimming shelves, tracing shapes, her questions spilling out in a soft, breathy stream laced with intrigue and a hint of caution.
“These remind me of that anti-stress toy,” she says, rolling two love balls in her palm. “The one where you push one ball, and it disrupts the others, so you can just watch them and calm down.”
I laugh quietly. “Yes, I know, baby. Do you know what these are for?”
She studies them, brow pinched in thought. “Probably for… stimulating something?”
“We can put them inside you,” I murmur. She stiffens slightly, her tongue flicking out to wet her lips. “And I can control exactly what you feel—however I want.”
Her fingers slowly release the balls, setting them down as she lifts her hand to scratch at the back of her neck. “You always crave control,” she says softly, turning to face me fully. Her fingers rise, grazing my beard as she examines me with startling scrutiny. “Did you ever let someone else take that control?”
My inhale falters, the breath trembling in my chest. “When we were in the hotel, yes. I allowed?—”
“No, Dante,” she cuts in. “That was a hiccup. And you weren’t pleased with how you felt afterward.”
I frown. “Why do you say that? I enjoyed it. I always do.”
She rolls her lips inward, holding them there as she takes her time. Her gaze remains fixed on mine—steady, searching, as if she’s peeling back layers to see what’s beneath. I feel her probing, gently pressing, trying to understand something even I can’t articulate.
I wish I had an answer for her. But I don’t. Not when I don’t understand the truth myself.
“I’m talking about giving up real control to someone. To not know what they’ll do… and still be comfortable with it.”
“No.” My response lands sharp and unyielding. “That’s never happened.”
