"Do you trust me?"
The question was serious, requiring more than automatic agreement. He stood there, silk ties draped over his hands like an offering, gray eyes locked on mine. No assumptions. No taking for granted.
"Yes," I said, and meant it. Trust was not something I gave easily anymore—hadn't since the hospital, since learning how many people I'd trusted had been selling organs like produce. But Kostya had earned it. With his patience, his protection, his careful handling of both my body and my fractured psyche. "Yes, I trust you."
Something shifted in his expression. Softer for just a moment before the hunger returned, darker and more intense.
"On the bed," he said. "On your back,koshechka."
I moved on unsteady legs, hyperaware of his eyes tracking every movement. The mattress dipped under my weight, cool sheets against my overheated skin. I lay back, arms at my sides, trying to look more confident than I felt.
He approached with the same deliberate slowness he'd used to undress me. Set most of the silk lengths on the nightstand, kept one in his hands. Then he took my right wrist, lifted it above my head with surprising gentleness.
"Tell me if it's too tight," he said, beginning to wind the silk around my wrist. The material was cool against my skin, soft as water. He tied it off with a knot I recognized—a surgical slip knot, quick release if needed. Then he secured the other end to the headboard, testing the tension. "Can you feel your fingers?"
I flexed them experimentally. "Yes."
"Good." He moved to my left wrist, repeated the process. Each movement deliberate, careful. When both wrists were secured, he ran a finger under each binding, checking the space. "Try to pull."
I did, testing the restraints. They held firm but didn't bite into my skin. I could probably work myself free given enough time and determination, but that wasn't the point. The point was the choice to stay bound, to give him this control.
"Perfect," he murmured, then moved to the foot of the bed.
This was harder. More vulnerable. He took my right ankle, and I had to fight every instinct that screamed to keep my legs together, to maintain some modesty. But that's not what this was about. This was about trust. About surrender.
He bound my ankle to the right corner of the footboard, then the left, and suddenly I was spread wide. Completely exposed. Every part of me visible and accessible while he remained fully clothed, in control, deciding what would happen next.
Some part of me—the part that had survived six months of running and hiding—was screaming that this was dangerous, that I was helpless, that I needed to get free.
But the rest of me, the larger part, felt something else entirely.
Power.
Because Kostya was looking at me like I'd hung the moon. His eyes traveled over my bound form with a hunger that bordered on worship, taking in every inch of exposed skin, every vulnerability I was offering him. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides like he was physically fighting the urge to touch.
"Fuck," he breathed, the profanity escaping like a prayer. "Look at you."
I felt beautiful. Spread out like an offering, wrapped in silk and trust and the weight of his gaze. My body responded, nippleshardening further, core clenching around nothing, arousal making itself known in ways I couldn't hide even if I wanted to.
He noticed. Of course he noticed. His eyes tracked every response, cataloging them the way I'd catalog symptoms. But instead of touching where my body was begging for contact, he sat on the edge of the bed, fully clothed, and placed one large hand on my ribs.
Just that. Palm flat against my ribcage, feeling my breath, my heartbeat. The touch was electric despite its innocence, making me arch slightly, seeking more.
"Patience," he said, and began to trace.
His fingers followed the ladder of my ribs, one by one, learning the architecture of my body with methodical precision. Up to my collarbones, tracing their wings, dipping into the hollow of my throat where my pulse hammered. Along my shoulders, down my arms as far as the bonds would allow, finding sensitive spots I didn't know existed—the inside of my elbow, the delicate skin of my inner arm.
He avoided my breasts entirely, though his fingers traced around them, under them, between them. Close enough that I could feel the heat of his hand, but never quite touching where I needed. The denial was exquisite torture. My back arched, trying to press into his touch, but the restraints held me in place.
"Please," I whispered, the word escaping without permission.
"Please what?" His voice was controlled, but I could hear the strain in it. Could see the way his jaw clenched, the way his free hand gripped the sheets.
"Touch me."
"I am."
His fingers traced down my stomach, around my navel, along the wings of my hip bones. Each touch was light, almost reverent, but it wasn't enough. Would never be enough. I needed more, needed him to stop this slow exploration and just—
