A longer pause. "Yes, Sir."
"Are you comfortable with temperature play? Ice, warm oil, that kind of sensory contrast?"
"I've never tried it."
"That's not what I asked. Are you willing to try it?"
"...Yes, Sir."
"Good girl." The praise is deliberate, calculated to see how she responds. Her breath hitches, shoulders relaxing fractionally under my hands. She responds better to encouragement than degradation. I file that away for later. "Now take off your clothes. Everything except your underwear. Take your time."
I step away, giving her privacy while I retrieve the rope and other supplies. When I turn back, she's folded her clothes neatly on the chair and stands in black lace that showcases every lean line of her body. Athletic grace married to feminine curves. Beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with aesthetics and everything to do with the courage it takes to stand there without armor.
"Come here."
She crosses to where I stand beside the bed, chin lifted despite the vulnerability of near-nakedness. Still fighting even when she's trying to yield.
"Hands behind your back, wrists together."
She complies slowly, testing the order, deciding whether to obey. Then her hands meet at the small of her back, and I move behind her to secure them with the silk rope. Not tight enough to restrict circulation, but firm enough that she'll feel the restraint with every breath.
"How does that feel?" I ask, checking the knots.
"Strange, but okay, Sir."
"Tell me if anything changes." I guide her to sit on the edge of the bed, then kneel to secure her ankles next. Again, silk rope wrapped carefully, binding without cutting off circulation. "Still okay?"
"Yes, Sir."
"One more thing." I retrieve the blindfold. "This is the part where you decide how much you trust me. Once I put this on, you won't see what's coming next. You'll have to rely entirely on my voice, my touch, the sensory information I choose to give you. Are you ready for that?"
"I don't know," she says honestly. "But I want to be."
"That's enough." I smooth her hair back from her face, the gesture tender. "Close your eyes."
She does, and I secure the blindfold, plunging her into darkness. Her breathing quickens immediately, instinct fighting against the vulnerability of lost sight.
"Stay with me," I murmur, hands settling on her shoulders. "Focus on my voice. Focus on your breath. You're safe. I've got you. Nothing's going to hurt you here."
Gradually her breathing steadies. Not calm, but controlled.
"I'm going to lay you back on the bed," I tell her. "Then we're going to explore what trust feels like when there's nothing between you and sensation except the choice to let go."
I guide her back carefully, supporting her weight since her hands can't brace her fall. Once she's horizontal, I arrange pillows under her head for comfort, then step back to study my work.
Marissa Vale, bound and blindfolded, her chest rising and falling with measured breaths, crystal bracelets discarded on the nightstand. Nocturne stripped away. Just the woman beneath, trusting me to see her without flinching.
"Tell me how you feel," I say, settling beside her on the bed.
"I feel exposed and helpless." She hesitates before continuing. "But also like I don't have to be strong right now. Like someone else is holding the weight for once."
"Yes." I trail one finger down her arm, barely touching, just enough pressure for her to track the movement. "For the next however long this takes, you don't have to be Nocturne. You don't have to be the operative who's survived years undercover. You don't have to be anything except exactly who you are in this moment."
"And who is that?"
"Mine."
The word hangs between us, possessive and claiming and entirely true. Whatever happens tomorrow, whatever dangers wait for us at the Iron Choir gathering, right now in this moment she belongs to me. Not as property, but as choice. As trust embodied.
