Without another word, he stands and goes back into his closet, returning with a set of chains similar to the ones from the basement cage.
I immediately feel the need to run, to get away from this psycho, but I don’t know what’s wrong with my head.
I don’t see him as the same threat.
I see him as my first kiss, and Lord does my body crave him.
So instead, I don’t move, watching as he secures the cuffs—two at the headboard and two at the footboard.
“Get in them.”
I stare back in silence, knowing any response will show him that I care, and slide back on the black silk.
Putting my wrists and ankles into the curve of the cuff, I work not to flinch as Nikolai circles the bed, locking me in place, my body completely at his mercy.
I lie there for a moment, eyes fixed on the ceiling, listening to him shuffle around the room some more, when suddenly cool steel runs up my leg, lifting my shirt, snagging lightly as it moves up my body.
Goosebumps erupt on my skin, and I jerk, pulling my head up, watching where the cool metal lands, the prick of the sharp knife pointed at the centre of my chest.
I guess this is how I’m dying.
I look to my side, staring at the monster, my devil in disguise, holding a blade to my chest.
“Do it,” I hiss, staring down the blade between my breasts. “Stab me,” I say with more bite.
Okay, I don’t necessarily want Nikolai to kill me right now. But I’m proving a point. I am not a toy he can play with.
He tilts his head. “Can I take your shirt off?”
I blink.
Is he seriously asking me?
I swear I’ve been kidnapped by the most unstable, confusing man alive.
“Yes,” I hear myself say.
And yep—apparently I’m just as insane as he is.
His eyes sparkle with something sharp and pleased as he drags the knife down, splitting my—technically his—shirt in two. The sound of the fabric tearing is both violent and intimate.
Cold air rushes over my bare chest, shocking every nerve awake. My nipples harden instantly; goosebumps prickling all over my skin.
Nikolai stays leaning over me, his shadow swallowing half my vision as he drags his gaze down my body. It’s not a look—it’s possession itself.
He inhales once, steady and heavy, before repositioning the knife like he’s resetting himself. Then he draws it down again—between my breasts, then lower across my stomach. He’s not pressing hard enough to break skin, but enough that I notice the sting.
Regardless of how it feels, I force myself to maintain my cold expression, showing no glimpse of emotion, but he keeps going.
The metal glides lower.
When the cool steel touches just above my clit, my breath betrays me—helpless. My hips jolt upward before I can choke the reaction down.
He pulls back immediately, stepping away with his head tilted. “Interesting.”
“What?” I let out, clearly frustrated with what he’s able to do to me.
“It’s interesting,” he says, almost amused, “how you claim you feel nothing for me, yet the moment I get close to your clit, you can’t control your breathing.”
