“Phee,” he whispered, then fell into my arms without speaking another word.
6
OLIVER
The walls were closing in.
My feet landed on the cold floor when I swung my legs over the side of the bed. The shock of it helped, grounding me in something other than the restless energy thrumming beneath my skin. My body had been demanding movement for hours, and I’d denied it long enough.
The headache that had plagued me for days had finally faded to almost nothing. My strength was returning. My legs were steadier when I stood, and my muscles no longer trembled from simple exertion. I was healing, and my body knew it, and now, it wanted to do something other than lie in the dark.
Ophelia.Her name surfaced the moment I let my thoughts drift. The way she’d laughed three nights ago, her whole face transforming with it. The warmth of her hand when she checked my pulse each morning, her fingers lingering at my wrist longer than required. Thesilk of her dress at that first dinner, skimming curves I wanted to trace with my tongue.
I’d buried my attraction to her for months, telling myself it was a bad idea. Now, whatever reasons I’d come up with seemed irrelevant. She’d stayed with me. By my side. Whatever had existed between us before had deepened into a bond that stretched far beyond a working relationship.
Now, all I wanted was to cross the sitting room to her door. I wanted to kiss her until neither of us could breathe, bury myself inside her, and forget everything except how she would feel wrapped around me, her nails digging into my flesh as I drove us toward release.
I knew how to want Ophelia. I had been doing it for six months, fighting it every day. Except, going to her room at this hour felt presumptuous. She needed rest as much as I did, maybe more.
I stood and crossed to the window, but it wasn’t enough. I had to burn off my restlessness before it drove me mad.
I pulled trousers on, slipped out of my room, and walked, not knowing where I was heading, letting my feet choose the path while my mind churned throughthoughts of Ophelia. The taste of her lips when I finally kissed her. The sounds she would make when I touched her. How her body would arch beneath mine when I finally gave in to what we’d wanted.
The castle was silent at this hour, the staff long since retired, the fires burned down to embers that cast no light into the hallways.
The corridor narrowed as I continued on, wandering into a wing I hadn’t explored before. The ceilings lowered, and the air grew colder. The sconces here were unlit, leaving only the pale light from the moon filtering through the windows. Dust coated the floor in a fine layer, disturbed by a single set of footprints leading toward a door at the far end.
I stopped. Every instinct I’d honed through years of operative work told me to stop. This was a private space, clearly unused except by one person.
But the footprints were fresh, which meant someone had been here recently, perhaps tonight.
I should return to my room, respect the privacy of my host, forget I’d ever found this part of the castle, and push away the questions burning in my chest.
My feet carried me forward anyway.
The door was fitted with hardware that looked as old as the castle itself. Everything in this corridor was coated with dust and neglect, everything except the brass handle, which gleamed bright, polished by years of hands touching it.
When I reached for it, it turned without resistance, and the door swung open.
As I stepped inside, my brain tried to make sense of what I was seeing.
There was a cross on the far wall and a padded bench in the center of the room. Cabinets filled with things I’d only ever seen in porn—floggers, paddles, restraints, rope—were on the far wall. Everything appeared to be arranged with care, maintained, and ready for use.
Fire rushed through me, settling in my hardening cock. I’d never been in a room like this, never sought out anything like this, never imagined myself anywhere near restraints and implements designed for pain and pleasure intertwined.
I stepped farther into the room.
This was not casual experimentation I was witnessing. This was not a passing curiosity indulged on lonely nights. This was a lifestyle maintained over years.
Someone used this room. Someone strapped people to that cross and bent them over that bench and put collars around their throats. Someone wielded those floggers and canes and made people beg for more.
My fingers traced the leather restraint on the cross. Its softness was the kind that came from years of use. How many people had been secured here? How many had felt these bonds tighten around their flesh while someone decided what came next?
The image seized me without warning. Not some anonymous body strapped to the cross, but mine. My wrists in those restraints. My muscles tensing in anticipation as a voice commanded me to hold still, to take whatever was given, to surrender every ounce of control I’d spent my life hoarding.
I jerked my hand away as my mind rejected what my body clearly craved. I was the one who took charge, who guided, who decided. So why did the idea of being bound make my heart race? Why was my cock achingly, undeniably rock-hard, straining beneath the thin fabric of my trousers with an urgency that bordered on pain?
The bench drew me next. Its leather was cool and smooth beneath my touch. I imagined being positionedhere, face-down, straps securing my wrists and ankles while a hand traced across my bare skin—testing, teasing, deciding where to strike first while I waited, helpless, aching for whatever came next.
