“I won’t make a promise I can’t keep,” I said with a sad smile, “especially if it involves Edward.”
He sighed before he kissed my forehead—soft, gentle, completely at odds with the violence simmering beneath his skin—then stepped back. “The tie is finished.” He gestured at my bound torso. “Do you want to see?”
I nodded, and he produced a full-length mirror from beside his closet, angling it so I could see my reflection.
My breath caught.
The rope created an intricate pattern across my chest and ribs—geometric shapes mixed with organic flow, the cerulean blue stark against my light caramel skin. It looked like art. Like I was the canvas and he was the painter, and together we’d created something beautiful from vulnerability and trust.
“The Hishi Karada. Also known as the Rope Dress. You can wear it underneath clothing,” Rowan said, his voice soft with pride.
“It’s beautiful. I feel. . . held.”
“You are held,volchok.” He moved behind me, his hands settling on my bare shoulders. “And you are safe. Always safe with me.”
The word echoed in my mind again—safe—and this time I didn’t push it away.
His hands began to move, sliding from my shoulders down my arms with deliberate slowness. Not the clinical efficiency of rope work, but something else entirely. Something that made my skin flush and my breath quicken.
“Rowan. . .” His name came out uncertain, a question and a plea.
“Do you want me to stop?” His palms glided back up, over my shoulders, down to rest just above the rope at my collarbones.
“No.” The admission was immediate and honest. “But this is probably a bad idea.”
I let my head fall forward, giving him better access. His fingers dug deeper, finding knots of stress and methodically releasing them. Pleasure radiated from each point of contact, washing through my body in waves that left me boneless and pliant.
“Oh my god,” I breathed. “Why does that feel sogood?”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and into my back where we touched. “You do not take rest days, Violet. Between dancing, riding Hyacinth, and Jiu-Jitsu, you are constantly using your body. I am surprised you have not collapsed from exhaustion.”
His hands moved lower, following the line of the rope down my spine. Each vertebra received individual attention—press, release, move to the next. Clinical and sensual in equal measure, the dichotomy making my head spin.
One hand trailed to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair before gripping firmly at the base of my skull.
I gasped, my neck arching instinctively, baring my throat in a gesture of submission that should have terrified me.I never thought I’d be okay with a man having this kind of control over me.
But this was different. This was Rowan. And somehow, that made all the difference.
“You watch me so closely,” I managed, my voice rough. “It’s almost creepy how much attention you pay.”
“Almost.” His breath ghosted across my exposed throat. “But you like it.”
I wanted to deny it, to maintain some shred of pride and independence. But his other hand had found the bandage on my thigh, where my snake and roses tattoo was still healing. The slight pressure through the protective covering sent jolts of sensation racing through me.
“You don’t know me. . .” My protest was weak and unconvincing.
He laughed. It was a genuine laugh, the sound warm and infectious. “I know you better than you think,princess.” His fingers traced the edge of the bandage carefully, avoiding direct contact with the healing ink beneath. “Does it hurt?”
“I’ll survive.”
His hand left my thigh and came back in a light slap—not hard enough to truly hurt, but sharp enough to send competing signals of pain and pleasure singing through my nerves.
I cried out, my hips jerking forward involuntarily.
“Not what I asked.” His voice held amusement and warning in equal measure.
“Don’t get soft on me now, Rowan.” I fought to keep my breathing steady. “I use the pain to stay focused. To remind myself that I’m here, that this is my body to use how I want. Not because someone else commanded me to.”
