“Mistress?” His voice holds a thread of uncertainty.
“Don’t worry,” I say, trailing the flogger across his shoulder blade. “I invited someone to join us. You don’t mind sharing, do you? I thought we could all have fun together.”
Kirill’s eyes sweep the room, cataloging Abram’s naked, vulnerable position, the restraints, the flogger in my hand. When his gaze meets mine, something dark and approving flashes in those pale depths, sending heat curling through my stomach.
I drag the flogger over Abram’s chest, teasing, circling his nipples while Kirill moves to stand behind the chair. Abram can’t see him, doesn’t know who’s entered, and his body relaxes back into arousal as I continue the game. Men are so predictable when you give them what they think they want.
“You’ve been very patient,” I tell him, stepping closer until my thighs brush his knees. “I think you’ve earned a reward.”
My fingers find the knot holding his blindfold in place.
“Let’s see those eyes.”
The fabric falls away, and Abram blinks against the light, pupils adjusting. I set the flogger on the table, then reach up and remove my mask.
His eyes lock on my face, bewilderment flickering across his features as he tries to reconcile what he’s seeing with what he expected. It takes a few seconds for his brain to place me outside the context of Velour, but when it clicks, his entire facetransforms. Confusion bleeds into fury, lips pulling back from his teeth in an ugly snarl.
“You.” The word comes out strangled and disbelieving. “What the fuck is this?”
“Surprise.” I smile sweetly. “And I brought my husband.”
Kirill pulls off his own mask, stepping into Abram’s line of sight.
“Hello, Abram,” Kirill says, his voice arctic. “How’s that hand feeling?”
Abram’s eyes narrow with rage. He thrashes against the bindings, the chair scraping against the floor. “You sick fuck. Is this your idea of a game? What kind of perverted shit are you into?”
He can scream all he wants. The reinforced walls of the club’s basement are soundproof.
I glance down at his lap. His cock has gone soft, shriveled against his thigh. Fear is a hell of a mood killer.
“A naked man with a limp dick shouldn’t be throwing around insults,” Kirill observes dryly. “It’s not a good look.”
“Fuck you.” Abram’s face is a mottled shade of red, veins bulging in his neck. “When your father finds out about this, he’s going to destroy you. Do you understand that? I’m his oldest friend, he’ll never stand for this… humiliation. And for what? Because this whore you’re fucking lost her shit during our poker game!”
Kirill’s fist connects with Abram’s jaw in a blur. The crack echoes through the room and Abram’s head snaps to the side, blood spraying from his split lip.
“That’s my wife you’re talking about, so I suggest you watch your fucking mouth,” Kirill spits. “This isn’t about the poker game. This is about something that happened a long time ago, something you were part of. You have information we need, and you’re going to give it to us.”
“I’m not telling you shit,” he snarls.
Kirill moves to the table and unrolls a heavy leather toolkit, the clink of metal instruments filling the air. He picks up a pair of solid steel pliers to make his point. “You will. It’s a question of how much you suffer first.”
“Even if I did, why the fuck would I tell you anything?” His bravado is cracking at the edges, but he’s clinging to it. “You think tying me up in some sex club is going to make me talk? I’ve been through worse than whatever amateur hour bullshit you’re planning.”
“Amateur hour, huh?” Kirill cocks a brow.
“Your generation is soft, you don’t know about real pain,” Abram sneers, trying to regain some semblance of control. “You’ve never dealt with anything real, never been broken down by men who know what torture is. You think you’re tough because you stabbed me at a poker game? You’re playing dress-up in your father’s world, boy.”
Kirill doesn’t acknowledge his words. “This is going to get ugly. You don’t need to be here for this.”
I start to protest, but he steps closer, cupping my jaw. The gesture is tender, so at odds with the violence thrumming through the room, that it steals my breath.
“You’ve been searching for answers for so long, carrying this weight by yourself. What I’m about to do here is going to stain your soul. Let me be the monster so you don’t have to be.”
Something cracks open in my chest. This man, this brutal, dangerous man, is offering to shoulder the ugliest parts of this for me. Not because he thinks I’m weak or incapable, but because he wants to protect me.
I’ve spent my entire life learning to be strong, to need no one, to handle everything myself. And here he is, telling me I don’t have to. That he’ll walk through hell so I don’t have to follow.
