“Refreshing,” I said carefully. “Though I imagine the negotiation itself requires skill. Ensuring both parties understand exactly what they're consenting to.”
“It does. But that's where the artistry lives.” Harrow's smile sharpened. “Anyone can demand submission. True dominance means making someone want to surrender. Making them see that yielding to your control serves their interests as much as yours.”
My mind catalogued the admission. The philosophy. How neatly it aligned with his corruption. Making witnesses want to recant. Making defendants want to plead guilty. Framing coercion as mutual benefit.
“And when someone discovers the terms weren't what they believed?” I asked.
“Then the safeword exists for a reason.” He finished his scotch, set the glass aside. “Though in my experience, misunderstandings stem from poor communication during negotiation. If you're clear from the beginning about what you want and what you're willing to give, everyone leaves satisfied.”
Lori laughed softly from where she'd returned to the chaise. “Elliot could negotiate water from a stone. It's impressive, really. Watching him convince people that his desires align perfectly with their own needs.”
“It's a gift,” Harrow agreed without modesty. “One that serves me well in every aspect of my life.” He stood, moved to the bar cart, poured himself another measure. “More?”
I held out my glass. Let him refill it. Watched his hands, steady and confident, no tremor of uncertainty or doubt.
“What services are you offering?” he asked, returning to the earlier question. “Tonight. Specifically.”
“Whatever you require.”
The answer was perfect because it was vague. Eden operated on consent and negotiation, but it also operated on the understanding that some people came here to take and others came to give and the intersection of those desires created the scenes that happened behind locked doors.
“Understood.” Harrow set his glass aside, his expression shifting from conversational to commanding. “Then we have an agreement.” He circled me slowly, examining. “Strip. Everything except the mask.”
I did. Folded my clothes carefully, placed them on a chair near the door where Harrow's own suit jacket hung. My knife stayed strapped to my ankle, hidden beneath my trousers until the last moment, then tucked beneath my folded clothes where I could reach it if everything went wrong.
Naked felt like exposure I hadn't anticipated. Not the physical vulnerability but the psychological weight of standing in a room with a man I'd been hunting for three years, wearing nothing but a mask and the certainty that one wrong move would end this before I got what I needed.
“Beautiful.” Harrow's hand traced my shoulder, down my arm, assessing muscle and skin with appreciation that felt genuine. “You take care of yourself.”
“I have to.”
“It shows.” His fingers mapped the planes of my chest, circling my nipples with deliberate slowness. “Well-built. This should be very entertaining.”
Lori's hands joined his, smaller and softer, exploring the ridges of my abdomen with curiosity. “He's perfect,” she murmured. “Can we keep him?”
“Maybe.” Harrow's hand drifted lower, fingers wrapping around my cock with possessive confidence. He stroked slowly, deliberately, his grip firm enough to make my breath catch. “If he performs well.”
I responded despite myself, blood pooling where his hand worked. This was biology. Nothing more. My body following stimulus while my mind stayed detached, cataloguing details, listening for information that might prove useful later.
“Lie down,” Harrow commanded. “Face up. Hands above your head.”
I obeyed. The sheets were silk, cool against my skin. I positioned myself as instructed, arms stretched above me, vulnerable in every way that mattered.
Harrow produced rope from somewhere. Black silk that matched the sheets, professional quality. He bound my wrists to the headboard with experienced ease, testing the knots, ensuring they held without cutting circulation.
“Too tight?” he asked.
“No.”
“Good.” He bound my ankles next, spreading my legs, securing me to the bed's lower posts. “Now. Let's see what you can handle.”
He blindfolded me. Darkness descended, absolute and disorienting. My other senses sharpened in compensation. I heard Harrow move, heard Damian shift position, heard Lori's soft breathing close by, heard the cabinet open and close.
Focus. Listen. People revealed things when they felt in control.
“You're tense,” Harrow observed. His weight settled on the bed beside me. “That won't do.”
His hands touched my chest, spreading something warm and slick across my skin. Oil, scented with sandalwood and something darker. He massaged it into my muscles with firm strokes, working from my collarbone down to my sternum, his palms broad and confident.
