“Silas—”
“Turn around.”
The command in his tone makes my knees weak. I should refuse, should maintain the professional boundaries I laid out when I took this job. Should remember that I'm supposed to belying low, not getting tangled up with a man who sees past the mask I’m wearing.
Instead, I turn.
His fingers find the hem of my practice tank top, lifting it over my head. The afternoon air kisses my bare shoulders, and I shiver despite the warmth.
“Better,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my neck. “Much better.”
The chains are cool against my skin as he drapes them across my shoulders, the weight familiar and comforting. His hands follow the metal, tracing along my collarbones with reverent touches that make me arch into the contact.
“You know what you do to me in chains?” His mouth finds the sensitive spot behind my ear. “The way you move, like they're part of you. Like you were born to wear them.”
“It's just performance?—”
“Bullshit.” His teeth graze my earlobe. “You come alive when you're bound. Like it's the only time you feel safe enough to be yourself.”
The observation is too astute, and I stiffen in his arms. He notices immediately, hands stilling on my waist.
“Did I hit a nerve?” His voice is gentler, but still carries that edge of hunger.
“You don't know anything about me,” I say, trying to inject frost into my tone.
“Don't I?” He turns me to face him, hands framing my face with surprising tenderness. “I know you're running from something or someone. I know you sleep with one eye open and jump at loud noises. I know you've got more walls built up than Fort Knox, but when you're performing, when you're escaping...” His thumb traces my lower lip. “That's when the real Nova comes out to play.”
“The real Nova is none of your business.”
“Isn't she?” His hands drop to the chains around my shoulders, adjusting their position with ease. “Because from where I'm standing, she seems very interested in what I have to offer.”
Heat floods my system as he begins winding the chains around my torso, creating an intricate harness that emphasizes rather than conceals. Each loop is placed with deliberate precision, the metal warming against my skin.
“This is insane,” I breathe, but I don't pull away.
“Probably.” He secures the first lock at the center of my chest, the click loud in the empty tent. “Does that bother you?”
It should. Every instinct I've developed over the years of survival screams that this is dangerous, that letting anyone this close is asking for trouble. But watching his hands work the chains, feeling the careful way he positions each link—there's a meditative quality to it.
“No,” I admit. “It doesn't.”
His smile is sharp. “Good girl.”
The praise sends a rush of heat to my core. He notices my reaction, of course—notices the way my breathing changes, the flush that spreads across my chest.
“You like that,” he observes, securing another lock. “Being told you're good.”
“I like being appreciated for my skills.” The words come out breathier than intended.
“Oh, I appreciate your skills.” His hands span my waist, thumbs brushing the underside of my ribs. “All of them.”
The double meaning isn't lost on me. I can feel myself getting wetter as he continues working the chains, creating a pattern that's both beautiful and inescapable. By the time he finishes, I'm bound in an intricate web of metal that showcases every curve, every freckle, every inch of exposed skin.
“There.” He steps back to admire his handiwork. “Perfect.”
I glance down at myself, surprised by what I see. The chains don't look like restraints—they look like armor designed to protect rather than imprison.
“Now what?” I ask.
