When his fingers closed around mine, he tugged me to my feet and against him in one smooth motion. Steel and velvet. The controlled strength of a man who could crush and cradle with equal skill.
I thought he’d lead me toward the St. Andrew’s cross for the flogging I’d assumed we’d start with. Instead, he steered us away, toward a dimmer space where coils of rope hung like strands of captured lightning. The shift was subtle, but intentional.
My heart picked up speed.
Maybe tonight wouldn’t go the way I’d expected.
Maybe… it would go exactly the way I needed.
Chapter 4
Loki
The rope station was in the far corner of the main floor, framed by soft pools of light and neatly coiled bundles hanging from polished hooks. I kept my pace even as I guided her toward it, but my mind was still back at the moment I’d first seen her with Dottie.
I’d known her the second I saw her.
Polina Morozov.
The dossier’s photos hadn’t done her justice, not even close. Those were static, safe images. Controlled. The woman who’d stepped through Midgard’s doors was something else entirely.
Her statuesque frame carried that black, skin-tight dress like it had been poured over her curves, every line of it engineered to test a man’s focus. And when she’d stepped into the ultraviolet light near the bar, the dress had come alive, flaring in brilliant streaks of orange and violet flames licking over her body. A moth wouldn’t have stood a chance.
Neither, apparently, did I.
I’d had to look away. Had to clamp down hard on the instinct to watch her glide across the floor on those impossibly high red-soled heels, the slow sway of her hips drawing eyes like a magnet.
Even now, walking beside her, I could still see the moment she’d turned her head toward me when we’d gone over her limits, those almond-shaped, ice-gray eyes locking on mine. Hunger had flashed there. Need. The kind that didn’t come from curiosity alone. She wanted something real. And it pulled at me in ways I didn’t like.
Her voice had been measured, confident when she’d answered my questions, but it hadn’t masked what was underneath. There was defiance in her, yes, but also a dangerous kind of hope. The kind I’d spent years avoiding in partners because hope came with expectations. And expectations could get people hurt in my world.
I reminded myself that this is a job. Get her trust, get inside, plant the program, and walk away.
But for the first time in years, I was looking at a woman who interested me for reasons other than just her body.
And that was a problem.
A big one.
I cursed under my breath and reached for the nearest coil of rope, letting the texture bite into my palm, grounding me. Focus. Control. No matter how tempting the flame, the moth always burns in the end.
I stopped a few paces from the shibari rig, letting the soft halo of light above it spill over her.
“Shoes first,” I said, my tone calm but leaving no room for hesitation.
She reached down, unbuckling the thin straps of her Louis Vuittons. The click of the heels on the floor faded away as she stepped onto the cool wood, her bare feet grounding her in the moment.
“Dress.”
Her hands slid the black fabric over her hips and down, revealing the long, elegant lines I’d already imagined when she’d been standing across the bar from me. The flame-thread pattern flared once more under the UV glow before disappearing as the fabric fell away entirely.
I let my gaze move slowly, deliberately over her. Not just taking in the sculpted lines of her legs or the soft curve of her hips, but the way she carried herself even now, shoulders back, chin lifted. Confidence was in her posture, not just the dress she’d worn.
“Arms behind you,” I said. “Arch your back.”
She obeyed, her movements fluid, and the slight lift of her chest drew my eyes to the elegant curve of her collarbones, the long column of her neck. Grace wasn’t just how she moved, it was in how sheheldherself when she wasn’t moving at all.
“You’ve done rope before,” I said, letting my gaze meet hers, “but have you ever had your hair restrained?”
