Page 37 of The Devil’s Feather

He held me tightly, dropping a kiss on the top of my head. “My heart is a broken and battered, pitiful, shriveled up thing. Not much value on the secondhand market, I fear, but I give it to you freely.”

“This is wild, isn’t it? Declarations of love after meeting less than a week ago?” I nuzzled the notch in the base of his sternum where my face fit so perfectly it must have been divinely sculpted specifically for me. “We could go on a reality show at this rate.”

It went against everything I thought I believed about relationships. I got attached quickly, but preferred to take my time figuring out emotions so I wouldn’t fall prey to limerence. Once was enough on that rollercoaster. Past boyfriends had often said ‘I love you’ before I did.

They were all fading sparks compared to the wildfire of Rafael. This couldn’t be limerence—he made it clear he was just as obsessed as I was. That instinct, that desire to climb inside him until I heard the music of his soul, until we were indistinguishable from one another, would not be denied.

His laugh buzzed through my chest. “I have never lived like everyone else. Why should this be any different? Seni seviyorum. I love you, Elaine Parham.”

Eyes closed, I dove off the cliff. “I love you too, Rafael Nazim.”

This. This was where I was meant to be. In this moment, with this man, I was reborn into a new life and a more confident version of me. Ten years ago, I would have been too shy to accept his offer to buy me coffee. Twenty years ago, I would have fled once I realized he’d been watching me dance in the bookstore. Now, I was cheerfully intoxicating myself with his touch, his voice, his presence, and I never wanted to be sober again.

Rafael rocked me in his arms, slowly walking me backward into the bedroom. “Wait here; I want to show you something.”

“How mysterious.” I didn’t wait long.

He emerged from the bathroom wearing loose black pants, and opened the closet door. “You were poking around in the right place; you just did not know where to poke.”

“Oh, am I finally getting a tour of your deep freeze full of body parts?”

“Something like that.” He pulled on a wooden support in the closet, and the back panel slid open.

“How many hidden rooms do you have? And why are they hidden?” I followed him through the new portal and down a short spiral staircase.

“A few, and what better way to keep up my wealthy eccentric musician street cred?”

Grey stone⁠1 with an assortment of attachment points lined a room about the size of the bedroom and closet combined. A Saint Andrew’s cross leaned against one wall. Chains hung from the tall ceiling, and a multitude of impact instruments and leather gear gathered in an organized rack beside a red leather…what was that, a sex bench? It had manacles on each leg, a notch for a face to fit comfortably lying prone, and it looked expensive.

I trailed my hands along the dark wood of the x-shaped cross. “Of course you have a dungeon. I should have known.”

“Naturally.” Cheeky fucker. “No expectations to do anything now. I only wanted you to see the space.”

“Not to kinkshame, but please tell me that drain in the floor isn’t for watersports.”

Rafael laughed. “Not my particular kink. It is there for ease of cleaning and sanitation, since my play often gets bloody. Everything in here is waterproof, and there is a hose attachment behind the rack there.”

“You don’t make your poor housekeeper clean this, do you?”

His eyes widened in mock insult. “What kind of monster do you take me for? No, she does not know this exists.”

My fingers itched to pick up a supple-looking red and black single tail whip. At my questioning look, he urged me on.

“What if I want to do something now?” I hefted the whip. The handle had some flexibility. This one was vicious.

Rafael’s eyes lit with lascivious delight. “What do you have in mind?”

I circled him, tapping the whip in my palm and considering my options. “Well, after all that talk, I think I’d really like to chain you up and beat you.”

“You will want to gag me as well, unless you enjoy being provoked.”

“Noted.” I ran a hand over his abs. “What are your limits? How and where do you like to receive which sensations? Are there words you don’t like to hear? If you’re gagged, how will you safeword?” That part worried me more than anything else.

“I do not safeword. You will either tire out, or you will knock me out.”

Jesus.

He relented. “Assuming I ever do need to tap out, I will snap my fingers three times. If my hands are too bound, I will stamp the floor three times. Slap me, spit on me, punch me, call me whatever names you like. Scrape, cut, pierce. I do not care. Just do not cut my hair and do not touch my throat, my ass, or my dick. Thighs are ok to hit.”