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A moment later, I felt the first drop of wax hit the hollow of my throat.

The heat hit immediately and overwhelmed me, spreading across my skin in a slow, molten line. I gasped, my back arching involuntarily, but the restraints held me in place. Another drop fell, then another, each one trailing down toward my collarbone in thin rivulets that cooled and hardened almost instantly.

“Jesus Christ,” I whispered.

He didn’t stop. The wax kept falling in a deliberate pattern, mapping my skin with heat and pressure, and I realized he was creating something—maybe a design, or a record of where he’d touched me.

Then I felt the brush.

Soft bristles traced the edge of the hardened wax, sweeping across my throat and collarbone with maddening lightness. The contrast between the rough texture of the dried wax and the gentle touch of the brush made my breath hitch, and I felt arousal tightening low in my belly.

“More,” I said without thinking.

The brush paused, then moved lower, skimming the edge of my shirt. I felt him undo the top button, then the second, exposing more skin. The brush followed, tracing the newly revealed territory with the same patient precision.

Then I heard a second set of footsteps.

I froze.

“Who’s that?” I demanded.

The Butcher’s gloved hand rested on my shoulder again, but he didn’t remove the blindfold.

A card was pressed into my palm. I couldn’t read it, but I felt the paper’s texture and realized he’d written something new.

“I can’t see it,” I said. “You have to tell me.”

A different voice spoke.

“He’s asking if you want a second performer.”

My stomach dropped.

“Malachi.”

“Right now, I’m just another masked man in the room.” His footsteps moved closer, circling the chair. “You get to decide whether I stay or leave.”

“You were watching.”

“Every second.” He stopped somewhere behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat of his body. “Watching you squirm. Watching you beg. You looked so fucking desperate I almost came just from seeing it.”

“Creep.”

“You have no idea, sweetheart.” His hand touched the back of the chair, his fingers brushing against my hair. “So do you want me to stay? Or do you want me to walk out and let him finish what he started?”

Part of me knew the smart answer. The other part was already wet.

“What are the rules?” I asked.

“Same as before.” His voice dropped lower. “You say mercy, and we both stop. You set the boundaries. You decide what happens.”

“And if I don’t like what you do?”

“Then you tell me to stop, and I will.” His fingers slid through my hair, gripping gently. “But I don’t think you’re going to tell me to stop.”

“Big talk for someone who’s still standing behind me.”

He leaned closer, his mouth beside my ear. “You’re still sitting in that chair. Still blindfolded. Still waiting to see what I’ll do next.”