Page 7

Beyond the glass, the skyline glowed—towers and offices and streets webbed in white and yellow. Cars crawled along in thin streams of light. People lived their little lives down there, completely oblivious to the fact that up here, someone was about to die.

It was the kind of room people fantasize about.

It was undeniably our kind of thing.

Emma didn’t waste any time.

By the time I’d finished taking it all in, he was already stripped of his clothes. One minute, he was clinging to his expensive suit like it could save him; the next, it was a crumpled heap on the floor. Skin and panic never look good together. Maybe it was the molly or cocaine I had taken beforehand that was starting to kick in. Thinking back to the way his body looked now—pale and soft under the lighting—had me swallowing the sickness rising at the back of my throat.

Some things stick with you whether you want them or not.

The confidence he’d had downstairs, that smug tilt of the chin, the bored politeness—all of it was gone. What was left was small, desperate, and ugly. Fear has a way of stripping people down to something raw and honest, and honesty didn’t suit him.

I remember looking away, just for a second, not out of pity. I never feel pity for people like him. It was more a brief flicker of disgust—mostly at him, a little at myself. Not everyone wears fear well. Some people look powerful even when they’re terrified. He just looked pathetic.

Once his clothes and whatever dignity he had left were gone, Emma pushed him toward a wooden chair near the window. It scraped against the floor as it moved, a high, grating sound that needled down my spine. He stumbled, trying to keep his balance, and I could practically feel his terror coming off him in waves.

We hit the jackpot with that room.

In the bed’s drawers, we found handcuffs. Decent ones, too—not the cheap novelty kind that snaps if you pull hard enough. Cold metal, solid weight. In the cupboard, there was an iron, still in its cradle, with the cord neatly wrapped, as if it had never been used.

A win.

The air in the room felt heavy, as if every breath added thickness. Tension, anticipation, excitement—it all blended into this humming pressure under my skin. I moved behind him, the floor cool beneath my feet, the smell of expensive room fragrance fighting with his sweat.

I cuffed his hands behind the chair, the metal closing with a sharp little click that sounded louder than it should’ve in the quiet room. His wrists jerked uselessly against the cuffs. I kicked at his ankles, nudging his feet apart, making the chair legs scrape again.

He tried to speak once. Some garbled protests about money, about how we didn’t have to do this. His voice cracked on the second word. Emma turned her head and gave him a single look—flat, unimpressed, something almost bored around the eyes.

He shut up.

I drifted back over to the bed, pulled open another drawer, and rummaged through the mess of toys and accessories until my fingers brushed over smooth rubber. I pulled out a gag ball, the strap coiled neatly around it like a waiting tongue.

I licked my lips.

It would’ve looked incredible on Emma—the contrast of the red against her mouth, the way the strap would press into her cheeks. But I like to hear her scream when I’m fucking her. I like the sounds she makes—the way they start pretty and turn wild.

The thought alone sent a rush through me. Not just desire. Something darker. Something that lived in the space where control and chaos bled into each other, becoming the same thing.

Outside the massive window, the city kept moving, uncaring. Lights flickered. Cars slipped along roads. Out there, people were laughing over drinks, answering emails, watching trash TV. Life went on.

Up here, death was waiting.

I stumbled back to him, standing behind the chair. His shoulders were rigid, every muscle pulled tight as he could somehow disappear into himself. I forced the gag into his mouth. His lips stretched around the rubber, his teeth scraping against it. His whole body shuddered when I tightened the strap at the back of his head, pinning it in place.

His noises turned muffled and wet. Panicked. Useless.

I grabbed the back of the chair and dragged it across the floor. The legs scraped against the polished surface, another long, tearing sound that made his shoulders jolt. I pulled him through the doorway into the adjoining bathroom.

The bathroom was open to the bedroom, no door, just space. It had one of those rainfall showers that come straight down from the ceiling, and a bathtub that looked more like a small pool than anything else—big enough for several people, maybe more if you didn’t mind touching.

The tap was already running, water surging into the tub in a steady, thundering stream. Steam curled up from the surface, wrapping around the edges of the room, fogging the mirror in a slow, deliberate creep.

His eyes, already wide, seemed to grow even larger when I rolled the chair closer. He followed every movement with frantic, rapid jerks of his head, trying to twist away, but there was nowhere to go.

At some point, in that frantic darting of his gaze, he finally put two and two together.

The realization hit him like a physical blow. I could see it. The way his pupils blew out, the way his chest seized for half a second before he dragged in a ragged breath through his nose. His thoughts might have been all over the place, but one thing was crystal clear in his eyes.