Page 48

“Nope.” He crosses his arms. “Ask. Sweetly.”

I stare him down, teeth gritted. “Can Ipleasebe allowed to go to the fucking toilet before I decorate this mattress?”

He hums in mock consideration, then steps even closer. One gloved finger trails along my jaw, tapping my bottom lip twice.

“You can do better than that, darling.”

I exhale through my nose. Pride shatters like glass in my throat.

“Please,” I grind out, trying to force the anger and hatred not to be as transparent in my voice, making it smoother. “May I be allowed to relieve myself like a proper, well-behaved captive?”

He nods, seemingly satisfied. “Much better.”

He moves slowly, unlocking the ankle restraints with care—like I’m something fragile he might accidentally shatter. One wrist next, and before I can think about trying anything, his hand wraps tight around mine. Not enough to bruise. Just enough toremind.

The strength in his grip is terrifying. Calm. Unshakable.

Then, with his body angled slightly over mine, he leans across and unfastens the final restraint, freeing me. But I don’t move. My muscles are too taut, my breath too shallow.

He pulls me upright gently, helping me sit and then stand. His body towers over mine—taller, broader—and he lets the moment hang there, like he’s daring me to try something.

I don’t.

He turns, walking to the opposite wall and a door I didn’t see before. A click sounds, then the door slides open, revealing a hidden bathroom tucked into the corner of the room. Rich, dark marble gleams under recessed lighting. There’s a sleek rainfall shower. A deep soaking tub. And, thank fuck, a toilet.

All of it windowless. Of course.

I narrow my eyes at him as I walk into the room. “Youreallywent all out for your hostage suite.”

He chuckles softly. “Only the best for our Darling.”

I shoot him a glare and point to the door. “Out.”

He chuckles softly behind the mask and backs out, sliding the door shut behind him.

I move fast. Relieve myself. Scrub my hands. Then I start searching the place like my life depends on it.

Which it might.

The shelves are fully stocked. Some products are mine—stolen from my home. Others are new, unopened, but all my favorite brands. The kind of attention to detail that makes my blood boil.

But one jar catches my eye—heavy glass, expensive, thick. I grab it and test the weight in my hand. Solid. That’ll do.

I slide the door open, expecting him to be right outside.

He’s not.

Instead, he’s back by the bed, his back turned slightly as he smooths out the sheets like he’s preparing a fucking hotel room.

Perfect.

I throw the jar with all the force I have. It cuts through the air in a clean arc.

And hecatches it.

Without completely turning. Without flinching.

The fucker catches it mid-air like it was a feather instead of a weapon.