Page 35 of Cursed

Sadie glares at him. “You’re not a fucking therapist, so quit acting like one.”

I laugh and shake my head. “No, I’m no therapist. But I’m exactly what you need. Therapists talk about your feelings unnecessarily; you don’t need that, do you?” I shake my head.

Words rarely fix anything. Actions always speak louder.

15

SADIE

“Let’s see what makes you sing,” Landon purrs, his voice a dark caress.

The vibrations intensify, pulsing through the chair in waves that match my heartbeat. A whimper escapes before I can trap it behind my teeth. Satisfaction flashes across Landon’s face, his steel-blue eyes gleaming with wolfish delight.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “The first note.”

His fingers trace my collarbone, feather-light and almost tender. The gentle touch is worse than his callousness—it makes me question everything. My breath hitches as his touch trails down to the curve of my breast.

“Your heart rate spiked,” he observes. “Interesting.”

Without warning, his fingers pinch my nipple through the thin fabric of my top. Pain blossoms, sharp and immediate. I jerk against the restraints, a gasp torn from my throat.

“And there’s the second note.” His smile grows wider. “Pain and pleasure, Sadie. They’re not so different, neurologically speaking.”

The scent in the room grows heavier and richer. My head swims with it as his hand returns to gentleness, soothing the spot he just abused.

“Stop,” I manage, hating how weak my voice sounds.

“Your mouth says stop,” Landon runs a hand through his hair, “but your body is singing a different song entirely.”

His hand slides beneath my dress, his palm warm against my stomach. I shudder, disgusted by the warmth pooling between my legs. The restraints pulse in time with my racing heart, growing warmer, vibrating at a frequency that seems to resonate inside my bones.

“You’re fighting yourself more than you’re fighting me,” he says, his voice clinical despite the wolfish hunger in his eyes. “That’s what trauma does—it creates a war between the mind and body.”

His fingers pinch again, harder this time, and my back arches. The cosmos spins around us as a moan escapes my lips.

“Beautiful,” he breathes. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

His hand slides lower, fingers dipping between my thighs. I clench my teeth, determined not to give him the satisfaction of my reaction, but my body doesn’t care about being given permission to respond. The neural response restraints tighten, adjusting to my involuntary tensing.

“There’s no hiding from these,” Landon murmurs, eyes flicking to the restraints before returning to my face. His fingers trace lazy circles on my clit, applying enough pressure to make my hips twitch.

“Please,” I whisper.

His eyes flash, and I sense he might be smiling, but the mask covers his face from me. His fingers slide to my pussy, finding me wet despite my terror—or because of it. The shame burns hotter than any touch.

“See how your body knows?” His fingers explore, finding points that send electric shocks up my spine. “It understands what your mind refuses to accept.”

I try to focus on the projected stars, on anything but the sensations this psycho is creating. But the stars pulse in time with his movements, the whole room conspiring to heighten every touch.

When his thumb finds my clit, I can’t suppress a moan. His eyes gleam with triumph.

“Your body’s learning who owns it now,” he growls, increasing the pace.

I fight it, desperately trying to hold back the wave building inside me, but the restraints pulse, the scents intensify, and his fingers move more relentlessly until I shatter, crying out as orgasm rips through me.

Tears leak from the corners of my eyes. This violation feels worse than physical force—he’s hijacked my body’s responses, turned me into an instrument he plays.

His expression shifts when he sees my genuine distress, eyes lighting up with fascination. Then, without warning, his touch gentles. His free hand strokes my hair almost tenderly. “Breathe, little butterfly. That’s it.”