Page 40 of Fractured Devotion (Tainted Souls #1)

I don’t sleep. I don’t need to. Not when her breathing is still echoing in the back of my skull like a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to me.

She left the bedroom door cracked. I haven’t moved from the couch in hours, not even to shift.

I keep my body perfectly still, not because I’m afraid of waking her, but because I don’t want to break the spell.

Her presence pulls the atmosphere into alignment.

Without her, the room feels static. With her nearby, it feels like gravity.

I’ve turned off every sensor in this wing. No digital monitoring, no neural mapping. Just memory, raw and imperfect. Human. It’s the only form of control I have left, the choice to stop watching.

But I remember everything. The way she shook in my arms, her spine curling inward like her body was trying to protect something already broken, the way her voice caught when she said yes, and the trust implied in that one, single syllable.

Now, in the dark, I replay it in my mind. Again, and again, and again.

My chest tightens.

I haven’t been touched in years, genuinely touched. Not as a transaction and not as leverage. And never like that. Never like I was something worth holding without a motive.

I stand slowly, careful not to make the couch creak, and stretch the stiffness from my limbs without sound. I walk to the kitchenette, pour water from the glass pitcher, and drink it down in a single pull. It tastes like copper.

The window reflects my face in moonlight. Hollow eyes, stubble creeping back across my jaw. There’s a cut near my temple. I don’t remember getting it. Maybe it’s from earlier. Or maybe I scratched myself during a moment I’d rather forget.

I sit back down and pick up the audio device I left on the table. It’s an old receiver, with analog wiring and no digital trace. I’ve been recording her voice.

But not her words. Just her breathing.

The last time she cried, she made this small exhale between each sob, like a metronome marking every fracture. I’d played that loop until I knew it better than my own pulse.

Now, I press play on a new clip.

She’s asleep in the room down the hall. But I listen to her through this anyway. Her breathing is slower now, steady and calm. Like she finally feels safe.

A tremor works its way down my spine.

What the fuck is happening to me?

I should be dissecting this, analyzing her EEG data, checking for anomalies in her REM cycles, and charting neurochemical reactions. Hell, I should be doing the damn assignment Rourke hired me to do. Instead, I’m sitting in the dark like some penitent monk, worshipping her with silence.

This isn’t control anymore.

The floor creaks behind me.

It’s not loud and not hesitant.

Just the sound of a footstep purposefully taken, like a decision already made.

I turn before I even know why. She’s there.

Celeste.

Her hair spills loose around her shoulders, and her shirt hangs oversized, slipping off one collarbone. Her eyes are rimmed with exhaustion, but there’s something burning there, something older than desire and closer to resolve.

She doesn’t speak.

She just steps forward, holding a velvet scarf between her fingers, soft and controlled, like she’s offering a secret.

And all I can do is look at her without being able to look away.

She doesn’t speak. She just crosses the space between us, slow and measured, until she’s standing right in front of me.

I tilt my chin to meet Celeste’s gaze, her eyes glinting with a hunger that sets my blood ablaze.

Her fingers grip the hem of her oversized shirt and tug it over her head in one fluid motion, the fabric pooling on the floor next to the couch. She’s bare beneath—no bra, no pretense—just pale skin glowing in the dim lamplight, the hollows of her collarbones sharp as carved marble.

A scar traces beneath her ribs, jagged and intimate, and I ache to drag my teeth along it, to taste her secrets. But I don’t move. Not until she commands it.

“Sit back,” she says, her voice low, an invisible chain that binds me.

I obey, sinking deeper into the leather couch, the material creaking under my weight, cool against my heated skin. She climbs over me, claiming me like a queen ascending her throne, one knee pressing into the cushion on either side of my thighs.

Her hands brace on my shoulders—not to caress, but to pin, her nails biting into my skin through my shirt. The pressure is a warning, a promise.

“You don’t get to touch,” she murmurs, her breath hot against my jaw. My pulse spikes, a wild rhythm echoing in my chest. She leans closer, her lips grazing my ear, each word landing with weight. “You don’t get to speak. You don’t get to lead. Not tonight.”

Her hands move with purpose, retrieving the scarf from the armrest. She loops it around my wrists, her fingers deft and unyielding, binding them tightly behind me to the couch rail.

The velvet scarf bites into my skin, a sensual restraint that leaves me exposed, my arms locked, my body hers to command. I inhale sharply, the air catching in my throat, unsteady and raw.

“You think this is about sex?” she whispers, her voice a dark caress, her eyes searching mine for surrender.

I shake my head, my jaw tight, my cock already straining against my pants. She smiles, crooked and knowing, a predator’s smirk that makes my blood roar.

“Good,” she purrs, and then her mouth finds my throat, her teeth sinking in hard enough to bruise, to mark.

The sharp sting sends a jolt straight to my groin, and I stifle a groan, my body taut with need.

She drags her teeth down my neck with the certainty of a claim being laid, then kisses my collarbone with a roughness that’s not affection.

It’s ownership, a claim etched into my flesh.

Her fingers slide down my chest, unbuttoning my shirt with agonizing slowness, her gaze locked on mine, watching every flicker of my reaction.

The fabric parts, exposing my skin to the cool air, and she doesn’t caress. She marks. Her nails rake down the center of my chest, leaving shallow, burning scratches that make me hiss. The pain is sharp and alive, and I crave more, my body arching toward her despite the restraints.

Without breaking eye contact, she reaches into her discarded shirt pocket on the couch, pulling out a small, gleaming scalpel.

She holds it delicately between two fingers, its blade catching the light like a wicked promise.

My heart stutters as she presses the tip just below my collarbone, the cold metal a kiss against my heated skin.

“You’ll flinch,” she says, her voice firm and commanding, “but you won’t ask me to stop, will you, Kade?”

I shake my head, my breath ragged, but she tilts her head, her eyes narrowing. “Words,” she demands, her tone a whip that cracks through the haze of my desire.

“No, I won’t stop you,” I rasp, my voice thick with submission. “I’m yours.”

Her lips curve, satisfied, and she drags the scalpel slowly, carving the first letter of her name into my skin. It’s not deep but just enough to burn, sting, and draw a single bead of blood that wells up like a dark offering.

She leans in, her tongue flicking out to lick it away, and the wet heat of her mouth against the wound makes my cock throb painfully hard in my pants. The sensation is exquisite, a blend of pain and devotion that has me trembling beneath her.

“You’re not in control tonight,” she says, her breath hot against my ear, her words sinking into my soul. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I choke out, but she shakes her head, her fingers tightening on the scalpel.

“No,” she corrects, her voice like a velvet leash. “You don’t speak unless I allow it.”

I nod, my jaw clenched, my body hers to command. She sets the scalpel aside on the couch, its glint a reminder of her power, and her hands move to my belt, unbuckling it like she’s savoring the opening of a gift she already owns.

Every movement is measured and ritualistic, as if she’s rewriting my existence with each touch. She tugs my pants down just enough, and my cock springs free, thick and flushed, aching for her. But she doesn’t touch it, not yet.

Instead, she retrieves a black satin blindfold from the couch cushion. I didn’t notice it when she came in, so it was probably hiding within the velvet scarf.

She leans over me, her breasts brushing my chest as she ties it around my eyes, plunging me into darkness.

“Feel me,” she whispers, and the loss of sight sharpens every other sense. The leather creaks as she shifts, her thighs strong and unyielding as she straddles me lower, her slick cunt dragging across the length of my cock, not letting me inside, just teasing.

The wet heat is torture, exquisite and unbearable, and I groan, the sound raw. Her hand cracks across my thigh, the sting grounding me, grounding her control.

“Hush,” she commands, her voice a gentle growl, and my body obeys, trembling with the effort. I feel her leaning down, her lips brushing my ear, her breath hot and teasing. “You’re mine tonight, Kade. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” I rasp, the blindfold heightening the sensation of her body against mine, her scent—wild and intoxicating—filling my lungs. She rewards me by sliding down onto me in one smooth, agonizing stroke, her pussy so tight and so fucking perfect that it’s like being consumed by fire.

I choke on the groan that rips from my chest, my wrists straining against the scarf, the couch creaking with my restraint.

She doesn’t move at first. She just holds me inside her, her breath sharp and controlled, her walls pulsing around my cock. I can’t see her, but I feel her watching and the intensity of her gaze as she studies my every shudder.

Then she begins to ride me, not soft, not slow, but with a ferocity that feels like she’s breaking me apart. Her hips slam down, each thrust deliberate, her nails digging into my shoulders, drawing blood. The pain blends with the pleasure, and I’m lost in it, in her.