Page 52 of Fractured Loyalties (Tainted Souls #2)

A few members linger in the open lounge, immaculate in tailored clothing, their conversations low, their eyes sharp. This isn't a spectacle. It’s the theater before the curtain.

And Dom, of course, waiting before I’ve fully crossed the floor.

“Elias,” he says, and it’s not a greeting. It’s an appraisal. His eyes sweep me in a way that feels invasive, the way only another predator can manage. “I thought you were done with these walls.”

“Not tonight.”

He studies me like he can smell the fracture beneath my skin. “You don’t wear distraction well.”

“I’m not distracted.”

“You are,” he says simply, stepping closer. “And you know what happens when men bring distraction here. Emotion ruins control.”

I hold his gaze until the tension sharpens between us. I should walk away. I don’t.

“Show me a room,” I say.

Dom smiles, satisfied, and gestures toward the darker hall where the private chambers wait.

And I follow.

The corridor is dim, the walls paneled in black stone, doors flush with the surface so they look like shadows waiting to open. Dom walks ahead, the weight of the place settling heavier with each step. My shoes sound sharp against the floor, the only sound in a hall built for silence.

He stops at the third door. “This one.”

I push past him. Inside, the room is stripped bare of distraction. Black walls, a low bench, a single steel ring bolted into the floor. Leather straps hang on the wall, orderly, gleaming in the soft overhead light. It smells faintly of wax and restraint.

Dom doesn’t follow me in, but his voice carries just before the door clicks shut. “Keep your head clear, Elias. This place isn’t for ghosts.”

The latch clicks into place, sealing me in solitude—until the door on the far side swings open with a deliberate creak.

She steps in, a vision of calculated perfection.

Mid-thirties, perhaps, her body a sculpted masterpiece of taut muscle and deliberate curves, every inch honed for this world of shadows and surrender.

Black leather clings to her like a second skin, the high collar biting into her neck, the waist cinched so tight it forces her breathing to be shallow and controlled.

Her dark hair is woven into a severe braid, unyielding as she moves with predatory grace. No perfume clings to her; no hint of softness dares intrude. Everything about her is engineered for one purpose: obedience without question.

Her face is a mask of schooled neutrality, eyes cast downward in ritual submission, yet sharp enough to track every shift in the air.

She's no novice—Dom wouldn't send me anything less.

She's a seasoned instrument, versed in the rituals of pain and pleasure, her body a canvas for dominance, her mind wired to crave the lash of control.

This is function, not fantasy. Exactly what I crave—or so I tell myself.

I prowl around her, a slow, predatory circle, letting the weight of my gaze press against her skin like a physical touch. She remains statue-still, her breath even, waiting for the command that will unravel her.

My fingers seize her jaw, tilting her face up to meet mine. Her pulse hammers against my thumb, not in terror, but in raw, electric anticipation—a flutter that betrays the hunger coiled beneath her composure.

"On your knees," I growl, my voice a low rumble that vibrates through the room.

She descends fluidly, knees parting as she sinks onto the thick mat, the leather of her outfit whispering protests with each creak and stretch. Her eyes fix forward, locked on the floor, submission etched into every line of her posture.

It should ground me, this flawless yielding.

But it doesn't. My mind flickers to Mara—her defiant stare in my bedroom doorway, accusing me of stealing her freedom. Her voice, sharp as a blade, insisting she could handle herself. The sway of her hips as she walked away, Caleb's threat, Volker’s madness, and Vale’s obsession, altogether, looming like a storm cloud over the city.

I snatch the leather straps from the wall, their cool weight familiar in my grip.

Wrapping them around her wrists, I secure them to the iron ring bolted into the floor, each buckle snapping shut with a metallic bite that echoes like a promise.

She doesn't flinch, her body pliant, breaths steady, submission impeccable.

Useless. All of it.

Because Mara's ghost haunts me—her fire, her fear-veiled defiance, the way she left me aching for something beyond this scripted dance.

The woman tests the bonds subtly, a faint tug that begs for my dominance, for the catharsis this den of depravity promises. She craves the whip's kiss, the choke of restraint, the ecstasy of being broken and remade.

But my movements are rote, mechanical. My hand encircles her throat, fingers pressing into the soft give of her flesh, feeling the frantic throb of her artery. No spark ignites in me. My commands fall flat, echoing hollow in my chest.

Mara has shattered this for me.

Not by invading this space, but by her absence—her stubborn spark, her buried inferno that scorches hotter than any willing kneel. I crave the raw, the unyielding, the fight before the fall.

I squeeze tighter, just enough to draw a tremor from her, her full lips parting on a gasp of expectation. Her back arches, breasts straining against the leather, offering herself like a sacrifice to my altar of control.

Wrong. All wrong.

This is ritual, not rapture. And in that razor-sharp realization, I know: Routine is a cage I've outgrown.

Her head lolls back under my grasp, throat exposed in vulnerable invitation, lips swollen and glistening as if daring me to claim them with teeth and tongue. For years, this sight has fueled me—the power to command, to conquer.

I hook a finger under her collar's edge, yanking viciously.

The leather yields with a groan, exposing the creamy expanse of her neck and the swell of her breasts, skin already blooming with heat.

She bows into it, a desperate whine escaping her throat, body quivering for the brutality she senses brewing.

"Kiss me," I command, the words a whipcrack of authority, brooking no delay.

She surges up, mouth crashing into mine—hot, wet, insistent.

Her tongue invades, swirling with frantic need, as if she could suck the dominance right out of me.

Her wrists jerk against the straps, chains rattling, her body straining to press closer, nipples hardening to peaks that scrape against the leather barrier between us.

I sink my teeth into her lower lip, drawing blood with a savage bite. She gasps, the sound melting into a throaty moan that vibrates against my mouth, her thighs clenching as arousal floods her, slick and urgent.

I should revel in this—the art of dismantling her, layer by shuddering layer. But it's ash on my tongue.

Because it's not Mara's lips, bruised and defiant. Not her flavor, a mix of rebellion and honeyed surrender. Not her form that trembles when I claim it.

My hand trails lower, claws raking down her chest, nails carving red trails over her exposed skin.

She hisses, arching wildly, but I push on, fingers delving between her thighs, teasing the seam of her leather pants where heat radiates like a furnace.

Her hips buck, breath fracturing, begging silently for the invasion, the friction that will shatter her.

"You crave this, don't you?" I murmur, breath hot against her ear, nipping the lobe until she whimpers.

"Yes," she rasps, voice fracturing with hunger, body a live wire under my touch.

Perfect. Pristine submission—the foundation of my empire.

Yet all I envision is Mara's denial. Mara slipping from my grasp, challenging me to chase, to conquer what won't bend easily.

My mind crawls back to the moment. To this woman here, waiting.

My fingers hovering agonizingly close to her throbbing core, ghosting over the damp leather.

She writhes, chains clanking, face contorting in flushed agony, a symphony of pleas spilling from her lips.

Her entire form pleads, slick arousal soaking through, scenting the air with musk and desperation.

But Mara's image overrides it again—her lifted chin, eyes blazing with the knowledge that I'd raze cities for her. Defiance that cuts deeper than any whip.

This farce ends now. Not here, with this shadow. Up there, with Mara, where surrender is earned, not gifted.

Her wrists strain, metal grinding as she arches, panting, lips parted in a silent scream of need. Saliva trails down her chin, her body a taut bowstring.

I shove her flat against the mat. Her hands stay bound above her head, her knees forced wide, exposing her vulnerability.

My palm grinds down over her center, rough and unrelenting through the slick barrier, circles pressing hard against her swollen clit.

She jolts, a guttural gasp tearing free, thighs quaking as waves of pleasure assault her.

"Is this your desire?" I snarl, accelerating the rhythm, fingers delving to pinch and tease, leather yielding to my insistence.

"Yes—fuck, yes, God—" Her voice fractures, hips slamming up to meet each brutal stroke. She's teetering, body convulsing, head whipping side to side, sweat beading on her skin like dew on a blade.

I loom over her, lips brushing her ear. "You'll shatter only when I permit it."

Her moan shatters the air, a frantic beg erupting: "Please—please, I need to come, I can't hold—"

My free hand clamps her throat, choking off her air just enough to heighten the edge, pinning her writhing form. She bucks wildly, sounds ripping from her chest—raw, animalistic, climbing to a fever pitch of desperation. Her core clenches, flooding with heat, every muscle coiled for the abyss.

And still, Mara invades: her unyielding gaze, declaring her rejection of my protection. I claim my fate. Her silhouette in the cab's glow, abandoning me to this void.