Page 29 of Lord of the Dark (Drawn into Darkness #1)

Alessandro Russo

The room was dark, save for the bluish glow of the monitor before me, displaying the scene.

Fiona.

Her delicate figure sat on the chair, the black dress clinging to her curves, yet her posture was rigid, tense.

Her eyes, wide with panic and fury, desperately searched for an escape as she found herself alone in the room.

I leaned back, my gaze never leaving her, never leaving the woman who had been driving me mad for weeks.

And now, seeing her before me again, the pull was overwhelming, almost unbearable.

I hadn’t seen her in so long, had relived every moment with her over and over.

But now she was here—and the sheer force of what I felt for her still caught me off guard.

I wanted to hold her, to soothe her, to take away every ounce of pain I had caused her. But just as fiercely, I wanted to possess her, to tear down every wall of strength she had built between us. It was the need to experience her in her entirety—raw, unprotected, mine alone. This contradictory hunger was my greatest weakness. She was the only one who could reduce me to this state of total loss of control, and I hated and loved her equally for it. She had become a part of me I never asked for, yet could no longer let go of.

Giovanni opened the door behind me, his heavy footsteps echoing through the room.

He snorted, sounding slightly winded, and I had to suppress a smirk.

"Your little fury nearly broke my damn knee," he growled, rubbing his leg pointedly.

"Tell me, are you completely insane, picking a crazy bitch like that?"

I turned slightly toward him, my lips curling into an amused grin.

"You’re getting old, Giovanni," I said dryly.

"One kick from a woman, and you whine like an old man."

"One kick? It was a goddamn low kick.

Who the hell taught her that shit? You?" He shook his head, muttered something in Italian, then sank onto the black couch with a deep sigh.

"Good luck taming her.

That woman is a nightmare, Alessandro."

"Not so long ago, you were wishing for a sister just like her." I let out a quiet laugh.

"Gotta keep life interesting, right?" I said with a crooked grin, standing up.

I smoothed my jeans and adjusted my shirt—an almost mechanical motion that steadied me as I prepared to face her.

"Though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tense."

"Trust me, you’ll be cursing her before the night’s over," Giovanni added, leaning back with his arms crossed, as if eager to see what would happen next.

I turned toward the door, throwing him one last glance.

"The plan is actually to fuck her before the night’s over."

"That psycho bitch is more likely to rip your balls off!" he called after me.

And she would absolutely try.

The walk to Fiona felt longer than it was.

With every step, the tension inside me coiled tighter.

I knew she would hate me.

I’d known it when I sent the message, when I took the steps to bring her here.

But it didn’t matter. What mattered was seeing her. Finally.

I opened the door and stepped inside.

The room was silent, the light cool and muted, yet the air itself felt like it was burning.

Fiona sat on the chair, her hands bound behind the backrest, the fabric of her black dress straining at her shoulders.

Her head was bowed, her dark hair falling forward like a veil.

She hadn’t noticed me yet. Not really.

I stayed where I was, leaning against the closed door, letting the moment settle.

It wasn’t just the tension in the room—it was the chaos inside me.

The woman I couldn’t forget.

The woman I’d broken because I’d had no choice.

Her shoulders lifted as she drew in a breath, then she raised her head and saw me.

Her eyes widened in shock.

The scream that tore from her was sharp and full of pain, but the gag muffled it, turning it into little more than a whimper.

Her breath came in ragged bursts, forced violently through her nose as if she were drowning in pure panic.

Her eyes were drenched in hatred and contempt before she turned her head away, as if she could no longer bear the sight of me.

I pushed off the door, turning to the camera on the ceiling.

With a quick tug, I yanked the cable free.

Giovanni had seen enough.

Slowly, I walked toward her, each footstep echoing in the silent room.

She turned back to me as I approached, her gaze locking onto mine.

If she could have, she would have killed me on the spot with that look alone.

It pierced me—not just because of the fury, but because of the pain beneath it.

It wasn’t just anger in her eyes. It was an accusation. She must have been through hell these past three godforsaken weeks. Just like me.

I stopped in front of her, studying her as she barely moved, the restraints pulling slightly at the skin of her wrists.

She stared at me as if she could destroy me with her gaze alone, and for a moment, it almost felt like she could.

"Fiona," I finally said, quiet, almost gentle—but her only response was a sharp, derisive snort, another flare of contempt.

I’d spent these weeks thinking about what I’d done to her.

How I’d left her.

But now, standing before her, one thing was clear: the pain I’d caused was worse than I’d ever imagined.

And the chasm between us seemed impossible to cross.

I dragged a chair closer, its metal legs scraping against the floor before I sat directly in front of Fiona.

She watched my every move, eyes narrowed, full of defiance—and yet, there was something else.

Something lurking behind her hatred.

Vulnerability.

Pain. Maybe even the shadow of longing.

"Fiona," I began calmly, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on my knees.

"I want to explain.

All of it.

Why I went dark."

I reached for the cloth Giovanni had tied over her mouth.

"But first, I need to know you’ll actually listen." I carefully loosened the knot at the back of her head—but the second I pulled it free, she spat in my face.

That was Fiona—wild, untamed, and in this moment, ready to destroy me.

I stilled, feeling the wetness on my cheek before wiping it away with the back of my hand, not saying a word.

Slowly, I straightened, my gaze locking onto hers, cold and unyielding.

"Do that again," I said softly, but with steel beneath it, "and I’ll shove it right back in."

Our eyes met, a battle of fury and silent challenge.

She held my stare, her own burning with rage—but I saw the understanding there.

She knew better than to test me twice.

"Good," I continued, leaning back again, my voice still calm, but the edge in my tone left no doubt who was in control.

"Now.

I can explain why I couldn’t reach out."

"I hate you!" she suddenly screamed, her voice shaking with raw emotion, fury ripping from deep within her.

"I hate you, Russo.

I hate you to the goddamn core!"

Her words hit harder than I expected.

Part of me wanted to grab her, shake her, make her take it back.

But instead, I let the coldness take over.

I leaned forward, gripping her throat with one hand—not hard enough to truly hurt her, but hard enough to make her pause.

Her veins stood out against her slender neck, her eyes widening in shock and outrage.

"Then listen!" I snarled.

"Let me fucking talk!"

I released her, watching as she sagged back into the chair, gasping, her cheeks flushed with anger—and maybe humiliation.

"You’re insane," she finally hissed, glaring at me.

"You set me up with that bullshit, cut me off from Carter, and that fucking businessman—that was your idea too, wasn’t it?"

A short, cold laugh escaped me before I met her eyes again.

"There was no other way, Fiona," I said flatly.

"Would you have agreed to talk to me otherwise?"

"Over my dead body," she shot back, her voice like ice.

A grin tugged at me—unwilling, but her defiance amused me.

I leaned back.

"Exactly.

So I didn’t have a choice."

She scoffed, turning her head away, but I didn’t relent.

"Giovanni contacted me right before the meet," I began, my voice steady.

"The situation in Colombia was...

brutal.

It wasn’t a question of if I’d go. I had to go."

Fiona didn’t turn back, just kept staring at the dark wall of the room, her shoulders stiff, defensive.

"You’re such a fucking liar," she muttered, barely louder than a whisper.

"Just another story you made up."

"Look at me."

Her eyes flashed as she finally turned back to me, full of fire and pain.

"Then why," she demanded, voice sharp, "didn’t you send me one fucking message? Anything! Instead, you pull this shit and treat me like garbage!"

Her voice broke, and I could see how hard she was fighting to hold back the tears.

It hit me like a punch to the gut.

She had to understand there had been no other choice—no matter how much pain it caused.

I held her gaze, her eyes burning with fury.

"My distance was necessary," I began.

"Men like Thompson are always looking for weaknesses.

And when they find one, they exploit it.

Without hesitation."

"Oh please, he called you Alessandro.

You acted like best friends," she shot back, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

I studied her in silence.

She understood so little about the circles I moved in.

In her world, politeness and a smile meant something.

In mine, they were usually nothing more than weapons.

"In my world, Fiona, a smile means nothing.

A name, a handshake, even a friendly tone—it’s all just a fa?ade.

Moves in a power game you don’t even begin to understand."

Her eyes narrowed, and I saw her anger flare.

"So you just lie to everyone? Pretend to be their friend when you don’t give a damn about them?"

"It’s not lying," I replied calmly.

"It’s strategy.

Kindness is currency.

You spend it when it benefits you, but you don’t get attached." I leaned back, hands slipping into my pockets, still watching her.

"Thompson calls me Alessandro because he thinks it puts us on equal footing. But trust me, he knows as well as I do that’s an illusion."

"An illusion?" She let out a bitter laugh.

"Then explain why you even work with him if you despise him so much."

I tilted my head, studying her with a mix of amusement and frustration.

"Because he’s useful.

And as long as he’s useful, he’ll be treated like he matters.

In my world, no one is truly a friend.

There are only allies and enemies—and the line between them can shift in the blink of an eye."

"That’s sick."

I shrugged.

"It’s not sick.

It’s the unspoken rule.

Everyone gets to choose whether they use it to their advantage or remain nothing more than a pawn." Her expression was pure revulsion.

"What do you think would’ve happened if I’d strolled through the villa holding your hand? You think Thompson would’ve accepted you as ‘my girl’? Or do you think he would’ve had you snatched at the first opportunity, just to have leverage over me?"

Fiona fell silent, her lips pressed tightly together.

She understood.

"That’s what I thought," I said mockingly.

I leaned back again, letting her sit with her thoughts for a moment.

"While you were here wondering why I treated you ‘like garbage,’ I was in Colombia trying to clean up a goddamn mess."

I paused, dragging a hand through my hair before continuing.

"Morales—he was my most important man on the ground—defected to the cartel.

He turned against me, fed them intel that put our entire operation at risk.

It was a massacre...

a fucking nightmare."

I looked at her, letting the words sink in.

"It wasn’t easy for me either," I added finally.

"Yeah, I’m sure," she sneered.

"Maybe you should ask yourself why your most important man turned on you in the first place." Her voice was sharp, laced with venom.

"I have a lot of sympathy for him, actually."

I stared at her for a long moment, carefully choosing my next words to keep from escalating.

"You’re hurt—I get that.

I’ve explained why I had no other choice." A deliberate pause, letting it settle.

"But if you insist, we can always switch programs.

I’ve got an interrogation for unauthorized drug possession on standby.

You should really see how good I am at it."

She looked at me with that impenetrable, unreadable expression—one that might seem like indifference to an outsider.

But I knew her better.

I saw the flicker in her eyes—that dangerous mix of defiance, pain, and an unbreakable will.

Then came the explosion.

She lunged, kicking out at my knee with full force—an attack out of nowhere.

Instinctively, I twisted aside.

Her leg missed me by a hair’s breadth.

I straightened, watching her.

A faint smirk tugged at my lips.

"That wasn’t very smart," I remarked coolly.

But inwardly...

inwardly it seethed.

My skin prickled, my heart beat faster.

This woman was driving me insane.

And yes, it made me hard. In a primitive way. She wasn’t weak. No toy. No willing doll. She was my equal. My opposite. And that made her so damn desirable.

Her beautiful dark eyes grew even darker, narrowing into aggressive slits.

"You want to interrogate me for drugs you planted on me?"

"Every good play starts with a convincing opening scene," I said, my tone openly provocative.

It wasn’t a sentence—it was a matchstick.

I threw it deliberately, watched the spark fly, relished the first flare in her eyes.

I wanted to see her burn—feel every wave of her anger so I could fuck it out of her later, until nothing remained of her defiance but the faint tremor in her voice when she moaned my name.

Her reaction was immediate.

Her head jerked back slightly, her eyes narrowed, and then it came—like the hissing crack of a whip: "You vile, narcissistic bastard.

You really think you can get away with anything, don’t you?"

I suppressed a grin, felt my pulse slow into heavy, triumphant beats—God, she was perfect when she raged.

"Who even was that clown?"

"Giovanni.

My head of security.

I should bill you for his treatment.

He said you nearly shattered his knee."

"Your head of security?" she repeated, amused, before a loud laugh escaped her.

She seemed to believe he’d stood no chance against her.

She could be so naive sometimes. Sweet.

"Yes, I sincerely regret the mishap.

I meant to shatter it," she added smugly.

For a moment, we just stared at each other in silence.

She was the first to break it.

"Lovely stories you’ve told me," she said, her voice dripping with disdain.

"But you know what? I don’t give a fuck! That excuses nothing—NOTHING! You don’t get to fuck me in my bed one night, in my apartment—which, by the way, you invited yourself into—only to leave me hanging the next day!"

Her fury shot through the room like fireworks, but I let her speak.

"And then," she continued, her voice nearly breaking, "you couldn’t even spare a single fucking message? Not one! But now, here, when I wasn’t even in the city, you somehow managed to contact me right away."

I watched her—her chest rising and falling rapidly, blood pulsing beneath her flushed skin, her wrists still bound to the chair.

She was a fury in shackles, a storm of defiance, rage, and wounded pride—and that made her irresistible.

"And how deranged is it," she went on, "to have Carter intercepted by one of your lackeys just to get to me? Do you think that’s normal?" Would she ever finish her tirade?

I leaned forward slightly.

Sharp and cutting, I interrupted her: "Do you even know why you're here?"

No answer.

Just a defiant glare—yet she hesitated a fraction too long.

"I asked you a question, Fiona," I repeated, quieter this time but all the more deliberate. "Answer."

"It's my vacation with Carter," she finally said with feigned confidence.

"Who, by the way, has fucked me more in the last three weeks than you ever have."

Did she still think she could lie to me? "And? How was he?" I leaned closer.

"Did he push you until your body forgot how to say no? Did he spread your legs and take you so hard you forgot your own name?" I lowered my voice until it was nearly a whisper.

"Did he grab you by the hair, shove your pretty face down while you begged him not to stop?" I let the words sink in.

Her lips pressed together, her eyes glittered—but I saw it, that faint flicker of arousal beneath the fury.

I leaned in even closer. "Did he fuck you so hard your voice broke? Until you sobbed because you didn’t know if you could take it—or if you ever wanted him to stop?"

I watched her breathing shift.

Exactly what I wanted.

Slowly, I bent nearer to her ear.

"How many times did you crave my hand on your neck—holding you exactly where I wanted you?" I saw the subtle tension in her thighs.

The way her breath hitched.

How her body was already answering me—even though she hadn’t made a single sound.

"Or did he just pet you, Fiona?" I murmured—with just the right amount of contempt to make her snap.

I wanted every tremor.

Every reaction.

Because I knew it wasn’t Carter she thought about when she closed her eyes at night.

She jerked forward, her eyes wild, her voice pure fury: "I hate you!"

Inside, I grinned.

That was her "I want you," wrapped in venom and defiance.

It was a dance of hatred, attraction, and all the boiling emotions hanging between us like a storm.

"So, why are you here in beautiful Florence?" I challenged again.

She stared at me, her brow furrowing slightly, but she remained stubbornly silent.

"Vacation, hm?" I repeated mockingly.

"What did he promise you? Romantic sunsets in Rome? History and art here in Florence? A wine tasting in Tuscany?"

"Shut your mouth!" she spat.

Judging by her reaction, I was already close to the truth.

"Carter’s reliable, isn’t he? Too bad that’s not even close to the truth."

Her face froze, and I watched the words slowly seep in.

She blinked, as if making sure she’d heard me right before exhaling sharply.

"What the hell does that mean?" she hissed.

I tilted my head, studying her with undisguised satisfaction.

"Exactly what I said.

Carter chose this ‘vacation spot’ very strategically.

He’s meeting the Russians here to save his failing company.

Did you really not know?" Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Carter was supposed to meet the Russians in Miami. But the fool was no match for them, so I’d arranged for the meeting to take place here, in my city. Because if—no, when—things escalated, I needed Fiona protected.

Fiona’s eyes widened, and I could see the thoughts racing behind them, her mind scrambling to process the information.

Her breathing quickened, but she finally shook her head.

"I don’t believe you," she snapped—but her voice lacked the conviction she’d probably intended.

?"Oh no?" I said quietly, my gaze never releasing her.

"Where is he anyway? He must be worried by now! How long are you going to keep me here, you psychopath?" she snarled at me.

The fury boiled inside me, hot and unstoppable.

How could she still cling to him? To that man who lied to her, who put her in danger without a second thought.

She didn’t understand.

Or refused to.

I shot up in an abrupt motion, the chair behind me crashing loudly to the floor. Before she could react, I grabbed her arm and yanked her roughly to her feet. "You want to know where Carter is?" I growled. "Then come. I’ll show you."

"Let me go!" she spat, and her attempt to wrench free only made a bitter grin twist my lips.

She was so damn stubborn.

But I was stronger.

And I was done with her stupid illusions.

I dragged her across the room until we stood before the mirrored wall.

Her eyes flickered briefly to the reflective surface—she’d clearly noticed it before.

"What—?" she started.

With a quick, hard press, I hit a button on the wall.

The mirrored surface shifted, turning transparent, revealing the club below.

Pulsing lights in sync with the beat, bodies moving in rhythm—it all stretched beneath us like another world.

She stared, her breath hitching for a second.

I pulled her closer, almost violently, pressing her face to the glass. "Look closely," I hissed, my voice a sharp command. "There’s Carter."

Her eyes darted frantically over the crowd until I turned her head with firm pressure.

"There," I said, my tone ice-cold.

"See him? See how little you fucking matter to him?"

And there he was.

Carter, sitting perfectly at ease in one of the private lounges, glass in hand, deep in conversation with Matteo Ricci.

He laughed, gestured casually, as if he didn’t have a single care in the world—least of all about Fiona.

The realization hit her like an avalanche.

I saw it in her face—the slow dawning, the disappointment, the hurt.

Her eyes locked onto Carter, lounging, relaxed, like he had all the time in the world.

She swayed slightly in my grip, her shoulders sinking as if someone had let the air out of her.

"Let me go," she whispered, her voice now just a broken rasp.

"You got what you wanted, didn’t you? You finally won, Alessandro.

Congratulations." Her eyes burned with anger, but the pain beneath it was worse.

"So take these fucking zip ties off."

I held her gaze a moment longer, searching for that spark of defiance, for the fire that always burned in her.

But all I saw was resignation and hate.

And that wasn’t fun.

Without a word, I grabbed a pair of pliers from a nearby drawer and bent down to cut the restraints.

She rubbed her wrists, her eyes locked on me, and I could feel something raging inside her.

Before I could react, she swung with full force and punched me square in the face.

The pain was sharp and immediate, the metallic taste of blood flooding my tongue.

God, how I’d missed this.

I felt alive again.

I spat, watching the dark droplets hit the floor before slowly lifting my head to look at her.

My lip was split.

"You fucking—" I started, but the rest died in my throat.

My hand shot forward before I could stop myself, and the backhanded slap sent her reeling.

She crashed into the wall beside the window, her shoulders taking the impact with a pained groan.

A moment of absolute silence followed.

The club below pulsed on, lights flickering through the glass, painting the room in alternating violets and reds—but here, time seemed frozen.

I wanted to speak, to move, but my body was locked in place.

Fiona pushed herself up slowly, one hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to her reddened cheek.

Her breathing was ragged, her eyes locked on me, blazing with fury and pain.

"You ruined everything!" she said softly.

"My life, my feelings, my fucking control! You tore me apart, Russo!"

Her words echoed in the silence, digging deep into the darkness of my soul.

But before I could answer, before I could even move, she lunged at me with a determination that nearly caught me off guard.

Her free hand shot forward, aiming for my chest—I caught her wrist just in time.

But she didn’t stop.

With a cry that unleashed all her pent-up rage, she swung with her other fist. This time, she connected, her knuckles driving into my ribs. The dull pain exploded inside me, but I didn’t let go.

"Enough!" I snarled, gripping her shoulders and trying to shove her back.

"No!" she screamed, her voice raw and shaking.

She was preparing for a fight, kicking off her heels and sending them skidding across the floor.

"You took everything from me!" She lashed out—knees aiming for my legs, fists for my ribs.

I was afraid of hitting her too hard again, struggling to keep her at bay without hurting her.

But her movements were precise, calculated—she knew what she was doing, and I realized this wasn’t her first fight.

"Stop this shit right now," I forced out through gritted teeth, "or I’ll put you in a place where you won’t feel anything but pain."

I saw it in her eyes before she moved—the raw fury building inside her, searching for release.

When she lunged again, I caught her arm, twisted it behind her back, and slammed her into the wall with brutal force.

Her body hit the hard surface with a gasp, and I shifted my weight to pin her completely.

A rough, involuntary moan escaped her lips.

I yanked her head back, forcing her to meet my eyes.

"Had enough yet?" She held my gaze without a flicker of fear.

Then a dark, almost crazed laugh tore from her throat.

Before I could react, I felt wetness on my face.

She’d spat on me. Again.

It was like pouring gasoline on an already raging fire.

"Should I cut out your tongue?" She was trapped between my body and the wall.

"You never learn, do you?" I murmured, wiping my face with my free hand.

She wanted this fight—and she was going to get it.

Without another word, I dragged her from the wall and hauled her back to the table with an iron grip.

She thrashed, fought, but every attempt to break free was useless.

She could rage and pull all she wanted—it didn’t matter.

"I don’t give warnings for no reason," I said coldly, every word a decree.

I picked up the gag and let my gaze roam over her tense body.

Deliberately, I stuffed the cloth into her mouth and tied the ends behind her head.

Her eyes blazed with fury.

Her breathing quickened, and I could see the tension coiling tighter in her body.

She was wild, rebellious—and that was what made this moment so electrifying.

I guided her bound hand to my hard cock and grinned darkly at her. "I meant it when I said your fighting turns me on."

She gave me a look of pure contempt.

The gag robbed her of the last word.

A blessing.

My gaze lingered on her mouth, slightly parted by the fabric, her teeth flashing behind it.

"You have no idea how good you look like this," I murmured darkly.

She rolled her eyes and exhaled sharply through her nose.

"Should I take that as a ‘fuck you’?" I mocked, lips twisting in amusement.

She nodded eagerly.

I flashed a razor-edged grin.

"You can fight—you’ve shown me that.

The beautiful part? Now I know you can handle pain." There it was… her breaths visibly quickened.

But in the next second, her knee shot up, aiming for my hip.

This was war—marked by lust, hatred, and pure, unrelenting hunger between us.

With a merciless grip, I seized her throat.

My patience had run out.

"You’ll need a safeword today… something more intuitive." I took her right hand in mine, thumb tracing her fingers.

"Your middle finger," I explained. "Show it to me if it’s too much. Which it very likely will be."

Neither of us was willing to yield—her eyes narrowed into venomous slits.

My fingers tightened around her throat.

Her breaths turned forced, shallow, and I felt the faint arch of her body, a reflex as her lungs screamed for air.

Her eyes widened—not with fear, but with that absurd mix of fury and… lust.

"I’ll gladly show you your limit, Fiona," I growled against her ear, squeezing just hard enough to steal her breath, watching every micro-reaction.

Her lips parted, a choked sound escaping her, but she didn’t break eye contact. No flinching, no begging—just the fight she waged against me.

Her hands clawed at my arm, nails digging deep into my skin.

An electric thrill shot through me at her defiance.

Slowly, deliberately, I loosened my grip just enough to let her breathe again.

She gasped greedily, chest heaving—yet those damn eyes still burned into mine.

"Did you feel it, Fiona?" I dragged her closer until her lips were inches from mine.

"Did you feel how fast I can get serious?"

She panted.

"What?"

No fear—just dark, raw hunger.

"Do you want me to fuck you?"

A pause.

Then a slow nod.

Our gazes locked like talons.

"You know I’ll punish you?"

Her stare turned molten, so searing I had to shake my head.

"Oh, of course you know.

You even want it.

You want to know how it feels when I take you without restraint."

She trembled as I spoke, skin scorching under my touch.

Could it really be? Was Fiona Robertson my perfect match, wired for the same twisted desires?

I yanked her closer: "From now on, you’ll be the picture-perfect version of a good girl.

Understood?"

Fiona completely ignored me, fingers scrambling for my shirt, greedily popping the bottom button.

Every movement crackled with untamed energy—as if submission wasn’t just foreign to her, but impossible.

The thought of molding her, piece by piece, breaking her until she surrendered, ignited something deep and feral in me.

She didn’t know it yet, but she would learn to yield—and I’d savor every step of that journey.

I slapped her hand away hard.

Her eyes flared in surprise.

"I.

Fuck.

You. Not the other way around," I clarified.

She tried again, both hands clawing at my shirt, dragging me down with surprising strength.

I shoved her back, spinning her in one fluid motion, forcing her face-first onto the table.

"This isn’t the picture-perfect good girl," I growled in her ear.

She knew this.

What came next? She definitely didn’t.

"Stay." With firm pressure between her shoulders, I pinned her to the wood, every twitch under my absolute control.

She shuddered at the contact, a defiant whimper escaping as I secured her ankles to the table legs with zip ties.

The techniques—how to restrain someone effectively, eliminating every escape route—were second nature by now.

But I had to leash the darkness, the instincts honed in far deadlier scenarios.

She wasn’t one of the men I’d interrogated, wasn’t part of the blood-soaked trenches I’d crawled through. She was different. And that demanded I hold the line. Mostly. "You should be a good girl, or this thing will leave marks even from ten feet away."

Her cheek pressed against the cold surface, eyes tracking me.

"Since we’re in our interrogation room," I murmured, moving to the table’s edge, "you won’t be surprised this table is more than just a surface." I grabbed her right arm, pulled it over the edge, and found the cuffs anchored beneath.

The soft click of metal made her eyes flare—a muffled gasp escaped past the gag as she instinctively tried to wrench her hand free.

Resisting was pointless.

I guided her wrist into place, securing it, my gaze raking over her face.

Even now, utterly at my mercy, she clung to that untamable defiance that drove me mad.

"Your goddamn stubbornness, Fiona," I said lowly, stepping back to position myself behind her.

"It fucking ruins me."

She let out a derisive snort.

The club lights pulsed like a living aura, painting her skin in hypnotic swirls of red, pink, and violet.

Stretched over the table, wrists cuffed to the sides, legs slightly spread and ankles zip-tied to the table legs—she was mine, completely under my control.

The sight stole my breath, incinerating the last shreds of reason or restraint.

I forced her legs wider, adjusting her into perfect submission before settling behind her.

My nails dragged lightly up her thighs, pushing her dress up inch by inch until it bunched at her hips.

Her breathing turned ragged, and I felt the unconscious shift of her body—trying to escape? Or press closer? Even she didn’t know.

With deliberate slowness, I hooked a finger under the delicate fabric of her panties and pulled them aside.

A sharp, involuntary gasp escaped us both as her glistening, swollen flesh was exposed.

It felt like unwrapping something precious—something that belonged only to me.

The sight of her, flushed and dripping with need, obliterated the last of my control.