Page 13

THIRTEEN

MOIRA

This. Motherfucker. Put. Me. In. A. Chastity. Belt.

Like I’m some goddamned maiden being kept in a castle. Except, you know, it’s sleek black leather instead of being all rusted metal and shit.

The smell of new leather is driving me nuts. Knowing this absolute menace of a man, it’s probably from some upscale kink boutique called Luxe Dom or Exquisite Restraints .

But did you hear me? A motherfucking chastity belt!

Because when Bane said “training,” I was thinking… oh, I don’t know, some light flogging? Maybe he’d show me his favorite whip and let me ride the sting a little?

But no . No, instead, he went full medieval dungeon master on me. And now I’m kneeling in the corner of his room like a wayward nun with a chastity belt on under my skirt while he— get this —writes his fucking sermon. By hand. In a notebook.

The scratch of his pen is the only sound in the room besides my shallow breathing and the occasional tiny frustrated groan that I definitely don’t mean to let slip.

He doesn’t use a laptop, even though he can’t be more than a few years older than my twenty-two. But nope, Mr. Proper English Broody McPriesty-Pants over here probably thinks modern technology is somehow cheating. I bet he still balances a checkbook. I bet he?—

“Stop fidgeting,” he says, all calm and superior from his fancy wooden chair like a king holding court.

I make a face. A very mature, very respectful face. And then, because I have a death wish, I mock, Stop fidgeting , in the most obnoxious whisper possible.

His pen pauses for exactly one second before he resumes writing, like he’s too holy to engage with my nonsense. Like he has the patience of a saint.

I can’t take it anymore. Forty-five minutes ago, this seemed exciting. Hot. I was all in for the game. But now? Now, I’ve got the itch, and I can’t even pretend to scratch . And let me tell you, that is some eighth-circle-of-hell-level torture.

The scent of leather clings to me, taunting me, reminding me with every breath that my body is locked up tight. I kick at the rug under my knees just to feel something .

“Stay still.”

Oh, fuck off. That’s easy for him to say. He’s perfectly composed, his muscled forearms flexing slightly as he writes, his crisp white shirt rolled up to his elbows, looking like the most dangerous daydream. I hate him. I hate how hot he is.

And I really hate that he’s right.

This isn’t just about control, Moira. It’s about trust. That’s what he said when he buckled the belt around me, his voice all rough and constrained. Like it wasn’t just me he was binding up tight.

It was so hot, and all I wanted to do was beg him to fuck me.

Which pissed me off even more.

I don’t beg.

I grant people the privilege of fucking me.

But Bane and his deep, steady voice, his dark, knowing eyes, and his entire everything makes me want to scream.

Because, uh, has the man ever actually met me?

Trust?

I trust my brother, sure. Or at least, I did. Before he turned his back on me and decided I wasn’t worth the effort anymore.

So what the fuck is trust supposed to mean to me now?

I don’t have to trust someone to enjoy fucking them. But what if I did? What if?—

Nope . No. Absolutely not. That way lies madness.

I shift again, pressing my thighs together in desperation, but the belt mocks me. My body is soaked, needy, screaming for something I can’t have.

“Moira.” Bane’s voice is a warning.

I snap my head up and glare at him. “I can’t help it . I’m losing my goddamn mind down here.”

He pauses, his pen hovering above the page, and finally—finally—he looks at me. Those storm-gray eyes are infuriatingly calm. “That’s the point.”

“The point?” I sputter. “The point of what? TORTURING ME?”

“The point of teaching you patience.”

I scoff so hard I nearly choke. “I have patience! I’ve been sitting here for forever while you scribble away about god knows what?—”

“About God, actually,” he says, his lips quirking.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I growl and rock forward slightly, chasing even a whisper of relief. The belt presses against me—too much and not enough—and my hips jerk involuntarily.

Bane’s chair scrapes against the floor as he stands and looks down with that infuriating calm control. “If you can’t control yourself, I’ll do it for you.”

My breath catches. Oh.

Oh, I like that.

My heart pounds as he hauls me up and leads me to the bed. My body is screaming yes, finally, please , but instead of pushing me down and giving me what I need , he sits me on the edge and holds my shoulders firmly in place.

“Stay.”

I stare up at him, vibrating with frustration. “What are you going to do?”

He doesn’t answer. He just walks to the chest at the foot of the bed, pulls out a length of silk rope, and turns back to me, his expression utterly composed.

I swallow hard. Oh, fuck.

“You brought this on yourself,” he says, taking my wrist in his strong, steady hand.

“You’re tying me up? Seriously ?”

“Seriously.”

“No!” I fight against him, but he easily subdues me, grabbing both wrists and pinning them to the bed, his chest holding my body down. We’re both breathing hard even though we barely wrestled. I struggle against his hold as his dark eyes skewer me.

“Do I hear a safeword?” he asks, chest heaving against mine.

My lips clamp together as I search his eyes. I feel a wild elation suddenly as I realize…

Oh shit, I feel safe . Even as he holds me down and subdues me with his superior strength.

There’s no background thrum of fear like there is with random men I fuck outside the club. Like there was with that pissant, Jeff.

But I’m also not feeling that sense of bored safety I usually do within the club because I know bouncers are near if a guy steps out of line.

I feel safe because of Bane himself.

Well, fuck. Is this what trust feels like?

He’ll stop if I safeword. There’s not a bone in my body that doubts it.

“You fucking bastard!” I scream again, but only because it feels good to fight like hell as he smiles down at me, working quickly to secure my wrists to the headboard with practiced ease.

The silk is soft against my skin, but the restraint is firm. Unyielding.

My heart races as I tug against the bindings, testing their strength.

“There,” he says, standing back to admire his handiwork. “Now you can’t get yourself into trouble.”

I glare up at him, my chest heaving with emotions I don’t understand.

I’m giddy and furious and wildly excited. And I really, really want to be fucking Bane right now instead of being tied up, helpless, on his bed.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

His lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile. “Immensely.”

“You’re the devil,” I spit.

“And you’re beautiful when you’re helpless,” he replies, his voice soft but deadly. He leans down, his face inches from mine, and I hold my breath. “You’ll thank me for this one day, Moira. When you finally understand.”

“I hate you,” I whisper, even as my body burns for him.

“No, you don’t,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “But keep telling yourself that if it helps.”

Oh, I am so fucked.