10. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

I barely slept last night. Besides the fact it took forever to find the way back to the guest room, my mind's been a fucking wreck since finding the surveillance room last night. All those tapes, every sick detail etched into my brain like a scar. And then there was mine.

My name, my body, twisted and vulnerable on a fucking screen—recorded without me knowing. What the fuck did I get myself into?

I tighten the strap on my duffel bag, glancing once more around the guest room, the shadows in the corners shifting like they're fucking alive. I need to get out of here, now, before the walls close in, before Adrian pulls me back under his spell.

Before I forget just how fucked up this whole situation really is.

Part of me was ready to head out of here last night, but with no cell reception and it being pitch black outside, I figured it would be best to wait until morning. There's enough twists and turns on the road up here that I might've gotten into an accident, especially with how out of it I was.

The house is cold this morning, the chill creeping into my bones. I make my way to the first floor, my boots pounding against the hardwood floors with every step.

Just as I make it to the front door, Adrian's voice floats in from around the corner, low and measured, slithering into the foyer like a snake. It shouldn't bother me, but it does. There's something about the tone—it's too calm, too composed for someone who has so much to fucking answer for.

And because I'm not one to let it go, I drop my duffel bag by the door, then follow the sound of his voice. I reach the kitchen, dim morning light filtering in through the windows to cast a dull glow over the sleek granite countertops.

Everything in here is too fucking modern for a place like this. Like it doesn't belong.

Adrian stands by the kitchen island, the light catching the sleek strands of his raven hair. His hand is resting on the countertop, fingers tapping rhythmically against the cold granite. I don't see a phone, but that doesn't mean anything.

Probably has AirPods in.

A low growl rumbles in my chest as I glare at the back of his head, crossing my arms and standing tall, ready for whatever bullshit excuse he's going to throw my way. "Adrian."

He turns to face me, his expression unreadable beyond the mask. Does he ever take that damn thing off? Fucking hell.

But it's the ever-present hint of amusement lingering in his eyes that makes my blood boil. His lips curve into that soft, disarming smile—the one he's been pulling on me from the fucking start. Like nothing's changed.

Like I'm not standing here about to choke the living shit out of him.

"Well, good morning, Jasper. You're up early."

I grind my molars so hard, I swear I'm about to crack a tooth as the tension inside my body grows. Every breath feels like it's grating against my ribs, and all I want to do is explode—to fucking scream at him and watch that calm, collected expression slip. "Cut the shit, Adrian. You recorded me. I found the goddamn room, the fucking tapes. What kind of sick shit are you into?"

He doesn't flinch. Hell, he barely even blinks. Instead, he leans against the granite island, placing his hands into the pockets of his dress slacks, his eyes never leaving mine. "Jasper, you're overreacting. Those recordings are part of what we do here. You've always been drawn to exhibitionism, haven't you? You love the thrill of being watched. The tapes are just . . . an extension of that."

"At the club, I knew I was being watched. I had control. This—" I gesture wildly toward him, toward the house, toward everything. "This is fucking violating. You didn't ask. You didn't give me the fucking choice."

He sighs softly, his dark eyes glinting. "The whole point was to take you beyond your limits, to push you into something raw, something real."

"Without my consent?" I spit the words like venom. "It isn't exhibitionism if I don't fucking know I'm being watched."

He steps closer.

"And yet you're angry, not because of the cameras, but because of what they captured," he says, voice dropping an octave into that low, intimate tone that wraps around my throat like a leash. "Because of what you showed me. Because of how I stripped away your control."

A knot twists in my gut, and I swallow hard, trying to temper the rising storm in my body. His words hit too fucking close to the mark. "Fuck you."

But somewhere deep down, in that fucked-up part of my brain, I know he's right. Adrian steps even closer, his body now radiating heat in the small space between us. His fingers brush my wrist, soft but deliberate, and a shudder races up my spine.

"Stop it," I whisper, but it's weak.

Hollow.

He leans in, his lips just grazing the shell of my ear. "Tell me you didn't enjoy it. Tell me you didn't like being taken. Controlled," he says, his voice a low murmur that sends ripples of electricity straight to my groin.

My breath comes in short, sharp bursts. That fire—lust, anger, fear—it's all burning together now into something I can't control. My cock thickens against the rough fabric of my jeans, hard and desperate, and fuck, I hate what he's turning me into. I hate that I want this, even now—especially now.

"Not the point, asshole. You still should've told me."

"I beg to differ." He hums softly, his other hand slipping to my lower back, pulling me flush against him, grinding his hips into mine. "You don't have to lie to me, or yourself."

"Fuck you," I choke out, but even as the words leave my mouth, I'm dry humping him, my resolve cracking into a thousand pieces.

"I'm not hurting you," he whispers, his lips brushing against the side of my neck. "I'm giving you what you need. What you crave."

Fuck.

He's doing it again—getting inside my head, making me question everything.

"You can trust me. I'm offering you a weekend of new experiences, of pushing boundaries. That's what you want, isn't it?"

"I . . . " My voice falters as I rock against him. I should say no. Fuck, I should scream it, then run out of this goddamn house before I lose myself completely.

But instead, I nod—just a slight dip of my head—and moan as we dry hump in the middle of the kitchen, panting and moaning.

Adrian's smile is predatory as he steps back, releasing me from his grip but not from his hold. "Good. Now, let's continue somewhere more comfortable."

He threads his fingers through mine, and I don't resist when he pulls me forward, leading me out of the kitchen, then down the hallway toward the stairs. As we cross the foyer, my gaze flicks toward the door where my duffel bag lays—waiting for me, taunting me with the choice I could have made.

Adrian pauses, his thumb brushing over my wrist as he follows my line of sight. "You can still leave, Jasper. The choice is yours."

I bite the inside of my cheek as I stare at the door, and for one fleeting second, I imagine myself sprinting toward it and putting as much fucking distance between me and this place as possible.

But I don't.

Instead, I square my shoulders and meet his gaze. "I'm not leaving."

His smile widens, but it isn't a cocky grin. It's softer, more satisfied, like he's just won something, but he's not gloating. "Good choice."

We ascend the stairs in silence, the sound of my boots on the hardwood again echoing in the vast, empty house. And every step feels like I'm sinking deeper into something I can't escape.