17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Mason

Moonlight streams through the windows, casting everything in a soft, ethereal glow. I guide Elijah towards the en-suite bathroom, one hand on the small of his back. His skin is warm beneath my palm, a stark contrast to the chill in the air.

Iris is already asleep, her auburn hair fanned out across the pillow like flames frozen in time. Her chest rises and falls with slow, even breaths, her face peaceful in repose. It's a rare moment of stillness for my vibrant, dangerous wife.

Elijah moves with careful steps, his muscles stiff from being bound for so long. The soft padding of his bare feet on the marble floor is barely audible, a whisper of sound in the quiet night. His wrists and ankles are chafed from the restraints, angry red marks standing out against his golden skin.

I watch him closely as we enter the bathroom, noting the calculated look in his eyes. There's something brewing behind that frosty blue gaze, thoughts and plans forming and reforming. But he remains silent, those full lips pressed into a thin line.

Not that I mind the silence. Elijah is exquisite to look at, all lean muscle and sharp angles softened by the dim light. The marks we've left on his body only serve to enhance his beauty, like an oil painting touched up with vibrant splashes of color.

I gesture towards the toilet. "Go ahead," I say, my voice low to avoid disturbing Iris. "I'll give you some privacy."

Elijah quirks an eyebrow at that, a hint of his usual sass breaking through his stoic facade. "How considerate," he murmurs. "And here I thought you enjoyed watching."

A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. "Oh, I do," I purr, letting my gaze rake over his naked form appreciatively. "But even I have some boundaries."

He snorts softly at that, shaking his head as he moves to use the facilities. I turn away, busying myself with retrieving a jar of soothing cream from the medicine cabinet. When I hear the toilet flush and then water running, I turn back.

I'm greeted by an unexpected sight. Elijah has stepped into the spacious glass-enclosed shower, the door left deliberately open. Water cascades over his lithe form, steam beginning to curl around him like a lover's caress.

For a moment, I'm caught off guard. I didn't give him permission for this. But as I watch rivulets of water trace the contours of his muscles, I find I don't mind the view.

I lean back against the marble sink, crossing my arms as I drink in the sight before me. Elijah tilts his head back, letting the water slide over his face and throat. Droplets cling to his long lashes, sparkling like diamonds in the soft light. His hands move languidly, soap-slicked palms gliding over golden skin.

"Enjoying the show?" Elijah's voice cuts through the steady patter of water, a hint of challenge in his tone.

I can't help the smirk that tugs at my lips. "Immensely," I purr, making no effort to hide my appreciation. "Though I don't recall giving you permission for a shower."

Elijah turns to face me fully, water streaming down his chest and abs. A ghost of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "My apologies," he says, not sounding sorry in the least. "I thought I'd save you the trouble of hosing me down like a prized stallion."

A chuckle escapes me before I can stop it. His quick wit is refreshing, a welcome change from the usual terror or sullen silence we encounter in our "guests." It's part of what drew me to him in the first place—that sharp tongue and sharper mind, wrapped up in such an exquisite package.

"How considerate of you," I drawl, letting my gaze wander openly over his body. "And here I thought you were just putting on a show."

Elijah's laugh is low and rich, a sound that sends a pleasant shiver down my spine. "Can't it be both?" he asks, arching an eyebrow as he runs soapy hands down his torso. "I am a man of many talents, after all."

I hum appreciatively, watching as his hands dip lower, skimming over his hips and thighs. "So I've noticed," I murmur, my voice dropping to a seductive purr. "You've certainly kept us entertained these past few days."

A flicker of something—pride? arousal?—flashes in Elijah's eyes. "High praise, coming from you," he says, his tone a mix of sarcasm and genuine pleasure. "I do aim to please."

He lathers up slowly, his movements deliberate and sensual. It's clear he knows exactly what he's doing, putting on a performance for my benefit. His hands glide over once again his chest, down his abs, lower still. My eyes follow their path, drinking in every detail.

"You know," Elijah says conversationally, as if we're discussing the weather rather than him showering naked before me, "most people would consider this a violation of my rights. Holding me against my will, watching me shower without consent..."

I quirk an eyebrow, intrigued by where he's going with this. "And what do you consider it?"

He pauses, tilting his head back to rinse the soap from his hair. Water slides down his throat, and I find myself following a particularly enticing droplet as it trails down to his collarbone.

"Honestly?" he says finally, meeting my gaze. "I'm not sure anymore. This whole situation is so far beyond normal that I'm not even sure what to think."

There's a vulnerability in his admission that catches me off guard. It's a rare glimpse behind the mask of sarcasm and bravado he usually wears.

"You're handling it remarkably well," I observe. "Most people would have broken by now."

Elijah shrugs, the movement causing water to ripple across his shoulders. "Maybe I'm already broken and just don't know it yet."

The statement hangs in the air between us, heavy with unspoken implications. For a moment, I'm tempted to push further, to see just how deep that crack in his armor goes. But something holds me back.

As I watch Elijah rinse the soap from his body, I'm struck by a pang of... not quite regret, but something close to it. In another life, under different circumstances, Elijah could have been more than just our latest conquest. He's sharp, quick-witted, able to match us barb for barb even in the most extreme circumstances. It's refreshing, in a way that makes me almost wish things could be different.

I find myself appreciating not just his physical beauty, but the strength of his spirit. That sharp intellect, the quick tongue, the ability to keep up with our banter even as we pushed him to his limits. There's a fire in him that refuses to be extinguished, no matter what we throw at him. In many ways, he's the perfect match for us—a worthy adversary, a delightful plaything, and a fascinating puzzle all rolled into one exquisite package. I wonder if that would last if given the opportunity.

For a moment, I allow myself to imagine a world where we could keep him. Where instead of 12 days of exquisite torture and pleasure, we could have months, years even. I picture him joining us for dinner, engaging in spirited debates over fine wine. I imagine him in our bed, not as a captive but as an equal partner in our dark games.

But that's not our way. We have our traditions, our rules. Twelve days, no more, no less. It's what keeps us safe, what allows us to indulge our darkest desires without risking exposure. And yet...

Elijah turns off the water, the sudden silence snapping me out of my reverie. He stands there for a moment, water dripping from his body, steam curling around him. His eyes meet mine, and I see a flicker of understanding there. As if he knows exactly what I've been thinking.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asks, his voice low.

I chuckle, shaking my head. "Trust me, pretty boy, you don't want to know what's going on in my head right now."

He steps out of the shower, droplets of water trailing down his body in rivulets that I find myself wanting to trace with my tongue. "Oh, I don't know about that," he says, a hint of challenge in his tone. "I think I might find it quite illuminating."

I hand him a towel, but instead of immediately drying himself, Elijah takes his time. He starts with his hair, rubbing the thick strands vigorously until they stand up in damp spikes. Water droplets fly from the ends, splattering against the marble countertop and mirror.

Next, he moves to his shoulders and chest, the soft terry cloth gliding over golden skin still flushed from the heat of the shower. He's methodical in his movements, almost teasing in their slowness. His eyes never leave mine as he works. His gaze is steady with an undercurrent of heat that makes my blood simmer. It's a look I know well, one I've seen countless times in Iris's eyes. That perfect blend of defiance and desire, daring me to make a move.

The towel dips lower, skimming over the flat planes of his stomach, following the sharp cut of his hip bones. He takes his time, letting the fabric linger just above where I know he wants me to look. A smirk plays at the corners of his mouth, silently daring me to break first.

I don't. Instead, I lean back against the counter, arms crossed, the very picture of nonchalance. But inside, I'm far from calm. Every move Elijah makes sends a jolt of electricity through my body, desire coiling hot and heavy in my gut.

He continues his slow descent, rubbing the towel over his thighs, down his calves. When he bends to dry his feet, the movement gives me a tantalizing view of his ass, perfectly rounded and still glistening with stray water droplets.

Finally, Elijah straightens, letting the towel fall to the floor with a soft thump. He stands before me, completely bare and utterly unashamed. Water still clings to his eyelashes, making them appear even longer and darker than usual. A single droplet trails down his neck, over his collarbone, and I find myself fighting the urge to lean forward and lick it away.

"See something you like?" Elijah asks, his voice low and rough.

I can't help the chuckle that escapes me. "You know I do," I reply, letting my gaze rake over him appreciatively. "You're quite the exhibitionist, aren't you?"

He shrugs, the movement causing muscles to ripple beneath golden skin. "When in Rome," he says with a smirk. "Or in this case, when held captive by two incredibly attractive psychopaths."

I laugh outright at that. "Touché," I concede. "Now, let me see your wrists."

Elijah steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. He holds out his arms, wrists up, showcasing the angry red marks left by the restraints.

I open the jar of soothing cream, the sharp medicinal scent cutting through the lingering steam. Dipping my fingers into the cool gel, I gently take hold of Elijah's right wrist.

"This might sting a bit," I warn, gently applying the cream to Elijah's abraded skin. He hisses softly through his teeth but doesn't pull away.

I take my time, massaging the soothing gel into his wrists with careful, deliberate motions. My thumbs trace slow circles over the delicate skin, working the cream deep into the angry red marks. Elijah's pulse flutters beneath my touch, a rapid staccato betraying his outward calm.

When I'm satisfied with his wrists, I sink to my knees before him. From this angle, I have an unobstructed view of his body, still damp and glistening from the shower. Droplets of water cling to the fine hairs on his thighs, catching the dim light like tiny diamonds. The scent of his clean skin mingles with the medicinal aroma of the cream, creating an intoxicating blend.

I lift one of Elijah's feet, placing it on my thigh to give me better access to his ankle. The chafed skin here is even more tender, and he can't quite suppress a wince as I start to apply the cream. I work slowly, methodically, my fingers kneading into the tight muscles of his calf as I go.

"Relax," I murmur, glancing up at him through my lashes. "I'm not going to hurt you. Not right now, anyway."

A soft snort escapes him, but I feel some of the tension leave his body. As I switch to his other foot, I can't help but notice that Elijah isn't entirely unaffected by my ministrations. His cock, semi-hard when he stepped out of the shower, is now fully erect, jutting proudly just inches from my face.

I smirk to myself but say nothing, focusing instead on finishing my task. When I'm done, I rise smoothly to my feet, retrieving soft strips of cloth from a nearby drawer. With the same careful attention, I wrap each of Elijah's wrists and ankles, protecting the abraded skin.

Throughout it all, Elijah remains silent, watching me with those piercing blue eyes. There's a challenge there, a silent dare for me to acknowledge the effect I've had on him. But I won't give him that satisfaction. Not yet.

"There," I say, stepping back to admire my handiwork. "That should help with the chafing."

Elijah flexes his wrists experimentally, then nods. "Thank you," he says, his voice low and slightly rough.

I meet his gaze steadily. "You know where to go," I tell him, my tone brooking no argument.

I watch as Elijah's expression shifts, that flicker of disappointment quickly masked by his usual smirk. But I caught it—that brief moment where he thought, perhaps hoped, that I would give in to the temptation he so artfully presented.

"As you wish," he says, his tone deceptively light. He takes a step towards the door, then pauses, turning back toward me. "Though I have to say, I'm a little hurt. Here I put on such a lovely show, and you didn't even give me a standing ovation."

I can't help the low chuckle that escapes me. His wit is sharp as ever, even in this situation. It's part of what makes him so captivating, so dangerous.

"Oh, pretty boy," I purr, letting my gaze rake over his body one last time. "Trust me when I say your performance was... deeply appreciated. But you seem to have forgotten something very important."

I close the distance between us in two long strides. My hand shoots out, fingers tangling in his damp hair and yanking his head back. He gasps, more in surprise than pain, as I bring my lips to his ear.

"You're not the one calling the shots here," I growl, my voice low and savage. "You don't get to decide when or how you're touched. You don't get to manipulate me with your little displays, no matter how enticing they might be."

My other hand trails down his spine, feeling the shiver that runs through him at my touch. When I reach the small of his back, I pull him flush against me, letting him feel the hard line of my cock through my tailored slacks.

"This?" I continue, grinding against him slightly. "This is mine. To use or not use as I see fit. Your pleasure, your pain, your very breath—it all belongs to me. To me and Iris."

I release him abruptly, stepping back. Elijah stumbles slightly, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. His eyes are wide, pupils blown with a heady blend of fear and arousal.

"Now," I say, my voice returning to its usual calm tone. "I believe I told you where to go. Unless you'd like me to escort you there physically?"

Elijah swallows hard, his throat working visibly. For a moment, I think he might push back, might try to reclaim some of that control he so desperately wants. But then he nods, turning towards the door without another word.

I follow him out of the bathroom, watching as he makes his way to the St. Andrew's cross against the wall of the bedroom. His movements are fluid, almost graceful, no longer stiff from being restrained.

As he positions himself against the cross, arms and legs spread wide, I take a moment to appreciate the view. The soft moonlight streaming through the windows casts intriguing shadows across his body, accentuating every dip and curve of his muscled form. They play across his face, sharpening his already striking features.

I approach him slowly, savoring the anticipation that hangs heavy in the air between us. His chest rises and falls with quickened breaths, a testament to the effect our little encounter in the bathroom had on him. His cock is still hard, twitching slightly as I draw nearer.

"Good boy," I murmur, reaching for the padded leather cuffs attached to the cross. I secure his right wrist first, the leather cuff snug but not overly tight against his skin. The soft padding protects the tender flesh I just treated, a small mercy in our world of exquisite cruelty. I repeat the process with his left wrist, then kneel to fasten his ankles.

Throughout it all, Elijah remains silent, his breathing steady but faster now. I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, see the way goosebumps rise in the wake of my touch.

When I finish with the restraints, I stand back to admire my handiwork. He is truly a vision, a fallen angel, one I would love to take my time to corrupt.

Instead I turn, shedding my clothing, before I slide into the bed beside Iris. Wrapping myself around the one person I know I can actually keep.