19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Iris

The afternoon sun streams through the windows. I stretch languidly in my chair, taking a moment to roll my neck and shoulders. We've been working for hours, the quiet punctuated only by the soft rustle of papers and the gentle tapping of laptop keys.

My gaze drifts to Elijah, still bound to the St. Andrew's cross. He's been unnaturally quiet today, a stark contrast to his usual witty banter. Even when I fed him lunch earlier—a light salad and some fresh fruit—he barely made a sound. Just opened his mouth obediently, accepted the food, and chewed in silence.

I can't help but wonder what's going on in that brilliant mind of his. Is he finally starting to break? Or is he simply conserving his energy, plotting some futile escape attempt? Perhaps he's just worried about the punishment Mason promised him last night. The anticipation of pain can be a powerful thing, sometimes more potent than the pain itself.

Whatever the reason, the silence is... unsettling. I've grown accustomed to our verbal sparring matches, the way his quick wit keeps me on my toes.

I watch as Elijah's eyes track Mason's every move, following him as he paces back and forth across the room. There's a calculating edge to his gaze, a sharpness that belies his seemingly relaxed posture. It's as if he's cataloging every gesture, every expression, filing away information for future use.

Mason's voice grows increasingly agitated as he speaks into his phone, his free hand clenching and unclenching at his side. The afternoon sunlight catches on his wedding ring, sending little flashes of gold dancing across the walls with each agitated movement.

Suddenly, Mason lets out a string of curses that would make a sailor blush. He ends the call with a vicious jab at his phone screen, then whirls to face Elijah. His eyes are blazing with barely contained fury, jaw clenched so tight I can almost hear his teeth grinding.

Elijah, for his part, merely arches an eyebrow. It's a subtle gesture, but in the tense atmosphere of the room, it feels like a challenge thrown down. The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smirk, but close enough to fuel Mason's anger.

I rise from my chair, the soft rustle of my silk blouse seeming unnaturally loud in the charged silence. My heels click against the marble floor as I cross to Mason, each step measured and deliberate. When I reach him, I place my hands on his shoulders, feeling the coiled tension in his muscles.

"What's wrong, darling?" I ask, my voice low and soothing. My fingers work small circles into the knots at the base of his neck, a gentle pressure designed to calm and focus him.

Mason leans into my touch almost unconsciously, some of the rigid anger leaving his posture. But his eyes never leave Elijah, burning with an intensity that sends a thrill down my spine.

Mason's jaw clenches, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. "The court approved an injunction," he growls. "One that our esteemed guest here must have filed just before we... extended our invitation."

I glance at Elijah, noting the flash of satisfaction in his eyes. It's gone in an instant, replaced by that maddeningly neutral expression he's perfected. But I saw it, that brief moment of triumph.

"Is that so?" I muse, my hands still working their magic on Mason's tense muscles. "How... inconvenient."

Mason snorts, a harsh sound devoid of humor. "Inconvenient is an understatement. It effectively halts all operations for at least the next month, possibly longer. My client stands to lose millions."

I hum thoughtfully, my mind already racing with possibilities. "Well then," I purr, letting a hint of seduction creep into my voice, "I suppose we'll just have to find a way to make our guest regret his actions, won't we?"

Mason turns to face me, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. The fury in his eyes transforms into something more dangerous. It's a look that never fails to send a delicious shiver down my spine.

"You're right," he says, his voice rough. "I'll need to go in tomorrow to lodge an appeal. But in the meantime..." His gaze flicks back to Elijah, who's watching our exchange with barely concealed interest.

I lean in close, my lips brushing against the shell of his ear. "It is the fourth day of Christmas, after all," I murmur, my voice dripping with dark promise. "And I have the perfect idea in mind."

As I whisper my plan to him, I feel Mason's breath hitch. His hands come to rest on my hips, fingers digging in with bruising force. When I pull back, his eyes are filled with desire, pupils blown wide.

"Oh, my love," he purrs, "you always know just what I need."

I smirk, trailing a finger down his chest. "Of course I do. That's why you married me."

Mason chuckles. "One of many reasons," he agrees. His gaze shifts back to Elijah, who's watching us with a mix of wariness and reluctant arousal. "But for this... we'll need to move him. Secure him spread out on the marble floor."

I nod, already picturing the scene in my mind. The cool, smooth marble against Elijah's heated skin. The way the afternoon light will play across his body, highlighting every curve and plane. The contrast of the dark restraints against the pale stone.

"Shall we?" I ask, gesturing towards our captive.

Mason nods, his earlier anger now channeled into focused intensity. We move towards Elijah in perfect sync, a predatory grace in our steps.

As we begin to unclip his restraints from the cross, I lean in close to Elijah's ear. "I hope you're ready, pretty boy," I purr.

We work in tandem to secure Elijah to the hidden bolts in the marble floor, each movement precise. The cool stone must feel shocking against his heated skin as we arrange his limbs, spreading him out like a sacrifice on an altar. The afternoon sunlight streams through the windows but I also turn on the overhead chandelier, casting an ethereal glow across his body and making the polished marble gleam.

Mason and I step back, admiring our handiwork. Elijah lies spread-eagled on the cool marble floor, his golden skin a stark contrast against the pale stone.

I turn to Mason, a slow smile spreading across my face. "Shall we make ourselves more comfortable, darling?" I purr, my fingers toying with the top button of my silk blouse.

Mason's eyes darken with desire as he nods. "I think that's an excellent idea," he agrees, his voice low and rough.

We begin to undress, our movements unhurried and deliberate. Even when working from home, we make an effort to dress professionally in case of unexpected video meetings. The process of shedding these layers feels almost ritualistic, like peeling away the facades we present to the outside world.

I start with my blouse, fingers working each delicate pearl button with practiced ease. The whisper of silk against my skin sends a pleasant shiver down my spine as I let the garment fall to the floor. Beneath it, a lacy black bra hugs my curves, a stark contrast against my pale skin.

Mason's eyes rake over me appreciatively as he loosens his tie. The rich burgundy silk slides through his fingers before joining my blouse on the floor. His nimble fingers make quick work of his shirt buttons, revealing tantalizing glimpses of tanned skin and toned muscle.

I reach behind my back to unzip my pencil skirt, letting it pool around my feet before stepping out of it gracefully. The matching black lace panties barely cover anything, leaving little to the imagination. I can feel Elijah's gaze burning into me, even as I keep my focus on Mason.

As Mason shrugs off his shirt, I take a moment to appreciate the play of muscles beneath his skin. Years of rigorous workouts have sculpted his body into a work of art, all lean lines and defined abs. A smattering of dark hair trails down his chest, disappearing beneath the waistband of his slacks.

I step closer to him, my hands coming to rest on his belt buckle. "Allow me," I murmur, my voice husky with desire. I maintain eye contact as I slowly undo his belt, the soft clink of metal loud in the charged silence of the room.

Mason's breath hitches as I unbutton and unzip his slacks, letting them fall to the floor. He steps out of them, now clad only in snug black boxer briefs that do little to hide his growing arousal.

With a small smile playing at my lips, I move to the ornate chest in the corner. The antique wood is smooth beneath my fingers as I lift the lid, revealing the treasures within. After a moment of consideration, I select a particular box—sleek black lacquer with delicate silver filigree.

Turning back to Mason, I present the box with a flourish. "On the fourth day of Christmas," I purr, my voice low and rich with promise, "your true love gives to you... four sharp knives."

Mason's eyes light up as I open the box, revealing the gleaming blades nestled within. Each knife is a work of art in its own right—perfectly balanced, razor-sharp, with handles of polished ebony and silver.

Elijah's sharp intake of breath is audible in the hushed room. His eyes widen as he takes in the sight of the knives, a complex mix of emotions flashing across his face—fear, yes, but also a grudging fascination.

Mason picks up one of the knives; they are identical, delicate things with a long thin blade the length of my hand. He tests the edge against his thumb, humming in satisfaction when it draws a bead of crimson. He holds the knife up to the light, admiring the way it gleams.

"Perfect," Mason purrs, his eyes filled with desire. "And deadly." His gaze locks with mine, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Just like you."

He leans in, capturing my lips in a deep, passionate kiss. His free hand tangles in my hair, pulling me closer as his tongue explores my mouth. I melt into him, savoring the taste of him, the feeling of being utterly possessed. When we break apart, we're both breathing heavily.

Mason reaches for a second knife, testing its weight and balance. He twirls it between his fingers with casual expertise, the blade catching the light and sending little flashes dancing across the walls.

I pick up the remaining two knives, their ebony handles cool and smooth against my palms. The weight of them is comforting, familiar. I can already imagine the exquisite patterns we'll paint across Elijah's golden skin.

"Well," Elijah's voice cuts through the charged silence, dripping with sarcasm. "Isn't this romantic? Nothing says 'true love' quite like his-and-hers murder weapons."

For a split second, something flickers across Elijah's face. It's so brief I almost miss it, but in that moment, his expression becomes utterly blank. Not the carefully constructed mask of neutrality he's been wearing, but something... emptier. As if the face we've come to know is itself a mask, and for just an instant, it slipped.

I pause, a chill running down my spine. Did I imagine that? But before I can dwell on it, Elijah's familiar smirk is back in place, his eyes glittering with defiance.

"You know," he drawls, tugging slightly at his restraints, "most couples just go for dinner and a movie. But I suppose when you're bored, rich psychopaths, you have to get a little more creative with your date nights."

I dismiss my earlier unease as a trick of the light or my own overactive imagination. Clearly, Elijah is still very much himself, sharp tongue and all.

"Oh, pretty boy," I purr, running my finger along the flat of the blade. "I do hope you're not planning on being mouthy the entire time. It would be such a shame to have to gag you again so soon."

Mason's eyes gleam with amusement as he kneels beside Elijah, the knife glinting dangerously in his hand. "Oh, I don't think we'll be gagging him just yet," he purrs, his voice low and rich with anticipation. "I'm rather looking forward to his screams."

The blade dances across Elijah's skin, not yet breaking the surface but leaving goosebumps in its wake. Mason traces the sharp tip along the curve of Elijah's jaw, down the column of his throat, across his collarbone. It's a promise of pain to come, a threat and a caress all at once.

Elijah swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing beneath the knife's edge. But even now, spread out and vulnerable, he can't seem to help himself. "Careful there," he quips, though his voice is slightly strained. "The neighbors might hear. Wouldn't want to ruin your perfect suburban facade, would we?"

A low chuckle rumbles from Mason's chest, wicked and dangerous. "Oh, Elijah," he murmurs, leaning in close enough that his breath ghosts over Elijah's ear. "One of the many benefits of wealth is the ability to live far enough from our neighbors that they couldn't hear you if you screamed yourself hoarse."

He pulls back slightly, his eyes roaming over Elijah's face. "Besides," he continues, a wicked smirk playing at his lips, "you'd be surprised how much rich people actively choose not to hear. It's amazing what money can make people overlook."

The knife in Mason's hand begins to move again, tracing intricate patterns across Elijah's chest. The sharp tip leaves faint white lines in its wake, not quite breaking the skin but promising so much more.

"Take our lovely gated community, for instance," Mason muses, his tone conversational even as his eyes remain fixed on the path of his blade. "Do you think anyone batted an eye when we had soundproofing installed in the basement? Or when we had extra-thick walls added to this room?"

I move to Elijah's other side, kneeling and mirroring Mason's actions with my own knife. The cool metal glides over Elijah's heated skin, raising more goosebumps. "Of course not," I chime in, my voice a seductive purr. "They were far too busy gossiping about the Johnsons' messy divorce or the Taylors' son getting kicked out of his third prep school."

Elijah's breath hitches as our blades dance across his skin in tandem, a symphony of potential pain conducted by four steady hands. His muscles tense and relax in waves, caught between the instinct to flee and the futility of struggling against his bonds.

Mason's knife traces a delicate path along Elijah's hip bone, the sharp tip barely grazing the skin. Tiny beads of sweat break out across Elijah's brow as he struggles to control his breathing.

I pause, my own blade hovering just above Elijah's chest. "Wait," I say, feigning concern. "We should have asked—do you faint at the sight of blood, Elijah?"

Elijah's head snaps up, his expression almost incredulous. For a moment, he seems at a loss for words, as if he can't quite believe I've asked such a mundane question in this situation.

"Are you serious?" he finally manages, his voice tinged with disbelief. "After everything you've done, you're worried about me fainting?"

I shrug, a small smile playing at my lips. "Just being considerate. It would be such a shame if you passed out before we really got started."

Mason chuckles, the sound low and wicked. "Well, if our considerate questioning is done," he purrs, "shall we begin?"