8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Mason

I recline in the sitting area of our bedroom, the faint scent of dark roast coffee curling through the air. The chair creaks slightly as I shift, leaning back with my mug and the case file balanced on my knee. The flatscreen on the wall drones on, the morning news anchor deadpan as she recounts last night’s crimes—a robbery gone wrong, a missing woman whose face flashes across the screen like an echo waiting to be solved. My eyes flicker between the file in my hand and the television. It’s a morbid ritual, but one that keeps me sharp. Relevant crimes are always worth noting; you never know when something might tie back to me—or Iris.

The rich bitterness of the coffee lingers on my tongue as I skim another paragraph. A diagonal slash of sunlight cuts across the room, warming the marble floors. The house feels heavy in its silence, save for the low hum of the TV and the occasional rustle of paper. Comfortable. Predictable. Almost peaceful.

And then she steps out of the bathroom.

"Christ," I mutter under my breath, setting the file down before it slips from my fingers.

Emerald green. Lace. Satin. The color matches her eyes, making them brighter. Stilettos that shouldn’t be legal this early in the morning. Everything about her is sharp edges and soft curves: the way the garters hug her thighs, the way her auburn hair spills over her bare shoulders like molten copper, the way her eyes lock onto mine with a heat that could burn down empires. My gaze drags up her body, deliberate and slow, until it finds her smirk—wicked and knowing, because of course she knows exactly what she’s doing.

I arch a brow as I take another sip of coffee. It's a distraction tactic more than anything, an attempt to keep myself grounded while the sight of her threatens to unravel my composure. If I didn’t already know she had somewhere to be, I’d have her bent over the bed right now, those heels digging into my calves as she screamed my name.

"Really?" Her voice is silk spun over steel, teasing and amused. "That’s all I get? A raised eyebrow?"

"You're lucky I'm not dragging you back to bed." My tone is casual, but there’s an edge beneath it, a growl that makes her smirk widen. She tilts her head, a strand of hair slipping past her collarbone, and I wonder—not for the first time—if she’ll ever get tired of me. If one day her games will end with a knife to my throat instead of a kiss. The thought doesn’t scare me as much as it should. Dying at her hands wouldn’t be the worst way to go.

"Tempting," she purrs, trailing her fingers along the door frame as she steps fully into the room. Her hips sway, her legs long and dangerous in those heels. She’s the picture of seduction, every movement calculated to drive me insane. And it’s working.

Damn her.

I watch with hungry eyes as Iris sways towards me, her emerald lingerie accentuating every curve. She plucks the coffee cup from my hand, her burgundy lips curling into a knowing smirk as she takes a sip. The scent of her perfume - jasmine and something sinful - envelops me.

"Enjoying the view?" she purrs, her voice husky.

My hand slides up the back of her thigh, relishing the smooth warmth of her skin. I grab a handful of her ass, squeezing appreciatively. "Always," I growl.

Iris hums, a sound of pure satisfaction that sends heat pooling in my groin. Her eyes glitter with mischief as she says, "I won't be gone too long. The police just want me to consult on this current case that's 'baffling' them."

The way she emphasizes "baffling" makes me chuckle. It's adorable how she finds their incompetence amusing.

"When I get home, can we have some fun?" she asks, tilting her head coyly.

I nod, my eyes raking over every inch of exposed skin. God, she's exquisite. Dangerous and alluring–the perfect match for me.

She hands me back the coffee before sauntering towards the closet. I swear she adds an extra sway to those hips, knowing full well what it does to me. Minx.

Draining the rest of my coffee, I set the empty cup down next to the file I was working on before I was distracted. There is no way I’m going to be able to concentrate now.

When Iris steps back out of the closet, she is in a black business dress and is pulling on a green blazer over it. The color perfectly complements her eyes, making them seem even more piercing.

"Our guest will need feeding, also," she says casually, as if discussing the weather.

We both turn our gazes to the far side of the room. There, secured spreadeagled to a St. Andrew's cross bolted to the wall, is Elijah Winter. The sight of him sends a thrill through me–part arousal, part wicked anticipation.

"I'm sure he's famished," I reply, matching Iris's nonchalant tone. "Perhaps I'll hand-feed him. Wouldn't want our esteemed guest to feel neglected."

Elijah's eyes flash at my words, a mix of defiance and... is that interest? I'm actually pleasantly surprised by his response to the situation. He hasn't screamed once, though it wouldn't matter if he did.

"You're being awfully quiet, Mr. Winter," Iris purrs, sauntering closer to him. "Cat got your tongue?"

Elijah's lips curl into a smirk. "Just enjoying the show," he replies, his voice rough from disuse but still carrying that smooth charm. "Though I must say, the accommodations leave something to be desired."

I can't help but chuckle. Even bound naked to the heavy wood, wrists, waist, and ankles secured, he maintains his wit. The restraints accentuate his athletic build, and I find my eyes tracing the lines of his muscles. Despite his compromising position, there's an almost feral glint in his icy blue eyes as he watches us intently.

"Well," I say, rising from my seat, "we'll have to see about making your stay more... comfortable."

The dark look in Elijah's eyes intensifies, and I can practically see the gears turning in that brilliant mind of his. He's plotting, no doubt about what he'll do to us given the first chance. The thought sends a shiver of excitement down my spine.

Iris checks her watch, her crimson nails a stark contrast against her pale skin. "I really must be going," she sighs. "Try not to have too much fun without me, boys."

As she sashays out of the room, I turn back to Elijah, a predatory grin spreading across my face. "Now then, what shall we do to pass the time?"

With Iris gone, the energy in the room shifts. Elijah's eyes track me warily as I approach, like a caged animal assessing a potential threat. The comparison isn't far off–he may be restrained, but there's still danger coiled in those taut muscles, barely contained beneath his skin.

"Comfortable?" I inquire, my voice dripping with mock concern.

Elijah tugs at his restraints, testing their strength. The muscles in his arms flex and strain, but the bindings hold firm. "Oh, just peachy," he replies, his tone dry as dust.

"Hungry?" I ask casually, as if we're having a normal conversation over breakfast.

Elijah's jaw clenches, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. For a moment, I think he might refuse to answer out of spite. But then his stomach growls audibly, and a wry smirk tugs at his lips.

"Starving, actually," he admits. "Though I have to say, this isn't quite how I imagined my morning going when I woke up yesterday."

I chuckle, admiring Elijah's ability to maintain his sense of humor even in this situation. "Life's full of surprises, isn't it?" I say, moving closer until I'm standing directly in front of him. "But where are my manners? Let's get you something to eat."

I turn and walk over to a small table near the wall, where a covered tray sits waiting. Lifting the silver dome reveals an assortment of bite-sized morsels–fresh berries, cubes of cheese, and delicate pastries. Nothing too messy or difficult to eat by hand.

Picking up the tray, I return to Elijah. His eyes narrow as he watches me, likely trying to discern my intentions. I select a plump strawberry from the tray and hold it up to his lips.

"Open wide," I instruct, my tone light but brooking no argument.

Elijah's eyes flash with defiance, but after a moment of tension, his lips part slightly. I press the strawberry against his mouth, watching intently as he takes a bite. Juice trickles down his chin, and I resist the urge to lean in and lick it off.

"Good boy," I murmur, my voice low and husky.

Elijah swallows, his throat working visibly. "Fuck you," he spits, but there's less venom in his tone than before.

I chuckle, selecting a cube of sharp cheddar next. "Now, now. Is that any way to talk to someone who's feeding you?" I tease, holding the cheese to his lips.

This time, Elijah nips at my fingers as he takes the morsel, his teeth grazing my skin just hard enough to sting. I hiss softly at the sharp bite, but my pupils dilate with approval. "Careful now," I warn, my voice dropping to a sinful purr. "We wouldn't want things to get... unpleasant."

Elijah's eyes flash, full of defiance. "And what exactly would you consider unpleasant, Mr. Blackwood?" he challenges, his voice low and rough. "Seems to me things are already pretty fucked up."

I can't help but chuckle at his audacity. Even bound and at my mercy, he still has that sharp tongue. It's... refreshing. Most of our guests are reduced to blubbering messes by this point.

"Oh, Elijah," I murmur, stepping closer until I'm mere inches from him. I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, see the rapid rise and fall of his chest as his breathing quickens. "We've barely begun to explore the depths of unpleasantness," I whisper, my lips ghosting over his ear.

I straighten, the smirk tugging at my lips impossible to suppress. I return to the small table, the gleam of polished mahogany catching the low light. The items arranged there like trophies—each one deliberate, each one meaningful.

"Ah," I say with mock innocence, fingers brushing against smooth leather and soft foam. "Oh, how could I forget? It's the second day." My words drip with theatrical exasperation, a wry grin twisting my mouth as I glance back at him. "Silly me."

Elijah’s eyes narrow, sharp blue and brimming with suspicion, though he doesn’t speak. He’s learning quickly—words only feed me. His silence hangs in the air, taut as a drawn bowstring.

I pick up the mask first, running my thumb over its sleek edge. The black satin catches the faint light from the chandelier in the room, shimmering like liquid darkness. "You’ll forgive me, won’t you?" I muse, turning it absently in my hands. "For being so... forgetful, I mean."

"Forgiveness feels like a stretch," Elijah bites out, his voice dry and cutting. But beneath the bravado, I catch the subtle shift in his posture—the slightest tensing of his shoulders, the twitch of his jaw. Oh, he's curious. More than that, he's bracing himself.

"Good thing I’m not asking for it," I reply smoothly, stepping closer. The weight of the mask feels satisfying in my palm—a promise yet to be fulfilled.

"Eyes first," I murmur, leaning in. My breath brushes against his cheek, and I swear I feel him flinch—barely perceptible, but oh so telling. His restraint is exquisite. Calculated. A game he thinks he can win.

"Don’t move," I warn, my voice a whisper laced with steel. His sharp inhale betrays him, but he stays still as I glide the mask over his eyes, fastening it snugly at the back of his head.

"Perfect," I say softly, admiring the way it fits him. His features are striking even now, his jaw tense, lips pressed into a thin line —but the mask strips away part of his armor, leaving him more vulnerable than before.

"Now, let’s do something about those ears," I add, plucking the earplugs off the table. They’re deceptively simple—small, unassuming—but the power they hold is immense. Deprivation has a way of sharpening every other sense, heightening awareness until even the smallest touch becomes electric.

"Do you know what happens when you lose two senses, Elijah?" I ask, my tone conversational, almost bored. I slide the foam plugs between my fingers, compressing them before leaning closer again. "Every sound you imagine gets louder. Every scent, more intense. Every touch feels... amplified."

"Sounds awful," he says dryly, but there’s a crack in his delivery—a slight hesitation that makes my smile widen.

"Awful?" I echo, slipping one plug into his left ear, then the right. My fingers linger just a moment too long, brushing against the shell of his ear. "Or intoxicating?"

The silence that follows is deafening. His breathing is heavier now, his chest rising and falling in uneven intervals. I take a step back, surveying my work—the blindfold, the earplugs, the way his body seems to hum with tension despite the restraints holding him in place.

"Beautiful," I murmur under my breath, though I’m certain he can’t hear me. And isn’t that the fun of it? The power in knowing I can say anything, do anything, and he’s entirely at my mercy.

"Shall we begin?" I say aloud, my voice slicing through the quiet like a blade. I watch him carefully, waiting for the inevitable reaction—the shiver, the clench of his fists, the way his lips part as if to speak but no words come.

It’s mesmerizing.

Dangerous.

And most importantly, it’s exactly where I want him.