9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Iris

I close the door behind me with a soft click, leaning against it for a moment as I exhale. The scent of home wraps around me. It’s intoxicating. Comforting. Familiar.

But it’s not just the scent. It’s the pull. This place, this life, this… game we play. It tugs at me like a lover’s hand slipping into mine, coaxing me to fall deeper. I was only gone for a couple of hours, but every part of me itched to be back here. Even while consulting with the police, my mind kept drifting—wondering, imagining—what Mason might be doing with our guest.

Guest feels like such an innocent word, doesn’t it? Like he’s some wayward traveler we’ve offered shelter for the night. Except everything about Elijah Winter is far from innocent, and I’m certain Mason has been making the most of that fact.

The corner of my mouth curves up as I step further into the house, heels tapping softly against the polished floor. My job always leaves me buzzing, but today… today was different. The case is fascinating, I’ll give it that. Six missing women now. No commonalities. No patterns. Just plucked out of thin air like ghosts.

It’s the kind of puzzle I live for—the kind that makes my blood sing. I love my work, truly, but maybe that’s because analyzing like-minded individuals comes so naturally to me. A little too natural, if we’re being honest. Not that the police need to know that, of course. They’d find my insights disturbingly accurate if they ever stopped to ask themselves why.

Victims of opportunity, that’s what they are calling them. That phrase stuck with me. It implies randomness, but there’s no such thing. People like me—like us—we don’t act without reason or purpose. The challenge is finding the thread, following it until the picture becomes clear.

And yet… even as the details danced in my mind, teasing me with their implications, I found myself distracted. Wondering if Mason had gotten bored. If he’d decided to start without me.

That thought sends a flicker of heat curling low in my stomach. God, I hope not. He knows how much I enjoy being there for it all, watching that first slide into the abyss, the first crack in their resolve. Elijah’s different from the others, though. There’s an edge to him I can’t quite put my finger on—a restlessness beneath the surface that feels almost familiar.

The mansion is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that wraps itself around you, clinging to your skin like a second layer, forcing you to listen for things that aren’t there. My heels click against the marble floor as I stride toward the staircase, each step measured and deliberate. The sound echoes in the cavernous space, sharp and rhythmic—a metronome marking time. Mason once called it the ticking of a clock, counting down to someone's inevitable doom. He wasn’t wrong.

The thought sparks a wry smile as I trail my fingers along the cool banister of the staircase as I start the ascent. Mason’s penchant for dramatics aside, he’s always had a way of making even the most mundane observations feel like prophecy. That dark humor of his—infectious, lingering. It’s one of the reasons I fell for him.

Still, the silence unnerves me. Not because it feels unnatural, no. Our home thrives in shadows, in stillness. But because it makes me wonder if he’s already broken Elijah. Already unraveled him. That would be… disappointing. For both of us. Such potential wasted. And Elijah… well, he has certain assets that deserve to be savored. Explored. His cock, for instance, is an unexpected delight—almost rivaling Mason's. Almost.

When I finally reach the bedroom door, I push it open without pause, the heavy wood groaning on its hinges. The sight that greets me steals my breath—not because I’m surprised, but because it’s so utterly perfect.

Elijah is still bound to the cross, his arms stretched wide, torso bare and glistening faintly under the ambient glow of the chandelier. A black mask covers his eyes, robbing him of sight, while his lips are parted ever so slightly, as though he’s mid-breath, caught between defiance and surrender. His chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm, betraying none of the storm churning beneath the surface.

And then there’s Mason. My husband. My partner in every sin worth committing. Reclined lazily in one of the armchairs he must’ve dragged over from the sitting room, completely naked save for the air of command that clings to him like a second skin. One leg draped casually over the other, his posture exudes a kind of regal indifference—as though he’s a depraved god surveying his domain, and Elijah is nothing more than a mortal offering laid bare before him.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches. Silent, calculating, amused. His gaze flicks to me briefly, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smirk before returning to our guest.

My lips twitch, amusement curling low in my stomach as I take another step forward, letting my gaze drift between the two men. They’re so different, yet complementary in a way that’s almost poetic. Mason, dark and unyielding. Elijah, all golden and light. Milk and white chocolate. And I’ve always had a sweet tooth.

"Have you been having fun without me, my love?" My heels click softly on the marble as I cross the room, my voice a low purr, playful yet edged with curiosity. Mason doesn’t answer right away—of course he doesn’t. He likes to make me wait, likes to draw out these moments where his silence speaks louder than words. His smirk widens slightly, a curve of wicked amusement that makes my stomach tighten in anticipation.

Elijah doesn’t react at all to my presence, and that’s what stops me mid-step. No flinch, no shift in his bound body, not even the slightest tilt of his head in acknowledgment. My gaze narrows, flicking over him as if those striking features of his will suddenly give something away. But it hits me then, sharp and satisfying, like piecing together the final part of a puzzle.

"Ahhh," I murmur, letting the realization glide off my tongue with indulgent delight. "On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me… fun with sensory deprivation." A grin tugs at my lips as I turn back to Mason, who looks for all the world like a cat that’s just been given cream. "Two of his senses?"

"Naturally," Mason replies smoothly, his voice rich and warm, though there’s an unmistakable glint of mischief in his eyes. It’s all the confirmation I need.

"How long has he been like this?" I ask, stepping closer to Elijah now. The air in the room feels heavier here, charged with anticipation, the kind that prickles along my skin like static electricity.

"Since you left," Mason says, leaning back further into his chair, every inch of him exuding smug satisfaction.

I hum low in my throat, letting the sound vibrate between us as my gaze returns to Elijah. He’s utterly still, muscles taut beneath smooth golden skin. I let my eyes roam freely, drinking in every detail, every shallow rise and fall of his chest. He really is exquisite.

"Don’t worry," Mason adds lazily, as if reading my mind. "I did feed him. Then I had to clean him up again." There’s a weight to his words, layered with unspoken implications, and when I glance back at him, his expression is nothing short of wicked. Sinister amusement dances in his eyes, daring me to imagine just how much he enjoyed it.

"Of course you did," I reply, my tone dry but laced with affection. Mason’s grin deepens, and for a moment, I’m torn between wanting to kiss him and wanting to smack that infuriatingly smug look off his face.

Instead, I turn my attention back to Elijah. Slowly, deliberately, I trace one pointed nail down the center of his chest, the motion light enough to tease but firm enough to leave a faint red line in its wake. His reaction is instant—a flinch, subtle but undeniable, rippling through him like an electric current before he forcibly reins himself in. His jaw tightens, his entire body going rigid as he shuts down whatever instinctive response I’d managed to provoke.

"Interesting," I murmur, my lips curving into a smile that’s equal parts pleased and predatory. "He’s trying so hard, isn’t he?"

"Admirably so," Mason agrees, his voice dripping with mock approval. "But we both know it won’t last."

I trail my fingers along Elijah's sculpted abdomen, feeling the muscles tense beneath my touch. His skin is warm, a light sheen of sweat glistening. I take my time, savoring each ridge and plane of his body.

"Has he been this quiet the whole time?" I ask Mason, my voice barely above a whisper.

Mason chuckles sinfully. "Oh no. He had quite a bit to say earlier. Didn't you, pretty boy?"

Of course, Elijah can't hear him. But I see the way his jaw clenches, the subtle flex of his biceps as he tugs against his restraints. He's hyper-aware of every sensation, every touch magnified in his darkened world.

Pulling out one of the earbuds I lean in close, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. "I bet you've been lonely without me here," I purr. "Did you miss me, Elijah?"

He turns his head slightly towards the sound of my voice. A smirk plays at the corner of his mouth. "Terribly," he drawls. "The conversation's been rather one-sided."

I can't help but laugh, delighted by his persistent sass even in this vulnerable state. "Smart ass," I murmur, nipping at his earlobe, before putting the earplug back in.

My hands continue their exploration, skimming over his ribs, down to his hips. I trace the sharp cut of his hip bones with my nails, just hard enough to leave faint red lines in my wake. Elijah's breath hitches, his abs contracting as he fights to stay still.

"Tell me, darling," I call to Mason, though my eyes never leave Elijah's face. "Has our guest been... this responsive the entire time I was away?"

Mason's voice is rich with amusement. "Oh, quite. His cock has been hard on and off all morning. It doesn't take much to get him going."

As if to prove the point, I let my hand drift lower, fingers ghosting along the length of Elijah's semi-hard cock. It twitches under my touch, rapidly filling as I trace the prominent vein on the underside.

"Is that so?" I muse, wrapping my hand around him fully. I give him a few slow, teasing strokes. "How delightful."

Elijah's hips jerk forward involuntarily, seeking more friction. A low groan escapes him, quickly bitten off as he regains control. But I've seen the crack in his composure, and I intend to shatter it completely.

I release his cock, ignoring his frustrated huff. My hands slide back up his torso, fingertips dancing across his skin. When I reach his chest, I pause, circling one nipple with my thumb.

Without warning, I pinch it. Hard.