The gag was beside the choker. A black rubber ball attached to a leather strap. She reached for it, running her fingers over the chill of the surface, holding it against her lips before she shook her head and dropped it.
"Are you insane?" asked the little voice of reasoning she thought had left her.
"You're worse than a whore." That was the voice of the judgmental one.
Leila's fingers encircled the cold metal of the spreader bar next, coaxing it from its hooks. It was heavier than she had expected, solid, and mean. She grasped both sides, feeling its weight, then swung it experimentally through the air. It cut through the silence with a soft whoosh, the motion sending a shiver down her back.
She wheeled about to stand in front of the mirror, the bar held high as if testing how much force it would require to crack a skull. Makros' skull. Her eyes flashed with it, and her heart began racing. If she struck him in the correct place, maybe the temple or the back of the head, she could end it. No more mind games, no more chains, no more control.
Her grip on the bar clenched harder. She could nearly visualize it. The point of contact. The manner in which his body would fall to the ground. But would she truly do it?
She had missed two chances already. Not due to lack of strength but because she wanted it done her own way—with thegolden revolver. That was the killing she desired, the way she had sworn to take him out. Not this.
With a frustrated sigh, she placed the spreader bar back on the hook. It wasn't a question of if she could kill him. She could. But she was going to control the narrative, kill him when she was ready, in the way she'd envisioned a million times.
Her gaze flicked to the mirror again, and for a moment she wondered what really possessed her. It's like being with Makros brought out a freak in her.
Fatigue tugged at her muscles, pulling her back into reality. The spreader bar, the choker, the flogger, the restraints, they all slipped away from her mind as she climbed onto the bed, drawing the sheet over her bruised flesh.
Her body ached, but her mind, her mind was discordant.
Slowly, blackness enveloped her.
Chapter Fifty three
Promotions
One of the two phones resting on his bedside table buzzed nonstop, jolting Makros awake from a heavy, sleep-deprived doze. He sat up, his mind slow to dispel the haze.
His gaze drifted over to the thick curtains, shut barely an inch to allow a slice of illumination into the room. It was then that he realized the steady rain pounding against the window glass.
His body ached from fatigue, but the moment the last twenty-four hours came surging back—disclosures, betrayals, punishments, his mind cleared.
Despite his current state of haziness, his mind pulled up the image of Dimitri. Had Dragon coaxed out another revelation from him, or was his story still the same one? There was still time left within the twenty-four-hour time period he had granted Dragon for questioning.
Most men cracked within hours of interrogation when Dragon was involved, but Dimitri was not like most men. If he truly had nothing to confess, Makros wouldn't be surprised if he endured the full twenty-four hours, and maybe even longer.
Then his mind shifted from Dimitri to Stefanos. Whether or not he had been secretly working with Vincenzo, his other actions were enough to seal his fate. Helping Leila escape was one thing but kissing her? That was unforgivable. There would be no mercy.
Makros drew a deep breath, rubbing a hand over his face as he hauled himself out of the bed. Men like him did not needa lot of rest, just merely enough so they would not burn out. That's all he could afford, a moment's rest, then the weight of responsibility slammed back over him.
With his regular precision, he speedily dressed himself up in black sleeves rolled up, and trousers. Grabbing his phones in hand, he stepped out into the hall, closing the door gently behind him.
Between Dimitri and Leila, who was he to see first?
The answer was immediate.
"My wife comes first. She takes precedent above all things."
On his way towards the sex dungeon, he wondered what Leila had done with herself in solitude. Had she spent the time pouting in rage? Or had she learned something from the chastisement that he had given her? The answer mattered to him.
Nicolai regarded him with a curt nod as he reached the door before unlocking it. Makros went inside.
Leila had been perched on the edge of the bed, still in the clean attire that Elisa had brought to her the previous evening.
Her eyes flashed up at him. She didn't need words to convey defiance. It was there, as transparent as glass in every glance, and in every breath she breathed.
He studied her intently, noticing the small tells she likely thought she kept properly concealed. The slight clenching of her shoulders. The way her fingers curled into a fist, then gradually relaxed against her knee. She was waiting for him.
