Page 160 of Inevitable Endings


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No response.

I glance down. Lace bra. Panties. Pale skin exposed in the flickering overhead light. There are more belts around my ankles, loose but locked. Decoration, or preparation. I don’t know which is worse.

“Shit…” I whisper, yanking again, the edges of the cuffs biting into my skin. Panic starts to bloom, thick and ugly.

“Aslanov!?” I shout again, and it comes out as more of a sob. My voice echoes back to me in this hollow, padded tomb.

But I know.

He’s watching. He always watches first.

He wants the desperation. Wants to see how long it takes for the illusion of control to break me. And it’s working. My skin is slick with heat, the room is too warm, or I am. My body aches in the most humiliating ways, part pain, part something far worse.

I try to center myself, to remember that I asked for this.

Remember that he wouldn’t hurt me, remember that fear turns me on.

I draw in a sharp breath and lean forward as far as the restraints allow.

“I’m thirsty,” I say. It comes out cracked, hoarse. I swallow, but there’s nothing. “May I please have a drink?”

Still nothing.

“Please, Aslanov, I’m—”

The sound of the door unlocking slices through the air. I gostill. Even my breath pauses.

It swings open, and light floods the space, bright enough to make me flinch. I drop my gaze instinctively. I fall into the pose he likes. Kneeling. Humbled. Small. Exposed.

And there he is.

Aslanov steps inside like a storm, slow, assured, inescapable. Black shirt clinging to his broad frame, tattoos wrapping around his arms and crawling up his neck like inked chains. The scar between his eyes looks deeper than ever in this light. There’s no emotion in his expression. Just… ownership. He’s been waiting for this. No weak man is coming through this door.

He shuts the door behind him and locks it. Just the two of us now.

He stops just short of me, and I’m hyperaware of my body; how my knees are slightly parted, how my skin has flushed with heat, how the sweat slicking my thighs makes the leather belts chafe when I twitch. My chest rises and falls rapidly, nipples pressing against the lace of my bra, too aware of how little fabric shields me.

His eyes drop to the black straps around my limbs, and the corner of his mouth tilts, not a smile. Something sharper. Something proud.

He doesn’t speak at first.

Just watches me like a man studying the effect of his own creation. His gaze sweeps across my body—pausing at the glint of the locks, the way the restraints dig into my skin. I’m breathing so hard now it feels like I’m the only sound in the room. Humiliated, heated, helpless.

Aslanov moves toward the chair, deliberate in each step, like a predator who knows his prey won’t run, can’t run. He sits, spreading his legs slightly, his posture as relaxed as it is commanding.

He places the water bottle on the floor at his feet.

“Come here.”

The command slices through the silence.

It lands between my legs like a jolt, making my thighs twitch with instinct. I feel the pull, low and insistent. His voice has always done that to me. Rough and low, carrying that steel-wrapped threat of consequence behind every word. My thighs clench involuntarily, and I pray he didn’t notice.

But of course, he always notices.

I hesitate only a second. Then I obey. I shuffle forward on my knees, awkward with the chains, arms pinned tight to my sides, the belts resisting every move. My skin sticks to the mattress before I manage to slide onto the cold floor. It stings my knees.

He says nothing as I crawl toward him, each motion a reminder of my place. The closer I get, the more my breathing falters. I reach him and kneel between his boots, my body trembling as I settle at his feet.