"How long?"
He shrugs. "Till he's done with his meeting. Could be twenty minutes. Could be two hours. Longest I seen someone hold it was four hours, but she was a professional submissive. Trained for it."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you leave now and don't come back." His dead eyes show a flicker of something—pity, maybe. "He doesn't like disobedience, girl. You knew that."
I did know that.
I do know that.
But I had to see him, had to try to change his mind about sending me away.
"Do it."
He positions me carefully, professionally.
Arms stretched above, wrists cuffed to the top bar with leather restraints lined in fur—comfort and cruelty combined.
Legs spread wide, ankles cuffed to the bottom corners.
The dress rides up, exposing my thighs.
The position isn't painful at first, but I can feel how it will be.
The stretch in my muscles, the strain that will build.
"He'll come when he's ready," Lionel says. "Piece of advice? Don't fight it. The more you tense, the worse it gets. Just breathe through it."
Then he leaves me alone.
I can hear them through the walls.
Not the words, just the rumble of male voices.
Cassius's distinctive tone cutting through the others.
Occasionally, laughter—dark, masculine laughter that makes me wonder what kind of business they're really discussing.
My arms begin to ache after ten minutes.
A burn that starts in my shoulders and spreads down.
My legs start trembling after twenty, thighs shaking from being held so wide.
By thirty minutes, I'm sweating despite the cool air.
I hear someone in the hall mention a journalist.
Rebecca something. An accident. Problem solved.
My blood chills as I realize they're discussing murder as casually as a quarterly report.
This is who he really is.
He’s not just dominant, not just dark—he’s genuinely dangerous.
A man who orders death as easily as ordering his morning coffee.
