He doesn’t speak.
Just grabs my wrists, lifts them above my head, and ties the rope tight, not cruel, but firm. Intentional. My black lace gloves catch the light, delicate against the rough twine, and I feel the contrast like a brand.
“Mmm, this is the body I pray to,” he whispers.
Then he turns me and faces me toward the hay.
I hear the blade before I see it, sharp, fast, a clean stab into the bale just above my head. The hilt juts out, solidand gleaming, and he drapes the rope over it like a hook. My arms go taut, and my breath catches.
I don’t fight it.
Iwelcomeit.
He steps behind me, one hand on my waist, the other trailing up my spine like he’s mapping every vertebrae. His touch is rougher than usual, less careful, more claimed. And I lean into it.
Because I want this.
Because I wore lace and velvet and walked into a maze knowing he’d follow.
Because I need to be reminded.
“You knew I’d do this,” he murmurs, voice low against my ear.
“I hoped you would.”
He laughs, dark and quiet. “You’re mine, Blair. And tonight, I’m not letting you forget it.”
His arms wrap around my waist, velvet crushed between us, and I feel the heat of him through the chill. His hands slide down, slow and deliberate, tracing the curve of my hips, the dip of my waist, the fullness of my ass like he’s memorizing it all over again.
Goosebumps rise across my skin.
Not from the cold.
From him.
From the way he touches me like I’m his favorite secret. Like he’s earned this. Like he’s owed this.
His grip tightens, fingers digging in just enough to make me gasp. Not in pain. In recognition. Because thisis what we are now—rough edges, velvet skin, and the kind of hunger that doesn’t ask permission.
“You wore this for me,” he says again, dragging his hands back up, over the corset, the lace, the places he’s already claimed. “You wanted me to see what I made.”
“I wanted you to finish it.”
He grips the sheer fabric at my hips, fingers curling into the gauze like he’s deciding whether I deserve to keep it.
Then he rips.
The skirt tears away in one brutal motion, the sound sharp and final. Hay scratches my thighs. Cold air bites my skin. I gasp, but not in protest.
Because I knew this was coming.
“You let them see you like this,” he growls, voice low against my ear. “You walked through that maze dressed forme, but you letthemlook.”
I don’t speak.
I don’t need to.
His hand comes down hard against the curve of my ass, once, twice, rough, possessive, not cruel. A reminder. A claim. My breath stutters, but I don’t flinch.
