The room was suffocating with silence. Not the peaceful kind, but the heavy, electric stillness that prickled against the skin and made the heart pound like a war drum.
Dominic stood in the center of the dimly lit chamber, his wrists bound in thick black silk. The knot wasn't brutal—Lyra never needed brute force to trap him. The silk was warm from her touch, and it felt like a living extension of her will, coiling around him with the elegance of a snake.
She moved in slow, deliberate steps. Her heels clicked against the marble, the sound echoing in the space like a countdown to something inevitable. Shadows clung to her as if afraid to let her go.
Dominic's eyes locked onto her, but it wasn't defiance that burned in them now—it was hunger, raw and unrestrained, yet poisoned with frustration.
"Still resisting?" Lyra's voice was velvet laced with steel.
He swallowed, the sound loud in the silence. "I'm not resisting. I'm… processing."
Her lips curved. "Processing," she echoed, tasting the word like it amused her. "Do you think you can process your way out of me?"
Dominic's jaw flexed. "You're in my head, Lyra. You've been there since the first moment I saw you."
"And yet," she murmured, circling him slowly, her fingers trailing over the fine muscle of his shoulders, "you still cling to the illusion of control."
"I'm not—"
The silk tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to make his breath hitch.
"Every time you speak," she whispered near his ear, "I hear the tremor you're trying to hide. You're not afraid of me, Dominic. You're afraid of what I'm making you feel."
He closed his eyes, letting her words sink in, fighting the truth in them.
When she came to stand before him again, the air between them felt molten. "Do you know why I bound your hands?" she asked softly.
"To humiliate me," he said, the edge in his tone dulled by the heat in his blood.
"No." She reached up and cupped his jaw. "Because if your hands were free, you'd try to touch me. And if you touched me now, you'd never stop."
He tried to speak, but the words dried up in his throat. She was right. He hated how right she was.
Her thumb traced his lower lip, a slow, teasing drag. "You're mine in this moment, Dominic. Not because I chained you. Not because I took your power. But because you gave it to me… willingly."
His breath came faster. "I didn't—"
"You did," she cut in. "Every time you let me inside your thoughts. Every time you watched my lips and forgot the rest of the world existed. Every time you obeyed without realizing you were obeying."
Her gaze pinned him in place. "Shall I show you what it means to be truly bound?"
Before he could answer, she stepped closer, pressing her body against his. The scent of her—dark roses and something dangerous—flooded his senses. Her hand slid into his hair, tugging his head back, exposing his throat.
Dominic's breath stuttered when her lips brushed his pulse. "It's racing," she murmured, the warmth of her words seeping into his skin. "It's begging me."
She kissed him there, slow and lingering, and he felt it all the way down his spine.
The silk tightened again, and he realized she'd looped it around his torso without him noticing. Every movement she made seemed to draw him deeper into her rhythm.
"What do you want from me, Lyra?" he asked, the question coming out more desperate than he intended.
Her smile was wicked and soft all at once. "Everything. I want your obedience, your surrender… your mind. And when I have that, I'll take your soul."
She said it like a promise.
Dominic's pulse roared in his ears. A part of him wanted to fight, to tear the bindings away and reclaim himself. But another part—a darker, more honest part—wanted to see what would happen if he didn't.
She stepped back just far enough to look him in the eye. "Do you want me to stop?"
His lips parted, but no sound came out. His silence was its own confession.
Her grin deepened. "Good."
With a flick of her wrist, the silk around his wrists loosened just enough for him to feel the brush of freedom. But before he could act on it, she caught his hands in hers and guided them to her waist.
"Touch me," she said, her tone both a command and a dare.
When his fingers closed around her, it felt like crossing a line he could never return from.
Her breath caught, but she didn't stop him. Instead, she leaned in, their foreheads almost touching. "Now you understand," she whispered. "Control is an illusion. The only real power is knowing how to make someone give it to you."
Dominic's hands tightened on her hips, and his voice was a low growl. "Then take it. Take all of it."
Her smile turned feral. "Oh, Dominic… you have no idea how far I intend to go."
---
The night bled on in shadows and whispers. Every moment blurred into the next until time itself felt irrelevant.
By the time she finally stepped away from him, his body ached—not from pain, but from the weight of the connection she had forged. His wrists were free, yet he felt more bound than ever.
Lyra moved to the door, her back to him. "Tomorrow," she said without turning, "you will kneel. And you will thank me for tonight."
The door closed, leaving him alone in the darkness.
But Dominic knew one thing—when tomorrow came, he wouldn't fight it.
Not anymore.