The studio lights were merciless. They turned Sarah’s skin to warm gold and made every bead of sweat on her collarbone glisten like a jewel. Cassian moved around her in slow, predatory circles, camera clicking in short, controlled bursts. Each flash froze her in a different stage of surrender: wrists crossed above her head, crimson rope looped in perfect diamonds across her ribs, back arched so sharply I thought her spine might snap.

“Open your knees wider,” he said, voice low and steady. “Let me see how much you want this.”

Sarah obeyed instantly, thighs parting, breath hitching on a soft moan that echoed off the black walls. The rope framed her like a gift. She looked ruined and radiant at the same time.

I stood three feet away holding a silver reflector, arms aching, cheeks burning so hot I was sure the heat would melt the foil. Every order he gave her slid under my skin and twisted.

Look at me, Sarah.

Good girl.

Hold it right there—don’t move until I say.

That’s it, breathe for me.

I had watched p**n before (quietly, guiltily, on my laptop with headphones), but this was different. This was live. This was real breath and real goosebumps and the real scent of arousal thick in the air. And I was part of the production: adjusting a light here, handing him a longer rope there, wiping condensation off a lens when he asked. My hands shook every time our fingers brushed.

I hated that my body was reacting. Hated the slick throb between my legs, the way my nipples tightened against my bra, the way I had to press my thighs together when he murmured perfect right before the shutter snapped.

Sarah was lost in it, eyes glassy, lips parted, trembling on the edge he refused to let her fall over. Cassian crouched low, camera angled up between her legs, and said, almost tenderly, “You’re dripping for me, sweetheart. The lens can see everything.”

She whimpered.

I nearly dropped the reflector.

Cassian’s head turned a fraction. He didn’t stop shooting, but I felt the weight of his attention shift to me like a physical touch. He saw the flush on my neck, the way I couldn’t stand still, the way my chest rose too fast.

“Break,” he said suddenly, lowering the camera.

Sarah let out a frustrated little whine, but he was already on his feet, tossing a black silk robe toward her. She caught it, pouting, and slipped it on without bothering to tie the belt. The fabric gaped open, revealing everything the ropes had framed minutes ago.

Cassian crossed the studio in four long strides and stopped in front of me. Too close. His chest nearly brushed mine. The heat rolling off him carried the faint scent of darkroom chemicals and warm skin.

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly, so only I could hear. “Talk to me.”

I stared at the center of his throat because I couldn’t look him in the eye. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” His voice dropped even lower. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Everything. Nothing. The way you say good girl like it’s a drug. The way she looks at you like you’re a god. The way my body is screaming for something I swore I’d never want from you.

I shook my head, lips pressed tight.

He studied me for a long second, then reached out and took the reflector from my numb fingers. When his knuckles grazed mine, electricity shot straight to my core and I jerked back a step.

“I need air,” I whispered. “I just— I need to get out of this room.”

His eyes narrowed, not angry, calculating. Like he could see the pulse hammering at the base of my throat and knew exactly what it meant.

“Ivy—”

“Please.” My voice cracked on the word.

He didn’t move, didn’t let me pass. The air between us felt thick enough to choke on. Sarah watched from the chaise, sipping water, legs crossed like a queen waiting for the next act.

Cassian leaned in until his lips almost brushed my ear. His breath was warm, deliberate.

“You’re soaked, aren’t you?” he murmured, so low I barely heard it. “I can smell it on you. You’re standing here pretending to be disgusted, but your little body is begging for the exact same thing she’s getting.”

I flinched so hard my shoulder hit the wall.

He straightened, expression unreadable again, and stepped aside—just enough for me to escape.

“Go,” he said, soft but final. “Take five. Cool off. But don’t think for a second this conversation is over.”

I bolted.

I didn’t stop until I reached the hallway upstairs, slamming the bathroom door behind me and locking it with shaking fingers. I braced both hands on the marble counter, staring at my reflection: pupils blown wide, lips swollen like I’d been kissing someone, cheeks scarlet.

Between my legs I was drenched. My panties clung to me, useless. I could feel how swollen I was, how empty, how one accidental brush of my own fingers might send me over the edge I’d been teetering on for the last hour.

I turned the cold tap on full and splashed water on my face, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped. Because he was right.

And when I closed my eyes I could still hear his voice telling Sarah to open wider, still see the way her body obeyed before her mind even caught up.

I pressed my thighs together and hated myself for the moan that slipped out.

Downstairs, the shoot would start again any minute.

He was waiting for me to come back.

And God forgive me, some desperate, broken part of me already wanted to run straight into the fire just to know how much it would burn.

The last flash popped and the studio lights dimmed to a soft amber glow. Sarah stretched like a satisfied cat, ropes loosened and trailing from her wrists, skin marked with beautiful red diamonds that would bruise purple by morning. Cassian lowered the camera, checked the back screen once, and gave her the smallest nod of approval.

“Perfect,” he said. “We’re done.”

Sarah practically purred. She slipped the robe back on, tied it loosely, and sauntered over to him for a lazy, lingering kiss on the cheek. “You’re a genius, Cassian. Same time next week?”

“I’ll text you,” he answered, already turning away.

I stood frozen near the light stand, arms full of coiled rope and crumpled silk, feeling like I’d been run over by something I couldn’t name. My legs trembled. My panties were ruined. I couldn’t look at either of them.

Cassian’s gaze found me across the room. “Ivy. Upstairs. Shower and change for dinner. Twenty minutes.”

His voice was calm, almost gentle, but it scraped over every raw nerve I had left. I nodded once and fled.

I took the stairs two at a time, dropped the ropes in the laundry room without looking, and locked myself in the guest bathroom on the second floor. The mirror showed a stranger: wild eyes, flushed throat, hair sticking to damp temples. I looked like I’d been the one tied up for two hours.

I stripped fast, kicking clothes into the corner, and turned the shower as hot as it would go. Steam billowed up instantly, fogging the glass, swallowing the room. I stepped under the spray and let it punish my skin.

For thirty seconds I just stood there, head bowed, water pounding the back of my neck.

Then the images started.

Cassian’s hands sliding the crimson rope across Sarah’s ribs.

His low, steady voice telling her to hold still.

The way his fingers had checked the knots, clinical and possessive all at once.

The tiny intake of breath when he’d tugged and the rope had bitten into her skin.

I closed my eyes and suddenly it wasn’t Sarah’s body under those hands.

It was mine.

I saw him behind me, chest to my back, one arm banded across my waist while the other guided the rope between my breasts. I felt the heat of his mouth at my ear, felt the exact pressure of his teeth on my shoulder when he decided I’d been good enough to earn a mark. I felt his palm sliding lower, slow and deliberate, until his fingers brushed the place that was aching so badly I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning out loud.

My own hand followed the fantasy without permission.

One second I was gripping the tile wall for balance, the next my fingers were between my thighs, slick and swollen and desperate. I circled once, twice, hips jerking forward into my own touch, and the sound that left my throat was embarrassingly loud in the tiled room.

Cassian.

His name tore out of me on a broken whisper. I pictured him stepping into the shower behind me, water streaming down the hard lines of his chest, his hands replacing mine, rougher, surer, knowing exactly how to wreck me. I imagined him pressing me face-first against the glass, spreading my legs with his knee, telling me I wasn’t allowed to come until he said so.

My knees buckled. I had to slap a hand over my mouth to muffle the cry as the orgasm slammed into me, fast and brutal and humiliating. My entire body clenched, thighs shaking, water pouring over me while I came apart on my own fingers imagining the one man I was supposed to hate.

The aftershocks rolled for what felt like forever.

Then shame crashed in, cold and suffocating.

I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the shower floor, knees to chest, letting the water beat against my back. Tears mixed with the spray; I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

What the hell was wrong with me?

I came here for one reason and one reason only: seven nights. Survive seven nights and Mom’s debt disappeared. I could sell the house, pay off the medical bills, breathe again. Go back to my quiet, safe life where the only thing that touched me was loneliness.

Cassian Voss was not part of that life. He was the man who broke my mother’s heart, the man who turned pleasure into power and power into art. He was poison, just like Mom always said.

I just had to keep my clothes on, keep my mouth shut, and count the days.

Six more nights.

I could do this.

I stood up on shaky legs, turned the water ice-cold until my teeth chattered, and scrubbed every inch of skin raw. When I stepped out, I avoided the mirror. I didn’t want to see what was written on my face.

I dressed in the plainest thing I could find: soft gray leggings and an oversized sweater that swallowed me whole. Armor. Distance. I twisted my wet hair into a knot and marched downstairs determined to act normal.

The dining room smelled like garlic and rosemary. Cassian was already at the table, sleeves rolled up, pouring red wine into two glasses. He looked up when I walked in, eyes flicking over me once, slow and deliberate, like he could see straight through the layers of cotton to the marks my own fingers had left.

“Dinner’s ready,” he said, voice perfectly civil. “Sit.”

I sat.

He pushed a plate toward me: roast chicken, baby potatoes, asparagus glistening with butter. It looked and smelled incredible, but my stomach was tied in knots.

We ate in silence for a few minutes. I kept my eyes on my food, cutting everything into tiny pieces I couldn’t taste.

Finally he spoke.

“You lasted longer than I thought you would today.”

I froze, fork halfway to my mouth.

He leaned back in his chair, wineglass dangling from his fingers.

“Most people either run screaming or beg to join in by the third roll of rope. You just… watched.” His gaze sharpened. “And you felt every second of it, didn’t you?”

Heat flooded my face. I set the fork down carefully.

“I’m here for the money,” I said, proud that my voice didn’t shake. “That’s all.”

He smiled, slow and dangerous.

“Of course you are.” He took a sip of wine, eyes never leaving mine. “Six more nights, little girl. Six more nights and you’re free.”

He lifted his glass in a mock toast.

“But tell me something, Ivy.” His voice dropped to that velvet register that made my spine melt. “When you were in that shower just now, screaming my name into your own hand… did it feel like you were only here for the money?”

The fork slipped from my fingers and clattered against the plate.

He couldn’t know.

He couldn’t possibly—

His smile widened, dark and triumphant, and he raised one brow.

“These walls are old,” he said softly, “but they aren’t that thick.”

My heart stopped.

Six more nights.

And Cassian Voss had just heard everything.