Page 62 of Wicked Court

My body betrays me, nipples tightening with a blend of cold and a fear-tinged arousal. Wilder is the flame that always promises heat, but Kaspian … he’s the ice to extinguish that fire.

Footsteps, soft but sure, approach. I crane my neck, straining against the ties binding my wrists above my head.

Kaspian emerges from the archway. He hasn’t bothered with a mask, but the hood over his head shrouds his face.

“Elara,” he says, and his calm voice is a melody that resonates through my bones.

The mere sound of it should send shivers of dread through me, but instead, there’s a perverse thrill that spikes through my core.

“Kaspian,” I greet with a tremor in my voice that I can’t control.

Attraction? Panic? They’re so entwined now, I can’t separate one from the other.

His hands emerge from the folds of his robe, and even in the meager light of the chamber, I can see they’re steady, unyielding—the hands of a man who shapes the world to his will. His fingers are long, capable, tipped with the promise of both pleasure and agony.

“Are you ready for me?” he asks, and there’s no mistaking the challenge in his words. He has the worst of their fetishes, Axe said. “You made it through three of us, but I promise you, not me.”

“Am I ever truly ready for you, Kaspian?”

My question hangs between us.

He steps closer and I can’t help but arch toward him, drawn to his particular shade of black.

There’s starvation in his silence, with a predator’s patience that tells me he relishes this moment just as much as I dread and crave it.

Heat pools at the base of my spine, a cruel reminder of the denied release Axe, Cav and Wilder refused me. Wilder’s taste for control has left me swollen, each pulse between my thighs a silent scream for completion.

Kaspian circles me, his steps measured. I feel his gaze like a physical touch, inspecting the marks of possession that litter my body—bite marks that sing with a dull ache, nipples tender from relentless pinching and biting. He’s savoring the sight, feasting on the evidence of my torment with an appreciation that borders on reverence.

“Exquisite,” he murmurs, and there’s a murky pleasure in his voice.

I’m positive it’s not just the sight he enjoys. It’s the state I’m in—raw, exposed, teetering on the brink of madness from the need to climax.

“Help me,” I whisper, my voice hoarse.

But my plea dissolves into a gasp as Kaspian leans down, his breath cool against the heated welts on my skin. His lips graze a particularly sensitive bite mark, and I moan, caught in his merciless grip.

“Patience,” he chides softly, straightening. “I know better than to rush the experience.”

I swallow hard, bracing myself for what comes next. I can’t see his face, but I sense the shift in him, the air stilled by a hunter’s intent.

He retrieves something from the folds of his robe, and my breath catches. A set of gleaming clamps. My heart pounds, forceful beats that jump against my skin.

“Stay still,” he instructs, his voice low and commanding.

I bite back the retort that I have no choice, barely suppressing a whimper as he attaches the first clamp on my nipple, a bolt of lightning shooting through me, followed by a surge of unwanted arousal.

When he affixes the second, I can’t hold back a cry, the intensity of sensation skirting the edge of unbearable when he pulls wires from under the slab and attaches them.

“Perfect,” Kaspian breathes out, satisfaction lacing his tone.

He stands back, admiring his handiwork, the clamps a glinting testament to his unique brand of cruelty.

“Kaspian...”

My voice breaks, a mix of entreaty and accusation.

But there’s no room for reproach, not when every movement tugs at the clamps, sending endless waves of sensation coursing through me.

---