Page 18 of The Darkest Gift

He releases Elijah's face, stepping back. I watch from the bed as he picks up one of the discarded earplugs.

"Sweet dreams, pretty boy," Mason murmurs, voice laced with mock tenderness as he pushes the foam plug into Elijah's left ear. There's a moment of tense silence, then Mason leans in one last time, his lips barely brushing the shell of Elijah's other ear.

"We'll see you in the morning," he whispers. "Or maybe we won't. Maybe we'll leave you here, bound and helpless, lost in your own personal darkness. Wouldn't that be fun?"

With that final taunt, he inserts the second earplug.

Chapter 11

Elijah

I cannot overpower both of them.

I have endured worse, I will endure this.

I will not let them break me.

This will not kill me.

I can bide my time.

Chapter 12

Iris

I don't want to get out of bed. It's warm in my cocoon of silken sheets and down comforter, a stark contrast to the chill I can feel lingering in the air beyond my sanctuary. The days are growing shorter and colder as Christmas approaches. Part of me wants to burrow deeper, to lose myself in the lingering scent of sex and expensive cologne that clings to the pillows.

But there's an undercurrent of excitement thrumming through my veins, a restless energy that makes it impossible to truly relax. My mind drifts to our guest, wondering how he fared through the long, silent night. Did he manage to find any rest, bound as he was to that unforgiving cross? Or did he spend hours lost in his own thoughts, reliving every touch, every sensation we'd inflicted upon him?

The faint hum of the TV filters to me from the sitting area, barely audible but enough to confirm that Mason has already started his day. My lips curve into a lazy smile as I imagine him there, probably nursing a cup of strong coffee as he catches up on the morning news. Always the early riser, my darling husband.

Curiosity finally wins out over comfort. I throw back the covers, shivering slightly as the cool air hits my bare skin. Goosebumps ripple across my flesh as I pad silently to the closet, selecting a silk robe in deep crimson. The material whispers against my skin as I wrap it around myself, cinching the belt at my waist.

I pause at the full-length mirror, taking in my reflection. My hair is a glorious mess, auburn waves tumbling over my shoulders. There's a faint bruise blooming on my neck where Mason had sucked particularly hard the night before. My fingers ghost over the mark, a pleasant ache radiating from the spot. Perfect.

Stepping back out of the closet, I'm greeted by the sight of Mason lounging in one of the leather armchairs. He's shirtless, wearing only a pair of black silk pajama bottoms that ride low on his hips. His dark hair is slightly mussed, giving him a sexy tousled look that makes my mouth water.

His eyes flick to me as I walk closer, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. "Good morning, darling," he purrs, voice still gravelly. "Sleep well?"

I hum in response, moving to perch on the arm of his chair. His hand immediately finds my thigh, fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin. "Well enough," I murmur, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple. "Though I must admit, I was rather... distracted."

Mason's chuckle is low and wicked, sending a shiver down my spine. "Oh? And what could possibly have been distracting you?"

My gaze drifts across the room, landing on the figure bound to the St. Andrew's cross, his golden skin a stark contrast against the dark wood. In the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, he looks almost ethereal—a fallen angel, beautiful in his captivity.

The blindfold remains firmly in place, a strip of black satin that accentuates his sharp cheekbones and the strong line of his jaw. His chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm, suggesting he might still be asleep. Or perhaps he's simply resigned himself to the sensory deprivation, lost in a world of darkness and silence.

I get up and approach him quietly, though I know he can't hear me. Up close, I can see the faint tremors running through his muscles, likely a mix of fatigue and the chill in the air. Goosebumps pebble his skin, and I fight the urge to run my hands over him, to warm him with my touch.

His lips are slightly parted, dry and slightly chapped from hours without water. The urge to kiss him, to soothe that abused flesh with my tongue, is almost overwhelming. But I resist. This is a game of patience, of control. And I intend to savor every moment.

"He's awake," Mason says softly, his voice cutting through my reverie. I turn to find him standing right behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. "Has been for a while now."

My eyebrow arches in surprise. "Oh? And how do you know that?"

Mason's lips curve into a wicked smirk. "I took him to use the bathroom about an hour ago. He was... pleasantly subdued."

The image of Mason manhandling a blindfolded and disoriented Elijah to the bathroom sends a thrill through me. "Did he give you any trouble?"

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