Page 14 of The Darkest Gift

"Perfect," I say softly, admiring the way it fits him. His features are striking even now, his jaw tense, lips pressed into a thin line—but the mask strips away part of his armor, leaving him more vulnerable than before.

"Now, let’s do something about those ears," I add, plucking the earplugs off the table. They’re deceptively simple—small, unassuming—but the power they hold is immense. Deprivation has a way of sharpening every other sense, heightening awareness until even the smallest touch becomes electric.

"Do you know what happens when you lose two senses, Elijah?" I ask, my tone conversational, almost bored. I slide the foam plugs between my fingers, compressing them before leaning closer again. "Every sound you imagine gets louder. Every scent, more intense. Every touch feels... amplified."

"Sounds awful," he says dryly, but there’s a crack in his delivery—a slight hesitation that makes my smile widen.

"Awful?" I echo, slipping one plug into his left ear, then the right. My fingers linger just a moment too long, brushing against the shell of his ear. "Or intoxicating?"

The silence that follows is deafening. His breathing is heavier now, his chest rising and falling in uneven intervals. I take a step back, surveying my work—the blindfold, the earplugs, the way his body seems to hum with tension despite the restraints holding him in place.

"Beautiful," I murmur under my breath, though I’m certain he can’t hear me. And isn’t that the fun of it? The power in knowing I can say anything, do anything, and he’s entirely at my mercy.

"Shall we begin?" I say aloud, my voice slicing through the quiet like a blade. I watch him carefully, waiting for the inevitable reaction—the shiver, the clench of his fists, the way his lips part as if to speak but no words come.

It’s mesmerizing.

Dangerous.

And most importantly, it’s exactly where I want him.

Chapter 9

Iris

I close the door behind me with a soft click, leaning against it for a moment as I exhale. The scent of home wraps around me. It’s intoxicating. Comforting. Familiar.

But it’s not just the scent. It’s the pull. This place, this life, this… game we play. It tugs at me like a lover’s hand slipping into mine, coaxing me to fall deeper. I was only gone for a couple of hours, but every part of me itched to be back here. Even while consulting with the police, my mind kept drifting—wondering, imagining—what Mason might be doing with our guest.

Guestfeels like such an innocent word, doesn’t it? Like he’s some wayward traveler we’ve offered shelter for the night. Except everything about Elijah Winter is far from innocent, and I’m certain Mason has been making the most of that fact.

The corner of my mouth curves up as I step further into the house, heels tapping softly against the polished floor. My job always leaves me buzzing, but today… today was different. The case is fascinating, I’ll give it that. Six missing women now. No commonalities. No patterns. Just plucked out of thin air like ghosts.

It’s the kind of puzzle I live for—the kind that makes my blood sing. I love my work, truly, but maybe that’s because analyzing like-minded individuals comes so naturally to me. A little too natural, if we’re being honest. Not that the police need to know that, of course. They’d find my insights disturbingly accurate if they ever stopped to ask themselves why.

Victims of opportunity, that’s what they are calling them. That phrase stuck with me. It implies randomness, but there’s no such thing. People like me—like us—we don’t act without reason or purpose. The challenge is finding the thread, following it until the picture becomes clear.

And yet… even as the details danced in my mind, teasing me with their implications, I found myself distracted. Wondering if Mason had gotten bored. If he’d decided to start without me.

That thought sends a flicker of heat curling low in my stomach. God, I hope not. He knows how much I enjoy being there for it all, watching that first slide into the abyss, the first crack in their resolve. Elijah’s different from the others, though. There’s an edge to him I can’t quite put my finger on—a restlessness beneath the surface that feels almost familiar.

The mansion is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that wraps itself around you, clinging to your skin like a second layer, forcing you to listen for things that aren’t there. My heels click against the marble floor as I stride toward the staircase, each step measured and deliberate. The sound echoes in the cavernous space, sharp and rhythmic—a metronome markingtime. Mason once called it the ticking of a clock, counting down to someone's inevitable doom. He wasn’t wrong.

The thought sparks a wry smile as I trail my fingers along the cool banister of the staircase as I start the ascent. Mason’s penchant for dramatics aside, he’s always had a way of making even the most mundane observations feel like prophecy. That dark humor of his—infectious, lingering. It’s one of the reasons I fell for him.

Still, the silence unnerves me. Not because it feels unnatural, no. Our home thrives in shadows, in stillness. But because it makes me wonder if he’s already broken Elijah. Already unraveled him. That would be… disappointing. For both of us. Such potential wasted. And Elijah… well, he has certain assets that deserve to be savored. Explored. His cock, for instance, is an unexpected delight—almost rivaling Mason's. Almost.

When I finally reach the bedroom door, I push it open without pause, the heavy wood groaning on its hinges. The sight that greets me steals my breath—not because I’m surprised, but because it’s so utterly perfect.

Elijah is still bound to the cross, his arms stretched wide, torso bare and glistening faintly under the ambient glow of the chandelier. A black mask covers his eyes, robbing him of sight, while his lips are parted ever so slightly, as though he’s mid-breath, caught between defiance and surrender. His chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm, betraying none of the storm churning beneath the surface.

And then there’s Mason. My husband. My partner in every sin worth committing. Reclined lazily in one of the armchairs he must’ve dragged over from the sitting room, completely naked save for the air of command that clings to him like a second skin. One leg draped casually over the other, his posture exudes a kind of regal indifference—as though he’s a depraved god surveyinghis domain, and Elijah is nothing more than a mortal offering laid bare before him.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches. Silent, calculating, amused. His gaze flicks to me briefly, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smirk before returning to our guest.

My lips twitch, amusement curling low in my stomach as I take another step forward, letting my gaze drift between the two men. They’re so different, yet complementary in a way that’s almost poetic. Mason, dark and unyielding. Elijah, all golden and light. Milk and white chocolate. And I’ve always had a sweet tooth.

"Have you been having fun without me, my love?" My heels click softly on the marble as I cross the room, my voice a low purr, playful yet edged with curiosity. Mason doesn’t answer right away—of course he doesn’t. He likes to make me wait, likes to draw out these moments where his silence speaks louder than words. His smirk widens slightly, a curve of wicked amusement that makes my stomach tighten in anticipation.

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