Page 36 of Unveiled

But I’m not stupid enough to refuse him. Not with the stakes this high.

I move to the bed, swallowing my fear, and arrange myself as… directed.

I hear his footsteps approaching and feel him draw closer. “Good girl,” he says. “Just like that.”

I close my eyes as a rush of feelings floods me, feelings I can’t decipher.

I hate how my body responds, how the silence that follows stretches taut, a thin thread about to snap. How I feel him watching me, assessing, like a predator savoring the moment before the strike.

I wonder if he sees I’m shaved. If he notes the way my thighs jiggle and my belly wobbles. If he cares that my toenails are unpolished and my hair askew and disheveled.

The tension between us snaps and crackles, sparks flying. I tremble in spite of myself. My breathing is shallow.

When he doesn’t move immediately, the silence between us stretches.

When his hand grazes the curve of my hip—barely a whisper of a touch—and shockwaves course through me. Ifeel his heat, the deliberate control behind every move, and I shiver.

“You’re trembling,” he observes, his voice low and smooth, like the edge of a knife. “Are you afraid, Anya?”

I want to snap back at him, to deny him the satisfaction of seeing the effect he has on me. But I can’t. I’m not just afraid—I’m undone. He strips away my defenses with every word, every look, leaving me raw and exposed.

“I don’t know,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

I feel the tears before I realize they’re falling. They slip silently down my cheeks, splashing my hands.

He leans down, his voice impossibly close to my ear, and when he speaks, it’s softer, almost coaxing. “Good,” he murmurs. “Fear keeps you sharp. But it’s obedience, Anya, that earns rewards.”

Before I can process his words, his hand slams down sharply on my bare ass. The sound is deafening in the quiet, the sting radiating across my skin, hot and bright. My breath hitches, and I let out a strangled gasp—not from pain, but from the unexpected wave of pleasure that surges through me.

My core clenches, and I hate the way my body reacts to him.

“You deserve a lot more than that,” he says, his voice a dark purr. “To remind you who’s in charge.” His hand doesn’t leave my skin. Instead, his fingers trail lazily over the spot he struck, soothing the sting in a way that only makes the ache inside me worse.

“You liked that,” he says, and it’s not a question. His voice is full of dark amusement, and I want to deny it, to fight him, but I can’t.

I bury my face in the bed, trying to hide from the shame and vulnerability.

“Look at me.”

Reluctantly, I meet his eyes.

They are sharp, unreadable, but his gaze burns into me. “I said, look at me, Anya.”

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, his voice a dangerous whisper, and I know it’s not a question he asks lightly. He doesn’t want to. And a part of him doesn’t want to continue without my say.

Oh god.

I swallow hard, my throat dry, and shake my head.

“Good girl,” he repeats.

My eyes flutter closed at the feel of his warm hand slipping between my thighs, his fingers grazing me where I’m already embarrassingly wet. I gasp, my hips jerking involuntarily at the contact.

“Jesus,” he groans, his voice tinged with approval. “You’re soaked.”

His fingers slide over me again, teasing, never quite giving me what I want. It’s maddening.

“Do you like this?” he asks, his lips brushing against the curve of my ear.

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