Page 81 of Dance of Ruin

Not “if you’re tired”.

Just:“Time for bed.”

Confusingly, I don’thatethe command or the control in that line.

I follow him down the hallway, my bare feet quiet on the polished floors. I don’t know why I obey. Maybe because defiance feels exhausting tonight. Maybe because pretending I have a choice takes too much energy.

The metal of the collar warms against my throat.

I did end up putting my foot down about the plug—though Nico calmly explained that tomorrow, when Ididwear it, it would come with a spanking to make up for tonight—but the collar seemed easy enough.

Simple, no big deal. Just like a choker.

But it feels like a lot more than “no big deal” now as I step into this man’s bedroom wearing it.

The lights are turned to a dim, warm glow as we walk in, the room smelling likehim: masculine, clean, with hints of smoke and leather.

Nico goes to one of the bedside tables and opens the drawer. When he turns around, I freeze when I see the length of white silk ribbon in his hand.

He looks at me, calm. “Hands.”

I shake my head once.

His expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t step closer.

Just waits.

And that’s worse.

Nico doesn’t need to demand. He just…exists. Like gravity. You can fight it for a while, but eventually you’ll succumb.

“Can I go to bed if I do this?”

“Another way might be that youcan’tgo to bed unless youdo.”

Dick.

I move forward. Slowly. Hands extended.

He binds my wrists in front of me, then gently tugs me toward the bed.

I expect him to throw me down and fuck me. To finally just get it over with.

This is how I lose my virginity,I think to myself, something dark curling inside me.

But he doesn’t.

He pushes me back onto the mattress and eases me against the pillows, like I’m something fragile.

I watch, my eyes widening and my pulse skipping as Nico peels his t-shirt off his hard, chiseled body. I flush, sliding my gaze greedily over him.

It occurs to me that I’ve never actually seen him this unclothed before. And holy fuck, the man isshredded. Pure, lean muscle from head to toe, with more tattoos covering his skin than I’d ever imagined. My eyes slide from the ink swirling on his neck down to the huge bird—a crow, or a raven—emblazoned on his chest.

I shiver when he takes my bound wrists and lifts them over my head. My pulse thuds, my throat working under the collar as he slips another length of silk ribbon—this one black—from behind the headboard and loops it around the ribbon binding my wrists. He yanks it tight, pulling my arms above my head, and my body begins to tremble.

My nipples tighten under the button-up top of the pajama set he graciously permitted me to put on.

…And heatpoolsbetween my thighs.

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