Page 122 of The Owner's Temptation

The air inside is warmer, thicker. Heavy with the scent of leather and something darker beneath it—smoke, spice, and power. It clings to my skin the moment I step inside.

The room is stunning. Every inch of it curated. Designed. Owned.

To the right, a four-poster bed draped in jet-black sheets. The posts are thick and sturdy, with discreet cuffs hanging from the corners.

Directly across from it is a Saint Andrew’s cross, polished and menacing. Shelves line one wall, holding coils of rope in every color imaginable—some thick and braided, others thin and delicate like silk thread.

There’s a bench. A sling. A swing suspended from the ceiling.

It’s not decoration.

It’s used. Maintained. Loved.

I feel it in the air. The energy of dominance and submission lingering like a scent. Like a memory.

A mirror covers the ceiling above the bed. Of course, it does.

This isn’t just a room. It’s a stage.

A place to perform. To be worshipped. To be broken.

My body flushes hot.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t… this.

I wander toward the bed, fingertips grazing the soft bedding. My skin tingles with every step.

It feels wrong to be in here without him.

And yet, I can’t bring myself to leave.

Because this room tells me exactly what he is.

What he wants.

And something deep inside me—something dark and desperate—wants it too.

A voice slides through the room like silk-draped steel, dark and rich and laced with a wicked edge.

“I like seeing my prey wander around my toys.”

I spin around, startled, my bare feet hitting the polished wood with a quiet thud. My eyes scan the room, but there’s no one there—only the echo of his voice drifting down from the recessed speakers in the ceiling.

It’s him.

The Devil.

“WhyamI here?” I demand, my voice stronger than I expect it to be. “Why bring me here just to leave me alone?”

“Because we made a deal,” he replies, smooth and certain, like he’s been waiting for me to ask.

“A deal based on trust,” I shoot back. “And it’s hard to trust someone who locks me in their house.”

A low, rich chuckle rolls over me like thunderclouds gathering above the horizon. It settles in my chest. Between my thighs. Everywhere.

“You’re not locked in, little rabbit.”

I blink.

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