Page 12 of The Lasso Master

One large hand cradled the back of her head, guiding it gently to rest against his broad shoulder. His scent—clean skin, worn leather, and something unmistakably him—settled over her like a second blanket. For a long moment, he just held her. No commands, no games, no pressure. Just warmth. Just presence. And the slow, steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek, thudding like a metronome she hadn’t realized she needed. She hated how safe it felt—even more, how naturally she gave in to it.

But she didn’t run either. Didn’t flinch when he held her closer, didn’t pull away when his fingers stroked gently through her hair. Her body stayed tense for another breath, two—but then something inside her let go. Just a little. Just enough. She let herself lean into him, let the heat of his chest seep into her bones. And when his lips brushed her temple—soft, steady, unassuming—she didn’t pretend it didn’t matter.

And when he tipped her chin up with two fingers, his voice was gentler than she expected.

“Next time you need to test me,” he said, “do it with your words. Not your escape skills.”

She swallowed hard. Her mind was a mess of scrambled signals—anger, heat, shame, longing. Everything he’d done, every way her body had responded, was still echoing under her skin. She didn’t know what it meant. Didn’t know how to sort the hunger from the humiliation, the safety from the control. Her chest felt too tight, like her ribs were trying to hold in something too big and wild. And worse—part of her didn’t want to sort it. Part of her wanted to sink into the confusion and let him keep taking control, because it was easier than untangling the truth.

“You’re still under my protection. Still mine to command. But if you need to fight, do it out loud. I can take it.”

She said nothing. Her thoughts were too loud, too tangled to untie. One part of her screamed she was losing herself—that letting him in, even like this, was a mistake she couldn’t afford. Another part whispered that it had never felt this good to be seen, to be touched, to be held without being broken. She tried to rationalize it: maybe it was just adrenaline, maybe it was the heat of the moment, maybe it meant nothing at all. But her heart wasn’t listening to logic.

Deep down, where she kept her oldest fears and her sharpest truths, something stirred—something that looked suspiciously like wanting more, crashing into each other with the weight of everything she wasn’t ready to feel. How was she supposed to reconcile the sharp, humiliating pleasure of being mastered with the soft safety of being held? Her mind spun, trying to label it, categorize it, pin it down like a butterfly in glass—but nothing fit. It was infuriating. And terrifying. And underneath it all, deeply, achingly real.

But the next time his hand brushed hers, she didn’t pull away. Her fingers twitched—just a reflex, she told herself—but they stayed warm against his. Holding the contact. Choosing it. And in that stubborn, silent touch, she admitted what her pride refused to say out loud: this wasn’t over. Not for her. Not for him. Something had started in that room—and she was already half-afraid she’d let it finish her.

6

REED

Reed didn’t trust easy. What he did trust were patterns—timing, silence, the way predators moved when they thought no one was watching. And right now, the rhythm of this job was off. Too polished. Too quiet. Like someone was staging a scene just for him, waiting for the right moment to pull him in deeper.

Sitting in his upstairs study, one of the few rooms Harper hadn’t attempted to pick the lock on—yet—he stared at the folder spread across his desk. The documents had arrived half an hour ago, hand-delivered by a courier who only took cash and didn’t speak. That kind of courier didn’t run errands unless someone very rich, very dangerous, or very dead, ordered it.

The intel inside was worse than he’d expected. What had started as a string of isolated thefts now traced a far more calculated pattern—four recent museum heists across three countries, each hitting obscure but culturally priceless artifacts. Not flashy. Not random. Purposeful. Each item had vanished for weeks, only to reappear behind digital walls of an exclusive BDSM auction network—one masked by dummy corporations, encrypted servers, and paywalls that only the most elite could breach. The kind of operation that didn’t just want rare goods—it wanted secrets, leverage, and power. And it was using kink to wrap the whole thing in velvet gloves.

Reed felt his jaw clench, the muscles twitching tight enough to ache. His pulse ticked louder in his ears, and for a beat, he had to remind himself to breathe. Whoever was running this wasn’t just hiding behind shadows—they were weaponizing desire. Turning intimacy into commerce. And dragging Harper right into the crosshairs.

And Harper was right in the middle of it. Not just as an outlier or unlucky thief. Someone had inserted her into this, shaped her path, and then pulled back like a shadow puppeteer. Her presence in Istanbul, her uncanny timing, her skill set—it all fit too neatly. And the more he thought about it, the more it reeked of design.

Reed clenched his jaw. Years ago, back when he’d worked on a special assignment, deep-cover for Naval Intelligence, there had been whispers of something like this—an invisible auction ring that blurred the line between desire and exploitation, sex and coercion, pleasure and power. He hadn’t been able to prove it then. But now? The ghost had a name. A network. A footprint. And Harper was tangled in it like bait on a hook.

He flipped to the last page—a surveillance still of her, tucked into the shadows of a luxury club in Istanbul two years ago. Her hair was longer, swept into a high knot that made her look older, more dangerous. Her smile had edges, more performance than pleasure, and her eyes—sharp, scanning, aware of everyone and everything. The dress she wore was designed to draw eyes, but her body language rejected attention: spine straight, arms held close, a woman trained to seduce without attachment. It wasn’t just Harper. It was a version of her built for a job. For survival.

"Bait," he muttered.

Not just a lure for buyers—she had been carefully crafted for it. The way she looked in that photo, how she carried herself,even the timing of her proximity to the stolen artifacts—none of it was accidental. Someone had designed her to be tempting. Enticing. Profitable. And expendable. Reed felt it like a hook in his gut. He hated the idea of anyone using Harper like that. Hated more that she might’ve known—and done it, anyway. But even now, staring at proof she was deeper in this than she'd ever admitted, he couldn’t make himself pull back. If anything, the instinct to protect her burned hotter. Trust, for him, was earned—and she’d earned just enough to make him gamble with everything else.

The knock at the door came softly. Controlled. Not timid, not unsure—measured. Like the person on the other side was giving him a choice: open up or keep pretending you don’t hear me. Reed didn’t need to guess. He already knew her rhythm, the cadence of her restraint. And if she was knocking instead of picking the lock, it meant she knew she was walking into something heavy—and decided to come, anyway.

"Come in, little thief."

The door creaked as it opened, and Harper stepped in with the slow grace of someone pretending not to care how much it cost her. She didn’t saunter. She didn’t smirk. She was wearing one of his flannel shirts—because of course she’d stolen his most comfortable shirt—and a pair of cotton shorts that did absolutely nothing to hide the curve of her legs. She drifted inside, her eyes unreadable, unsure if she would receive answers or be subjected to more questioning. But she still came.

"You always sound like you know who it is before you look," she said, her voice light, but her eyes searching. "Creepy sixth sense thing, or do you have cameras stashed in the smoke detectors?"

"I do."

She flopped onto the armchair across from him like she owned the place, tucking one leg under her. "You’ve got thatbroody thing going. Makes your jaw look even meaner. Want to talk about it or just keep radiating boss man menace in my direction?"

"You were in Istanbul. Two years ago."

Her smile vanished. Not gone, exactly—just buried under something sharper. The shift was subtle, but he saw it—how her mouth firmed, how her spine lengthened like she was preparing to deflect instead of dodge. "What’s your source?" she asked, the words clipped and cool. Not fear. Not yet. But something wary, calculating, already weighing how deep the cut went—and whether she could walk away without bleeding.

He slid the surveillance photo across the desk. She didn’t flinch. Her eyes flicked over it, calm and calculating, like she was cataloging her own image through someone else’s lens. She picked up the photo and turned it slightly in the light, jaw tight. Then she leaned back with a sigh that carried more weight than weariness—it sounded like resignation. Like someone who'd known this was coming, just not how soon.

"You checking my passport, Reed, or trying to get ahead of whatever you think I’m hiding?"

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