Page 48 of Fractured Loyalties
Her breath quickens, her skin flushed, the blindfold heightening every sensation. His fingers slide between her thighs. She moans, louder now, a raw, “Oh, fuck,” that vibrates through the glass and into my chest.
He teases her slowly, his fingers circling, stroking, drawing out every shudder as her hips buck, chasing his hand. The air pulses with their rhythm, a symphony of trust and power, each movement a vow renewed.
My cock stirs, straining against my pants, but this isn’t about my pleasure—it’s about the mirror they hold up, the truth they reflect. Their dance is my own hunger laid bare: the need for control, the ache to surrender to something greater than chaos. The mask. The silence. The unshakable command.
My fingers tighten around the complimentary glass left in the room, it comes with the package, like a little souvenir to set the mood, the amber liquid trembling. This is what I understand: who I am beneath the man Mara sees, beneath the weight of the world I carry.
The scene intensifies. His fingers move with purpose now, sliding inside her as she gasps, her head falling back. “Please,” she breathes, her voice a raw edge of want, her thighs parting wider, inviting more.
He presses harder, his other hand gripping her ass, guiding her rhythm as she rides his touch, her moans filling the room like a fucking hymn. The chain clinks above, her body trembling, every inch of her alive under his command.
I lean forward, my breath shallow, caught in the gravity of their dance. This is balance. This is truth—a reflection unclouded by lies or excuses. Her skin is flushed, her bodyswaying in the chains, her release building as his fingers drive her higher, her cries sharper, more desperate. His touch is both anchor and flame, grounding her even as it sets her alight.
Later, Dom slips into the room, his presence a quiet intrusion. He leans against the far wall, his eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and something sharper—disappointment, maybe, that I’m only chasing this reflection. His gaze is a challenge:Will you stay in the shadows, or step into your own fucking light?
I don’t answer. Not yet.
The glass in my hand is empty, but the mirror before me is full, reflecting a truth I’m not ready to leave behind.
“I hear whispers,” he says, voice low but razor-edged. “That you’ve gotten yourself entangled with a woman.”
I don’t respond.
Dom pushes off the wall, steps deeper into the room, the low light catching the sharpness of his profile. “You? The man who taught half this room what restraint meant? Now letting some girl see behind the curtain?”
I meet his gaze. “It’s not what you think.”
His laugh is short and dark. “No? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re forgetting the rules. Our rules.”
He lets the silence stretch just long enough before speaking again.
“She isn’t yours,” he says, quieter now. More certain. Like a warning.
I don’t argue.
“And if you keep pretending you can compartmentalize this, she’ll tear that mask off you.”
“She already has,” I admit.
Dom’s smile fades. “Then you better decide which version of you survives the fall.”
I say nothing. But I hear every word.
I leave Discentra before the clock hits two, the bitter taste of truth thick on my tongue.
Chapter 11 – Mara - A Body Between Lives
The house is too quiet when I wake, and for a second, I think I might be dead. Not in the dramatic sense. Just in that dull, ghost-like way you feel when your body registers absence before your brain can name it.
I blink against the shadows. The clock beside the bed glows: 1:47 a.m. I sit up slowly, sheets sliding down my arms. I reach across the bed, palm brushing the other side—not because I expected him there, but because some part of me had wanted to feel warmth that wasn't mine. The mattress is cold.
I wait a moment, listening. No sound from the hallway, no movement from the adjoining room. He could be in the kitchen. The living room. His own room. Anywhere in this massive, too-quiet house.
I push the blanket aside and rise, my feet meet the floor, bare and cold. The tile doesn't soften under me. Neither does the ache behind my eyes. I wrap a throw blanket from the edge of the bed around my shoulders and step into the hallway.
Each room I pass is dim and undisturbed. The kitchen is empty. So is the living space. His door is closed, and I knock once, lightly. Nothing.
I open it slowly. The bed is untouched. Sheets sharp and cold as polished bone.
