Page 57 of Stalked
24
VANE
Iset Lia down on the floor of the rope room, my eyes never leaving hers as I reach for the green hemp rope I'd dropped earlier. The emerald silk of her dress is rumpled now, hitched higher on her thighs than she'd normally allow.
“Don't move,” I command, my voice low and heavy with promise.
For a moment, she freezes, our eyes locked in silent battle. Then something flashes across her face—that stubborn defiance I've both cursed and craved for fifteen fucking years. She scrambles to her feet, eyes darting toward the exit.
“Running again, wildflower?” I drop the rope and lunge forward, catching her shoulders before she can take a single step. “I don't think so.”
I yank her back against me hard enough that she gasps. Her body collides with mine, soft curves against hard muscle. One arm locks around her waist while my other hand finds her throat. Not squeezing—not yet—but resting there as a reminder, a promise.
“Fifteen years ago, you ran,” I growl into her ear, feeling her pulse hammer against my palm. “You don't get to run tonight.”
My fingers tighten slightly, enough to make her breath catch, but never enough to hurt her. I feel her swallow against my hand, the delicate movement only hardening my resolve.
“I own this maze,” I tell her, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “I own this club. And for the Hunt, I own you.”
I turn her in my grip, keeping my hand firmly around her throat as I force her to face me. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown with that perfect cocktail of fear and desire that feeds the darkness I've cultivated all my life—the same intoxicating blend that's kept me stalking her shadow for fifteen years.
“You're going to stand right here while I bind you exactly the way I've imagined for fifteen years,” I say, applying just enough pressure to her throat to emphasize my point. “And we both know this is exactly what you came here for.”
I release her throat and retrieve the green hemp rope from the floor, running it through my fingers with practiced ease. The coarse fibers catch slightly against my skin—a reminder of the marks they'll leave on her porcelain flesh.
“Do you know what shibari is, wildflower?” I ask, measuring out a length with my arms.
She nods, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Use your words,” I command.
“Japanese rope bondage,” Lia whispers, her voice barely audible. “It means 'to tie' or 'to bind.'“
I smirk beneath my mask. “Very good. Now strip.”
When she hesitates, I step closer. “You signed the contract. You're mine for the next seventy-two hours. Strip. Now.”
Her fingers tremble as she reaches for the zipper of her dress, sliding it down slowly before letting the emerald silk pool at her feet. She stands before me in nothing but black lace underwear, shoulders back despite her vulnerability.
“Everything,” I growl.
Once she's completely naked, I circle her, drinking in every inch of her body. The body I've been denied for so long.
“Arms behind your back,” I instruct, and she complies.
I begin with a simple column tie around her wrists, the green rope contrasting beautifully against her skin. Each wrap is deliberate, the tension precise—not too tight to cut circulation, but secure enough she can't escape. I work methodically, creating diamond patterns across her torso, the rope framing her breasts perfectly.
“Breathe,” I remind her as I create an intricate harness, wrapping the rope above and below her breasts, across her shoulders, around her ribs.
My fingers occasionally brush against her skin, and I feel her shiver every single time. I take my time with every knot, every crossover, transforming her body into a canvas of green hemp and bound flesh.
When the harness is complete, I thread the final rope through the central knot at her back, testing its strength before gripping it firmly in place.
“Trust me,” I whisper, then slowly lift her body off the ground using only the rope and connect it to a suspension point above.
With Lia suspended upright in the intricate web of green hemp rope, I circle her slowly, admiring my handiwork. The diamonds formed by the rope press into her flesh, creating patterns that manifest our invisible connection into something tangible at last. Her breath comes in shallow gasps, her body trembling slightly with each inhale—the physical evidence of boundaries dissolving between us.
“Perfect,” I murmur, reaching out to trace the rope where it crosses between her breasts.
