Page 8 of Vicious Hearts

My pulse skips when my eyes land on the huge four-poster bed against one wall, covered by a deep red duvet with the golden Club Venom emblem of the viper emblazoned on it. Surprisingly, after he shuts the door behind us with an equally weighty click, Cillian doesn’t move to the bed. Instead, he strides easily and confidently across the room to a bar cart next to a gas fireplace.

He pushes a button on the mantel, bringing the fireplace to life and casting flickering shadows across the dark and sensual room. I stand motionless, still by the door, using every ounce of my willpower not to fidget or pick at my nails.

Or turn andrun.

Cillian pours himself a glass of what looks like whiskey. He turns, his green eyes cutting through the dim light of the room.

“Drink?”

I nod.

“Yes, please.”

He lifts a brow.

“Yes, please,Sir,” I whisper, my face heating.

He beckons me with two fingers. Shivering, I teeter across the room in my heels until I’m standing in front of the fireplace, between two richly-black leather sofas. He hands me a crystal tumbler—whiskey, like his—which I take and quickly bring to my lips.

“Sláinte,” he murmurs, lifting his glass in a toast before taking a sip.

I down mine in one gulp. Cillian lifts a brow behind his gold and black mask.

“You’re still nervous.”

“No, just exci—”

“Stoplyingto me.”

My pulse skips, sweat sheening across my back again.

“This is your first time here.”

It isn’t a question, and there’s no reason to lie when he obviously already knows the answer. It can be my first time here. That changes nothing in this little game.

“Yes,” I murmur. “Yes, Sir,” I quickly amend, trying to ignore the thrill that rushes through my core when I say it.

This is not a fantasy. This is not one of those videos you watch late at night online. This is real, and you need to get your fucking head in the game right now.

“And you’reperfectlyfucking clear on what the band you wear on your wrist means.”

I nod quickly.

“Yes, Sir.”

His eyes narrow as he sips his drink, slowly walking around me, his appraising gaze leaving burning, tingling trails in its wake.

“Rules,” he growls. “First, once we begin, we don’t stop—for anything—unless you say the safe word. Tonight, that will be the word blue. You sayblue, and we stop. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Second. I don’t do humiliation.”

“Me either.”

Wait, what?It just tumbles out, and I don’t know why. This isn’treal. The kinks inside of me are, yes. The darkness that I explore alone, with the help of the internet—as testified by my questionable search history—is real. But all of this?

Not real. So why the hell did I just spill that?

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