Page 115 of Bonds of Pain
As I pull away the last scraps of fabric, I become acutely aware of his body’s reaction to my proximity. Despite his unconscious state, he’s hardened, his cock lying heavy against his abdomen. The sight sends an unwanted surge of heat through me, my traitorous body responding to his even now.
I need to finish securing him before he wakes. I climb onto the bed, straddling his chest as I reach for another belt to gaghim in case he regains consciousness prematurely. The position brings me dangerously close to his face, his breath warm against my skin.
That’s when I realize how intimate this posture is—me straddling his naked body, the evidence of his arousal just inches away. The weight of him beneath me is familiar, stirring memories I’ve tried desperately to suppress. Heat pools low in my belly, an insistent throb that demands attention.
I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting against the surge of unwanted desire. This isn’t about pleasure. It’s about power—taking back the control he’s stolen from me since the moment I arrived at the palace.
Yet I can’t ignore the way my body responds to his proximity, how my core clenches with need when I shift my weight and feel the hard length of him brush against me. The bond pulses between us, a constant reminder of our unwanted connection.
I work quickly to secure the gag, forcing myself to focus on the task rather than the way his lips part slightly in sleep, or how the muscles in his arms flex against the restraints. When I’m finished, I climb off him, putting distance between us as if that might sever the invisible thread that pulls me toward him.
My Alpha, whether I want him or not.
I stand there, chest heaving, staring down at Logan’s bound, naked form. The gag is tight around his mouth, his breathing slow and even in his drugged slumber.
My hands tremble as I grip the edge of the bed, the rush of power from having him at my mercy crashing against the unwanted heat still simmering in my veins. I’m in control. For once, I’m the one calling the shots. So why does my body ache with this twisted need?
I turn away, trying to focus on my next move—search the apartment, dig through his things for any scrap of leverage. But my gaze keeps snapping back to him, to the hard linesof his body, the undeniable proof of his arousal even in unconsciousness.
The bond hums, a cruel tether pulling me toward him, urging me to close the distance I’ve fought so hard to maintain. I hate it. I hate him. And worst of all, I hate myself for the way my core clenches just thinking about touching him.
My fingers move to the hem of my dress before I can stop them, lifting the fabric over my head in one jerky motion. The cool air hits my skin, but it does nothing to douse the fire raging inside me. I’m on autopilot, my mind screaming at me to stop as I climb back onto the bed, straddling his hips. The weight of my decision presses down on me, heavy as his unconscious body beneath mine, but I can’t pull back. Not now.
“You don’t get to win this,” I whisper, my voice raw, though he can’t hear me. My hands shake as I position myself, feeling the hard length of him press against me. I’m slick already, my body betraying me with every second I linger. The disgust coils tight in my gut, mixing with the sharp edge of desire I can’t shake. I lower myself slowly, a hiss escaping my lips as he fills me, stretching me in a way that’s both familiar and repulsive.
I move, my hips rocking with a deliberate, punishing rhythm. Each thrust is a battle, a war between the pleasure my body craves and the rage searing through my mind. I loathe him for what he’s done—for stealing my choice, for binding me to him, for making my body want this even now. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away, refusing to let them fall. I won’t give him that, even if he’s not awake to see it.
“You forced this on me,” I mutter through gritted teeth, my hands braced on his chest for leverage. His skin is warm under my palms, the steady beat of his heart a cruel reminder of the life I’m tied to. My movements grow harder, faster, as if I can fuck the anger out of myself, as if I can reclaim something by taking this from him. But every wave of pleasure that builds onlydeepens my self-loathing. I’m using him, yes, but I’m also losing myself in the process.
The bond pulses stronger now, a sickening thread of connection that amplifies every sensation. I can feel echoes of his dormant presence, even in sleep, and it makes my stomach churn. My climax creeps closer, unwanted but inevitable, and I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, determined not to give voice to the pleasure ripping through me. I won’t let myself moan for him, won’t let myself break that way.
When it hits, it’s sharp and shattering, a release that feels more like a wound than relief. I collapse forward, hands digging into his shoulders as my breath comes in ragged gasps. The aftershocks tremble through me, and for a moment, I’m just a hollow shell, drained of fight and fury. I hate that it felt good. I hate that my body still craves more even as my mind recoils.
I slide off him quickly, the sudden emptiness just as jarring as the fullness had been. My legs shake as I stand, snatching my dress from the floor and pulling it back on with clumsy fingers. I can’t look at him now, can’t face the evidence of what I’ve done. The gag, the restraints—they’re still in place, a small victory, but it feels tainted now. I wanted control, but all I’ve done is sink deeper into this mire of hate and desire.
I stumble back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand as if I can erase the memory of my own weakness. My plan hasn’t changed. I’ll search the apartment, find something—anything—to use against him and the others. But as I turn toward the door, the weight of what just happened clings to me, a stain I can’t wash off. I’ve taken something from him, sure, but at what cost to myself?
Isneak down the hallway toward Ares’s room, each step deliberate and silent. With all four men deep in blush-induced sleep, I finally have the freedom to move through the apartment unnoticed. The security console is my destination—I need that video of me tying Logan up and what happened after.
My heart pounds so loudly I fear it might wake them, but the apartment remains silent except for distant snoring from one of the rooms. When I reach Ares’s door, I pause, listening for any movement inside. Nothing. I ease the door open and slip inside.
His room is exactly as I remember it—the nest of blankets still in the corner, weapons carefully arranged on the wall, clothing strewn about with careless abandon. The security console sits on a desk against the far wall, its screens dark but the small power indicator glowing green.
I move quickly to the desk, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I punch in the passcode I memorized from watching Ares—2-4-7-5-9-3—and the system springs to life, multiple camera feeds appearing on the screen.
The console is surprisingly user-friendly. I navigate through the menus until I find the recording archive, organized by date and location. I scan through the options until I find what I’m looking for: “Master Bedroom - Today.”
My hands shake slightly as I click on the file. The video loads, showing Logan’s bedroom in startlingly sharp definition. I watch myself leading a stumbling Logan to the bed, cutting away his clothes, binding him to the bedposts.
When I see myself climbing onto him, riding his unconscious body, my stomach turns. The woman on the screen looks like me but feels like a stranger—her face twisted with a combination of pleasure and rage, tears streaming down her cheeks even as she chases her release.
Is this what I’ve become? Someone who would violate another person’s body while they’re unconscious? Even if that person is Logan, even if he’s done worse to me—this isn’t who I want to be.
My finger hovers over the “download” button. With this footage, I could destroy Logan completely. I could send it to the Inquisitor, to the king, to the press. It would be the end of his claim to the throne. The pack would crumble. My revenge would be complete.
But at what cost to me?
I glance back at the nest in the corner of Ares’s room, remembering how he kept it from my pre-heat, how carefully he preserved something that meant so much to me even though I had been barely more than a stranger to him then.
