Page 114 of Bonds of Pain
I pause, wondering what secrets might spill from his loosened tongue. “Did what, Logan?”
“Everything.” His eyes are unfocused, the blush pulling him into a mental space where his mind isn’t in the driver’s seat. “Kept you safe. Kept Cillian safe. Had to do it.”
I’m drawn to Logan’s slurred words, a chance to probe his unguarded mind while the blush has him vulnerable.
My gaze moves to the corner of the room, to the discrete camera embedded high in the corner from a vantage point that centers Logan’s massive bed.
Taking a deep breath, I perch on the edge of the bed beside him, faux sympathy softening my expression.
“I’m here,” I murmur, reaching out to stroke his cheek. “Let me take care of you, Logan.”
His golden eyes fix on me, a flash of clarity cutting through the drug-induced haze. “Take care of me?” he repeats, voice suspicious despite the slurring.
I nod, holding up one of his belts I grabbed from the dresser. “I want to try something,” I say, letting my voice drop to a husky whisper. “Something different.”
Logan’s eyes narrow, focusing on the belt with visible effort. “What are you planning?”
“Nothing bad,” I promise, trailing my fingers down his chest. “Just... let me be in control for once.”
His laugh is bitter even through the blush. “You want me to surrender control? To you?”
“Just for tonight,” I coax, leaning closer. “The blush feels so good, doesn’t it? Imagine how much better it could feel if you just... let go completely.”
I can see the war behind his eyes—the Alpha instinct to dominate fighting against the drug’s effects and whatevercuriosity I’ve managed to spark. The blush is making this easier than I expected. In his normal state, Logan would never consider relinquishing control to anyone, let alone me.
“It might be fun,” I whisper, trailing the belt across his chest. “Different. Exciting.”
After what feels like an eternity, Logan gives a slow nod. “Show me what you have in mind.”
I don’t waste time before he changes his mind. With practiced efficiency, I guide his arms above his head, looping the belt around his wrists and securing them to the bedframe. He watches me work with dilated pupils, his breathing quickening.
I find another belt and secure his ankles to the footboard, effectively immobilizing him spread-eagle on the bed.
To my surprise, he doesn’t protest. The blush has lowered his defenses completely, making him pliant and suggestible in a way I never thought possible.
When I’m finished, I step back to survey my work. Logan tugs experimentally at his restraints, finding them secure. A fleeting look of alarm crosses his face, quickly replaced by drug-induced curiosity.
“Now what?” he asks, voice husky.
I find myself admiring his body in spite of myself. Logan’s form is magnificent even while restrained—all hard planes and sculpted muscle, tanned skin gleaming in the dim light. His chest rises and falls with deep, drugged breaths, the vulnerability of his position making him somehow more beautiful than when he stands tall and imposing.
I hate that I still find him attractive. I hate even more that I can feel the distant tug of the bond, that invisible tether that will forever connect us whether I want it or not. The physical response is involuntary, my body remembering the feel of his despite my mind’s rejection.
“Maya,” he murmurs, eyes struggling to focus on me. “Come here.”
His words slur together, the blush dragging him toward unconsciousness faster than I expected. Good. The sooner he passes out, the sooner I can search the apartment for anything I can use against him.
I watch as his eyelids grow heavier, fighting a losing battle to stay open. With each slow blink, they remain closed a little longer until finally, they don’t open again. His breathing deepens, body going slack against the restraints.
“Logan?” I whisper, testing his state of consciousness.
No response. Just the steady rise and fall of his chest.
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by disappointment. Part of me had hoped to extract more information from him before he succumbed to the drug. But this works too—I have him securely restrained, unconscious, and completely at my mercy.
With renewed urgency, I move to his closet, pulling out a pair of scissors from the sewing kit I’d spotted there earlier. The weight of them in my hand feels significant, purposeful. I return to the bed, studying Logan’s unconscious form.
I start with his shirt, carefully sliding the scissors along the seams. The expensive fabric parts easily under the sharp blades, revealing more of his golden skin inch by inch. I work methodically, cutting away his clothing until he’s completely naked and still securely bound.
