The morning after her second night in Bastian’s world tasted like smoke and silk. Marielle woke to find the red sheets tangled around her ankles, her thighs still slick with the evidence of everything he’d taken from her. Her wrists ached from the rope. Her voice was hoarse from moaning, begging, crying out his name until it didn’t feel like hers anymore. She should have felt used. Humiliated. Shattered. But she didn’t. Not even close. What she felt instead was shameful in its own right—need.
She wanted more.
She pulled herself upright, knees wobbling as she stood. The suite was quiet. The city pulsed far below the glass wall, indifferent to her collapse. On the nightstand was a small silver plate. A cup of dark coffee. A folded note.
One more night.
One more choice.
After tonight, yo
