Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 62063 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62063 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
I stopped and closed my eyes for a moment. I breathed in and out, calming myself as Malleus had taught me.
I can’t fail. Not now. Not when so much is at stake.
But it wasn’t, was it? I had three days before Delacroix came back. I felt my brow furrow as I sorted out my thoughts and feelings, and I realized where much of my desperation came from.
Marcus. His effect on me, and the danger it posed. Part of me felt in terrible, terrible need, though of what didn’t seem entirely clear. Just that it had to do with him: I needed his approval. I needed him.
That meant I needed above all to finish this mission and to get the hell away.
Please, let it be here, I thought as I opened my eyes and looked around the study again. But the books on their shelves offered no answers, only the glitter of embossed, unreadable titles in the cold glow of the moon.
With a final, frustrated sweep of the room, I knew I had to return. My time was running out, and the risk of being caught grew with every passing moment. Reluctantly, I turned to leave, my mind already racing with plans for my next move.
I retreated from Delacroix’s study towards the staircase. With the unsuccessful search weighing heavily on my mind, I slipped back into the shadows of the chateau, moving silently but as swiftly as I could.
The harness between my legs rubbed uncomfortably with each step, a constant reminder of my submission, my vulnerability. I paused in a pool of shadow at the foot of the stairs, straining to hear any telltale signs of approaching footsteps. Silence. Taking a deep breath, I began my ascent up the marble steps.
The moonlight filtering through the tall windows painted the hallways with a ghostly glow, casting long, eerie shadows. My destination now was Delacroix’s bedroom, a place I had not yet dared to enter. Reaching the door, I hesitated for the briefest moment before pushing it open just enough to slip inside.
The room was vast, dominated by an enormous bed draped in luxurious fabrics. A large mirror hung on the wall opposite, glittering with a cold, impersonal gleam. My breath caught in my throat as I imagined what would transpire here when Delacroix returned. His innocent new bed girl—his fucking piece—would be thoroughly deflowered atop this bed, every brutal thrust mirrored for his pleasure.
The vision sent a shiver down my spine, mingling dread with an involuntary surge of arousal. I remembered the way he had fondled me, the feeling of utter abasement under the touch of the billionaire who had purchased me for his pleasure.
I shook off the troubling vision. I scanned the room quickly, noting with suddenly wide-eyes that what looked like a small office space—an alcove, really—opened out from the main area, through a small arch. I could see a desk, atop which something rose half a meter or so, and on that something a red light softly blinked.
That had to be it. If the air-gapped computer was anywhere, it would be there—and that red light seemed like it might represent the end of my search.
I started to move towards the alcove, my pulse quickening with renewed urgency. Just as I reached the bed, the sound of footsteps echoed up the staircase outside. Panic surged through me, sending a jolt of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
“Shit,” I muttered under my breath. There was no time to waste.
Abandoning my search, I dashed out of the office and back into the hallway, my footsteps light but hurried. The discomfort of the harness became secondary to the need for survival as I made my way back to my own bedroom. Heart hammering in my chest, I slipped inside, closing the door softly behind me. I relocked it with my cybernetics and quickly deactivated the camera-spoofing protocol.
I had barely settled back into my bed and pulled the comforter up, the lingering discomfort of the harness pressing into my flesh, when I heard the slight creak of the door opening. My heart skipped a beat, and I forced my breathing to remain slow and steady, feigning sleep.
Marcus entered the room with unsettling quietness, his presence a mix of comfort and dread. The mattress dipped as he sat beside me, and through slitted eyes, I observed his face. His expression made my tummy flip: his face seemed a complex tapestry of desire, calculation, and an unexpected care that sent a confusing rush through me.
I felt his hands pulling the comforter away. I fought the urge to hold onto it, to keep myself covered—not because I didn’t want him to see me, or even to touch me, but because I wanted those things too much. He drew the covers all the way down, and I fought to keep my breathing deep and even.