Mila lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster the way she counted the hours. Four days. Four days since the gas, since the silk, since Adrian's fingers had made her body betray her in ways she still couldn't scrub from her memory. The ropes around her wrists had loosened just enough to let her shift, but not enough to slip. She'd tested them a hundred times. Each time, the knot held.

The door clicked.

She didn't flinch anymore. That was the thing that frightened her most — how quickly she'd stopped flinching. Her body had learned the rhythm of his visits, the soft tread of his bare feet on the hardwood, the way he never knocked. The way he always smiled.

"You're awake," Adrian said, closing the door behind him.

"Where else would I be?"

"Good point." He crossed the room with that languid, unhurried stride, his hands in the pockets of his linen trousers. He wore a loose white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and his dark hair was still damp from a shower. He looked like he'd just come from a holiday, not from keeping three women prisoner in his house.

He sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, tilting her toward him, and she hated how her body adjusted, how it settled into the new angle like it was grateful for the contact.

"You've been quiet today," he said.

"I've been tied to a bed."

"That's not the same thing." He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, his fingers grazing her skin. She turned her head away. He let his hand fall, but he didn't pull back. He just watched her, those honey-brown eyes patient and warm, like he had all the time in the world.

"You're thinking about something," he said. "Something you don't want me to know."

"I'm thinking about how much I hate you."

"No." He shook his head slowly, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "You're not. You're thinking about what happened yesterday. About how good it felt when I touched you. About how much you want it to happen again."

Her jaw tightened. "You don't know what I'm thinking."

"Don't I?"

His hand landed on her knee. Just the knee. Light, almost casual, like he was checking the temperature of her skin. But her whole body went still, every muscle locking, and she could feel the pulse in her throat beating against her skin.

"Your heart rate just went up," he said. "I can see it. Right there." He touched her throat, his fingertips resting on the hollow where her pulse jumped. "You can't hide that from me, Camila."

"Don't call me that."

"Why not? It's your name."

"You don't get to use it."

"I think I do." His hand slid from her throat down her collarbone, tracing the line of her shoulder. "I think I get to use whatever I want."

She should have spat at him. She should have thrashed, fought, screamed. But her body had gone soft, pliant, and she hated herself for it. Hated the way her skin remembered his touch, the way her nipples tightened under the thin cotton of her tank top, the way her thighs pressed together without her permission.

"You're already wet," he said, not a question.

"I'm not."

"Liar."

His hand moved down her side, over her ribs, settling on her hip. His thumb traced small circles on the bone, and she felt the heat bloom low in her belly, a familiar ache that made her want to close her eyes and pretend it wasn't there.

"You want me to touch you," he said. "You want my fingers inside you. You want to come on my hand again, the way you did yesterday. You want to say my name while you do it."

"No."

"Then why is your body arching toward me?"

She looked down. She hadn't noticed it — the way her hips had tilted, the way her back had bowed, the way her body was reaching for him without her mind's permission. She forced herself flat against the mattress, her teeth grinding.

"That's not me," she said. "That's—that's just—"

"Biology?" He smiled, and it was almost kind. "You can call it that. But it's still your body, Camila. It's still you."

His hand moved. Not down — up. Over her stomach, the fabric of her tank top riding up, exposing a strip of skin. His palm was warm and dry, and she could feel the calluses on his fingers, the texture of a man who did more than just sit in his manor and give orders.

"Tell me what you're feeling," he said.

"Nothing."

"Liar." He said it again, softer this time, like a caress. His hand stopped just below her ribs, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast. "Tell me."

She bit her lip. Hard. The pain was a small anchor, something to hold onto in the rising tide of heat that was spreading through her chest, her belly, her thighs.

"I hate you," she whispered.

"I know." His thumb circled higher, tracing the curve of her breast through the cotton. "But that's not what you're feeling right now, is it?"

She couldn't answer. Her throat had closed, and all she could do was stare at the ceiling, counting the cracks again, trying to find the place where she ended and her body began.

His hand closed over her breast. Not rough, not demanding — just there, a warm weight that made her breath catch. She felt her nipple harden against his palm, felt the shame flood through her like a wave, hot and sickening.

"You like that," he said. "You don't want to, but you do."

She shook her head. It was a small movement, barely a tremor, but it was all she had.

"Your body doesn't lie, Camila. That's the one thing you can't control." His thumb brushed across her nipple, and she gasped, her back arching off the mattress before she could stop it. "See? You want this. You want me."

"I don't—"

"You do." He leaned down, his mouth close to her ear, his breath warm on her skin. "You want me to touch you. You want me to make you come. You want to feel my fingers inside you, stretching you, filling you, making you forget your own name."

Her whole body trembled. She could feel the wetness between her legs, the slick heat that had gathered there despite everything, and she hated it. Hated the way her hips tilted toward him, the way her thighs fell open without her permission, the way she could feel herself getting wetter with every word he spoke.

"Say it," he said. "Say you want it."

"No."

"Say it."

"I won't."

He smiled, slow and satisfied, like he'd already won. His hand slid down her stomach, over her hip, and she felt his fingers hook into the waistband of her underwear. She went rigid.

"What are you doing?"

"What you want me to do."

"No—don't—"

She thrashed, her hips twisting, her legs kicking, but he was stronger than he looked, and his grip was patient and unyielding. He pulled the fabric down her thighs, past her knees, over her ankles, and she felt the cool air on her skin, felt the shame flood through her like a physical thing.

"Stop," she begged. "Please, stop."

"You don't mean that."

"I do—I swear I do—"

"You're lying." He tossed the underwear aside and sat back, looking at her. Not touching. Just looking.

She was naked from the waist down, her legs spread, her cunt exposed to his gaze. She could feel herself glistening, wet and swollen, and she knew he could see it too. Knew he could see the evidence of her betrayal, the proof that her body wanted him even as her mind screamed no.

"Look at you," he said softly. "So wet. So ready."

"Please—"

"Please what?"

"Just—just stop looking at me."

"Why? You're beautiful."

"I'm not—I'm not a thing for you to—"

"You're not a thing," he said, and his voice was gentle, almost kind. "You're a woman. A beautiful, desperate woman who wants to be touched. And I'm going to touch you. But not yet."

His hand hovered just above her skin. She could feel the heat of his palm, the ghost of his touch, and her body arched toward it, desperate for contact. But he didn't move. He just held his hand there, suspended, watching her squirm.

"Please," she heard herself say. The word came out broken, raw, and she didn't know if she meant it or not.

"Please what?"

"Please—touch me."

"Touch you where?"

She couldn't say it. The words stuck in her throat, thick and shameful. But her hips moved on their own, tilting toward his hand, and she saw his smile widen.

"Here?" He moved his hand lower, his fingers brushing the inside of her thigh. Not her cunt. Just the skin beside it. She whimpered, her hips bucking. "No? Then where?"

"You know where," she whispered.

"I want to hear you say it."

"Please—please touch my—" She couldn't finish. The word was too much, too real, too damning.

"Your what?"

"My cunt." The word came out in a rush, desperate and ashamed. "Please, touch my cunt. Please, I need—I need—"

"You need to come."

"Yes." It was barely a breath. "Yes."

He smiled, and it was the most beautiful, terrible thing she'd ever seen. "Good girl."

But he didn't touch her. He just kept his hand hovering, his fingers inches from her skin, and watched her squirm.

"Please," she begged. "Please, I'm begging you—"

"I know." His voice was soft, almost tender. "That's what I wanted to hear."

She sobbed. The sound was ugly, broken, torn from somewhere deep in her chest. She couldn't stop it, couldn't control it, any more than she could control the way her body was arching toward him, the way her cunt was dripping, the way she was wetter than she'd ever been in her life.

"You want me to make you come," he said. "You want to feel my fingers inside you, curling against that spot that makes you see stars. You want to feel your whole body clench and spasm and fall apart on my hand."

"Yes." It was a sob now. "Yes, yes, please—"

"And you'll say my name while you do it."

"Yes."

"And thank me."

"Yes."

"And then you'll do it again."

"Yes—anything—I'll do anything—"

He smiled, slow and satisfied, and finally — finally — his hand settled on her skin.

She cried out. It was just his palm on her thigh, just the warmth of his touch, but it was everything. She thrust her hips toward him, desperate for more, and he let her, his hand sliding up her leg, over her hip, his fingers brushing the edge of her cunt.

"You're so wet," he murmured. "So slick. I can feel how much you want this."

"Please," she begged. "Please, please—"

His fingers slid through her folds, parting them, exposing her clit to the cool air. She gasped, her whole body tensing, and he circled the swollen bud with his thumb, light and teasing.

"Is this what you want?" he asked.

"Yes—"

"Say my name."

"Adrian." It came out broken, desperate. "Adrian, please—"

"Good girl."

He pressed his thumb against her clit, and she saw stars. Her back arched, her mouth falling open in a soundless cry, and he worked her in slow, deliberate circles, watching her face, reading every twitch and gasp.

"You're close," he said. "I can feel it. Your whole body is trembling."

"I—I think I'm—"

"Not yet." He pulled his hand away, and she sobbed, her hips bucking desperately. "Not until I say so."

"Please—"

"Beg me."

"Please, Adrian, please let me come. I'll do anything, I'll say anything, just please—"

"Say thank you."

"Thank you."

"Thank you for what?"

"Thank you for touching me. Thank you for making me feel good. Thank you, thank you, please—"

He smiled, and his hand returned to her cunt, his fingers sliding through her slick folds, and this time he didn't tease. He pressed two fingers against her entrance and pushed inside.

She screamed.

It wasn't pain — it was pleasure, sharp and blinding, flooding through her like a wave. His fingers were thick, filling her, and she could feel herself clenching around them, gripping them, desperate to hold on.

"That's it," he murmured. "Take me. Feel how good it is."

He curled his fingers, finding that spot inside her, and she lost all control. Her hips bucked against his hand, her body moving on its own, and she could hear herself making sounds she'd never made before, high and desperate and wanton.

"You're so tight," he said. "So wet. I could fuck you like this for hours, Camila. I could make you come until you can't think, until you can't remember your own name."

"Please—"

"Please what?"

"Please let me come. I need—I need to—"

"Come," he said. "Come on my fingers. Show me how good I make you feel."

She shattered.

It was like a dam breaking, a tidal wave of pleasure that crashed through her body, making her arch and twist and scream. Her cunt clenched around his fingers, milking them, and she could feel herself gushing, wet and hot, soaking his hand and the sheets beneath her.

He kept working her through it, his fingers slow and steady, drawing out every last spasm until she collapsed, trembling and boneless, her chest heaving, her eyes streaming with tears she hadn't realized she was crying.

He pulled his fingers out slowly, deliberately, and she felt the loss like a physical ache. He brought his hand to his mouth and licked them, tasting her, and she watched him, unable to look away.

"You taste like honey," he said. "Like everything I've ever wanted."

She couldn't speak. She could barely breathe. Her body was still trembling, her cunt still clenching around nothing, and she felt empty, hollow, desperate.

He stood up, looking down at her, and she saw the bulge in his trousers, the evidence of his own arousal. But he didn't touch himself. He didn't offer her any relief.

"That's enough for today," he said.

"No—" The word came out before she could stop it, broken and desperate. "Please—I need—"

"I know." He smiled, soft and cruel. "That's the point."

He walked to the door, and she watched him go, her body still aching, her cunt still wet, her mind a whirlwind of shame and desire and hatred so tangled she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

"Tomorrow," he said, his hand on the doorframe. "We'll go further."

The door clicked shut behind him. The lock turned.

She lay there, naked from the waist down, her wrists still bound in silk, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of her orgasm. And she hated him. Hated him with every fiber of her being.

But even as she hated him, she could feel it — the ache between her legs, the desperate hunger that hadn't been sated, the knowledge that tomorrow, when he came back, she would beg him again.

And he would make her say thank you.

She pressed her thighs together, trying to ease the ache, but it only made it worse. She could still feel his fingers inside her, the ghost of his touch, and she knew — she knew — that she was already counting the hours until he returned.

She was losing herself. And she didn't know how to stop it.