Page 63 of Viper’s Reign

Unease crawls over my skin as I step into the BDSM room. The large bed stands in the center, its dark frame and tall poles rising like a warning rather than a place to rest, ropes still dangling from where he tied me before. My attention shifts to the wall on the right, which is like a salute to all things masochistic—paddles, handcuffs, a whip, and other strange implements I don’t recognize. On the opposite wall, a black bar is fixed in place, with cuffs suspended from it on short chains—a suspension bar.

I gulp, my stomach clenching, my nipples pebbling despite myself, and I hate that my body reacts before my mind catches up. This isn’t the same as last time. We’re not picking up where we left off.

Something is definitely up.

I shift on my feet and glance at Dimitri, who’s already watching me with a strange expression that makes my heart seize.

“What’s this?” I murmur.

Instead of answering, he places a hand on my lower back and steers me toward the bed. I try to swallow again, but my mouth has gone dry.

He lets go of me at the foot of it and studies me for a long moment before speaking. “Do you know what you injected me with?”

The question is so out of the blue I can’t stop my flinch. His gaze sharpens, catching the movement.

“N-no,” I manage. “I was told it was medication.”

“Medication.” He turns the word over, like he’s deciding what to do with it. “And what was it supposed to treat?”

Shit. This is an interrogation. But he’s using an unconventional method. Confuse the enemy first, then ask your questions. I need to be careful. “I’m not sure,” I start slowly. “I wasn’t told anything other than that you needed it.”

“You’re a nurse. Did you really believe that?”

I inhale sharply. How does he know I’m a nurse? Well, technically, still a nursing student… My mind scrambles, trying to map how much he’s uncovered already.

“Who gave you this medication for me?” he continues, his voice taking on a sardonic edge. “Did he tell you his relation to me, or was he just a concerned citizen?”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “I don’t know.”

He clicks his tongue, disappointment clear as he steps back. “And here I thought you were going to cooperate.” A beat passes. “Get on the bed.”

My lips part in shock. “What?”

“Get on the fucking bed, Grace. I won’t repeat myself.”

Grace. My heart stops for a second, then starts pounding in every place it can reach—my ears, my throat, my veins. He knows my name. My real name. Which means he knows everything.

I lick my dry lips as I climb onto the huge bed, hesitation slowing me. “Are—are you going to torture me?”

“No,” he answers shortly. “Lie back. Arms and legs spread-eagle.”

My belly tightens at the command, my core clenching as wetness slips out despite the dire situation. That’s the same position he had me in a few nights ago, and my body reacts with that spectacular lack of self-preservation it seems very committed to, already moving like it has no interest in context or good judgment.

I force myself to think logically. “We can’t have unprotected sex yet. The IUD needs a few days⁠—”

“Cute.” He cuts me off with a mocking smile, arms folded across his chest. “But that’s not what this is. I’m not going to fuck you again until you tell me what I want to know.”

What?

So this is going to be some form of torture? Still, I spread my arms and legs as instructed, frowning up at the ceiling as I try to understand how exactly this is supposed to get anything out of me. He climbs onto the bed and straddles me, and my eyes squeeze shut at the press of his hard cock against my belly—a whimper escapes from me, but he doesn’t even acknowledge it.

He ties my wrists to the poles on either side of my head, then slides down my body and does the same to my ankles. The restraints leave me fully open, exposed in a way that makes my core clench again, uselessly, painfully. I hate how badly I want to rub my legs together but can’t.

When I open my eyes again, it’s to see him approaching with a pair of curved scissors.

My breath hitches as he climbs back onto the bed between my splayed legs. The cold tip presses against the hem of my dress, and then he starts snipping—slow, deliberate snicks through the fabric that part it like butter, cool air kissing my skin as he works upward, baring my thighs, my stomach, my bra. And for some fucked-up reason, the destruction sends a thrill straight to my core, my pussy clenching emptily.

“That was an expensive dress,” I murmur, trying to distract myself from the way my nipples are hardening against the inside of my bra.