Sadie

Disguise. It only works to conceal you for so long, and it’s impossible to keep hiding from yourself when you’ve been made. So why bother with the wig now, when one of the members of The Lair knows exactly who I am?

Because it’s more than for protection; a disguise is a defense, a shield. Much in the same way a cop feels his authority when he flashes his badge. It offers no more cover than his weapon, but the power behind the shield infuses him with courage.

And I wrap myself in courage, my camouflage, each night that I embark on this dark underworld. Or maybe that’s a lie…maybe I am hiding. I’m honest enough with myself to admit the possibility.

So why the red? Why give in to Colton’s whims and slip on this dress? I guess I’ll find out the answer to that as soon as I discover his elusive job. That’s why I’m here. To get the answers.

The bouncer nods to me and unclips a link from the rope, moving it aside so I can step into the unknown. The rope room. I’ve passed by it many times, but never entered. Only brave enough to go where I know I won’t be touched.

This room is darker than the voyeur. Dim purple and blue lighting streams down the walls, illuminating mounted brackets and hooks. Along one wall, different lengths of rope coil and stretch, enticing members to select their preference. All colors, materials, widths and sizes. It’s a playroom for erotic rope fetish.

Bondage.

My chest constricts, and I’m suddenly in a black, chilly basement. No windows. No way out. I’m turning and leaving before the smells can pull me under…but a man steps in front of my path.

“Miss B?” His deep voice is questioning, but he says this in a way that lets me know I’m exactly who he’s seeking. B, an initial, but not my full name. Colton was conscientious enough not to reveal my full identity, but he wasn’t going to allow me to use a pseudonym, either.

Once I nod my head to the tall man, he turns and leads me toward a partially enclosed corner table. Sheer black curtains run the length from ceiling to floor, and they’re held aside by thick bands of rope. Neutral in color, the ropes decorate everything, falling from the ceiling, running along the seams of the black cushions. They’re the focal point.

As soon as I’m seated, a drink—pink champagne—is set before me by the waitress.

Anger bubbles up in my chest, lava-hot. This was my reprieve. My secret. The place where I could disappear and allow the haunted demon inside me to roam. Taste a little freedom before I buried her again in the daylight.

Now that one shelter has been stripped away.

The loud industrial music fades out, and a low hum fills the silence, vibrating the air. As the slow, melodic tune builds, the crowded room parts, creating a ring. I wrap my fingers around the flute stem and grip. Anticipation mixes with anxiety as a beam of light blinks on, illuminating a single rope descending from above. Slowly, it lowers toward the center of the divided crowd. A single, silver ring dangles from its length.

Two figures emerge from the other side of the room. A robed woman. And Colton. He guides her toward the open area, his hand at the small of her back. I’m acutely aware of the jealously festering at that simple touch. Craving the feel of his skin against mine…but that’s all it is. A carnal desire. I know all too well that desire can’t withstand the fear.

As soon as contact is made, my body tenses and panic flares. Primal instinct switches on like the flip of a button.

So I sit and watch. Able to harness some sort of surrogate connection through voyeurism. I didn’t start out this way…I was made. Fashioned into an untouchable creature out of horror and pain.

My thoughts abruptly cut off when Colton’s stony blue gaze captures mine. Dressed in all black—from the V-neck shirt molding perfectly to his leanly muscled arms, to the black denim hugging his long legs—he stands behind the robed woman, his hands hovering over her shoulders, but his eyes touching mine.

As the beat increases, my heart rate ramps, and so do his movements. Purposely running his hands along her arms, he reaches the neck of the robe and begins to peel it away from her body, revealing her beautiful, naked figure.

And as he reaches above her head to grasp the silver ring, he loops a long length of rope through, then brings the rope before her to capture her around the chest. She remains silent and still as he repeats this act, twining the rope around her, above and below her breasts. The rope skillfully sliding through his hands to bind her.

My breath hitches in my throat. My eyes tear…but I don’t look away. His fingers expertly loop and tie until the woman is wearing a harness of rope. Her breasts peek between the tightly wound bands, her arms trapped behind her back.

All the while, as Colton is threading this elaborate binding, his eyes keep mine. As if he’s testing each knot against my reflexes. Reading me, studying me. I’m more than vulnerable; I’m exposed. With every twist of the rope, his proficient hands tear away a painstakingly constructed piece of my armor.

It’s like he knows my fears and wants to exploit them for all to witness. Shame suddenly fills me, and I go to stand, but Colton makes a similar move. He steps to the side, as if he’s going to pursue me if I bolt.

Fine. This is his production. Resigned, I sit back down. So he’s watched me, analyzed me. So he’s figured out my defect. That’s not a very difficult thing to do in my case. It doesn’t give him the right to lord it over me.

I take a sip of champagne and press my back into the cushion, forcing my muscles to relax. It’s difficult enough having to battle these confusing, erotic impulses while staring at crime scene photos…this was the one place I felt safe. Hidden. Where I could free those demons that I keep buried so far down. Now, Colton’s gone and shone a light on them, and he’s feeding off my pain.

But even as I’m thinking this, building a case against him, breaking him down and stripping him bare to reveal his malevolent intentions, a small voice inside my head starts to sing. A tiny clarity that whispers truth.

As he runs the rope over the model’s skin, causing her to quiver with need, this whisper grows into a chorus. His gaze penetrates me, his voice a light brush against my ear. I won’t touch you.

The promise rushes through me with a spike of adrenaline, and then I’m fixated on his movements, intently watching as he crosses more rope around the woman’s torso. Then drops to his knees, where he begins winding a long thread around one thigh, then the next. Standing, he pulls the ropes taut, and the woman is suspended in the air, her back arched, hair falling around her bowed head.

With fluid movements mimicking a dance, Colton runs his hand along the span of air just beneath her stomach, all the way to her foot—where he catches her ankle with a loop and brings it up toward her wrists. He ties the length of rope off to the silver ring, and she becomes a work of art.

An extension of his mind, of himself.

I realize the bond of trust created and tethered between them. I yearn for it. And as he tugs on the rope, molding and shaping her, she starts to spin. There is no audience, no sound. But I feel the collective awe rising above the room as the woman spirals into her own world of pleasure—her subspace.

Passion—laced as tightly as the rope binding the model—coils inside me. It’s an overwhelming rush of emotion that snaps each thread of rope—one by one—until my insides burst free, and I feel a tear fall from my eye.

She’s so beautiful, in all her freedom, and somewhere deep within me longs desperately to feel that. And when my eyes meet Colton’s again, I can’t hide. He sees it.

He sees me.