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“You’re actually off the fucking rails.”

“You broke into my apartment, tied me up, and shoved a gun in my mouth. I think we’re past the point of moral high ground, sweetheart.”

He leans down, close enough that I can feel his breath on my face. “I’m taking revenge.”

“For what?”

“For what you did to me last time.”

“You gave permission.”

“I did not.”

“Your body did.”

He presses the muzzle against my sternum, right over my heart. “Say that again.”

“Your body gave permission. You had a safe word, and you didn’t use it. Oh, and you came untouched.”

His breathing goes shallow. “Stop talking.”

“Make me.”

He shoves the gun back into my mouth. This time he doesn’t pull it out. He sits there, straddling my chest, watching me take it while his free hand drifts down and rests on my stomach, fingers twitching like he wants to go lower and refuses to give me that.

“This is for fucking my head up.”

I moan.

His hand fists. He fucks the barrel in once more, deep, mean, and I take it eagerly, throat working, eyes wet, nothing in me trying to get away. He watches for the break. It doesn’t come, and it won’t come, because there is nothing Ilya Solovyov can do to me that I won’t like. As long as he touches me, I’m happy.

When he realizes that, he rips the gun out, scrambles off me, and stands at the side of the bed, mouth twisted. The muzzle swings back to my face.

“You do the shit you did last time again,” he says, “and a bullet goes through your mouth next. You hear me?”

I lick my lips. “So I won’t get your cock down my throat?” I tip my head against the pillow, wrists still bound, smile ruined and happy. “I asked nice.”

His mouth curls, mean, shaking at the edges.

He backs toward the window, gun still up, not quite willing to turn his back until the last second. Then he does. One leg over the sill. A glance back, wild and wrecked and already regretting the exit.

“Stay tied,” he says. “It suits you.”

“Come back and sit on my face.” I flash him my sweetest smile.

“Rot in hell.” He drops out of sight.

I lie there for a moment, listening to the night swallow him, smiling at the ceiling. Then I roll my wrists, find the lazy overlap in his knot, and slip free in about four seconds.

I flex my hands, wipe my mouth with the back of one, and look at the open window.

My prince came willingly into my home.

Tonight, he left.

One day, he won’t.

Ilya