Page 15

I drink from the bottle and imagine my responsible future until the chardonnay does its thing, the room swims a little, and, with a yawn, I set the empty bottle on the nightstand and my tired, woozy head on the pillow.

Sleep takes me.

Until it doesn’t.

“Mmmhphph! Mmhmhmphph!”

Noises and the clattering of chain cuffs on radiator steel pull me out of my slumber.

I blink, eyes bleary and my vision still swimmy from the wine in my system.

Wraith is making a racket. Moving and muffled mumbling and doing just enough to be a noisy asshole.

But he doesn’t look like he’s trying to break free. He’s not straining against his restraints, he’s just making a shitton of noise.

I get out of bed and walk over to him.

“Shut up.”

“Mmhmph uh mphith.”

“Is this another one of your mind games? I’m not playing this. Just shut up so I can sleep.”

He makes more noise, shakes his head, and makes more noise again.

“Should I get the lamp again? Or the whip?”

The threats don’t shut him up. He just makes more noise. And I’m half-drunk, tired-as-fuck, and it’s just a couple hours before a responsible person’s wake-up time, and I really don’t feel like whipping this man’s cock this early in the morning.

I sigh.

“I’m going to take your gag out. If you try any of your manipulation shit, or anything else, you’ll regret it.” I extract the gag. “What is it?”

“I need to use the bathroom.”

“No. I don’t care. Go in your pants.”

“No, I won’t —”

“Wraith, just piss yourself so I can go to sleep. I really don’t have time for your games.”

“It’s not piss,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that I haven’t heard before — not the cold, controlled Wraith I know, not the calculated, predatory tone he used to use when he wanted me to feel small. Just a man who is deeply, mortifyingly uncomfortable. “June. It’s not a bathroom break for pissing.”

I stare at him.

He stares back, or would, if he could see me through the cock-embroidered blindfold.

“Oh,” I say.

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“You see my problem.”

I do. I very much do. And my hungover stomach, which has been staging a quiet protest since I opened my eyes, immediately weighs in on the implications of this development with a strong and unambiguous opinion.

“That is not happening in my apartment,” I say.