Chapter 5 The Playroom

• The room behind the forbidden door was colder than she imagined.
• Sterile, controlled, and dimly lit, the space was a contradiction to the opulence of the penthouse. There were no silks, no gold-leaf accents. Just black leather, gleaming metal, and the heavy scent of restraint. This was not where love was made—this was where obedience was carved, piece by piece.
• Lucien didn’t bother to look at her as he entered first. He never did. She followed silently, like she was trained to. Her bare feet padded softly over the smooth floor, her sheer slip whispering against her thighs. It was the one he liked—thin, transparent, useless except to taunt her with a sense of modesty she no longer had.
• He didn’t speak. That was his language. Silence. Command. Punishment.
• A gesture of his hand, and she moved to the center of the room. Her breath caught as she looked at the cuffs hanging from the ceiling—black leather, cold steel. The familiar knot twisted in her belly. Dread mixed with something else she didn’t want to name anymore. It was easier not to know what it was.
• She raised her arms, wordlessly offering herself. Like a good girl.
• Like his pet.
• The cuffs closed around her wrists with practiced ease. Lucien took his time. His fingers brushed her skin, slow and unhurried, like this was a ritual. Because it was. He never touched her outside this room anymore. He didn’t need to. She was only his wife in name.
• In here, she was his toy.
• “Count,” he said softly, pulling the whip from the wall.
• Her throat tightened. She nodded. “Yes, Sir.”
• The first lash cracked against her back like lightning. Fire bloomed instantly. Her body jerked forward, arms tugging at the restraints, but they held firm.
• “One,” she gasped.
• He paced, deliberate, his eyes detached. There was no pleasure in his gaze. Just control. Domination. Power.
• Two. Three. Four.
• Each strike was a reminder. You are mine. You are nothing. You are not loved.
• By the eighth, her knees buckled.
• By the tenth, she was sobbing.
• He didn’t stop until she was silent again, hanging limp in her restraints, her tears dried to salt on her cheeks.
• Lucien finally stepped close, brushing her tangled hair back. His fingers curled under her chin, forcing her to look at him. “You were made for this,” he murmured. “For me. To take whatever I decide to give.”
• His mouth claimed hers suddenly—not a kiss, but possession. It was cruel, demanding, his tongue thrusting past her lips like he had the right.
• Because he did.
• He released her mouth only to drag the slip down her body, letting it pool at her feet. She stood naked, trembling, marked. He didn’t even look at the damage he’d done. He never did.
• “Open your mouth.”
• She obeyed.
• He shoved two fingers past her lips, deep enough to choke. Her body reacted instinctively—gagging, retching—but he didn’t pull back. His other hand stroked between her thighs, not to arouse, but to remind her how easy it was for him to own her.
• “Always so wet when I hurt you,” he sneered. “Pathetic.”
• She didn’t cry anymore. She couldn’t.
• When he finally took her—hard, fast, bent over the padded bench—he didn’t ask if she wanted it. He didn’t care.
• She screamed only once. He liked it when she screamed. It made him harder.
• Afterward, he left her there. Used. Shaking. Bleeding from her thighs and wrists, her body bruised with his fingerprints.
• The door closed behind him with a finality that stole her breath.
• She remained where he left her, too sore to move, too numb to scream again. The silence in the room grew thick, pressing against her ears, suffocating.
• She didn’t know how long she stayed like that.
• But eventually, she forced herself up. Her hands shook as she reached for the tattered slip. She covered herself as best she could.
• And then she crawled.
• Out of the room.
• Down the hallway.
• Back to their bedroom.
• Alone.
• Always alone.