Chapter 179 The Game He Plays

• Donatello didn’t rush pleasure.
• Pleasure, after all, was best served slow—slow like a knife through silk, like a scream swallowed over hours, like the unraveling of a woman who once thought she couldn’t be touched.
• He poured himself a glass of something dark and smooth and turned his back to the floor-to-ceiling window that cut the night open like a blade. Behind him, the firelight danced, casting flickers across Ellerei’s skin where she knelt. The collar was chained to the floor, keeping her low, keeping her still, though her eyes—her eyes hadn’t bowed. Not once.