SEVEN NIGHTS WITH MY STEPFATHER

The last flash popped and the studio lights dimmed to a soft amber glow. Sarah stretched like a satisfied cat, ropes loosened and trailing from her wrists, skin marked with beautiful red diamonds that would bruise purple by morning. Cassian lowered the camera, checked the back screen once, and gave her the smallest nod of approval.

“Perfect,” he said. “We’re done.”

Sarah practically purred. She slipped the robe back on, tied it loosely, and sauntered over to him for a lazy, lingering kiss on the cheek. “You’re a genius, Cassian. Same time next week?”

“I’ll text you,” he answered, already turning away.

I stood frozen near the light stand, arms full of coiled rope and crumpled silk, feeling like I’d been run over by something I couldn’t name. My legs trembled. My panties were ruined. I couldn’t look at either of them.

Cassian’s gaze found me across the room. “Ivy. Upstairs. Shower and change for dinner. Twenty minutes.”

His voice was calm, almost gentle, but it scraped over every raw nerve I had left. I nodded once and fled.

I took the stairs two at a time, dropped the ropes in the laundry room without looking, and locked myself in the guest bathroom on the second floor. The mirror showed a stranger: wild eyes, flushed throat, hair sticking to damp temples. I looked like I’d been the one tied up for two hours.

I stripped fast, kicking clothes into the corner, and turned the shower as hot as it would go. Steam billowed up instantly, fogging the glass, swallowing the room. I stepped under the spray and let it punish my skin.

For thirty seconds I just stood there, head bowed, water pounding the back of my neck.

Then the images started.

Cassian’s hands sliding the crimson rope across Sarah’s ribs.

His low, steady voice telling her to hold still.

The way his fingers had checked the knots, clinical and possessive all at once.

The tiny intake of breath when he’d tugged and the rope had bitten into her skin.

I closed my eyes and suddenly it wasn’t Sarah’s body under those hands.

It was mine.

I saw him behind me, chest to my back, one arm banded across my waist while the other guided the rope between my breasts. I felt the heat of his mouth at my ear, felt the exact pressure of his teeth on my shoulder when he decided I’d been good enough to earn a mark. I felt his palm sliding lower, slow and deliberate, until his fingers brushed the place that was aching so badly I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning out loud.

My own hand followed the fantasy without permission.

One second I was gripping the tile wall for balance, the next my fingers were between my thighs, slick and swollen and desperate. I circled once, twice, hips jerking forward into my own touch, and the sound that left my throat was embarrassingly loud in the tiled room.

Cassian.

His name tore out of me on a broken whisper. I pictured him stepping into the shower behind me, water streaming down the hard lines of his chest, his hands replacing mine, rougher, surer, knowing exactly how to wreck me. I imagined him pressing me face-first against the glass, spreading my legs with his knee, telling me I wasn’t allowed to come until he said so.

My knees buckled. I had to slap a hand over my mouth to muffle the cry as the orgasm slammed into me, fast and brutal and humiliating. My entire body clenched, thighs shaking, water pouring over me while I came apart on my own fingers imagining the one man I was supposed to hate.

The aftershocks rolled for what felt like forever.

Then shame crashed in, cold and suffocating.

I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the shower floor, knees to chest, letting the water beat against my back. Tears mixed with the spray; I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

What the hell was wrong with me?

I came here for one reason and one reason only: seven nights. Survive seven nights and Mom’s debt disappeared. I could sell the house, pay off the medical bills, breathe again. Go back to my quiet, safe life where the only thing that touched me was loneliness.

Cassian Voss was not part of that life. He was the man who broke my mother’s heart, the man who turned pleasure into power and power into art. He was poison, just like Mom always said.

I just had to keep my clothes on, keep my mouth shut, and count the days.

Six more nights.

I could do this.

I stood up on shaky legs, turned the water ice-cold until my teeth chattered, and scrubbed every inch of skin raw. When I stepped out, I avoided the mirror. I didn’t want to see what was written on my face.

I dressed in the plainest thing I could find: soft gray leggings and an oversized sweater that swallowed me whole. Armor. Distance. I twisted my wet hair into a knot and marched downstairs determined to act normal.

The dining room smelled like garlic and rosemary. Cassian was already at the table, sleeves rolled up, pouring red wine into two glasses. He looked up when I walked in, eyes flicking over me once, slow and deliberate, like he could see straight through the layers of cotton to the marks my own fingers had left.

“Dinner’s ready,” he said, voice perfectly civil. “Sit.”

I sat.

He pushed a plate toward me: roast chicken, baby potatoes, asparagus glistening with butter. It looked and smelled incredible, but my stomach was tied in knots.

We ate in silence for a few minutes. I kept my eyes on my food, cutting everything into tiny pieces I couldn’t taste.

Finally he spoke.

“You lasted longer than I thought you would today.”

I froze, fork halfway to my mouth.

He leaned back in his chair, wineglass dangling from his fingers.

“Most people either run screaming or beg to join in by the third roll of rope. You just… watched.” His gaze sharpened. “And you felt every second of it, didn’t you?”

Heat flooded my face. I set the fork down carefully.

“I’m here for the money,” I said, proud that my voice didn’t shake. “That’s all.”

He smiled, slow and dangerous.

“Of course you are.” He took a sip of wine, eyes never leaving mine. “Six more nights, little girl. Six more nights and you’re free.”

He lifted his glass in a mock toast.

“But tell me something, Ivy.” His voice dropped to that velvet register that made my spine melt. “When you were in that shower just now, screaming my name into your own hand… did it feel like you were only here for the money?”

The fork slipped from my fingers and clattered against the plate.

He couldn’t know.

He couldn’t possibly—

His smile widened, dark and triumphant, and he raised one brow.

“These walls are old,” he said softly, “but they aren’t that thick.”

My heart stopped.

Six more nights.

And Cassian Voss had just heard everything.