Chapter 4 The Glass Cage

The drive to the clifftop was a descent into a beautiful, jagged purgatory. The road twisted through the Maine pines until the trees gave way to a monolithic structure of gray concrete and floor-to-ceiling glass. "The Glass Cage" hung over the Atlantic like a dare, the waves below smashing against the rocks with a violence that matched the thrumming in my chest.

I stepped out of my beat-up sedan, the salt spray stinging my cheeks. I felt like a lamb walking into a den designed by a god who hated mercy.

The front door operated on a silent hydraulic hiss. I stepped inside. The interior was minimalist-all cold stone floors, sharp angles, and the smell of expensive turpentine and ozone. Caspian was standing at a massive drafting table in the center of the room, lit by a single, harsh spotlight. He didn't look up. He was wearing a black t-shirt that stretched over his shoulders, the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and stained with charcoal.

"You're three minutes late," he said, his voice echoing off the glass. "In this house, my time is the only currency that matters."

I opened my mouth to apologize, but he held up a finger.

"The rules start now. From this moment, you are a ghost. You are a shape. You are mine."

He walked toward a pedestal where a small box sat. He opened it, revealing a strip of black silk and a heavy, polished iron band. My breath hitched.

"Strip," he commanded.

I hesitated, my fingers trembling at the hem of my coat. "Here? Now?"

He took a step closer, his presence expanding until he filled my entire vision. "I don't remember 'negotiation' being part of the contract, Miss St. Claire. You signed away your voice and your pride to save your pathetic brother. Don't make me remind you how easily I can let the O'Sheas have him."

I swallowed the lump of fear in my throat. I let my coat hit the floor. Then my dress. Then my bra. Standing there in nothing but my lace panties, the cold air bit at my skin, making my nipples harden instantly. I felt exposed, small, and dangerously alive.

Caspian's eyes didn't flicker. He didn't look at me like a man looks at a woman; he looked at me like an engineer looks at a problem. He picked up the silk mask and stepped behind me.

He tied it tight. The world vanished, replaced by the scent of his skin and the pressure of the fabric. Then came the collar. It was cold and heavy, snapping shut around my neck with a definitive click. A small weight hung from the front, resting right between my collarbones, forcing me to keep my chin up and my spine straight.

"Walk to the platform," he whispered in my ear.

I moved blindly, my other senses sharpening to a painful degree. I felt the grit of the stone floor under my feet until I stepped onto the velvet-covered dais.

"Kneel. Arch your back. Hands behind your head."

I obeyed. I felt his hands on me then-not the frantic, primal grip from the garden, but something more terrifying. It was clinical. He gripped my thighs, forcing them wider, his fingers digging into my flesh. He adjusted the tilt of my pelvis, his palm flat against my lower stomach, pushing until I was stretched to the point of aching.

"Hold it," he growled.

He moved back to his board. The only sound was the rhythmic scritch-scritch of charcoal against heavy paper. It was a slow, psychological flaying. Every muscle in my body began to scream. My thighs trembled from the strain of the pose, but I knew if I moved, if I made a sound, it was over.

Minutes felt like hours. I could feel his gaze-it was a physical weight, stripping me faster than his hands ever could.

Suddenly, the charcoal stopped. I heard his footsteps approaching. He didn't speak until he was inches away. I felt the heat of him, the sheer size of the man blocking out the chill of the studio.

"You're shaking, Little Bird," he murmured. He reached out, his hand sliding over my hip, his thumb tracing the line where my panties met my skin. "Is it the cold? Or is it because you can still feel me banging the life out of you against that stone wall?"

I gasped, the sound muffled by the mask. My pussy throbbed, a treacherous, wet heat blooming between my legs at the memory.

He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "I've been drawing you for three years, Sera. Long before the masquerade. Long before Dominic touched you. I've lived in the shadows of your life, waiting for you to break."

He grabbed the iron collar, tilting my head back until I could feel the pulse in my throat.

"You think this is a deal? This is an ending. By the time I'm done with you, you won't even remember your own name. You'll only remember the sound of my voice and the way it feels to be owned."

He let go of the collar and walked back to the shadows.

"Session over. Get out. And Sera?"

I stood on shaky legs, reaching for my clothes in the dark.

"Wear something easier to remove tomorrow. I'm tired of waiting for the lace."