~~ Sinveer's POV~~
The room still smells like her.
Leather. Sweat. A trace of blood. And underneath all of it—roses and heat. That same scent I remember from two years ago.
I'm still hard, still pulsing with the need to fuck her until she begs. Until she breaks.
I don't move for a long time. I sit on the edge of the bed where she was just pinned, still shirtless, breathing steady but shallow. My cock is straining against my pants. My hands—one still stained with her warmth, the other twitching with restraint.
She was going to kill me. And I was going to let her cum before she could try.
I knew it was her. Didn't need to rip off the mask. I knew it in the way she breathed when I pinned her. The way her body arched—fought—not to give in.
I could feel her hate.
And I could feel how wet she was through those tight black pants.
She didn't speak more than a word, but her body? It told the whole fucking story.
She wanted it. She wanted me.
And when I pressed my fingers between her thighs and felt how drenched she already was—I almost lost it.
She was soaked like a whore in heat. Dripping from just being under me.
I could've made her cum in thirty seconds flat. Two fingers. That's all it would've taken. Or none at all.
Just my voice.
"Tell me—how long have you been thinking about this?" She flinched. That little tremor…..
Fucking addictive.
God, I wanted to strip her slowly. Spread her legs. Kiss her thighs. Force her to look me in the eye while I licked her until she breaks apart—clawing, gasping, maybe even crying if I did it right.
But I didn't. I let her go. And that's what pisses me off the most.
I let her escape. No. Not escape.
I gave her the opening.
Because I wanted her to run.
I wanted to watch her from the shadows and own her at my own pace.
Let her think she's still in control.
But her mask didn't hide shit from me.
That body? Those eyes? That voice?
It's her.
LIACH BRAIN.
My assistant.
The sweet, sharp, too-perfect woman who types my schedule like she couldn't skin a man alive.
But I've seen how she moves. How she kills.
Tonight confirmed it. The weight of her hips. The coiled control in every limb. The way she resisted with every ounce of herself, even while her pussy begged me to fuck it raw.
She was going to murder me with grace.
And instead, I almost made her come with her clothes on.
I lean back against the headboard, drag a hand through my hair.
My cock is still throbbing. Harder now.
I undo my belt, unzip slowly. Just enough for my hands to do the work.
I grip the base tight, head slick, heavy, angry.
I don't even have to imagine. It's all still here—her gasps, her hips grinding up to meet mine, the way she whimpered when I slid my fingers low.
That wasn't fear. That was need.
I stroke once, slow and tight.
"God, I'd ruin you," I mutter aloud. My voice is low, gravel-soft. "I'd bend you over this bed, fuck you until you forgot whose side you were on."
Another stroke.
"I'd hold your throat while you came all over me."
Harder now. Tighter, I groan.
My mind spins faster than my hand.
She wants to kill me. That's what turns me on.
And I want to watch her fall apart while trying.
I close my eyes, Imagining her panting beneath me, hands bound, legs shaking, begging for more while her pride dies slowly.
"Say it," I'd whisper. "Say you belong to me."
She wouldn't.
Not at first.
But eventually, her cunt would answer for her.
I groan low. Grip tighter.
But I stop before it comes.
I sit still, chest rising and falling like a beast just under the surface.
No.
She doesn't get that from me.
Not yet.
Not unless she's in the room—tied to this bed, soaked, undone, and screaming my name like a prayer she hates.
I tuck myself back in.
Zip up and stand.
I walk to the window and light a cigarette, even though I don't smoke. The match burns too slow. The night outside is silent.
But my mind is roaring.
I should've unmasked her.
Should've made her say it.
Should've whispered "I know who you are" while fucking the truth out of her.
But I didn't.
Because I want the next move to be hers.
I want to see what she does with the knowledge that I touched her like she was mine… and let her leave like a warning.
She'll either vanish—
Or she'll come back.
And if she comes back?
There'll be no more teasing.
No more masks.
No more mercy.
~5:44 AM- DE LUNA SURVEILLANCE FEED ARCHIVE ROOM~
I sit alone in front of the screens, rewinding the last six hours of security footage.
She got past two cameras.
One blind spot I already knew about.
One she created.
Impressive.
Amateur would've been messy.
This?
This was art.
Clean entry. Fluid movement. Mask that fit like a second face.
But the body underneath?
I've memorized it.
The swell of her hips. The muscle in her thighs. The line of her back when she arched—God, the way she moved under pressure like she thrived on it.
And her mouth.
That mouth is going to be my undoing.
Not for how it looks. But for how it sounds when she tries not to moan.
I exhale smoke and watch the final frame again.
She vanishes into the night.
But not without leaving a piece of herself behind.
Me.
She doesn't know it yet.
But she's not free anymore.
She's caught.
Because now I know what it feels like to hold her down and watch her break.
And next time—
I won't stop..