C15 Fifteen

~Bianca's POV~

The room looked like a velvet-covered nightmare.

Dark red walls flickered with shadows, and chains shone under the warm lights, sharp and ready. Leather straps hung in neat lines—some thick, some thin—each one hinting at pain or control. A large X-Cross stood at the far wall with straps at each each, surrounded by shelves filled with gags, ropes, cuffs, and clamps, all laid out like they belonged in a shrine to power and submission.

It carried the scent of leather and musk. Of power and sin.

A red room.

Every inch dared me to kneel.

My heels sank into a plush carpet, and my chest tightened. This wasn't just a space—it was an invitation and a warning, a place built to strip you down, body and soul.

Then I saw Damien standing by a tall mirror, no longer in a suit but in a white shirt, half unbuttoned to reveal golden skin and the sharp cut of his chest. Dark pants clung to his hips, and he was barefoot, at ease.

Dangerous. He looked like he belonged here. Like he was born of this.

"What… what is all this?" My voice barely cleared my throat.

Turning his head slowly, his smile was sharp, cruel, and beautiful.

"My sanctuary," he said, voice like velvet drawn over a blade. "The one place I don't have to lie."

He moved toward me unhurriedly, like a lion with time.

"I don't crave love," he said quietly, almost to himself. "I crave control. I crave surrender. The moment someone breaks. The sound they make when they hate what they feel… and beg anyway."

I swallowed hard. "And me?"

Dragging his eyes over, slow and scorching, he said, "You're mine."

The words settled in my chest like a chain.

"For six months," he continued, circling me, "you'll be shaped into exactly what I want. Worshipped. Used. Ruined beautifully."

I wanted to fight. Wanted to spit something cruel. But something inside me flickered—something small and fractured that had forgotten what it meant to feel.

Not lust exactly, but desperation and longing.

I said nothing because I couldn't.

Damien stepped back and sat in the chair at the center of the room, legs spread wide, watching me like he was already unwrapping me.

"Show me," he said. "Crawl."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"You're insane," I snapped, feeling heat rushing to my face.

He didn't blink. "You signed a contract. You handed me your pride. Don't start pretending you didn't mean it."

My fists clenched at my sides.

Six months.

I could survive six months. For revenge. For father.

But my body… traitorous, burning… had other plans.

Heat fueled low in my belly, winding tighter with every second of his gaze on me. Shame crawled up my throat.

And slowly, against every screaming voice in my head, I dropped to my knees. The carpet cushioned my palms.

Hot and acidic humiliation hit first, but l beneath it, something deeper stirred. The throb between my thighs and the dampness soaking through silk.

Damien didn't move an inch, just watched and devoured, like this was the moment he'd been waiting for.

Crawling to him, my pulse pounding in my ears, each movement stripping away a layer of who I used to be, my face burned, and my breath shook.

By the time I reached him, I could barely look up. He cupped my face, thumb brushing over my lower lip.

"There she is," he murmured. "Was that so hard?"

His hand dropped to his waistband, and when he brought his cock out, Sweet Jesus, he was already hard—thick, heavy, and proud.

I looked away, then back again, unable to stop myself. He stroked himself once, slow, savoring every second.

"You're soaking through that thong," he said softly. "All that defiance, all those claws… and look at you now."

"Stand," he ordered.

My legs trembled, but I did as told, only to be pulled onto his lap in one fluid motion, straddling him. I gasped as his cock pressed up between my thighs, the only barrier my flimsy lace underwear.

He rolled his hips once, making me shudder.

"Soaked," he said again in a more tougher tone. "You filthy little thing."

"Don't," I snapped.

He raised a brow. "Don't call you what you are?"

His fingers dug into my hips. "You think he ever made you this wet? That spineless husband of yours?"

I flinched as fury bloomed, but so did the unbearable ache of being seen.

"You hate me," he said. "You hate this. So why are you trembling?"

"Because you're a bastard," I whispered.

His laugh was low. Dark.

"Then stop moaning."

My breath hitched because I was. Soft, helpless sounds spilling from me with every slow drag of his body against mine.

And then he kissed me.

No gentleness. No warning.

It was heat and dominance and possession, stealing every breath. I tried to pull away, but my hands betrayed me, gripping and clinging onto his shirt.

Grabbing my wrists, he pinned them behind me, one hand holding them in a makeshift bind.

"Bad girl," he growled. "No touching."

His mouth found my throat, biting and sucking, leaving heat in his wake as I gasped.

Click.

I froze at the soft sound, feeling the slack at my back as he undid the clasp of my bra, the lace slipping from my shoulder.

And Damien stared.

His eyes didn't move, not even when he released my hands, unbuckled his belt, and slid the leather free in one slow pull.

"Hands behind your back."

I did as he said, and he bound me with his belt—tight, his control wrapping around me like a brand.

"You were made for this," he whispered, his mouth hot against my jaw. "All that rage… wasted pretending to be something you're not."

Then he yanked the lace down, exposing my breasts.

His mouth claimed me—tongue, lips, teeth. He sucked one nipple until I cried out, then slapped the other, a sharp crack echoing in the red room.

"Fuck, Damien."

"Say it again."

"Damien," I moaned. "Please."

"Please what?"

"I-I don't know."

He bit the other nipple hard and I whimpered. Shame and hunger tangled inside me until I couldn't tell them apart.

"You're a needy little slut," he murmured. "A filthy, desperate whore."

I should've slapped him, but I found myself nodding instead.

"Say it."

"I'm… a needy little slut."

"Louder."

"I'm a filthy, desperate whore," I choked out.

He smiled, something wild and satisfied glinting in his eyes.

"You don't even need me inside you to lose your fucking mind."

He rolled his hips again, and I lost all sense of decency. I was grinding on him, breathless, my hands still bound as I rocked on his lap, chasing friction like an addict.

"You're fucking dripping," he growled. "You're ruining my pants, little Bianca."

Then he stood, lifting me with ease, my legs wrapping around him, body pulsing.

Carrying me forward, my wrists still pinned, my heat pressed against his hardness, I couldn't stop moving, couldn't stop needing.

"You're riding me," he said darkly. "While I walk."

"I-I can't help it."

"Don't. Keep going."

We turned a corner, and he stopped.

"Open your eyes."

I did and gasped. The X-cross stood in front of us, chains glinting, cuffs waiting.

He set me down, and my knees nearly gave out, but he caught me. Then he spun me, pressing me gently against the wood, and bound me—wrists high, ankles spread, exposed. The cool metal against my skin sent a full-body shiver down my spine.

He stepped back and stared, like I was art, like I was his. And maybe I was.

God help me because I wanted more.