(Milo’s POV)

I wasn’t sure when I agreed to stay.

There was no moment. No official line crossed.

Just a series of small silences that I didn’t argue with. A glass placed in my hand. My coat disappearing. The door clicking shut behind me like a whispered dare.

Now I was standing in Elias Vale’s penthouse, half-sure I was dreaming, the rest of me wondering when I’d wake up choking on regret.

He didn’t touch me.

Not once.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Worse, because I wanted to know why he hadn’t.

Wanted to know what it would feel like when he finally did.

---

He gave me a tour in near silence.

The kitchen. The guest room. The library — yes, the man had a whole room with wall-to-wall books and no TV in sight. Then he stopped in front of a set of double doors I hadn’t noticed earlier.

“I call this the Red Room,” he said dryly.

I blinked. “Seriously?”

His mouth curved just slightly. “No. But you smiled.”

I rolled my eyes to cover the heat rising in my face.

He pushed the doors open.

The room beyond was nothing like I expected.

No whips on the wall. No chains. No velvet-draped nightmare.

Just simplicity.

A wide space with smooth hardwood floors. Soft lighting. A leather armchair in the corner. A low platform bed with clean white sheets. Shelves with closed drawers. Nothing screaming sex dungeon.

Just… quiet.

Intentional.

Intimate.

“Is this where you murder your subs?” I muttered, trying not to sound breathless.

He didn’t answer.

He pointed to the center of the room.

“Stand there.”

I stared. “You’re serious?”

“I don’t give commands for sport, Milo.”

I moved.

Every step felt like it echoed.

Once I stood where he wanted, he walked to the far wall and opened a drawer. Pulled something out.

A piece of black silk.

He returned and held it out.

“Blindfold.”

I laughed nervously. “You know, most people ask for consent before playing the ‘let’s cut off your senses’ game.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“I am asking.”

Shit.

I stared at it.

Then at him.

Then back at the silk.

My heartbeat was a live wire behind my ribs.

“Okay,” I whispered. “But no touching.”

“No touching,” he agreed.

I took the blindfold.

Pulled it down over my eyes.

Darkness swallowed me whole.

The silence was immediate.

No footsteps. No breathing. Nothing.

Just the rush of blood in my ears and the knowledge that somewhere in this room, he was watching me.

I didn’t know what to do with my hands.

Or my breath.

I stood there, blind and waiting, heart pounding like it wanted to be punished.

And then—

I heard his voice.

Low. Close. Too close.

“You’re trembling.”

I flinched.

He didn’t touch me. But I could feel him circling.

Every shift of air, every breath near my ear — calculated, quiet, devastating.

“You’re wondering what I’m going to do,” he murmured.

I swallowed. “Are you?”

“No,” he said. “I’m watching what you do when I do nothing at all.”

I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until he said—

“Breathe.”

One word.

It hit harder than a shout.

I sucked in air like I’d been underwater, blinking beneath the blindfold. My fingers twitched at my sides.

I couldn’t tell how close he was.

But I felt him.

Elias moved like air pressure, like gravity itself. Sometimes he was behind me. Sometimes to the side. Sometimes… I swore he was right in front of me, whispering across my skin without a single word.

“Posture,” he said softly. “Head up. Spine straight.”

I obeyed before I thought about it.

Then hated that I did.

“Why are you listening?” he asked.

My jaw clenched. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

I didn’t answer.

He didn’t need me to.

The silence stretched.

I tried to distract myself — from the heat crawling down my neck, from the sweat starting to bead at my collar, from the impossible fact that I was standing blindfolded in some billionaire’s private room waiting to be undone without ever being touched.

“I don’t like being watched,” I muttered.

“You like being seen.”

His voice came from behind my shoulder.

“You don’t trust easy. But you want to.”

Now from my left.

“You hide behind humor. But you want someone to see past it.”

Right in front of me.

“You put on the armor. But you’re starving for someone to help you take it off.”

My throat burned.

“Stop,” I said.

“No.”

“Elias—”

“I haven’t touched you,” he said, calm and cold and devastating. “I haven’t done anything to you.”

“But I feel like you have.”

Silence.

Then a whisper, so close I could taste the words:

“That’s because you’re already mine.”

My knees buckled slightly.

Just a twitch.

But he noticed.

I didn’t fall.

But something inside me cracked.

Not from fear.

Not from desire.

But from the way his voice stripped the noise out of my head and left me standing there, vulnerable, shaking, and impossibly seen.

I lifted a hand to pull off the blindfold.

“No,” he said gently. “One more minute.”

I froze.

Because that minute — that final minute of stillness — was the most intimate thing I’d ever experienced.

No hands.

No mouth.

Just breath. Space. Words.

And me — unraveling with nothing to hold onto but the weight of his gaze in the dark.

---

When he finally said, “You can remove it now,” I peeled the silk off with trembling fingers.

The room swam into view.

And there he was — a few feet away, arms folded, calm as a goddamn statue. But his eyes?

Not calm at all.

Something dangerous burned there. Something restrained.

“Why?” I croaked. “Why didn’t you touch me?”

Elias stepped closer — not enough to close the gap, just enough to claim the air between us.

“Because I wanted you to understand,” he said, “that obedience doesn’t start with chains. It starts with surrender.”

Then he turned and walked out, leaving me standing there — exposed, breathless, and somehow aching in places no one had touched.