(Milo's POV)

“You’ve been thinking about it.”

That was the first thing Elias said when I showed up again.

No greeting. No smirk. Just that cool, infuriating certainty.

I stood in his penthouse doorway, the city behind me, my pride somewhere under my shoes.

He was right, of course.

I had been thinking about it.

Thinking about the blindfold. The silence. The way he spoke to me like I was already kneeling, even when I stood tall.

I hadn’t touched the contract yet. It still sat in my duffel, unopened since that first night. But it haunted me all the same — the idea that someone could break me down without raising their voice, without even touching me.

So yeah, I came back.

But I came back on my terms.

“That night,” I said, stepping inside, “wasn’t a yes.”

He watched me like I was a chess piece that hadn’t realized it was in check.

“And now?”

“I want to try one scene,” I said. “One.”

His eyes flicked down my body — not hungry, not possessive. Assessing. Like I was a puzzle to solve or a code to unlock.

“No sex,” I added quickly. “No—” I gestured vaguely, “—stuff. Just…”

“Submission,” he said.

I swallowed. “Control. Let me feel it. But not all of it. Just a taste.”

He studied me for a long moment.

Then: “Go to the training room. Wait for me there.”

---

I didn’t expect to be nervous this time.

But walking back into that quiet, minimalist space made my stomach twist. Everything was too clean, too still. The white sheets on the low platform bed were untouched. The black silk blindfold lay folded on the dresser.

I sat.

Then stood.

Then paced.

And just when I was about to lose my nerve, the door opened.

Elias entered — all black again. Rolled sleeves. Bare wrists. Eyes like smoke in a locked room.

He closed the door behind him, and my heart did that stupid off-beat thing again.

“Shirt off,” he said simply.

I stared. “I said no sex.”

“And I agreed,” he said. “This isn’t about sex. It’s about access. I can’t guide what I can’t see.”

My fingers hesitated at the hem.

But I pulled the shirt off anyway.

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, and picked up a length of soft cotton rope from the dresser.

“Lie down. Chest to the mattress. Arms forward.”

My throat dried.

But I obeyed.

The bed was warm beneath me, but the air wasn’t. Goosebumps raced down my arms. My pulse felt like a war drum in my ears.

Then — I felt the first loop of rope slip over my wrist.

Gentle. Precise. Practiced.

No pain. No rush.

Just… presence.

A knot. A pull. Then the second wrist.

I was restrained. Not tightly. Not cruelly.

But completely.

My breath stuttered.

“You okay?” came his voice — quiet, but close.

“Yeah,” I said. “I just…”

I bit my lip.

“I didn’t think this would make me feel anything.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I feel like I’m floating and falling at the same time.”

“That’s surrender,” he said. “It’s not supposed to make sense.”

He moved again. I couldn’t see him, not from where I lay, arms stretched forward, chest pressed to the bed, but I heard the soft rustle of fabric and the gentle slide of a drawer opening.

Then the faintest touch brushed my spine.

Not a hand.

A feather.

I gasped.

It tickled down the line of my back, barely there, soft as breath — but somehow sharper than a slap. My skin lit up, nerves screaming even as I stayed perfectly still.

Another stroke — slower this time. Down the length of my arm, past the bend of my elbow, ghosting over the vein pulsing at my wrist.

I wanted to move.

But I didn’t.

Because something in his silence told me that stillness was obedience.

“Good,” he said quietly.

Just that one word.

It hit harder than anything physical.

Another stroke — this time down the back of my thigh, to the edge of my waistband. Then gone. The feather returned to my spine, drawing a lazy path between my shoulder blades like I was canvas and he was writing in invisible ink.

My breath caught. My fingers twitched against the binds.

“Why am I… shaking?” I whispered.

“Because no one’s ever handled you gently and meant it.”

That one hit different.

I clenched my jaw, but it was too late. The ache swelled in my chest before I could stop it.

He knelt beside me, voice near my ear.

“You’re doing so well, Milo.”

Tears slipped out before I even felt them coming.

God. That voice.

It wasn’t praise like flattery.

It was praise like truth. Like he meant it.

And it cracked something wide open.

My breath hitched. I turned my face into the sheets, trying to hide the fact that I was falling apart — not from pain, not even from the rope — but from the unbearable tenderness of being seen.

I cried.

Silently, stupidly.

Like a kid.

No shame this time. Just release.

He didn’t rush in to comfort me. Didn’t untie me or whisper platitudes.

He let me cry.

Let me feel it.

Like he knew I needed to.

And when I finally exhaled — shuddering, raw — his fingers found my hair. One slow stroke.

Not possessive.

Not claiming.

Just…

Gentle.

Like I was allowed to come undone.

“I don’t do this for everyone,” I murmured. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

“Yes, you do,” he said softly.

And I did.

Somewhere between the first knot and the first tear, I’d stopped being curious about the contract.

Because I already knew what submission tasted like.

Safe.

Warm.

Like the first exhale after years of holding it in.

Oh, how I wish I knew—if I just knew that feeling was the bait that led me into the trap.