POV Floris
The floor was fucking freezing. Like, prison-cell-in-January cold.
Eric Brighton stood there looking down at me like he was God’s fucked-up younger brother who’d gotten really into psychological warfare instead of miracles.
“Just because my brother has medical debt,” I started, “and I’m stuck paying it off—doesn’t mean you get to pull this twisted power-trip bullshit with me.”
He laughed.
Not a normal laugh. Not even a creepy laugh. This was something else entirely—low and dark and intimate, like he was sharing a private joke with the devil.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, and fuck me, he was crouching down to my level now.
His fingers found my chin, like my face was property he’d been considering purchasing. Touch was deliberate in a way that made my skin crawl and my nerve endings light up simultaneously as he tilted my face up toward his.
“You don’t have a choice,” he said, voice soft as silk and twice as dangerous.
Then his thumb brushed across my lower lip.
I flinched like he’d hit me with a cattle prod. The pad of his thumb was warm, smooth, and so deliberately possessive that my brain short-circuited for a second.
‘Don’t open your mouth,’ I commanded myself. ‘Don’t react. Don’t give him the satisfaction. Don’t—’
But my traitorous body had other plans. My breath caught in my throat, hitched like a broken engine, and this tiny sound escaped—barely audible, but unmistakably there.
A fucking moan.
The shame hit me like a physical blow. My stomach churned with disgust so intense I thought I might actually throw up on his expensive shoes. Which, honestly, would have been the perfect metaphor for this entire situation.
His eyes went darker, pupils dilating like he’d just tasted something delicious. “There it is.”
He stood up—graceful, controlled, like a predator who’d just confirmed his prey was exactly as vulnerable as he’d hoped. Walked over to this stupidly elegant side table and poured amber liquid into the crystal.
“Drink,” he said, holding the glass out to me like it was communion wine.
“No.” The word came out sharper than I intended, pride finally clawing its way back to the surface. “I’m not drinking anything you hand me, you psychotic—”
“Do you want me to do it the hard way?”
His voice was still soft, still conversational. Which somehow made the threat about a thousand times more terrifying than if he’d been yelling.
My eyes darted to the wall of surveillance monitors behind him. All those screens showing all those places, all those people who had no idea they were being watched. He could do anything to me right now. Show anyone anything.
My lips parted before I could stop them.
He moved closer, close enough that I could feel his body heat, and pressed the rim of the glass to my mouth. The liquid burned going down.
He crouched beside me again, close enough that I could count his eyelashes if I wanted to torture myself further. His voice was barely a whisper when he spoke:
“Good girl.” Those two words hit me like a drug.
Warm and liquid and completely unwanted, they melted through my skull and settled somewhere deep in my chest where I kept all my most shameful secrets.
I hated it. Hated the way my body responded, hated the little flutter of something that definitely wasn’t disgust, hated how much I wanted—needed—to hear him say it again.
***
I woke up in what could only be described as architectural porn.
Seriously. The suite was like someone had taken a luxury hotel room and fed it steroids.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Amsterdam’s skyline, all glass towers and historic spires playing nice together. The bed I was sprawled on was the size of my entire Boston apartment.
“What the actual fuck,” I whispered, sitting up slowly.
My head felt like it was stuffed with cotton and regret. The last thing I remembered was Eric crouching beside me, his thumb on my lips, that amber liquid burning down my throat, and then… nothing. Complete blackout.
What the hell had been in that drink?
I stumbled toward the bathroom mirror and froze. Someone had cleaned me up. Like, thoroughly.
My hair was washed and braided in a perfect plait down my back. My makeup was gone, skin scrubbed clean. I was wearing silk pajamas—expensive ones that definitely weren’t mine.
The thought of someone undressing me, washing me, dressing me while I was unconscious made my skin crawl so hard I actually shuddered.
A sharp knock interrupted my spiral into panic.
The door opened to reveal a woman who looked like she’d been designed by someone with very specific control issues.
Mid-thirties, maybe, with black hair pulled into a bun so tight it could crack walnuts. Her suit was perfectly tailored, her heels were silent on the marble, and her expression was about as warm as a tax audit.
She didn’t make eye contact. Just held out a folded bundle of clothes—black, severe, like funeral attire for someone who’d died of corporate compliance.
“Floor seven,” she said, voice flat as week-old soda. “Immediately after you shower.”
“Wait, what’s on floor seven?”
She was already turning to leave. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know, or you won’t tell me?”
“I don’t know.” Still no eye contact. Like I was furniture she’d been told to polish.
The door closed with a soft click, leaving me alone with designer clothes and growing dread.
Twenty minutes later, I was standing in an elevator that apparently had trust issues with buttons. The thing just started moving the second I stepped inside, like it knew exactly where I needed to go without bothering to ask my opinion.
The clothes fit perfectly, which was somehow more disturbing than if they’d been wrong. Black slacks, black blouse, black blazer—I looked like I worked for a very fashionable funeral home.
Floor seven arrived with a soft ding that sounded almost apologetic.
The doors opened onto what looked like a medical facility had a baby with a high-security prison. Everything was white—walls, floors, ceiling—so bright it made my eyes water.
The hallway stretched out like a sterile nightmare, punctuated by black glass doors marked with red numbers. One through six.
No windows. No sound except the whisper of air circulation and my own breathing.
Then a voice crackled through hidden speakers: “Room four. Now.”
Because of course it did.
Room four’s door hissed open as I approached, like the building was reading my mind. The space inside was… confusing. Luxury mixed with laboratory.
The door opened.
She walked in like she owned the building, the city, and possibly my soul. Tall, elegant, with platinum blonde hair swept into a chignon that probably required architectural planning. Her suit was designer, her heels were weapons, and her smile was sharp enough to perform surgery.
“Sia Morgenstern,” she said, extending a hand I was too terrified to shake. “Director of Reinforcement and Training.”
“Training for what?”
“To be the perfect assistant for Mr. Brighton, of course.” Her eyes traveled over me like I was livestock at auction. “Posture: acceptable. Compliance: promising. Fear response: excellent.”
“I’m not afraid,” I lied.
“Your pupils are dilated, your breathing is shallow, and that suit is monitoring your heart rate.” She smiled wider. “You’re terrified. It’s a very productive emotional state.”
She moved to a wall screen and tapped it. Two buttons appeared: SILENCE and PERMISSION.
“Your first choice,” Sia said conversationally. “Do you want to learn quietly, or would you prefer to ask questions first?”
I stared at the options, my finger hovering between them. Everything in me screamed to choose PERMISSION, to demand answers, to fight back.
But Jake’s face flashed in my mind. Those nurses. The machines keeping him alive.
I pressed SILENCE.
The room sealed itself with a mechanical hiss. The lights dimmed to something soft and intimate. Music began—low, sensual, the kind that made you think of things you shouldn’t.
And then his voice filled the space, rich as honey and twice as dangerous: “Let’s begin.”
A panel slid open behind me. I turned. Behind the one-way glass—an entirely different room.
A woman, spread-eagle on silk sheets, wrists bound, blindfold over her eyes, her body arching as she moaned into a pillow. The sound was real. Raw. Wet.
And Eric Brighton stood at the edge of the bed. Shirtless. Hair tousled. His mouth at her throat. His fingers disappearing between her thighs.
“Observe,” Sia breathed behind me, close enough for her lips to graze my ear. “Learn.”
I couldn’t look. But I also couldn’t not look.
The woman’s body writhed. His voice coaxed every reaction like he owned her muscles, her breath, her climax. It wasn’t sex—it was warfare.
And then—
“Touch yourself,” Eric’s voice ordered through the intercom. “Now.”