Chapter 1

I came to beg for mercy. He offered to save me… for a price.

One week. Seven forbidden nights in his snowbound lake house. $187,400.17 wiped clean if I obey every single command.

Cassian Voss. My mother’s ex-husband. The man who raised me, then vanished the day the divorce was final. Now a billionaire photographer who shoots the most depraved, beautiful fantasies money can buy… and keeps the pictures for himself.

He says I only have to be his assistant. Hand him ropes. Hold the lights. Watch while perfect, naked women kneel and call him Sir.

But I feel his eyes on me every time the shutter clicks. I hear the way his voice drops when he calls me “little girl.” I see the way he smiles when I flinch.

He promised he wouldn’t touch me. He never said I wouldn’t beg him to.

By the seventh night, the debt will be paid. The only question left is whether I’ll drive away free… or drop to my knees and plead with my stepfather to keep me forever.

Warning: extremely spicy, very taboo, praise kink, forced proximity, possessive alpha, no cheating, guaranteed HEA.

Chapter 1

The crash echoed through my apartment like a gunshot, splintering wood and jolting me upright in bed. It was barely dawn, the kind of gray December morning where the world outside my window looked frozen and unforgiving. My heart slammed against my ribs as I scrambled for my robe, but before I could even tie the sash, they were inside.

Two men, built like refrigerators with faces scarred from too many bad decisions, stood in my living room. The door hung off its hinges behind them, snowflakes swirling in from the hallway. One of them, the shorter one with a tattoo creeping up his neck like a venomous vine, held a crowbar loosely in his gloved hand. The other, taller and meaner-looking, cracked his knuckles and scanned the room as if appraising what he could smash next.

“Where’s the money, sweetheart?” the tattooed one growled, his breath fogging the air. He had an accent, thick and Eastern European, the kind that made every word sound like a threat.

I froze in the bedroom doorway, clutching my robe closed. My mind raced, Mom’s debt. The gambling loans she’d hidden from me until the cancer took her eight months ago. I’d been scraping by, paying what I could, but the interest piled up like the snow outside. “I… I don’t have it yet. Please, I just need more time.”

The taller one laughed, a sound like gravel under boots. He stepped forward, close enough that I could smell the stale coffee on his breath. “Time’s up. Your mama owed us one-eighty-seven grand plus change. That’s on you now. We ain’t charities.”

They weren’t wrong. The paperwork had come after the funeral, stacks of it, from underground bookies who’d fronted her bets on everything from horse races to poker games. She’d sworn it was under control, right up until the end. But here I was, twenty-five and alone, inheriting her mess.

I backed up a step, my bare feet cold on the linoleum. “Look, I can get it. Just give me a month. I’ll sell the house if I have to, Mom’s old place. It’s worth something. Please, a month to sort it out.”

The tattooed one exchanged a glance with his partner, then smirked. He swung the crowbar lightly, tapping it against a lamp on my side table. The bulb flickered. “A month? You think we’re idiots? We gave your ma extensions. Look where that got her.” He leaned in, his eyes narrowing. “One week. Seven days. Wire the full amount, $187,400.17, or we come back. And next time, we don’t just break doors.”

The taller one grabbed a framed photo from the mantel, me and Mom at the lake house years ago, both smiling like life was simple. He smashed it against the wall, glass shattering across the floor. “That’s a preview. You pay, or we take everything. Starting with you.”

My stomach twisted. I nodded frantically, not trusting my voice. They turned and lumbered out, leaving the door gaping open like a wound. I sank to the floor amid the shards, my hands shaking as I swept them away. Blood welled up from a cut on my palm, but I barely felt it. One week. Seven days to come up with nearly two hundred thousand dollars, or lose everything, including, apparently, my safety.

I bandaged my hand with a kitchen towel and grabbed my phone. First, the bank. I dialed the loan officer who’d turned me down twice already. “Miss Voss,” she said, her voice clipped and professional, “your credit score is in the tank from the medical bills. We can’t approve another line without collateral, and the house is already mortgaged to the hilt.”

Next, Aunt Clara, Mom’s sister, the one who’d barely spoken to us since the divorce. “Ivy, honey, I’m sorry,” she said over the line, her voice tinny from her Florida condo. “We’re on a fixed income. Maybe a few hundred, but that’s it. Your mom… she burned a lot of bridges with her habits.”

I tried friends next. Sarah from college, who worked in finance now. “God, Ivy, that’s insane. I wish I could help, but we’re saving for the wedding. Have you tried crowdfunding? Or a second job?”

A second job. As if waitressing nights and freelancing graphic design during the day hadn’t already stretched me thin. I scrolled through my contacts, desperation mounting. Old bosses, distant cousins, even an ex-boyfriend who’d ghosted me last year. No one had the kind of money I needed. No one could move that fast.

The snow was picking up outside, blanketing the city in white silence. I paced the apartment, my mind a whirlwind. Sell the house? It was the only thing left of Mom, the creaky Victorian where I’d grown up, filled with her laughter and her secrets. But even if I listed it today, closings took months. Pawn shops? I had nothing valuable. Rob a bank? The thought crossed my mind in a hysterical flash, but I shoved it away.

My thumb hovered over the last name in my contacts: Cassian Voss. Stepdad. Or ex-stepdad, depending on how you counted the years. Mom had married him when I was ten, a whirlwind romance with the charming billionaire who’d swept her off her feet. For eight years, he’d been the father figure I’d never had, teaching me to swim in the lake behind his mansion, funding my art classes, even showing up to my high school graduation with a bouquet bigger than my head.

But then the cheating scandals hit. Mom found out about the affairs, models, assistants, women half her age. She’d kicked him out, divorced him clean, and forbade me from ever contacting him again. “He’s a bastard, Ivy,” she’d said through tears, her voice raw. “A manipulative snake who uses people like toys. Promise me you’ll stay away. He’s poison.”

I’d promised. And for six years, I had. No calls, no emails, nothing. But I knew things about Cassian that Mom had tried to erase. He was filthy rich, tech empires, real estate, investments that made headlines. Two hundred grand was pocket change to him, a rounding error in his bank account. If anyone could wire the money today, it was him.

I stared at his number, my cut hand throbbing. The goons’ threats echoed in my ears: Starting with you. I had no choice. My finger trembled as I hit call.

It rang twice before he answered. “Ivy.” His voice was deep, smooth as aged whiskey, with that faint trace of an accent from his European roots. No surprise, no warmth, just my name, like he’d been expecting me.

“Cassian,” I said, my throat dry. “I… I need help.”

A pause, long enough to make me regret everything. Then, softly: “Tell me.”

I spilled it all, the debt, Mom’s gambling, the men at my door, the smashed photo, the one-week deadline. Words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered, until I was breathless.

He listened without interrupting. When I finished, there was another silence. I could picture him in his penthouse or that sprawling lake house up north, surrounded by leather and glass, untouched by the chaos of ordinary lives.

“You’re still my daughter, Ivy,” he said finally, his tone shifting to something almost paternal. Almost. “I will give you that money. All of it, wired by end of day.”

Relief crashed over me like a wave, making my knees buckle. I slid down the wall to the floor. “Thank you. God, thank you. I’ll pay you back, I swear—”

“But in conditions,” he cut in, voice suddenly darker, slower, the way it used to drop when he caught me lying about where I’d been at seventeen.

I swallowed hard. “What kind of conditions?”

A low chuckle that curled straight through my ribs. “Come to the lake house tomorrow night.”

My pulse thundered in my ears. “Cassian—”

“Say yes, Ivy,” he murmured, soft and lethal. “Say yes, and by tomorrow morning the debt is gone and those men disappear forever. Say no… and in six days they come back to finish what they started tonight.”

The line went dead.

I sat frozen on the cold floor, phone still pressed to my ear, snow blowing through the broken door and melting on my skin.

Tomorrow night I would drive six hours north, straight into the house where he once carried me on his shoulders and taught me to skate on the frozen lake.

Straight into the arms of the man my mother swore would ruin me.

And for the first time in six years, I wasn’t sure she was wrong.

But I was sure of one thing: I was going.

Because I had no one else.

I stood up, grabbed my keys, and started packing.

The storm was waiting.

So was he.

Chapter 2

The highway north was a white tunnel of snow and headlights. Six hours felt like sixty. Every mile I drove, the radio lost another station until there was nothing but static and the low hum of the engine and my own heartbeat. I kept replaying the phone call on a loop.

Come to the lake house tomorrow night.

I had no idea what that meant, and my brain refused to guess. Every time I tried, panic clawed up my throat, so I shut the thoughts down and focused on the road. Just get the money. Pay the debt. Survive the week. Go home. Simple.

Except nothing about Cassian Voss had ever been simple.

By the time the GPS told me I was twenty minutes away, the snow had thickened into a full blizzard. The wipers could barely keep up. My knuckles ached from gripping the wheel. I hadn’t eaten, hadn’t stopped once, not even to pee. I just drove, like if I slowed down the loan sharks would somehow catch up and drag me out of the car.

At last the private road appeared, unmarked except for a single black mailbox with a silver V etched on the side. I turned in. The tires crunched over fresh powder, the pines closing in on both sides like silent guards. The lake house rose out of the darkness ahead of me, three stories of glass and timber glowing gold against the storm. It looked exactly the same and completely different, bigger, colder, lonelier.

I killed the engine and sat there for a full minute, engine ticking itself cool, breath fogging the windshield. My overnight bag was on the passenger seat, pathetic next to the weight of what I was about to do. I grabbed it, stepped out into the wind, and the front door opened before I reached the steps.

He was waiting.

Cassian stood in the doorway, one hand in the pocket of black trousers, the other holding a cigarette that burned slow and red between his fingers. He wore a charcoal sweater that clung to the kind of body a man in his forties had no right to own, broad shoulders, narrow waist, every line speaking of money and discipline and time spent doing whatever the hell he wanted. The years had only sharpened him. The silver at his temples made the black of his hair look crueler. His eyes, winter gray, winter cold, locked on me the second I appeared.

A camera hung around his neck. A real one, not a phone. Professional, heavy, the kind fashion photographers use. The strap cut across his chest like a warning.

Nostalgia slammed into me so hard I almost staggered. This porch was where he used to push me on the tire swing. That window up there was the one I’d sneak out of at sixteen. The dock I could just make out through the snow was where he taught me to skip stones and told me I could do anything I wanted when I grew up.

I stopped at the bottom step, snow soaking through my boots. My voice came out smaller than I meant it to.

“Hi.”

He took a slow drag, the cherry flaring, then exhaled smoke into the night. “You’re late.”

“The roads—”

“I don’t care about the roads.” He stepped aside, motioning me in with the cigarette. “Get inside before you freeze.”

I climbed the steps. Up close he smelled exactly the same, pine, tobacco, something expensive and male that had lived in my dreams far more than it should have. I brushed past him, careful not to touch, and the heat of the house swallowed me whole. The foyer was dark wood and flickering firelight, the massive Christmas tree in the corner dripping with red ornaments and nothing else. No presents underneath. No tinsel. Just blood-red glass and white lights, beautiful and severe.

He closed the door behind me. The click of the latch sounded final.

I set my bag down and turned to face him, hugging my arms across my chest. “Okay. I’m here. The money—”

“Will be wired the second the seven nights are over,” he said calmly, tapping ash into a crystal tray. “Not a minute sooner.”

My stomach dropped. “You said—”

“I said the debt would be gone by tomorrow morning. It will. I bought the note an hour after we hung up. Those men work for me now. They won’t touch you again.” He lifted the camera, checked something on the back screen, then let it hang again. “But the money stays in my account until you earn it.”

Earn it. The words hung between us like smoke.

I swallowed. “How?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just studied me the way he used to when he knew I was lying about homework or boys or parties. Like he could see straight through clothes and skin and every flimsy defense I’d built in the last six years.

Finally he took one last drag, crushed the cigarette beneath his shoe, and stepped closer. Close enough that I had to tip my head back to hold his gaze.

“Seven nights, Ivy. Seven nights of complete obedience. You call me Sir. You do exactly what I say, when I say it. No questions. No limits you don’t speak aloud, and even then I might ignore them.” His voice was low, almost gentle, which made it worse. “You give me everything I ask for, and on the eighth morning you drive away free and clear. House in your name. Debt erased. Life goes on.”

My mouth went dry. “And if I say no to something?”

His smile was slow, sharp, beautiful in the most terrifying way. “Then you leave tonight. The debt comes back. The men come back. And I wash my hands of you forever.”

He let that settle, let the silence stretch until I could hear the fire crackling and my own pulse roaring.

I found my voice somehow. “Why the camera?”

He glanced down at it like he’d forgotten it was there, then lifted it slightly, thumb brushing the lens. His eyes came back to mine, darker now, hungry.

“Because I discovered something while you were gone, little girl.” He took another step, close enough that the heat of his body reached me through my coat. “I discovered that photographing beautiful things while they break for me… brings me pleasure.”

My breath hitched.

He leaned in, lips almost brushing my ear, voice a whisper that sank straight into my bones.

“And you, Ivy, have always been the most beautiful thing I was never allowed to break.”

Chapter 3

Cassian didn’t repeat himself. He simply waited, patient as winter, camera dangling from his neck like it belonged there. When I didn’t move, he reached past me, unbuttoned my coat himself, and slid it off my shoulders. His fingers brushed the bare skin at my throat (just a graze), but it burned like a brand. He hung the coat on a hook by the door, the same hook that used to hold my pink puffy jacket when I was twelve, and then he turned.

“Come,” he said. “I’ll show you what’s changed.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He just started walking, expecting me to follow.

And God help me, I did.

The lake house I remembered had been warm, cluttered with Mom’s throw pillows and my old crayon drawings taped to the fridge. This version felt like a gallery designed by someone who hated softness. The walls were bare except for enormous black-and-white photographs in severe black frames. A woman’s spine arched over a leather bench. A man’s hand wrapped around a slender throat. A close-up of lips parted on a silent scream. All artfully lit, all anonymous, all unmistakably erotic.

I stopped in front of one (close-cropped shot of a woman on her knees, wrists bound behind her back, head thrown back in obvious surrender). My stomach flipped.

“You… took these?” I asked, barely above a whisper.

“Every one.” His voice came from right behind me, close enough that I felt the warmth of his chest against my shoulder blade. “Keep walking.”

He led me through the open living room (now all dark leather and steel), past the kitchen that used to smell like cinnamon and now smelled faintly of coffee and something metallic, up the wide staircase that creaked exactly the way it always had. My old bedroom was on the second floor, third door on the left. I braced myself for memories when he opened it.

It wasn’t my room anymore.

The twin bed and boy-band posters were gone. In their place stood a massive four-poster bed made of black iron, draped in white linen so crisp it looked lethal. A single red ribbon was tied around one of the posts, the ends trailing to the floor like spilled blood. There was a velvet chaise by the window, a mirrored tray with a crystal decanter of something amber, and on the far wall, another photograph (this one of a woman suspended in red rope, body twisted into an impossible, graceful arc).

I swallowed hard. “This isn’t where I used to sleep.”

“No,” he said, stepping inside behind me. “This is where you will sleep for the next seven nights.”

He crossed to the dresser, opened a drawer, and pulled out something soft and black. A silk sleep mask. He set it on the duvet like a promise.

“You look exhausted,” he continued. “Shower if you want. Everything you need is in the bathroom. Tomorrow morning, after breakfast, I’ll explain your tasks. The rules. What I expect. Tonight you rest.”

He said it gently, almost kindly, but the gentleness felt like a trap.

I opened my mouth to argue (to demand answers now), but he was already moving toward the door.

“Cassian—”

“Tomorrow, Ivy.” He paused in the doorway, hand on the knob. “One more thing. There’s no cell service here. I had the tower disabled years ago. The wifi password changes every hour and only I know it. You’re completely cut off until the eighth morning. No one to call. No one to save you. Just us.”

He closed the door softly behind him.

I stood there for a long time, staring at the closed door, then spun around and dug my phone out of my bag. No bars. I held it up, walked to the window, waved it like an idiot. Nothing. I tried the smart TV (parental lock). The landline in the hall had been removed. He hadn’t been kidding. I was on an island with the one man my mother swore would destroy me, and no way to reach the outside world.

I showered because I didn’t know what else to do. The bathroom was marble and steam and smelled like his cologne. I used his soap, his towels, his everything, and hated how every nerve in my body felt alive and raw. When I came out, the fire in the bedroom hearth had been lit (I never heard him come back in). The red ribbon on the bedpost flickered in the firelight like it was breathing.

I crawled under the covers fully clothed, pulled them over my head like I was ten again hiding from monsters, and eventually fell asleep to the sound of wind screaming against the windows.

I don’t know what time it was when the woman’s voice woke me.

Low, sultry laughter drifting up from outside, followed by a murmured command I couldn’t quite make out. My eyes snapped open. The fire had burned down to embers, the room dim and orange. Another laugh, closer this time, and the unmistakable click of a camera shutter.

I slipped out of bed, bare feet silent on the rug, and crept to the window. The curtains were heavy velvet, but I eased them apart just enough to see.

The backyard was lit by floodlights that turned the falling snow into glittering diamonds. A woman (completely naked) lay sprawled on the frosted grass like it was a summer beach. Her skin glowed pale against the white, long dark hair fanned out around her head, arms stretched above her in deliberate surrender. She arched her back, breasts high, thighs parted just enough to be obscene and artistic at the same time. She looked fearless. Owned. Radiant.

And kneeling in front of her, camera raised to his eye, was Cassian.

He was shirtless despite the cold, black trousers low on his hips, every line of muscle carved out by the floodlights. The camera clicked in rapid bursts. He gave quiet commands (move your knee, chin up, look at me like you’re begging), and she obeyed instantly, fluidly, like they’d done this a hundred times.

I couldn’t breathe. My fingers clutched the curtain so hard my knuckles went white.

This was what he did now. This was the pleasure he’d talked about. These women, these photographs, this power.

He adjusted his angle, crouched lower, and the woman on the ground laughed again (soft, throaty), and said something that made him smile. A real smile, the one I remembered from years ago when he used to push me on the swing.

I hated her instantly.

I hated myself more for the heat pooling low in my belly.

Cassian lowered the camera for a second, reached out, and trailed two fingers down the woman’s sternum, between her breasts, all the way to her navel. She shivered, but didn’t move. He said something too low for me to hear, and she answered with a breathless yes, Sir.

My knees almost gave out.

He lifted the camera again, and for one terrifying heartbeat his head turned toward the house (toward my window), as if he could feel me watching.

I yanked the curtain shut and stumbled back, chest heaving, blood roaring in my ears.

Tomorrow morning he would tell me my tasks.

Tomorrow morning I would find out exactly what he expected from me for the next seven nights.

And after what I’d just seen, I wasn’t sure whether I was more terrified…

…or more desperate to know how it would feel when he finally turned that camera (and those commands) on me.

Chapter 4

I woke up with the taste of panic in my mouth and one single thought screaming through my head: leave. Pack the bag, steal the keys if I had to, drive south until the snow turned to rain and this house was nothing but a nightmare in the rear-view mirror.

I was already yanking on jeans and a sweater when reality slapped me. No keys. Even if I found them, where would I go? Back to the apartment with the broken door? Back to the men who promised to come collect in pieces?

My hands shook so hard I could barely zip my boots.

I opened the bedroom door, fully prepared to sprint, and stopped dead.

Cassian was leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, coffee in one hand, looking like he’d been waiting for hours. He wore a black thermal that stretched across his chest and dark jeans that did criminal things to his thighs. His hair was still damp from a shower, and the faint scent of his soap drifted down the hallway and wrapped around me like smoke.

“Going somewhere, little girl?”

I hated how calm he sounded. Hated how my stomach flipped at the nickname.

“I can’t do this,” I said, voice cracking. “Whatever this is, whatever you’re doing with those women, I’m not part of it. I’m leaving.”

He didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Just took a slow sip of coffee.

“You leave, you have exactly six days until your deadline,” he said conversationally. “Those men don’t bluff, Ivy. They’ll start with the house. Then they’ll start with you. Broken fingers first, probably. Then they get creative. And trust me, what I have planned for you is a fucking vacation compared to that.”

My knees threatened to fold. I gripped the doorframe to stay upright.

He pushed off the wall and walked toward me, stopping just close enough that I had to tip my head back to hold his gaze.

“Sit down and eat breakfast,” he said softly. “Then we’ll talk.”

I wanted to fight. I wanted to scream. Instead I followed him downstairs like a sleepwalker, because he was right and we both knew it.

The dining table was set for two. Poached eggs, fresh berries, toast that smelled like it had been baked that morning. He pulled out my chair—the same chair I used to sit in when I was fourteen doing algebra homework while he cooked pancakes—and waited until I sat before taking the seat across from me.

I stared at my plate. My stomach was a knot, but I picked up the fork anyway.

He watched me take the first bite, then leaned back, completely at ease.

“You saw me working last night,” he said. Not a question.

Heat flooded my face. “I saw everything. It was disgusting.”

He laughed—low, genuine, the sound I remembered from years ago when I told him boys were stupid and he agreed. Only now it wasn’t funny.

“Disgusting,” he repeated, tasting the word. “That’s interesting. Because the woman on the grass last night begged me for two hours to let her come, and when I finally did she cried from how good it felt. She’ll be texting me before noon to schedule the next session.” He tilted his head. “How can you call it disgusting when other women line up for it?”

I set my fork down harder than I meant to. “Because I’m not them.”

His smile was slow, sharp, devastating.

“No,” he murmured. “You’re not.”

He let that sit between us for a moment, heavy and electric, then leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“Here’s the deal, Ivy. It’s simple. You’re going to be my assistant for the next seven days. You follow me everywhere. You hand me lenses, carry the light meter, adjust the backdrop, whatever I need. You watch. You learn. You stay quiet unless I speak to you. That’s it.”

I stared at him, waiting for the rest, the catch.

He lifted one brow. “You keep your clothes on the whole time. I won’t lay a finger on you unless you ask me to. No nudity. No ropes. No crawling across the floor on your knees.” His gaze dropped to my mouth and lingered. “Not yet.”

My breath stuttered.

“That’s… that’s all?” I managed.

“For now.” He picked up his coffee again. “I have shoots scheduled every day. Private clients. Very exclusive. Very well-paid. You’ll be in the room, but you’ll be invisible unless I need something. Easy work for a quarter million dollars, wouldn’t you say?”

I searched his face for the lie and found nothing but steady gray eyes and that maddening half-smile.

“Why me?” I whispered. “You could hire anyone.”

He set the cup down carefully.

“Because you need money,” he said simply. “And only I can help you, no but only I want to help you pay off all the debt with very easy conditions.”

My heart stopped, then slammed back to life twice as hard.

He stood, circled the table, and stopped beside my chair. He didn’t touch me, but he didn’t need to; the heat rolling off him was enough.

“Finish your breakfast,” he said quietly. “Then meet me in the studio downstairs. Ten minutes.”

He walked away, footsteps fading down the hall, leaving me shaking so hard the silverware rattled against the plate.

I stared at the empty doorway and realized the truth like a punch to the chest.

He wasn’t lying about keeping his hands off me.

He was counting on the fact that by the end of seven days, I’d be begging him not to.

And the worst part—the part that made me want to throw up and cry and scream all at once—was that some traitorous, twisted corner of my soul was already wondering how long I could hold out before I did exactly that.

Chapter 5

I took the stairs down to the basement slowly, each step feeling like a countdown to something I wasn’t ready for. The studio door was cracked open, a slice of warm light spilling onto the dark wood floor. I pushed it wider and stopped dead on the threshold.

I had expected cameras and lights and maybe a backdrop. What I got was a full-blown erotic film set hidden under a billionaire’s lake house.

Black walls absorbed every sound. A massive seamless white paper roll swept from ceiling to floor like an endless canvas. Overhead, a grid of steel beams held softboxes, strobes, and enough cables to rig a rock concert. One corner was pure luxury: velvet chaise, silk sheets, a crystal chandelier that looked like dripping ice. Another corner was pure dungeon: a padded leather bench with restraints bolted to the floor, a St. Andrew’s cross leaning against the wall, coils of red and black rope hanging from hooks like sleeping snakes. A tall cabinet stood open, shelves lined with toys I didn’t even have names for—gleaming metal, glossy silicone, things that looked expensive and painful and terrifyingly beautiful.

My pulse thudded so loud I was sure he could hear it across the room.

Cassian stood in the center, phone to his ear, gesturing with one hand while he spoke in rapid, low French. He wore black from head to toe, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and faint silver scars I didn’t remember from when I was a kid. The camera I’d seen last night now rested on a tripod, lens pointed at the white seamless like it was waiting for its next victim.

He ended the call with a clipped au revoir and turned to me, expression unreadable.

“Close the door.”

I did, because arguing felt pointless.

He crossed the room in three strides, stopping just outside my personal space.

“First rule,” he said quietly. “When we’re in here, you speak only when I ask you a direct question. You move only when I tell you to move. You watch, you learn, you stay out of the frame unless I put you in it. Understood?”

I swallowed. “Yes.”

His eyebrow lifted.

“Yes, Sir,” I corrected, hating how small my voice sounded.

A flicker of approval crossed his face, gone as fast as it came.

“Good. Your job is simple. You hand me what I ask for, you adjust lights when I tell you, you keep water and towels ready. Nothing else.” He glanced at his watch. “Client’s early. She’ll be here any second.”

As if he’d summoned her, the door opened without a knock.

She walked in like she owned the place.

Early twenties, maybe twenty-three, all long legs and confidence wrapped in a cream cashmere coat that probably cost more than my car. Blonde hair fell in perfect waves over her shoulders. She had the kind of face that made people stop mid-sentence on the street—high cheekbones, full mouth painted red, eyes the color of expensive champagne.

She dropped a designer tote by the door and crossed straight to Cassian, arms sliding around his neck like they’d done this a thousand times. He let her, one hand settling low on her waist while she pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Cassian, darling,” she purred, accent British and posh. “I’ve been dying for this shoot all week.”

He smiled down at her, the same easy smile he used to give Mom when she danced around the kitchen in her apron, and my stomach twisted so hard I almost gagged.

Then she turned to me, smile still in place but sharper now, assessing.

“And who’s this?”

Cassian’s hand left her waist. He gestured toward me like he was presenting a new appliance.

“Sarah, meet Ivy. Ivy’s my assistant for the week.” A pause, deliberate and cruel. “My stepdaughter.”

The word hit me like a slap. I stared at him, disgust boiling up so hot I could taste it.

Stepdaughter.

After everything Mom had told me, after the cheating, the lies, the way he’d vanished the day the divorce was final, he still used that word like it belonged to him. Like I belonged to him.

Sarah’s perfectly groomed brows lifted. She looked me up and down—boots, jeans, plain sweater, messy ponytail—and her smile turned pitying.

“Oh, how adorable,” she said, voice dripping honey over broken glass. “Family helping family. How sweet.”

I wanted to scream that I wasn’t here by choice, that I was being blackmailed with my dead mother’s debt, that the man she was kissing had bought my life for seven nights. Instead I stood there mute, fists clenched at my sides, hating them both.

Cassian’s gaze flicked to me, something dark and knowing flashing behind his eyes.

“Sarah’s one of my best clients,” he said casually. “We’ve been working together for two years. Today’s theme is surrender in silk. Very tasteful. Very expensive.”

Sarah laughed and shrugged off her coat, letting it pool on the floor. Underneath she wore nothing but a black silk robe so thin it was practically transparent. Her body was flawless, toned and tanned and shameless. She stepped out of her heels, rolled her shoulders, and the robe slipped lower, revealing the curve of one breast.

I looked away, cheeks burning.

Cassian didn’t. He watched her the way a wolf watches something it’s already decided to devour.

“Ivy,” he said without taking his eyes off Sarah, “hang Sarah’s coat and bring the silk restraints from the cabinet. The crimson ones.”

My feet felt glued to the floor.

Sarah tilted her head, smile turning wicked. “Don’t be shy, darling. Cassian’s very gentle the first time.”

Cassian’s lips curved, but his voice stayed level. “Now, Ivy.”

I forced myself forward, picked up the coat, hung it on the rack by the door. Every step toward the cabinet felt like walking deeper into quicksand. The crimson ropes were soft as butter in my hands, heavier than they looked. I carried them back and held them out to him like an offering.

He took them without touching my fingers.

Sarah watched the exchange, eyes glittering with amusement.

Cassian looped the rope once around his fist, testing the weight, then looked straight at me.

“Today you just watch,” he said softly. “Tomorrow we’ll see how good you are at following directions when the camera’s pointed at someone who actually wants to be here.”

Sarah laughed again, low and delighted, and stepped onto the seamless paper, letting the robe slide off her shoulders completely.

I stood there holding my breath, ropes still warm from his hand, while the first flash went off and the studio filled with the sound of silk hitting the floor.

And somewhere inside my chest, something cracked wide open—rage, shame, and something darker I didn’t have a name for yet.

Because the worst part wasn’t that he was about to photograph a naked woman while I stood three feet away.

The worst part was the tiny, treacherous pulse between my thighs that wondered what it would feel like when he finally decided tomorrow had come.

Chapter 6

The studio lights were merciless. They turned Sarah’s skin to warm gold and made every bead of sweat on her collarbone glisten like a jewel. Cassian moved around her in slow, predatory circles, camera clicking in short, controlled bursts. Each flash froze her in a different stage of surrender: wrists crossed above her head, crimson rope looped in perfect diamonds across her ribs, back arched so sharply I thought her spine might snap.

“Open your knees wider,” he said, voice low and steady. “Let me see how much you want this.”

Sarah obeyed instantly, thighs parting, breath hitching on a soft moan that echoed off the black walls. The rope framed her like a gift. She looked ruined and radiant at the same time.

I stood three feet away holding a silver reflector, arms aching, cheeks burning so hot I was sure the heat would melt the foil. Every order he gave her slid under my skin and twisted.

Look at me, Sarah.

Good girl.

Hold it right there—don’t move until I say.

That’s it, breathe for me.

I had watched p**n before (quietly, guiltily, on my laptop with headphones), but this was different. This was live. This was real breath and real goosebumps and the real scent of arousal thick in the air. And I was part of the production: adjusting a light here, handing him a longer rope there, wiping condensation off a lens when he asked. My hands shook every time our fingers brushed.

I hated that my body was reacting. Hated the slick throb between my legs, the way my nipples tightened against my bra, the way I had to press my thighs together when he murmured perfect right before the shutter snapped.

Sarah was lost in it, eyes glassy, lips parted, trembling on the edge he refused to let her fall over. Cassian crouched low, camera angled up between her legs, and said, almost tenderly, “You’re dripping for me, sweetheart. The lens can see everything.”

She whimpered.

I nearly dropped the reflector.

Cassian’s head turned a fraction. He didn’t stop shooting, but I felt the weight of his attention shift to me like a physical touch. He saw the flush on my neck, the way I couldn’t stand still, the way my chest rose too fast.

“Break,” he said suddenly, lowering the camera.

Sarah let out a frustrated little whine, but he was already on his feet, tossing a black silk robe toward her. She caught it, pouting, and slipped it on without bothering to tie the belt. The fabric gaped open, revealing everything the ropes had framed minutes ago.

Cassian crossed the studio in four long strides and stopped in front of me. Too close. His chest nearly brushed mine. The heat rolling off him carried the faint scent of darkroom chemicals and warm skin.

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly, so only I could hear. “Talk to me.”

I stared at the center of his throat because I couldn’t look him in the eye. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” His voice dropped even lower. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Everything. Nothing. The way you say good girl like it’s a drug. The way she looks at you like you’re a god. The way my body is screaming for something I swore I’d never want from you.

I shook my head, lips pressed tight.

He studied me for a long second, then reached out and took the reflector from my numb fingers. When his knuckles grazed mine, electricity shot straight to my core and I jerked back a step.

“I need air,” I whispered. “I just— I need to get out of this room.”

His eyes narrowed, not angry, calculating. Like he could see the pulse hammering at the base of my throat and knew exactly what it meant.

“Ivy—”

“Please.” My voice cracked on the word.

He didn’t move, didn’t let me pass. The air between us felt thick enough to choke on. Sarah watched from the chaise, sipping water, legs crossed like a queen waiting for the next act.

Cassian leaned in until his lips almost brushed my ear. His breath was warm, deliberate.

“You’re soaked, aren’t you?” he murmured, so low I barely heard it. “I can smell it on you. You’re standing here pretending to be disgusted, but your little body is begging for the exact same thing she’s getting.”

I flinched so hard my shoulder hit the wall.

He straightened, expression unreadable again, and stepped aside—just enough for me to escape.

“Go,” he said, soft but final. “Take five. Cool off. But don’t think for a second this conversation is over.”

I bolted.

I didn’t stop until I reached the hallway upstairs, slamming the bathroom door behind me and locking it with shaking fingers. I braced both hands on the marble counter, staring at my reflection: pupils blown wide, lips swollen like I’d been kissing someone, cheeks scarlet.

Between my legs I was drenched. My panties clung to me, useless. I could feel how swollen I was, how empty, how one accidental brush of my own fingers might send me over the edge I’d been teetering on for the last hour.

I turned the cold tap on full and splashed water on my face, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped. Because he was right.

And when I closed my eyes I could still hear his voice telling Sarah to open wider, still see the way her body obeyed before her mind even caught up.

I pressed my thighs together and hated myself for the moan that slipped out.

Downstairs, the shoot would start again any minute.

He was waiting for me to come back.

And God forgive me, some desperate, broken part of me already wanted to run straight into the fire just to know how much it would burn.

Chapter 7

The last flash popped and the studio lights dimmed to a soft amber glow. Sarah stretched like a satisfied cat, ropes loosened and trailing from her wrists, skin marked with beautiful red diamonds that would bruise purple by morning. Cassian lowered the camera, checked the back screen once, and gave her the smallest nod of approval.

“Perfect,” he said. “We’re done.”

Sarah practically purred. She slipped the robe back on, tied it loosely, and sauntered over to him for a lazy, lingering kiss on the cheek. “You’re a genius, Cassian. Same time next week?”

“I’ll text you,” he answered, already turning away.

I stood frozen near the light stand, arms full of coiled rope and crumpled silk, feeling like I’d been run over by something I couldn’t name. My legs trembled. My panties were ruined. I couldn’t look at either of them.

Cassian’s gaze found me across the room. “Ivy. Upstairs. Shower and change for dinner. Twenty minutes.”

His voice was calm, almost gentle, but it scraped over every raw nerve I had left. I nodded once and fled.

I took the stairs two at a time, dropped the ropes in the laundry room without looking, and locked myself in the guest bathroom on the second floor. The mirror showed a stranger: wild eyes, flushed throat, hair sticking to damp temples. I looked like I’d been the one tied up for two hours.

I stripped fast, kicking clothes into the corner, and turned the shower as hot as it would go. Steam billowed up instantly, fogging the glass, swallowing the room. I stepped under the spray and let it punish my skin.

For thirty seconds I just stood there, head bowed, water pounding the back of my neck.

Then the images started.

Cassian’s hands sliding the crimson rope across Sarah’s ribs.

His low, steady voice telling her to hold still.

The way his fingers had checked the knots, clinical and possessive all at once.

The tiny intake of breath when he’d tugged and the rope had bitten into her skin.

I closed my eyes and suddenly it wasn’t Sarah’s body under those hands.

It was mine.

I saw him behind me, chest to my back, one arm banded across my waist while the other guided the rope between my breasts. I felt the heat of his mouth at my ear, felt the exact pressure of his teeth on my shoulder when he decided I’d been good enough to earn a mark. I felt his palm sliding lower, slow and deliberate, until his fingers brushed the place that was aching so badly I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning out loud.

My own hand followed the fantasy without permission.

One second I was gripping the tile wall for balance, the next my fingers were between my thighs, slick and swollen and desperate. I circled once, twice, hips jerking forward into my own touch, and the sound that left my throat was embarrassingly loud in the tiled room.

Cassian.

His name tore out of me on a broken whisper. I pictured him stepping into the shower behind me, water streaming down the hard lines of his chest, his hands replacing mine, rougher, surer, knowing exactly how to wreck me. I imagined him pressing me face-first against the glass, spreading my legs with his knee, telling me I wasn’t allowed to come until he said so.

My knees buckled. I had to slap a hand over my mouth to muffle the cry as the orgasm slammed into me, fast and brutal and humiliating. My entire body clenched, thighs shaking, water pouring over me while I came apart on my own fingers imagining the one man I was supposed to hate.

The aftershocks rolled for what felt like forever.

Then shame crashed in, cold and suffocating.

I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the shower floor, knees to chest, letting the water beat against my back. Tears mixed with the spray; I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

What the hell was wrong with me?

I came here for one reason and one reason only: seven nights. Survive seven nights and Mom’s debt disappeared. I could sell the house, pay off the medical bills, breathe again. Go back to my quiet, safe life where the only thing that touched me was loneliness.

Cassian Voss was not part of that life. He was the man who broke my mother’s heart, the man who turned pleasure into power and power into art. He was poison, just like Mom always said.

I just had to keep my clothes on, keep my mouth shut, and count the days.

Six more nights.

I could do this.

I stood up on shaky legs, turned the water ice-cold until my teeth chattered, and scrubbed every inch of skin raw. When I stepped out, I avoided the mirror. I didn’t want to see what was written on my face.

I dressed in the plainest thing I could find: soft gray leggings and an oversized sweater that swallowed me whole. Armor. Distance. I twisted my wet hair into a knot and marched downstairs determined to act normal.

The dining room smelled like garlic and rosemary. Cassian was already at the table, sleeves rolled up, pouring red wine into two glasses. He looked up when I walked in, eyes flicking over me once, slow and deliberate, like he could see straight through the layers of cotton to the marks my own fingers had left.

“Dinner’s ready,” he said, voice perfectly civil. “Sit.”

I sat.

He pushed a plate toward me: roast chicken, baby potatoes, asparagus glistening with butter. It looked and smelled incredible, but my stomach was tied in knots.

We ate in silence for a few minutes. I kept my eyes on my food, cutting everything into tiny pieces I couldn’t taste.

Finally he spoke.

“You lasted longer than I thought you would today.”

I froze, fork halfway to my mouth.

He leaned back in his chair, wineglass dangling from his fingers.

“Most people either run screaming or beg to join in by the third roll of rope. You just… watched.” His gaze sharpened. “And you felt every second of it, didn’t you?”

Heat flooded my face. I set the fork down carefully.

“I’m here for the money,” I said, proud that my voice didn’t shake. “That’s all.”

He smiled, slow and dangerous.

“Of course you are.” He took a sip of wine, eyes never leaving mine. “Six more nights, little girl. Six more nights and you’re free.”

He lifted his glass in a mock toast.

“But tell me something, Ivy.” His voice dropped to that velvet register that made my spine melt. “When you were in that shower just now, screaming my name into your own hand… did it feel like you were only here for the money?”

The fork slipped from my fingers and clattered against the plate.

He couldn’t know.

He couldn’t possibly—

His smile widened, dark and triumphant, and he raised one brow.

“These walls are old,” he said softly, “but they aren’t that thick.”

My heart stopped.

Six more nights.

And Cassian Voss had just heard everything.