The irons had not loosened. If anything, they had grown more oppressive with each succeeding hour of the night. The prisoner was half-asleep, raw nerves buzzing, his flesh still quivering with the pangs of denial. Every twitch of his muscles reminded him how close he had been forced, how brutally denied the release. His jaw ached from gritting his teeth, his wrists aflame from the ropes that kept him open and waiting.
He hated the way his own flesh deceived him. Heat still boiled low, seething, a heavy throb that would not abate even after hours. Hate ate in his gut harder than hunger, harder than fear. He whispered it in the silence to himself, as if a prayer: I will not break. I will not beg.
The door creaked open.
Leather soles on stone. A deliberate step, then another. He smelled smoke and spice and far-off iron before he even looked up. The predator didn't charge. He moved in like this room, this body, this tension all fell under his command. And maybe they did.
"Still awake," the man drawled, voice silk stretched on a blade. "Good. I'd be disappointed if you slept through what comes next."
The prisoner spat his contempt only, tried to. His throat was too dry, the words catching, but his expression getting through.
The hunter smiled — not warmly, but with appetite. He placed a glass upon the table, unopened, and rolled up his sleeves. "You woke up today with nothing. I was curious as to how long your pride would last under it." He bent, his face at the same level as the prisoner's, eyes shining like firelight through whiskey. "It survived the night. Impressive."
A gloved hand cradled his jaw, prying his head up. The captive struggled to the side, but the chains rained and held. Fingers tracing slowly down the expanse of his throat, fingers stopped at the mad beat of his pulse.
"Still fast," the kidnapper whispered. "Still restless. You sear against me even when you refuse me. That's why I returned. Tonight you'll find out what it is to receive what you pleaded for—" he leaned in close, lips against the rim of his ear, breath hot, intrusive, "—and what it means to lose yourself to it."
The captive shuddered, not in fear, but at the betrayal of how his body reacted to the words, to the closeness. He berated himself for the way heat crept beneath his skin.
The first touch was ruthless in its languor. Fingers traced his chest, prospected over dewy skin as if tallying each inch of possession. He writhed, clenched through his teeth, but the chains transformed every movement into offering, every struggle into spectacle.
"You hate me," the predator purred, tracing the edge of his captive's mouth with his thumb. "And yet—" he slid his hand down, nudging into where the body was more truthful than the mind, "—you can't lie to me here."
The captive locked jaws on the sound struggling to escape, jaw trembling under the effort.
"That's better," said the purr. "Struggle. I want to see you shatter piece by piece.".
What followed was not mercy. It was torture refined into an instrument. The predator played him mercilessly, bringing him to the edge, pulling him back, harder, tougher, until his body pleaded for what his lips would not. Hours compressed into raw sensation: heat, weight, the warm gasp of his own breath, the ache of denial drawn out to snapping point.
As the predator leaned over him, holding him down with muscles and bulk, the captive's body gleamed with perspiration, his voice torn into broken sounds he could not manage. His mind screamed rage, but his body trembled with desire.
And then, the transition. Tender cruelty yielded to brutish rhythm. No restraint, no pity, only naked, punishing strength that allowed no space in which to think but only to feel. The prisoner writhed, writhed to hold himself in, but every shock of emotion coaxed out of his mouth sounds, debased, supplicant, uncontrolled.
The predator's laughter was deep, gruff, against his skin. "That's it. Submit. Let me hear how completely I own you."
The words lashed through him as cleanly as the bodily intrusion. His pride crumbled under the force of sensation, and before he could stop it, he broke — release shredding through him, violent, unwanted, uncheckable. His howl shook the room, raw and shaking.
But the predator would not stop. He drove him past it, driving him higher, harder, until his body betrayed him again, shuddering, folding under the agony of pleasure. The chains jangled with every spasm, every helpless surrender.
When at last the predator froze, he did not retreat. He stayed close, mouth against the captive's jaw, voice low and lethal.
"Now you know the truth," he whispered. "You can hate me all you like. But your body will do as I say. Again. And again. And again."
The prisoner lay shivering, too tired to talk, sweat evaporating from his skin. His chest rose and fell with frantic breathing, his wrists bruised against metal. Shame burned brighter than anything else.
The predator stood, smoothing his sleeves like nothing had happened at all. He took the chains and tugged on them once, not to loosen, but to remind.
"Sleep while you can," he said, voice calm, a hint of amusement. "Tomorrow… this was only the start."
The door closed behind him, leaving the captive shaking, broken, sick at the knowledge that his own flesh had betrayed him twice — and would again.