Chapter 12 - The Dungeons Below

When Raven stepped into the elevator that night, she knew she wouldn’t be the same woman when she stepped back out.

There had been no card, no whispered summons. Just Victor, appearing silently at her side in the lounge.

“He wants you,” he’d said.

Nothing else. No hint of what waited on the other side of the elevator doors, but Raven already knew.

Tonight wouldn’t be about words. Tonight would be about surrender.

The elevator descended past the main levels, deeper than she’d known Eden even extended. There was no button for the floor. No music. Just a keycard swipe and the eerie, muffled drop in her stomach.

When the doors opened, she stepped into a world she hadn’t imagined, because her imagination hadn’t been dark enough.

The walls were obsidian black, lit only by flickering sconces and the glint of polished chrome. The air was laced with the scent of leather, steel, and the faintest note of something floral, lavender, maybe. It didn’t comfort. It made her skin prickle.

The space was immaculate, echoing with silence. Chains hung from the ceiling like ornaments. Padded benches, X-crosses, steel loops mounted to walls. A mirrored ceiling. A leather-gloved mannequin seated in the corner, collared and lifeless. A cathedral of control and Jaxon Morreau stood at the center of it. Waiting.

He wore all black, simple but fitted, buttoned-down shirt with the cuffs rolled, tailored pants, bare wrists. No tie. No suit jacket. No mask. Just him.

His eyes met hers.

“I didn’t know this place existed,” Raven said, her voice steady, but her knees threatening to betray her.

“That’s the point,” he murmured. “This level is known only to me and those I bring here.”

“How many others?”

He smiled. “You’re the only one tonight.”

Her heart slammed against her chest.

“This isn’t about punishment,” he said, walking toward her. “This is about truth.”

“I already told you the truth.”

“You told me facts. Not truth.” He stopped just before her. “The truth lives in your body and tonight, you’re going to give me all of it.”

She tried to speak, but his fingers were already brushing down the side of her face. Gentle. Disarming.

“Safe word?”

She blinked. “What?”

“You get one,” he said, voice calm, controlled. “You say it, and everything stops. No questions. No delay.”

She hesitated. Then whispered, “Rose.”

He nodded once. “Good girl.”

Then he stepped back.

“Strip.”

She froze.

He raised a brow. “You came here knowing what this was.”

Raven’s fingers trembled, but she obeyed. Slowly. First her shoes. Then the blouse. The jeans. Her bra. Her panties.

Piece by piece, she peeled herself away, until she stood naked, goosebumps blooming across her skin.

Jaxon circled her once, twice and then he picked up a length of black silk and moved behind her.

“Hands behind your back.”

She complied.

The silk looped around her wrists, pulled taut, not harsh, but firm. He tested the tension. Adjusted the knot.

“Too tight?”

“No.”

“Speak louder.”

“No, Sir.”

His quiet satisfaction stirred something dark and electric in her gut.

“Step forward.”

He led her to the center of the room, directly beneath the mirrored ceiling and a series of leather cuffs hanging from overhead chains.

“Look up,” he instructed.

She did.

Her reflection stared back, naked, bound, wide-eyed.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, and clipped the silk binding her wrists to the chain above.

She was now suspended, barely. Just enough to keep her body elongated, stretched, exposed.

Jaxon stepped away, picked up a box and opened it.

She couldn’t see the contents, but she heard the soft jingle of metal, the creak of leather, the hum of anticipation in the air. Then came the first touch. A feather, soft and gentle trailing down her spine.

Her hips twitched.

Then came the second touch, a leather crop. Sharp and swift against her thigh.

She gasped.

“You want me to hurt you?” he asked.

“No.”

He struck again, this time across her ass. Harder.

“Then why are you wet?”

She whimpered.

“Speak.”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

He circled her slowly. The crop traced her breasts. Her stomach. Dipped between her legs.

Her body quivered.

He struck again , not cruel but calculated.

And then nothing. The silence between each touch was louder than any scream.

“You have a story, Raven,” he said softly. “A story about strength. About never needing anyone. About being in control.”

He leaned in, voice near her ear. “But I’ve read between the lines.”

The next strike landed just below her ribs. A jolt. A gasp.

“You want to lose control.”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“You want someone to break you open and see what’s underneath.”

“Yes.”

“You want to stop running.”

She shuddered. Tears welled.

“Say it.”

“I want to stop running.”

“Good girl.”

The restraints loosened, he caught her as she sagged, held her against his chest, her skin damp with sweat and shame and relief.

“I’m not done,” he whispered. “But now I begin.”

He led her to a padded bench. Helped her kneel.

Then blindfolded her. Darkness swallowed her whole. Her senses sharpened. She heard ever breath. Every footstep. Felt the air shift when he moved.

Then his hands, warm and strong were between her thighs. Inside her. Filling her. His mouth on her shoulder. Her neck. Her breast.

“Not a word,” he commanded.

She nodded.

The orgasm came fast and ferocious, built from hours of tension, from denial and need and surrender. She came shaking. Moaning. Blind and broken and rebuilt all at once.

And when it was over, he kissed her forehead, untied her wrists, removed the blindfold and cupped her face gently.

“I told you I’d never hurt you without reason,” he said. “And I meant it.”

Raven looked up at him through tears. “I believe you.”

“Then say it.”

“I trust you, Jaxon.”

His eyes darkened and softened. “You’ve given me your body,” he said. “Soon, you’ll give me everything.”

That night, she didn’t write in her journal, she couldn’t, because words weren’t enough. Not for what had just happened. Not for what she’d just given. And not for what he’d taken.

She lay in bed, wrists still tingling, heart still raw and whispered into the dark: “I’m not afraid of him anymore.”

And the scariest part was that it was true.