The Taste of Debt

(Mara’s POV)

I wake to the low, constant hum of the air conditioning and the faint blue glow of my phone screen cutting through the dim room. 

My body feels leaden, every muscle protesting in dull, insistent waves. The soreness between my thighs is a deep, throbbing reminder that last night wasn’t some fever dream, it was real. The ropes, the blindfold, the way he took me apart piece by piece until I was sobbing his name and begging for the very thing I swore I’d never give.

I reach for the phone on the nightstand with trembling fingers. 9:47 a.m. I’ve slept far longer than I thought possible in this place. 

Liam’s face stares back at me from the lock screen, his gap-toothed grin from last month, snapped on one of his better days when the chemo hadn’t yet stolen his color or his spark. I unlock the phone and scroll straight to the gallery, thumb hovering over the video Nora sent yesterday. I press play before I can talk myself out of it.

“Hey, Mommy,” his thin voice says. “I miss you. Nora says you’re busy saving the world.”

I laugh through the sudden burn in my eyes. I miss him so much it feels worse than any physical bruise Sebastian left on my skin. 

I text Nora.

“How is he this morning?”

She replies almost immediately.

“Good. Ate most of his breakfast. Fever still down. Dr. Vargas says they might try lowering the oxygen support today if he stays stable. 

How are you?”

I stare at the message for a long time.

“Still here. Still breathing. Tell him I love him. 

Tell him Mommy’s coming back soon.”

I don’t know if that’s a lie.

I set the phone down and pull the covers up to my chin, curling into a tight ball. I squeeze my eyes shut, but the images won’t stop: his hands on my hips, his voice in my ear, the way my body arched into every cruel touch like it was starving.

The keypad beeps. The lock clicks open.

I bolt upright, heart slamming against my ribs.

The door opens just enough for a woman in a crisp black uniform to step in with a silver tray balanced perfectly in her hands.

“Good morning,” she says quietly, eyes lowered. “Breakfast.”

She sets the tray on the small bedside table: sliced fresh fruit arranged in neat fans, Greek yogurt swirled with honey, buttered toast triangles, steaming black coffee, a tall glass of orange juice. It looks like room service at a five-star hotel. It feels like a taunt.

“Thank you,” I manage, voice hoarse.

She nods once, already turning to leave.

“Um… do you know where Mr. Kane is?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

She pauses, hesitates for only a heartbeat. “He left for a meeting at seven. He’ll be back this afternoon.”

She doesn’t meet my eyes when she says it. 

Then she’s gone. The door locks with that same soft, final sound.

I stare at the tray. My stomach growls but I don’t move right away. Eventually hunger wins. I force down black coffee, a few bites of melon that sit heavy in my throat and half a piece of toast.

When the food is gone I pick up the phone again. More photos of Liam, him asleep on my lap during chemo week one, IV line taped to his tiny hand, my arm wrapped protectively around him. The hospital Halloween when he insisted on being Spider-Man despite the IV pole. Each image is a knife, stabbing deep, then soothing the wound in the same motion.

I scroll until my eyes burn and exhaustion pulls me under again.

I wake hours later. I drag myself to the bathroom, stand under the scalding shower until my skin turns pink, then choose another slip from the wardrobe. Deep burgundy shorter than the last, lace edging the hem and skimming the tops of my thighs. No point pretending modesty anymore. Everything in that closet is designed to be removed.

The keypad beeps again.

The same woman appears.

“Mr. Kane sends for you. Follow me.”

She leads me down the hallway in silence, stops at the door at the far end, gestures for me to enter, then turns and leaves without a word.

The door is slightly ajar. I push it open and step into the dimly lit room. My eyes adjust slowly. He’s there seated on the low leather sofa in the corner, legs spread, posture relaxed but commanding.

Shirtless.

The only thing covering him is a white towel knotted loosely at his waist. His abs are carved, defined ridges that catch the low light; biceps and triceps flex subtly as he shifts.

 His tanned skin looked so smooth and well taken care of. My gaze trailed to his face, he had a stern look on but that didn't take the gorgeousness from him.

“Get over here already,” he says, in that authoritative voice. “I’m not so patient.”

My feet move before my brain catches up. I cross the room on unsteady legs, pulse roaring in my ears.

“Get on your knees.”

The order lands like a physical touch. That cold certain tone, accustomed to absolute obedience makes my stomach flip. I sink to my knees between his spread thighs, the carpet rough against my bare skin.

He reaches down, fingers deftly loosening the towel. It falls open on either side, revealing him fully. His cock rests heavy against his thigh, thick and veined, far larger than anything I’ve known. My mouth goes dry at the sight. How much bigger will it get when he’s fully erect? The thought sends a shameful pulse between my legs.

“Take my cock in your hands,” he commands, “and put that mouth to good use.”

I hesitate for half a second then reach out. My fingers wrap around him, small hands barely circling the girth. He’s hot and already thickening under my touch.

I gulp hard realising that I actually want his cock in my mouth. My nipples tighten painfully, pushing against the thin lace of the slip. 

“Fuck…” The curse rumbles from his chest, low and rough.

The sound goes straight to my core, Taking that as a compliment I stroke him harder feeling him swell further in my grip.

“Get it slick and lubed up, bitch.”

Those dirty words should disgust me instead they make me wetter. Slickness gathers between my thighs, soaking the lace. 

I hate this…. But my body betrays me.

I lean closer, breathed in the manly scent of his cock before spitting onto the head, watching it glisten, then drag my tongue along the underside in a slow, deliberate lick. I swirl around the tip, tasting salt and heat.

He groans low and deep. His hand tightening in my hair.

This is crazy.

And I hate that I want to hear him curse again.