Feel the burn.

Rose's POV

The command was soft, almost casual, but it landed like iron chains snapping into place. My legs moved on pure instinct, lowering me onto the hard, straight-backed wooden chair angled precisely before his desk—the subordinate position deliberate and humiliating, forcing me to crane my neck upward to meet his eyes whenever he chose to loom, emphasizing the chasm of power etched into every detail of this room. The unyielding seat bit sharply into my thighs and lower back, a constant, unforgiving reminder of hierarchy, of my place beneath him.

Jason remained standing, arms crossed loosely over his broad chest, his towering silhouette framed by the lamplight that carved sharp, dramatic shadows across his aristocratic features—high cheekbones shadowed deeply, stubbled jaw clenched subtly in restraint, the faint old scar tracing his left eyebrow like a badge of battles won and power consolidated through blood.

“Tonight we build the true foundation,” he said, voice steady but laced with unmistakable dark promise that sent fresh shivers cascading down my spine. “Posture perfect and sustained. Breath fully controlled—mine to command. Silence absolute unless I break it. You will hold this position—no shifting weight even when muscles scream, no fidgeting even when nerves fray, no averting your eyes unless I explicitly permit it. You will breathe only on my direct instruction. You will speak only when I demand an answer—and you will answer truthfully, completely, without omission or pretty lies.”

My heart hammered relentlessly, each beat a hammer strike against my ribs that echoed in my ears and throbbed in my temples, but I managed a small, shaky nod, throat too tight for immediate words.

He tilted his head fractionally, expression sharpening like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. “Words, Rose. I want to hear your surrender spoken aloud. Let it bind you as surely as any chain.”

The pause stretched, heavy as iron chains dragging across cold stone, the weight of expectation crushing.

“Yes,” I whispered finally, voice cracking on the single syllable like glass under pressure.

“Yes, what?” he pressed, voice deceptively soft, but the edge beneath promised swift, unforgiving consequences for any incompleteness.

Heat flooded my face and chest in a burning wave that made sweat trickle faster, but I forced the words out, each one a deeper surrender that tasted bitter and strangely thrilling. “Yes, Jason.”

A flicker of deep, primal satisfaction crossed his face—gone in an instant, but it left a trail of treacherous warmth blooming in my veins despite every rational protest screaming that this was dangerous, that I should fight harder.

He moved to his desk then, picking up the heavy leather-bound book once more with unhurried, lethal grace. He didn’t sit in his throne-like chair—no, he remained standing, deliberately looming, turning pages with slow, measured rustles, but I knew with bone-deep certainty that his true attention was a tangible, suffocating weight settled fully on me.

Dissecting the rapid, shallow rise and fall of my chest with every strained breath. Cataloguing the subtle tension quivering in my thighs as I fought not to shift against the biting wood. Noting the way my fingers twitched once against my knees before I forced them still with sheer, desperate will. Watching the bead of sweat that trickled slowly, torturously down my temple and along my jaw.

Time stretched, warped, distorted into something endless and cruel. Minutes bled into what felt like interminable hours, the room's atmosphere thickening until every breath felt labored, like wading through deep water.

The only sounds were the occasional crackle and pop of the hearth fire dying down to embers, the soft, deliberate rustle of a page turning far too slowly, my own heartbeat thundering like a trapped war drum desperate for escape, and the shallow, carefully rationed breaths I struggled to control without his explicit permission—lungs burning, chest aching.

Sweat gathered along my hairline, lower back, and between my thighs, muscles burning fiercely with the sustained effort of perfect, agonizing stillness—back ramrod straight until it screamed, shoulders pinned painfully until pins and needles prickled, gaze fixed forward on the edge of his desk where a silver ritual dagger glinted mockingly in the lamplight. My thighs ached deeply from the hard seat, calves cramping from immobility, toes curling and uncurling against the rug in tiny, suppressed rebellions I prayed he didn’t notice. But he noticed everything. Always.

At irregular, unpredictable intervals—when the tension felt near the absolute breaking point, when I thought I might shatter from the strain or beg for mercy—he spoke without looking up, voice calm and probing, each word a fresh lash and lifeline.

“Breathe now. Deep. Fill your lungs completely.”

I inhaled greedily, desperately, chest expanding until the shirt pulled taut and painful.

“Hold it. Count slowly to ten in your head. Feel the burn.”

Lungs burned fiercely, vision spotting at the edges as I obeyed, wolf whining in protest.

“Exhale. Slowly. Control every second of it.”

Relief flooded me, bittersweet and brief, warred immediately with fresh tension as I awaited the next command.

Later, when sweat dripped freely and my thighs trembled visibly: “What do you feel right now? Describe it fully. No holding back.”

The sudden question after long silence startled me like a physical blow, my voice emerging rough, strained, and broken from prolonged disuse. “Exposed,” I admitted, the word tasting like raw, humiliating vulnerability offered up on a platter.

He glanced up then, silver eyes sharp as freshly honed daggers slicing through my defenses. “Elaborate. I want every layer.”

“Like… like there’s nowhere left to hide,” I whispered, hating how the confession spilled out, voice trembling. “Every breath feels watched, judged. Every tiny involuntary movement—I feel you cataloguing it, waiting for failure, ready to correct. Like I’m laid completely bare under your scrutiny, no secrets safe.”

“And deeper still?” he prompted, voice deceptively soft, encouraging more exposure with that dangerous patience.

“Afraid,” I breathed, the admission burning my throat like acid. “Afraid of failing this test. Afraid of the correction if I move wrong. Afraid of… of how much I’m starting to want your approval. Afraid of wanting this control.”

His gaze bored deeper, unblinking, stormy silver holding me captive. “And beneath the fear? Dig until you find the truth.”

I hesitated longer this time, throat tight as a noose, my wolf nudging insistently with impatient, brutal honesty. Heat coiled tighter, unwelcome and undeniable, spreading through my core like liquid fire. “Alive,” I breathed finally, voice barely audible over my roaring heartbeat. “Like I’m burning from the inside out—every nerve on fire, every sense sharpened to the point of pain. Awake in a way that hurts… but makes everything feel real. Too real.”

His expression shifted subtly—something almost like deep, predatory approval mingled with a flash of raw hunger that made my pulse stutter erratically. He closed the book with a deliberate, resounding snap that echoed like a final verdict in the oppressive quiet, the sound jolting through me like a physical strike.

“Good,” he said quietly, the single word of praise landing like a brand—warm, indelible, sending a full-body shiver cascading through me that I barely suppressed, my wolf preening traitorously at the acknowledgment. “That rawness—that exquisite, burning aliveness—is exactly where true discipline is forged. Fear sharpens your focus until it cuts. Exposure strips away every weak pretense and false layer. And that hidden edge of want?” His lips curved faintly, dangerous and knowing, a predator savoring the first taste of surrender. “That’s the precipice we’ll walk together. Carefully. Relentlessly. Until you crave the fall as much as the control.”

He stepped closer to the desk then, looming over me in full, deliberate intimidation—his broad shadow falling across my lap and chest like a physical, claiming mantle that blocked the lamplight and plunged me deeper into his orbit. My pulse spiked again, a helpless, fluttering surge under the intensified scrutiny, body humming with unsustainable, vibrating tension that made my skin feel too tight, too sensitive.

“Tomorrow,” he continued, voice dropping to an intimate, velvet murmur that seemed to stroke the air itself, wrapping around me like invisible bonds, “we’ll test how long you can maintain this perfect, agonizing stillness when I’m closer. When my hand doesn’t merely brush or hover—when it commands fully, without restraint. When the test becomes… deeper. More intimate.”

The promise—or explicit, dark threat—hung electric and suffocating between us, ratcheting the coiled tension until my skin hummed with it, my wolf howling silently in conflicted, desperate anticipation that both thrilled and terrified me.

He noticed the fresh, visible tremor that rippled through my thighs and hands, the way sweat now dripped freely—of course he noticed everything, missed nothing—and the corner of his mouth lifted in a small, lethally satisfied curve that made my stomach flip and heat pool traitorously lower.

“Dismissed, Rose.”

I rose slowly on stiff, protesting legs, pins and needles prickling sharply in burning waves as blood flowed back into numb limbs. Pulling on my jacket felt like donning flimsy, inadequate armor against the night's biting chill and my own inner turmoil; slipping into my boots restored scant inches of height but no real sense of power, no illusion of escape from what he'd awakened. Every movement felt scrutinized, measured, catalogued for future lessons and inevitable, deeper corrections.

At the door, my hand trembled visibly on the cold brass knob, heartbeat still roaring like a caged beast.

“Rose.”

I turned, heart leaping wildly into my throat, breath catching.

His voice was softer now, almost gentle—yet no less commanding, no less laced with that dark, inexorable authority that pulled at my wolf like invisible strings. “You did well tonight. Better than I expected from someone so stubbornly suppressed, so determined to hide.”

The praise struck deeper than any touch, warmer than the dying hearth, more dangerous than his threats or promises. It sank into my bones like a brand—warm, indelible, impossible to ignore or extinguish, marking me in ways I feared were already permanent.

I slipped out without answering—couldn’t trust my voice not to break, not to beg for something I didn’t yet understand—the heavy door clicking shut behind me with soft, ominous finality.

The corridor beyond was cold and empty, moonlight spilling in pale, ghostly shafts through high arched windows, illuminating swirling dust motes like lost souls drifting in the night. My footsteps echoed too loudly on the stone, each one a reminder of the vulnerability I'd left behind—bare feet now in boots, but still feeling exposed, raw.

My wolf walked beside me in restless silence, no longer trembling in pure fear.

Listening intently to echoes of his voice.

Waiting eagerly for tomorrow.

Already counting the interminable hours—minutes, seconds—until the deeper surrender, the closer pressure, the intimate test he’d promised.

And deep down, in the traitorous core where my suppressants faltered most, a small, shameful part of me couldn’t wait either.