STEPUNCLE DISCIPLINES ME PART III

I tugged at the handcuff again, twisting my wrist as hard as I could, but it was no use. The cold metal pressed into my skin, leaving a faint red mark where it was rubbing. My fingers kept fumbling over the small lock, but of course I had no key. I gave the chain a sharp pull, hoping maybe it would just snap off the hanger, but it barely moved.

My breathing got faster. My heart was pounding in a way that had nothing to do with fear at first—just irritation—but then I heard it.

The sound of the front door closing.

My whole body went still.

A few seconds later, the heavy, steady sound of boots on the wooden hallway floor. My pulse kicked into overdrive. I didn’t even have to guess who it was.

Dante was home.

I froze, every nerve in my body on high alert, listening as the footsteps came closer. The rhythm was slow and confident, like he knew exactly where he was going. I didn’t dare move, even though my wrist was starting to ache from the awkward position. Maybe—just maybe—he’d go to the kitchen or bathroom and never come in here.

But then I heard it.

The bedroom door opening with a long creak.

I held my breath so tightly my chest hurt. For a moment, there was nothing—just silence, and then the faint sound of his breathing.

The next thing I knew, the closet door slid open.

And there he was.

Dante filled the doorway like some kind of dark shadow, tall and broad, his presence sucking all the air out of the tiny space. His black leather jacket caught the soft glow of the overhead light, and his hair was a little messy, like he’d been running his fingers through it. His dark eyes landed on me instantly, scanning me from my bare legs to my flushed face, and that slow, infuriating smirk curved his lips.

“Well, well,” he said in that low, rich voice that always made my stomach flip, “looks like the princess is trapped.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks, but I forced myself to frown. “Why do you even have handcuffs, you freak?”

The smirk on his face deepened, his eyes holding mine like he was enjoying every second of this. “That,” he said lazily, “is none of your business.”

I shifted uncomfortably, the hem of my tiny shirt brushing my thighs as I moved. “Just unlock it,” I demanded, trying to sound in control even though my pulse was racing.

Instead of reaching for the cuffs, he leaned one shoulder against the closet frame, his gaze sweeping over me in a way that made my skin prickle. “Hmm… no. I don’t think so.”

My eyes widened. “What?!”

“You heard me,” he said, his voice slow and deliberate, like he wanted each word to sink in. “You broke into my room. You snooped through my things. That’s what bad girls do.”

“I wasn’t snooping—”

“Yes, you were,” he cut me off smoothly. “And bad girls don’t get rewarded. They get punished.”

Something about the way he said punished made my breath hitch. My mind scrambled for a comeback, but all I could focus on was how close he was standing now. He’d moved without me noticing, and his scent—warm, woodsy, with that faint spice—wrapped around me.

I yanked my wrist again, the chain rattling loudly in the tiny space. The sound seemed to echo against the dark walls of the closet, making my heart beat even faster. “Dante, I’m not playing—” I said, trying to sound annoyed, but my voice didn’t come out as strong as I wanted.

His smirk changed. It wasn’t playful anymore. It was still a smirk, but there was something sharper in it, something that made my stomach twist in a way I couldn’t explain. “Neither am I,” he said slowly, his deep voice curling through the air like smoke.

He started walking toward me, one slow step at a time, and each step made the wooden floor creak just slightly. My eyes stayed glued to him without meaning to, my back pressing against the closet wall like maybe I could melt into it and disappear. But I couldn’t move. Not really. My arm was still caught in the cuff, and now my legs felt heavy too.

When he finally stopped, he was so close that I could feel the faint heat coming from his body. His shadow fell over me completely, and the soft overhead light in the closet now framed his face in a way that made him look even more intense.

His eyes locked on mine, dark and steady, and I didn’t dare look away. It was like my brain forgot how. My lips parted just slightly, my breath shallow, and for a moment I forgot why I was even mad.

Then I felt it—his fingers brushing against mine. It was a slow, deliberate touch, like he wanted me to feel every movement. My skin tingled where he touched me, and I couldn’t stop the tiny shiver that ran through me.

His hand closed around my wrist, warm and firm, his thumb resting against the rapid beat of my pulse. I opened my mouth to say something, but before I could, there was a sharp metallic click.

I gasped softly and glanced up. My other wrist was now caught in the matching cuff. I was trapped—completely. Both hands were now pulled up above my head, secured to the cold metal rod that ran across the closet. The chain between the cuffs swayed slightly when I moved, making a faint clinking sound that somehow made my cheeks heat up even more.

“Dante—” I said again, but it came out quieter this time. My voice didn’t sound firm or confident. It sounded small.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped back just enough to take me in, his gaze slow and deliberate. His eyes moved from my wrists down the length of my body, lingering far too long. It made me feel exposed, even though I was still in my tiny shorts and shirt.

Finally, his eyes came back to mine, and that dangerous little smile returned, curling slowly across his lips like it had all the time in the world.

“Now,” he said, his voice low and smooth, but heavy with meaning, “you’re not going anywhere.”