Chapter 6: Chains and Champagne
Chapter 6: Chains and Champagne
Elio's POV
⚠️ Mature Content | Slow-burn power play
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I wasn't allowed in the west wing.
It was the only rule Luca had given me—spoken like a warning wrapped in silk.
But I was never good with rules. Especially the tempting kind.
The door wasn't locked. It didn't creak. It simply opened, smooth and silent, like it had been waiting.
What I found inside wasn't a bedroom. It wasn't an office. It was a space that didn't belong in a mansion at all.
Polished black floors. Velvet-lined walls. Dim lights hung in cages. A tall chair like a throne. Shelves stacked with leather, silk, silver.
Chains. Collars. Restraints.
And champagne on ice.
I backed up.
"Curious little mouse."
His voice behind me made me jump. I turned sharply, heart kicking hard.
Luca stepped into the room like a panther—calm, dangerous, owning every inch of it. He didn't look surprised. He looked pleased.
"You weren't supposed to see this yet," he said, moving past me. "But since you're here…"
He uncorked the bottle with a soft pop and poured the champagne into two flutes.
"This room is for control," he said, handing me a glass. "And surrender."
"I didn't agree to this."
"You didn't run either."
I stared at the bubbles, lips tightening.
"What is this, Luca? A game?"
"No." He set his glass down. "This is honesty. For once."
He stepped behind me, and I stiffened—but didn't move.
His fingers brushed my shoulders, then slowly peeled the black sweater over my head. He did it gently. Not rushed. Like he was unwrapping a secret.
"You wear armor like silk," he murmured. "But I see the breaks underneath."
"Why are you doing this?" I whispered.
"Because you don't flinch anymore."
His hand slid down my spine. I trembled—not in fear, but something darker. Thicker.
Heat bloomed across my skin.
"Say stop," he said. "And I will. No questions. No pressure."
I didn't.
Instead, I reached back... and laced my fingers through his.
He exhaled against my neck. One long, slow breath of restraint.
When he moved again, it was with purpose.
He walked to a drawer and returned with a silver chain—delicate but unyielding. Cold against my skin as he clasped it gently around my neck. A collar, yes, but not humiliating. Intimate. Intentional.
"Too tight?" he asked.
"No," I breathed.
"Good."
He pulled a silk ribbon next—looped it around my wrists, knotting them loosely in front.
"Beautiful," he said.
"Don't flatter me," I muttered, half-drunk on nerves and champagne.
"I'm not. I don't waste compliments."
I sat when he motioned to the velvet-lined bench. He knelt in front of me—again. It was becoming a pattern. A warning.
And a promise.
His hands slid up my legs, pausing at my thighs.
"Last chance," he said. "Say no."
I didn't.
So he leaned forward—and kissed me.
Harder this time. Hungrier. His teeth caught my bottom lip, and I gasped into his mouth. He swallowed it.
One hand held my bound wrists, the other trailed down, over the waistband of my pants.
I arched, involuntarily.
"Good," he murmured. "Let go."
I didn't speak. Couldn't. My brain was melting, my body betraying everything I thought I controlled.
He pressed into me, lips hot, breath rough now.
"Tell me what you want," he growled.
"You," I said without thinking.
He stilled.
Then: "You already have me."
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Later, when I was lying half-dressed on velvet with bruised lips and a chain still resting at the hollow of my throat, he handed me the second glass of champagne.
I sipped. My hands shook.
"You're dangerous," I whispered.
He smiled, brushing hair from my face.
"And you're mine."
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