The water still hadn't left her bones.
Hours had passed since she left the Red Room, but Aria felt its silence crawling under her skin. Her limbs ached from the position she'd held, arms raised like an offering to a god who never touched. A god who whispered instead. Who stared. Who watched her unravel inch by inch without ever laying a single finger on her.
And that was the worst part.
That he didn't touch her.
He made her body ache with nothing but words and silence.
She lay curled on the bed, still in the dress she'd slipped into after the session. It clung to her skin like a second punishment. She didn't dare take it off. She didn't know if she was allowed.
The walls of her room were pristine. White and gold. Beautiful. Cold. She hated them.
She hated how they knew.
Knew she was beginning to break.
A knock came. Then the door opened.
No permission asked.
Mrs. Hollow entered, holding a white towel draped over her forearm.
"Get up," she said flatly.
Aria blinked. "It's the middle of the—"
"The Master believes you need cleansing."
The words chilled her more than the room.
"Now."
Aria rose. Her legs trembled. Her body protested. Her mind screamed.
Still, she followed.
---
The corridor was dim. The house asleep. But the hush didn't feel peaceful.
It felt… surgical.
Mrs. Hollow led her down a hallway she hadn't seen before. One lined with old oil paintings eyes that seemed to follow. Another right turn. Then a heavy black door with no handle.
The housekeeper knocked once.
The door opened from the inside.
No one stood there.
It opened for her.
Aria stepped through.
The room beyond was massive stone walls, flickering candles, shadows dancing across a clawfoot tub that sat in the middle like a throne. Steam did not rise from the water. It looked still. Too still.
Cold.
So cold it looked dead.
She turned.
Damien was there.
Leaning against the wall in another black-on-black suit. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at collarbones. A pair of black leather gloves gripped his hands, smooth and molded.
He didn't speak.
He simply looked at her.
Then nodded once to Mrs. Hollow.
Without a word, the woman stepped behind Aria and unzipped her dress.
Aria's hands moved reflexively to stop her but froze.
Obedience.
That damn word wrapped around her like another collar.
The fabric slid down her body again.
For the second time that night, she stood nearly bare.
But this time… it wasn't erotic.
It was something else entirely.
Vulnerability in its purest, sharpest form.
Mrs. Hollow disappeared, taking the dress and towel with her.
Damien stepped forward.
Still, he didn't look at her body.
Not once.
He moved like a surgeon, like a king, like someone who had all the power and didn't need to flaunt it.
"Get in," he said, voice calm.
She looked at the tub.
The water was clear. Still.
A silent warning.
She hesitated.
"I said," he repeated, stepping closer, "get in."
Her toes met the edge of the bath. The porcelain rim was icy. She took a breath.
Then dipped one foot in.
A gasp escaped her lips as pain shot up her leg.
It's freezing.
She looked back, eyes wide. "It's—"
"I know."
His voice was emotionless.
She bit her lip, lifted the second foot, and slid into the water.
It felt like knives.
She almost screamed.
Every instinct screamed Get out!, but his presence anchored her in place. She folded her legs, arms crossing over her chest. Her teeth chattered.
He moved behind her.
Then, slowly, his gloved hands came into view.
He rolled up his sleeves precise, perfect and knelt beside the tub.
Still not touching her.
Yet the heat of his control wrapped around her more tightly than the water ever could.
Then, he reached forward.
And touched her shoulder.
Leather met flesh.
Cold.
Soft.
Wrong.
Right.
She gasped.
His grip wasn't tight. It wasn't cruel.
But it wasn't warm either.
It was ownership.
He pressed gently, pushing her body deeper into the ice.
"Down," he said.
Her shoulders submerged.
A cry tore from her throat.
He didn't stop.
"You belong to me," he whispered. "Even your temperature obeys my will."
The words should have made her angry.
Instead, they made her want.
Want what, she didn't know.
He dipped one gloved hand into the water and pulled it up slowly, watching the droplets slide down her collarbone. Then he reached for a sponge from the silver tray nearby. Soaked it.
And began to wash her.
Neck.
Shoulders.
Arms.
No rush. No pleasure.
Just… cleansing.
Clinical.
Detached.
Yet every motion sent fire through her freezing body.
Her mind rebelled.
He's not aroused. He's not touching you to want you. He's touching you to own you.
That thought—
that burned more than the water ever could.
Still, she didn't move.
She didn't ask him to stop.
He wiped the back of her neck, the dip between her shoulder blades, the swell of her spine.
Each motion precise.
Mechanical.
Cold.
But she was burning inside.
When the sponge dropped back into the water, she let out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"Do you know what this is, Aria?" he asked.
Her lips trembled. "A bath."
He leaned forward close to her ear. "It's not. It's a lesson."
He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek with a gloved finger.
"Your body belongs to me. But it's not a toy. It's a weapon. And I am training it to obey."
Her lungs stilled.
She felt like she was sinking again, but this time not from the cold.
"But you haven't… touched me," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Not really."
"No," he murmured. "And that's what keeps you awake at night."
Her head snapped toward him, but he was already standing.
Drying his gloves with a towel.
Unbothered.
Immaculate.
She stared, chest heaving. "Why do you do this to me?"
"Because I can."
His eyes met hers.
Because she let him, they both knew.
He walked toward the door, slow, steady steps.
Then paused.
Looked back.
"You're not ready yet," he said simply.
And then—
The lock clicked.
From the outside.
The door shut.
She was alone again.
Naked.
Shaking.
Soaked in cold water and unanswered questions.
The candles flickered.
She shivered.
Her fingers clenched the edge of the tub.
She didn't cry.
She didn't scream.
She just sat there…
Tamed by cold hands.