Chapter 84: Red in the Net – Part VI

Adrienne

I stripped the room bare. No scent, no softness, no carefully measured comforts. Only steel restraints, sterile light, and the hum of the vent cut the silence into something sharp. Tools weren’t needed anymore. Control was enough. My will was enough.

Riven entered with the same deliberate swagger as before, even with the cuffs locking his wrists. He scanned the space once, then smiled as the guards forced him into the chair. “Stripped down,” he said, voice calm. “What’s wrong? Afraid your little tricks aren’t working?”

I stepped forward until the light cast my shadow across his lap. “Tricks are for men who need them,” I said evenly. “I don’t.”

He leaned back, metal clinking. “Then why keep changing the stage? First warmth, then scent, now nothing at all. Looks like someone’s grasping.”

The words pressed sharply, but I didn’t let them in. I reached out, caught his chin in my hand, and forced his head to face me. My fingers dug deep enough to leave marks. His smirk stayed, but his pulse betrayed him, quick and hot under the surface.

“You mistake refinement for desperation,” I whispered.

His lips curled further. “I mistake nothing. Every session, you come in tighter, harsher. That’s not refinement. That’s fear.”

I held him a heartbeat longer, letting my nails scrape against the edge of his jaw before releasing him. He exhaled, slow and deliberate, as though mocking the release itself.

Control was still mine. His body had answered, even if his mouth didn’t. That was progress. And progress always widened the cracks.

I didn’t give him space to settle. My hand shot back to his face, this time rougher, nails biting as I forced his head up until his throat stretched tight. His breath caught, shallow, but his eyes—still fixed on mine—sparked with that infuriating amusement.

“Progress isn’t gentle,” I said. “It’s earned in pressure.”

His lips twisted into a grin. “Pressure… or desperation?”

I tightened my grip, thumb pressing into the hollow of his throat. His pulse raced, betraying him even as he spoke. “Call it whatever you want,” I whispered, “your body knows what it means.”

His chuckle rasped against my hand. “Oh, I know what it means. You’re enjoying this more than I am.”

Heat prickled across my skin as my nails trailed from his jaw to his chest, pressing against the rapid rhythm beneath. His breath shuddered, and though he masked it with a smirk, the betrayal was clear.

“You think bruises prove anything?” he murmured. “All I see is you clinging harder every time I smile.”

I leaned in, my breath brushing his lips. “Smiles don’t hide weakness; they reveal it.”

He inhaled sharply, the sterile air mingling with a lingering trace of what had been there before. His chest rose quickly, betrayed once more. I felt the thrum against my hand, the cracks widening with each beat.

Still, his voice stayed steady, even mocking. “Maybe. But tell me—do you like me better when I resist? Because it looks to me like you’d be bored if I bent.”

The words burned, because they struck too close to the truth. I pressed harder, forcing myself to believe the tremor in his breath mattered more than his tongue. His body was breaking. His mind would follow.

It had to.

I shifted the rhythm on purpose—softness first, then cruelty. My fingers released his chest, sliding up slowly, tracing the line of his collarbone with the lightest touch. He inhaled sharply, just once, betraying the shift. Before he could catch it, I snapped my hand back to his throat, grip iron, nails biting harder this time. The chair rattled faintly beneath the sudden force.

“You see?” I murmured, lips hovering at his ear. “You can’t predict me. You can’t hold the rhythm. That’s mine.”

His chuckle rasped against my cheek, maddeningly steady even as his breath hitched. “You think unpredictability means control? No. It means you’re flailing.”

The words cut too deep, too close. I yanked his head back and pressed my mouth against his jaw in a fleeting kiss. Then, I dragged my nails down his neck, leaving red marks on his skin. He hissed through clenched teeth, but his grin remained sharp.

“You want me to break,” he whispered, his voice ragged yet mocking. “But the truth is, you’d miss me if I did. Your resistance keeps you coming back. You need it.”

For half a heartbeat, my grip faltered. His eyes caught the moment of weakness, and his grin widened. I tightened my hold, furious at the tremor in my hand and the heat creeping under my skin.

“You confuse indulgence with need,” I said, forcing my voice to remain low and controlled. “What I do here isn’t for you. It’s to show you what you truly are.”

He leaned forward against the restraint, bringing his lips dangerously close to mine. His whisper slid between us like smoke. “And what are you showing me now? That you can’t stop touching me?”

Heat flared up my spine. I shoved him back against the chair, the restraints clanging as metal struck wood. His laughter followed, hoarse but defiant, filling the sterile room with something that felt less like surrender and more like victory.

I stepped back, smoothing my sleeve to create distance before my fury tore him apart. I could see his pulse racing and his breath faltering—proof that I was making progress. Proof that I still controlled the situation.

But his words lingered in my mind, coiled and venomous: You need it. I tried to silence that thought, but the crack had already opened.

I ended the session before my hand betrayed me any further. With a sharp nod, the guards stepped in, their boots echoing against the sterile floor. My expression remained steady, even though my chest still rose too quickly, as if he had tainted the very air.

They unlocked the restraints, the sound of metal clinking sharp in the quiet. Riven stretched against the release, rolling his shoulders like a man waking from a nap. Not broken. Not even strained. Just amused.

I smoothed my sleeve, grounding myself in the ritual. “Physiological responses peaked. He’s progressing.” My tone was clipped, clinical, stripped of any trace of heat.

It was true—my pulse raced, and my breath became shallow. The body never lies. But the smile he gave me was louder than any reaction I could force.

"You’ll never own me," he said softly, almost kindly, as if he were explaining a fact I couldn't quite grasp. "And the more you try, the more you prove it."

His words lodged deeply in my mind, heavier than his smirk. I kept my pace steady, my heels clicking sharply against the floor as I turned and left the room. The door shut behind me with a definitive click, sealing him away.

With each step, one thought echoed in my mind: Physiology never lies. He broke. He’s breaking.

Yet, underneath that certainty, his voice followed me into the hall, dark and unshakable. You’ll never own me.

I straightened my spine, pushing against the weight of his words, forcing my mask to fit tighter. Progress was still mine. It had to be.