Chapter 85: Red in the Net – Part VII

Adrienne

I entered with everything in place. Hair smooth, jacket pressed, heels clicking in perfect rhythm. A flawless mask. But the moment the door sealed behind me, my hands betrayed the truth. My fingers curled into fists, nails biting my palms until I forced them open again.

The guards fastened Riven into the chair with the same efficiency as always. He didn’t resist, not really. His defiance was never in his body—it was in his grin. That lazy, taunting curve of his mouth that said he had already won.

“Back so soon?” His voice carried amusement, not surprise. “Each time you return quicker. I must be getting under your skin.”

I stepped forward until the sterile light caught my shadow across him. “It means you’re circling the edge,” I said evenly. “Your mouth still runs, but your body tells a different story.”

He chuckled, low and rasping. “Funny. That’s exactly how I’d describe you.”

My jaw stayed set, my movements precise. I reached for his chin, tilting his head with two fingers until his throat stretched. The pulse hammered beneath his skin, betraying him. I let my smile sharpen. “Every beat is mine. Progress doesn’t need your permission.”

He leaned into the touch instead of recoiling, eyes bright with insolence. “No, Adrienne. Every beat is proof you can’t stop measuring me. Obsession looks good on you.”

The words pressed closer than I liked. I released him with a flick, stepping back before my mask cracked. He stayed grinning, head cocked, pulse still racing.

That was progress. His body was betraying him, no matter how steady the grin.

And I would drag him further.

I closed the space between us and set my hands on the restraints. The leather straps creaked as I tightened them, each notch biting deeper into his wrists until the cuffs pressed against his skin. The guards shifted their weight, uneasy, but I ignored them. Riven was mine to shape.

He watched with interest, not fear, his grin cutting through the sterile light. “You’re rougher,” he said. “Guess finesse doesn’t keep you steady anymore.”

“Finesse doesn’t break men who mistake arrogance for strength,” I replied, pulling the final strap tight. “Pressure does.”

My nails dragged down the line of his shirt, grazing just enough to leave faint scratches beneath the fabric. He hissed, the breath catching for a single instant before he smoothed it over with laughter.

“That sound,” I whispered, leaning close. “Proof.”

Riven tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Proof you’re enjoying yourself.”

The heat crawled along my skin. I pressed harder, thumb digging into the hollow at his throat until his pulse hammered against me. His breath fractured again, his body reacting faster than his mouth could cover.

“You call this progress?” he rasped, chuckling through the strain. “But really, you’re only carving yourself deeper. Each mark you leave is written on you, not me.”

I let my nails bite harder at his collarbone, the red lines blooming instantly. “Your body doesn’t care for clever phrases. It knows it’s losing.”

He smiled wider, as if the marks belonged to him. “No. Your body knows it’s desperate.”

The words struck like a sudden draft of cold. For a heartbeat, my grip trembled before I steadied it. His pulse kept pounding against my hand, undeniable, insistent. That was progress. That was control.

I straightened, smoothing my sleeve, reclaiming the calm surface. “You’ll stop smiling soon enough,” I said.

His grin stayed, carved deep as ever. “Maybe,” he murmured. “But you’ll keep coming back until I do.”

I stepped away before the heat in my chest betrayed me. His laughter followed like smoke.

I shifted tactics, letting my hand glide lightly from his collarbone down his chest. His breath caught briefly. Before he could react, I yanked his hair back, jolting the chair beneath him.

“You can’t predict me,” I whispered against his ear. “That’s control.”

His laugh scraped out rough, frayed at the edges but still intact. “No. That’s panic.”

The word hit harder than I wanted. I pressed my mouth to the sharp angle of his jaw, a ghost of contact, then dragged my nails down the side of his neck until his skin reddened. His hiss made satisfaction coil inside me, but his eyes still glinted with defiance when I pulled back.

“You want me to break,” he rasped, breath shallow. “But you’d miss me if I did. My resistance keeps you alive in here. Admit it—you need it.”

For a heartbeat, my fingers froze. His grin widened instantly, taking advantage of the slip. I tightened my hold, furious at the tremor in my hand.

“You mistake indulgence for need,” I said, forcing the words sharply. “This is a calculation. Nothing more.”

Riven leaned forward as much as the cuffs allowed, closing the space until his lips hovered just shy of mine. His voice dropped, low and certain. “Then why do you tremble every time you touch me?”

The heat that flared in my chest was instant, traitorous. I ripped my hand away before the weakness spread further, retreating two steps as though distance could erase the evidence.

He leaned back in the chair, laughter spilling raw and uneven, but certain. “See? Even your exits prove me right.”

I straightened my jacket, smoothing the fabric until the tremor in my fingers was hidden. His pulse had raced, his breath broken more than once—undeniable signs of progress. Those belonged to me.

His words stuck with me, tugging at my hidden fears. You tremble every time you touch me. I pushed the thought away, weighed down by protocol. He had to be breaking. Yet, his laughter lingered, even when I told myself the session wasn't over.

I ended the session before the crack in my hand widened into something visible. A flick of my wrist brought the guards forward, the scrape of metal keys cutting the silence. My mask held steady, though my chest still rose a fraction too fast.

They unclasped the cuffs with brisk efficiency. Riven didn’t resist; he stretched, deliberate, like a man who’d been napping instead of bound. That smirk spread wider, undimmed by bruises or restraint.

“Physiological responses peaked,” I told the guards, my tone clipped and clinical. “He’s showing progress.”

It was true—his pulse had raced, his breath had cracked under pressure. His body betrayed him, again and again. That was data. That was mine.

But as the guards stepped back, he leaned forward, voice dropping low enough that only I could hear. “You keep coming back, Adrienne. Ask yourself why.”

The words landed like a blade under the ribs. My face didn’t change, not even a flicker. I smoothed my sleeve, spine straight, heels striking sharply against the floor as I turned.

The door shut behind me with a heavy click, sealing him away. Each step down the corridor rang steady, measured, perfect. Progress was still mine. His body had said as much.

His voice lingered like smoke, curling around my certainty. I tightened my mask, insisting the question was meaningless. He was the subject; I was in control. Yet the echo wouldn’t fade.