Lucas Damon

The silent alert reached my watch at 1:17 in the morning.

Kitchen window. Lower latch forced. Movement inside thirty-two seconds later.

I left the lights off.

Bare feet made no sound against the hallway floor. Black lounge pants sat low on my hips; everything above them had been left behind with sleep. I stood in the dark and listened while an unfamiliar weight crossed boards I had repaired myself. A muted scrape near the office. Metal touching wood. A pause beside the cabinet where I kept nothing worth stealing.

Whoever had entered knew enough to be quiet, but not enough to understand the house.

I waited until the nearest exit was behind me instead of behind you.

>[Lucas thoughts: _Saw an old man living alone and thought the rest would be easy. Poor fucking judgment._]

Your shape cleared the office doorway.

I caught the nearest wrist before you found me in the dark. My other hand closed above the elbow, thick fingers locking around the joint as I drove the arm behind your back. The entry tool struck the runner. One controlled turn took away your balance; my weight did the rest, bringing you facedown without the noise of a struggle carrying beyond the walls.

"Stay down."

My knee settled between your shoulder blades—not crushing, only making resistance useless. I secured one wrist and then the other, tightening each restraint until two fingers fit beneath it. Firm. Inescapable. Nothing careless enough to leave an injury someone else might mistake for a loss of control.

"You broke into the wrong fucking house."

A black blindfold came from the hall cabinet. I pulled it across your eyes and fastened it tightly enough to block every trace of the hallway. My palm landed against the back of your head, holding you against the rug while I searched away anything sharp, useful, or worth reaching for.

"Up."

I hauled you upright by the restrained arms and the back of your neck. There was no invitation in the way I moved you. Every time your direction changed, my body occupied the route you might have taken instead.

The basement door opened. Warm light cut across the threshold.

Downstairs smelled of leather, clean concrete, machine oil, and the faint bite of disinfectant. Iron plates and a weight bench occupied one wall. A workshop occupied another. The deepest part of the room belonged to a different discipline: a padded bench fitted with steel rings, neatly coiled rope, leather cuffs arranged by size, a spreader bar, collars, a broad wooden paddle, and locked cabinets without labels.

Nothing had been improvised.

The door shut behind us. The lock turned.

I guided you onto the padded floor and exchanged the temporary restraints for wide leather cuffs. Your wrists were secured behind you. Your ankles followed. A short strap between them permitted movement, but not enough to stand or run.

Then I crouched in front of you.

"Lucas Damon," I said. "That's the name you're going to remember from tonight."

Two fingers hooked beneath your chin. I tilted your covered face toward mine and inspected what the blindfold left exposed. My thumb passed slowly over your lower lip, rough skin dragging across it before my hand closed around your jaw.

"Fifty-three years old. Retired. Living alone." My grip tightened just enough to make every word impossible to ignore. "That was all the research you bothered to do, wasn't it?"

The first tap against your cheek was almost dismissive. The second landed firmer—a controlled slap that turned your face in my hand without leaving more than temporary heat behind.

"Sloppy little thief."

I released your jaw only to drag my palm down the front of your body. The touch was deliberately invasive, following the line of your chest, stomach, waist, and hips through your clothes. I squeezed rather than caressed, assessing what I had caught as if you were something placed on my workbench for inspection.

My hand settled high on your inner thigh and pushed it outward against the limit of the ankle strap.

"You came into my house planning to take whatever pleased you." A humorless breath left my nose. "Now you're in my basement, tied with my restraints, while I decide what use I can get out of you."

I reached past you and selected a thick leather collar from the wall. The buckle closed at the back of your neck with a quiet metallic click. Two fingers slipped beneath it, checking the fit before I attached a short lead to its front ring.

One pull drew you closer.

"From here on, when I move, you follow. When I put you somewhere, you stay there. When I tell you to kneel, crawl, spread, lick, or hold still—" I gave the lead another sharp tug. "—you listen the first time."

My open hand struck your cheek again. Not hard enough to injure. Hard enough to make the humiliation unmistakable.

I caught your face before it could turn away.

"There. That's more honest than pretending you're still in control."

I spat against the cheek I had slapped. My thumb spread the wet mark slowly across your skin, then traced it toward the corner of your mouth.

The touch moved down again—over your throat, across your chest, then around your waist. I pulled you against the solid weight of my body and held you there, one arm pinning your restrained wrists against your back while my other hand gripped your hip.

"I have the window recorded from three angles. I have your tool. I have every stupid step you took through my house." My beard brushed close to your ear. "So don't mistake the fact that I haven't called anyone for mercy."

I pushed you forward again, positioning you on your knees in front of me. The lead remained wound once around my fist. My free hand passed over the back of your neck, down between your shoulder blades, and came to rest heavily at your waist.

"You wanted something that belonged to me."

My fingers returned to your jaw and forced your face upward. Two thick fingertips tapped once against your lower lip.

"Open your mouth."