"Congratulations on becoming the new star," he murmured, his voice a low caress as his hand stroked her hip. "The people seem to adore you."

  Amy replied, slightly breathless, "Aria went missing right after the war started. They waited a while, but I was eventually asked to take over her roles."

  "Yes," Linus replied, his hand gently placed on her lower back, his fingers lightly pressing into her waist. “The show must go on.” He allowed the statement to linger, a cold echo of theatrical necessity masking his personal agenda. His fingers then snaked beneath the hem of her top, his thumb exploring the bare skin of her lower back.

  He pressed his palm more firmly against her, feeling her warmth seep into his hand. His body reacted immediately—his pulse quickened, his throat parched.

  The scent of her skin—clean, with hints of theatrical powder and nervous perspiration—filled his nostrils, intensifying his arousal. He leaned closer, inhaling deeply, his eyes briefly closing in pleasure.

  His fingers splayed possessively across her lower back, claiming territory he'd desired to explore. His thumb traced small circles against her waist, each rotation bringing his hand imperceptibly lower. The heat of her body against his palm was intoxicating, promising deeper pleasures yet to come.

  Amy gasped softly at Linus's touch, her skin pebbled with goosebumps under his fingers. Her breathing quickened, and her chest rose and fell in a rhythm that immediately drew his gaze. She trembled beneath his palm, her skin warming rapidly, flushing pink where he touched her.

  She hesitated for a heartbeat, then pressed back against his hand, her body arching slightly to meet his touch. A slight sound—part sigh, part moan—escaped her lips before she caught herself, biting her lower lip.

  Linus watched her face intently, studying how her eyelashes fluttered, how her lips parted, how the pulse at her throat quickened visibly. When his fingers mapped higher, following the delicate curve of her back, she shivered and leaned further into his touch.

  The contradiction in her body thrilled him—her shoulders remained stiff with uncertainty while her hips subtly shifted closer to him. Her head tilted back slightly, exposing the vulnerable line of her neck, a silent invitation.

  Abruptly, Linus stepped back, leaving Amy standing with her hands bound. He moved around the room, slowly extinguishing all but one of the candles, plunging the space into near darkness. With each dying flame, the room grew more intimate, more dangerous. He left only a single candle burning, strategically placed so its golden light caressed Amy's face while leaving his features in shadow.

  His breathing deepened as darkness swallowed them. The privacy of shadows was liberating, exciting—a space where inhibitions could be abandoned.

  "Walk towards the window, Amy," he commanded, voice husky with desire.

  He guided her with a firm hand on her lower back, registering the heat of her body through the thin fabric.

  Amy moved with the hesitant grace of prey aware of its predicament but uncertain of escape routes. Her footsteps were soft, almost silent, as she picked her way across the darkened room. Her thoughts likely oscillated between contradictory impulses: the professional actress in her responding to direction; the naive young woman awakening to dangerous attraction; the protégée eager to please; and somewhere beneath it all, a flicker of self-preservation sensing the predator at her back. He didn't need to know her thoughts; he only needed to observe her actions.

  The tremble in her legs as she walked—visible in the subtle disturbance of the dress fabric—revealed this confusion, this terrible exhilaration of being simultaneously threatened and desired by the most dangerous man in Thornfield. He allowed himself a small, internal smile. She was unraveling, layer by layer, revealing the core of her vulnerability. And he was the one holding the thread.

  He increased the pressure on her lower back, urging her closer to the window. “A little faster, Amy,” he murmured, his voice silken. “Don’t be shy.” He didn’t want her to resist. He wanted her to surrender. And she was, slowly but surely, doing just that.

  When she reached the window, moonlight spilled through the glass, illuminating her body in silver. The sight of her—bound, vulnerable, beautifully framed by moonlight—sent him a jolt of pure desire.

  He positioned himself behind her, close enough that his breath warmed the nape of her neck. His body responded instantly to their proximity—heart pounding, skin hot, arousal evident in the tightness of his trousers. He pressed slightly closer, allowing her to feel his reaction against her.

  "Look down at the street," he whispered, lips brushing her ear. "Anyone could look up and see you. See us."

  Linus observed the figures moving along the street below, the dim light from the remaining candle casting long shadows that danced with their movements. “Do you think,” he breathed, his voice a low suggestion in the near darkness, “they would have seen your show tonight? They probably would have, wouldn't they? They would have loved you, loved you as Princess Mara. Did you like it as well, Amy? All eyes on you? Yes?”

  He was not genuinely curious about Amy's experience but instead weaving a spell of words designed to inflate her ego while binding her closer to his will. A carefully constructed illusion of shared appreciation, designed to disarm and control.

  Amy gave a soft, almost breathless, “Yes, Master Linus.”

  “Of course,” Linus echoed, his hand still resting on her lower back, his fingers now gently tracing the curve of her spine. He didn’t offer further comments or press her for details. The question wasn't about her enjoyment; it was about reinforcing the idea that her worth was tied to the admiration of others—and, by extension, to his approval.

  Amy’s breathless “Yes, Master Linus” revealed her as flattered and painfully naive. Her response carried the eager desperation of someone starved for validation, drinking in his attention like parched soil absorbs rain. She failed to recognize the predatory nature beneath his interest, mistaking calculated manipulation for genuine admiration. The years of subtle conditioning, the careful dismantling of her self-worth, had left her vulnerable to his influence.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Her body language—the slight trembling, the way she leaned toward his words—betrayed how completely she had fallen under his influence. Her reactions were those of a moth drawn inexorably toward a flame that would eventually consume it. He felt a detached satisfaction watching her succumb, a cold sense of triumph in his manipulation.

  He allowed his fingers to pause at the base of her spine, applying a gentle pressure. “You are a natural, Amy,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “A born performer.” It was a lie, of course. She was a mimic, a vessel for his desires, but she didn't need to know that. She only needed to believe in the illusion he was creating.

  “People will know you now, Amy. You will become their everyday name.” He paused, his voice taking on a more intimate tone, a subtle shift that sent a shiver down her spine. “But you know what else you will become, don’t you?” he asked, his breath warm against her ear. “Their everyday fantasy.”

  As Linus’s words turned more suggestive, Amy’s breathing quickened almost imperceptibly, her pupils dilating in the dim candlelight. She neither pulled away nor objected, her silence and stillness signaling both her surrender and her intoxication with his attention. He hadn’t forced her; she was offering herself, willingly, eagerly.

  The slight flush creeping across her skin betrayed how his words affected her—arousal mingled with uncertainty, desire tangled with apprehension. It was a delicate cocktail of emotions, and he was savoring every drop. He could feel the subtle tension in her muscles, the way she held her breath, the almost imperceptible tremor in her limbs.

  Yet something deeper than mere physical attraction kept her rooted in place: the desperate need to be significant to someone as powerful as Linus, even if that significance came at the cost of her autonomy. She had spent her life feeling invisible, overlooked, and unimportant. He had given her a purpose, a stage, an audience, and she was willing to pay any price to keep it.

  He moved his hand to her cheek, his thumb stroking the soft skin. The touch wasn’t affectionate, but possessive—a claiming of ownership. “Some would be imagining if these eyes would ever look at them with such intensity,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on her face, dissecting her reaction. He wasn’t seeking connection; he was cataloging her response.

  Under Linus’s touch, Amy remained perfectly still, as if afraid the slightest movement might shatter this moment or displease him. She neither leaned in nor pulled away but existed in a state of suspended animation, her breath shallow and her pulse visibly fluttering at her throat. It was the stillness of a captured animal, a fragile composure maintained through sheer force of will.

  Her stillness was not passivity but a learned response—the instinctive recognition that her role was to receive rather than initiate.

  The slight trembling beneath his fingertips revealed the internal conflict between her body's natural responses and her mind's determination to be whatever he wanted her to be.

  His fingers then drifted to her lips, lightly tracing their delicate outline. “Some imagining how soft and sweet these tiny, tiny lips of yours feel and taste.” Amy’s responses—the slight parting of her lips, her accelerated breathing, the way she remained motionless under his touch—all betrayed her awareness of this building energy. She was a tightly wound spring, ready to snap.

  His touch lingered for a moment before moving lower, his hand now resting just below the neckline of her red top. “But you know,” he continued, his voice a husky whisper, “men’s imaginations will not stop there, will they?” He wasn’t asking a question. He was stating a fact, reinforcing his control over the narrative.

  His fingers grazing her breasts through the thin red fabric. "They won't be able to stop thinking about what this dress is hiding. Wondering about the shape and size of your breasts, how pert and ripe they must be. Imagining the color and texture of your nipples beneath the cloth, picturing them stiffening into hard little buds."

  He palmed her breasts fully then, rubbing his thumbs slowly back and forth across her nipples. Even through the dress, she could feel the heat and friction of his touch. "They'll be desperate to know how sensitive you are, if your nipples get tender and erect when they're caressed like this." He rolled her nipples between his thumb and forefinger, gently tweaking and pulling on them until she felt them pebble against the dress.

  Her body responded with involuntary signs of desire—quickened breath, hardening nipples beneath his exploring fingers—while her mind struggled to process the swiftness of the escalation. She was caught in a vortex of conflicting sensations, her instincts warring with her learned obedience.

  Her stillness contained elements of both surrender and uncertainty, her eyes occasionally flickering toward his face to gauge his pleasure in her responses. She was seeking validation, desperate for a sign that she was fulfilling his desires. She made no move to stop or encourage him, having already surrendered the right to direct their encounter. The power dynamic was absolute, and she had accepted her role as the submissive participant.

  The slight tension in her muscles suggested discomfort not with his touch but her own powerlessness—a discomfort she had learned to interpret as excitement. He had twisted her perceptions, turning her vulnerability into a source of perverse pleasure. He had broken her, and she didn't even realize it.

  He tightened his grip slightly, savoring the subtle tremor that ran through her body. “Don’t you feel it, Amy?” he murmured, his voice a low caress. “Don’t you feel how desired you are?” He didn’t wait for a response. He knew she did. And that was all that mattered.

  His words created a perverse triangulation where anonymous observers' theoretical desire enhanced his actual power over her. By narrating others' fantasies, he positioned himself as both interpreter of the world and gateway to it, reinforcing her dependence. The twisted intimacy he cultivated was built on isolation, ensuring that she viewed herself exclusively through his eyes, even when imagining how others saw her. He was the lens through which she perceived her own worth, and he was deliberately distorting the image.

  His thumb idly flicked across the small bump of her nipple through the material. “Don’t move,” he instructed softly, his other hand now reaching for something on a nearby table. The casualness of the command, the complete lack of urgency, was more unsettling than any threat.

  His fingers closed around the cold steel of a knife. Slowly, deliberately, he began to cut the fabric of her top down her back. The sound of the tearing material was soft but distinct in the quiet room, a subtle violation that amplified the tension. He wasn’t rushing. He was savoring the moment, prolonging her anticipation.

  He gently pushed the loosened fabric forward, revealing her bare back. “Amy,” he said, his voice a low murmur, his gaze fixed on the exposed skin, “if someone happens to glance at this window, perhaps their fantasy might just get a little more fuel to burn in their thoughts tonight.” He wasn’t offering a warning; he was offering a spectacle. He was turning her into an object of display, a plaything for the imaginations of strangers.

  The knife gleamed dully in the candlelight, its polished surface reflecting a distorted version of Amy's wide-eyed face as Linus brought it to her clothing. The sound of fabric surrendering to steel filled the room—a soft, intimate ripping that seemed almost obscene in its deliberateness. It was a sound of control, of domination, of irreversible change.

  Amy’s breath caught audibly as the cool metal occasionally brushed against her warming skin, her muscles tensing with each progressive cut. It wasn’t pain she feared, but the loss of control, the complete and utter surrender of her autonomy.

  As the fabric parted to reveal the pale canvas of her back, goosebumps rose in the wake of sudden exposure, her skin pebbling in the cool night air. She was vulnerable now, exposed, and utterly at his mercy. Her hands curled into loose fists at her sides, her knuckles whitening slightly—the only outward sign of her internal struggle between fear and fascination as her garment was methodically dismantled. She was a prisoner in her own body, a captive audience to her degradation. And Linus, the master puppeteer, was pulling the strings.