The Villainess Chose the Incubus novel · Chapter 2 of 16

Chapter 2: The Basement

I signed the extension that same afternoon.

The floating comments applauded from the office ceiling, with hearts and flames, and I clenched my teeth to keep from smiling.

That night, I moved into the east wing.

Dionisio's bedroom was enormous and dark, with a four-poster bed, heavy curtains, and a window overlooking the hills.

It smelled of leather, cedar, and something older that I couldn't name.

I lay down on the left side, in my silk pajamas, with my back to him.

Dionisio lay down on my right, a yard away, his hands folded over his chest.

Not a touch.

Not a word.

After midnight, I heard him get up.

Without a sound.

He got dressed in the dark, opened the door, and left.

I waited five minutes, counting.

Then I got up too.

I slipped barefoot into the hallway without turning on any lights.

I followed him from a distance, down the servants' staircase, to the ground floor.

He passed through the kitchen, opened a little wooden door beside the pantry, and went down.

I waited until his footsteps faded.

Then I went down.

A damp, cold stone staircase spiraled down to a wine cellar.

At the back of the cellar, behind a wine rack that had been pushed to one side, was a steel door.

It was ajar.

Amber light spilled through the crack.

I pushed.

The basement was a large, windowless room with polished stone walls and a black marble floor.

A black iron bed, bolted to the floor, with a firm mattress and gray linen sheets.

And on the opposite wall, arranged with obsessive precision, were the chains.

They were made of thick, dark steel links, hanging from rings set into the stone.

Leather cuffs, lined with black velvet, arranged in pairs.

Ankle cuffs, collars, a spreader bar.

And on a wooden cabinet beside the bed, drawers with handwritten labels.

Silk. Leather. Feathers. Candle. Wax.

And on a shelf, a row of elegantly shaped black silicone objects that needed no labels.

I felt my face burn.

I stepped closer to the wall.

Two initials were engraved in delicate lettering on the buckle of the smallest cuff.

I.V.

The cuffs were mine.

Made to fit my wrists exactly.

A line of white letters appeared above my head.

"SHE FOUND IT! Hurry, she's about to see the spiked ones."

And below, signed by LectoraNocturna:

"Irene, my love, don't faint just yet."

I swallowed.

I didn't faint.

My heart was racing, but not from fear.

I touched the smallest cuff with my fingertips.

The velvet was as soft as peach skin.

A large hand closed around my wrist from behind.

I hadn't heard him coming.

Dionisio spun me around and pinned me against the stone wall, both my hands held above my head.

His eyes were completely black, without whites or irises, like wells.

A form I'd never seen him take before.

"You shouldn't be here," he said, his voice low and ragged.

"Then lock the door."

"Irene."

"Three years," I whispered. "You left me alone in one wing of your house for three years. And you had all this."

His breath brushed my face.

He smelled like a storm.

"Tell me what they're for," I demanded.

He didn't answer.

But he pressed my wrists against the stone and lowered his head until his mouth was a finger's breadth from mine.

The comments overhead sped up.

"He's going to kiss her!"

"Kiss the villain, you coward!"

He kissed me.

It wasn't a gentleman's kiss.

It was a hungry, deep kiss, all tongue and teeth, that tore a moan from deep in my belly.

I answered with my whole body.

I arched against him and felt his hardness pressed against my hip, hot through the fabric.

With his free hand, he traced my side, my waist, my thigh.

He lifted my leg and hooked it around his hip.

My silk pajamas were the only thing between us.

He rubbed his erection against my center, slowly, and I saw stars.

"Dionisio."

"Say it again."

"Dionisio."

He gently bit my lower lip, then suddenly pulled away.

He let go of my wrists.

He took two steps back, hands trembling, chest rising and falling.

His eyes slowly returned to normal, though the black took a while to disappear completely.

"No," he said hoarsely. "Not like this. Not here."

"Why?"

He ran a hand over his face, as if trying to shake something off.

He looked at the chains, and the cuffs, and then at me.

There was an anguish in his gaze I'd never seen in three years of silent dinners.

"Those things," he murmured, "aren't for what you think."

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