CLARA

I was a ruin of silk and sweat, suspended by one wrist, my body a map of tremors. But Tyler wasn't finished. He was never finished.

He reached for the third piece of equipment. It was a set of heavy, midnight-black leather restraints, lined with soft, cream-colored sheepskin. They looked ancient and modern all at once—tools designed for the sole purpose of total surrender.

He unhooked my left wrist from the ceiling cuff. For a fleeting second, I thought I was free, but as my arm dropped, the blood rushing back into my fingertips, Tyler caught both of my hands behind my back.

He didn't say a word.

He...