Page 105 of Maksym

The witch was wet from being struck. From being watched.

From being restrained and read and handled by someone who knew where every boundary lay because they had put the boundaries into words before the first buckle closed.

My breath came too fast.

This was ridiculous. I was sitting in a club owned by vampires, watching a witch get flogged by a wolf shifter while a vampire prince narrated consent philosophy like a morally flexible TED Talk, and apparently my body had decided the correct response was arousal.

Maksym leaned closer. The movement was small, but every nerve I possessed noticed.

“Grace,” he said quietly, his voice for me alone beneath the pulse of music and Bohdan’s velvet commentary. “Are you all right?”

I should have said yes like a normal person. I should have asked to leave if I wanted to leave. I should have made a joke. Instead, I kept my eyes on the stage and answered honestly.

“I’m mesmerized.”

The word came out lower than I intended.

Maksym did not touch me. Not yet. But his attention settled over me with such care that it felt like a hand held just above skin, waiting to be invited.

“Then watch,” he said. “And if that changes, tell me.”

It would have been easier if he had been smug. If he had leaned in with possessive satisfaction, pleased that Obsidian had gotten under my skin. Instead, he gave me a door and stood beside it.

Onstage, the wolf set the flogger aside. The witch’s head lifted slightly.

Bohdan stepped half a pace forward. “The implement is changing.”

A staff member at the edge of the stage offered the wolf a riding crop. Black shaft. Slim. Short. Far less forgiving-looking than the flogger. The tip caught the light.

“This will not be as gentle,” Bohdan said. “Different tools create different conversations with the nervous system. A flogger may spread sensation. A crop concentrates it. The body hears that distinction clearly.”

The wolf ran the crop lightly along the witch’s back, not striking yet. Her breathing deepened.

Bohdan looked at her. “Color?”

“Green,” she said.

Steady.

The first crack split the air. I flinched before I could stop myself. Maksym’s hand closed over mine on the armrest.

Firm. Cool. Present.

My fingers were clenched. I had not noticed. His thumb rested over my knuckles, not rubbing, not trapping, simply giving my hand another hand to understand.

I let him keep it there. The witch cried out. Not in fear.

The sound startled me more than the strike had. It was sharp, yes, but it opened into pleasure before it ended. Her back arched.

The wolf waited. His hand came down to the mark. Pressed. Soothed.

“Again?” he asked, loud enough to carry.

“Yes,” she breathed.

The crop fell lower. Crack. She moaned. Higher. Crack. Her mouth fell open.

Bohdan’s voice tracked the rhythm without crowding it. “Notice the pace. He does not strike over panic. He does not chase sound blindly. He gives sensation, then allows her to receive it. Dominance without patience is merely poor impulse control dressed in black.”