Over months he collected the toys in the box and the implements on the wall and in the sliding tray, as well as all the furniture—both kinky and standard. As he’d put the room together, he’d told himself comforting lies. It was a simple extension of a fantasy. He’d never bring a woman down here. He would never hurt anybody for real.

Even if it was consensual, women like that… they must be as fucked up as him, maybe more. Surely they had some history of abuse or trauma that he was merely capitalizing on. He wouldn’t cross that line.

But then he did cross it. Instead of bringing a masochist or submissive to his pristine and untouched dungeon, he’d brought a dominatrix. He’d wanted to know what it was that he fantasized about doing to someone else. He didn’t want to sugarcoat it. He needed to use the pain to jolt himself back to reality and convince himself to stay away from this fascination.

But the sessions with the dominatrix only made his desires stronger, awakening the beast inside him, making it hungrier and determined to surface—angry that someone else got to play but he didn’t.

Later sessions—the ones that had created the scars on his back—had been about something else. Punishment. He wanted to punish himself for what he was and couldn’t erase and for what he knew he would act on soon. He was never sure if Esmeralda—pretty sure that wasn’t her real name—suspected that the increased intensity wasn’t about learning or about a secret masochistic tendency he must feed. It was pure penance. Though he was sure the Church wouldn’t approve of this makeshift form he’d created for himself.

Leo turned from the mirror to look at Faith. A true innocent. Not someone into this. He’d fallen this far, and even so, he knew a hundred harsh visits from the dominatrix could never stop what he was going to do to the terrified red-haired beauty in front of him.

She was his type in every way but one, and it was time to change that one incompatibility.

He went to the wine cellar and brought back a bottle of pinot noir. He collected wine glasses from a cabinet in the kitchenette and placed them on the counter.

“Faith?”

She detached herself from the wall by the whips and sat on one of the bar stools he indicated while he poured them each a glass of wine. He should have chosen white. Something fruity and light like a Riesling or sauvignon blanc. The red was too strong and dark and made him think of blood and pain. It made him more eager, so that the gesture of trying to relax her would only come at a price to her later.

He watched while she sipped more slowly than necessary, postponing what was coming. He indulged her until he’d finished his own glass, then he took the wine from her and set it on the counter beside the sink.