Linus loomed over Amy, his voice lowering to a husky whisper. "Amy," he began, his gaze scrutinizing her intently, "you might not be privy to this information, but there is a creature loose in the city. We don't yet know its name, but it has the terrifying ability to take the shape of any human being. So far, it has claimed the lives of two high-ranking officials, and I was attacked by it." Though his words spoke of danger, his eyes remained sharp and evaluative, watching Amy's every reaction like a predator scanning its prey. He wasn’t sharing information; he was experimenting.

  Amy’s eyes widened in alarm. “Oh no,” she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “I… I only knew that you were injured in the war. I tried to come and see you, Master Linus, but they wouldn't allow it. Are you alright now?”

  The tremor in her voice as she addressed him as "Master Linus" made the corner of his mouth twitch upward. He leaned forward slightly, studying her—the rapid pulse visible at her throat, the unconscious way she swayed toward him rather than away. Interesting, he thought. Not a word about the supposed monster stalking the city.

  In her hasty, desperate explanation about attempting to visit him, Linus perceived not deception but the desperation of someone eager to prove their loyalty. She was offering him validation and seeking his approval. This was Amy as he knew her—transparent, devoted, and utterly without guile—precisely the qualities that made her so valuable in his manipulative games. She was a blank canvas onto which he could project his desires, a willing puppet for his needs.

  Linus offered a tight-lipped smile. "I am physically recovered, thank you. Still a little shaken, perhaps, but you must understand that my concerns are now very valid." He allowed a hint of vulnerability to color his tone, a calculated move to elicit sympathy and reinforce his position as the one in need of protection.

  Amy reached out a hand towards him, her expression earnest. "But it's me, Linus. I am the Amy you know," she whispered, her voice softening. I am your Amy."

  When Amy called herself “your Amy,” Linus experienced a surge of twisted pleasure. Her unconscious choice of words revealed everything about the success of his psychological conditioning.

  She defined herself through her relationship with him, having internalized the ownership he had carefully cultivated. His words echoed exactly what he wanted her to believe: that she belonged to him, existed for him, and her usefulness for his desires measured her entire worth.

  A smile touched Linus’s lips as he looked into Amy’s eyes. “I know it in my heart, Amy,” he murmured, the words flowing smoothly. “But my mind… my mind is demanding caution.” He knew the truth was far more complex; “speaking of knowing in his heart” felt ironically theatrical. Beneath his calm facade, he basked in the anticipation building within him. This cautious dialogue was merely a mask for fulfilling his perverse desires, all while cloaked in the guise of necessary security.

  “However,” he continued, his gaze flickering to a small nearby cloth. “I have a way to ease my mind.” He picked up the cloth. “I will simply tie your hands behind your back, pat you down, just to ensure that you have no weapons hidden. It's a precaution, nothing more.”

  Amy, her innocence radiating from her, desperately craving to reassure Linus and regain his trust, nodded readily. “Of course, Master Linus. Anything to help you feel safe.”

  This was precisely what he found so intoxicating about Amy: her unquestioning compliance, her desperate desire to please him, and “regain” a trust she had never actually lost. He had sculpted her response, molded her into a creature of obedience.

  His fingers quivered slightly as he reached for the cloth—not from fear, but anticipation. He stroked the fabric between thumb and forefinger, his breathing subtly deepening.

  "A precaution, nothing more," he added, the words practiced and hollow.

  His pupils had expanded, nearly eclipsing the iris as he imagined her bound and helpless. A familiar heat spread through his chest. This was a threshold, a new boundary to push, another step in their dance of power. With each submission she offered, another door opened in his mind.

  Linus slid behind her, a smile playing on his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes. In this unguarded moment, with Amy unable to see his face, he allowed his mask to slip slightly, revealing the predator beneath the charming facade. The carefully constructed persona of the concerned protector dissolved, replaced by a chillingly detached expression. It was the smile of a man who viewed others not as people but as instruments for his use and amusement. A flicker of something dark and possessive danced within his gaze.

  As he gently took her hands and secured them behind her back with the cloth, a single thought echoed in his mind: Sweet, trusting Amy. It wasn’t an affectionate thought. It was an assessment. A categorization.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Linus swiftly yanked Amy’s hands together behind her back. He ensured there was enough slack in the makeshift binding so her wrists weren’t strained, yet her hands were undeniably secured once the knot was tied. The cloth was snug, preventing any easy escape, but not causing discomfort. He wasn’t aiming for pain, not yet. He wanted compliance, not resistance.

  He tested the binding with a subtle tug, confirming its effectiveness. It wouldn’t hold against a determined struggle, but it was enough to discourage impulsive action, to reinforce her helplessness. A sense of satisfaction, a subtle shift in his internal landscape, washed over him. The tension that had been building within him ebbed away, replaced by a quiet, predatory calm.

  He recognized the stirring he had felt earlier—the act of restraint, the visible power imbalance, resonated with a deep-seated need for control that had been unsettled by recent events. The shapeshifters—Azura, Mara—had all chipped away at his carefully constructed world, forcing him to react instead of dictate. This, however, was a restoration of order, a reassertion of dominance.

  He whispered menacingly closer to her ear, his voice a low, silken whisper. “There,” he murmured. “Much better, don’t you think? Now I can be certain there are no…unpleasant surprises.” He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. He didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t need one.

  He moved to stand in front of her, his gaze raking over her figure, the tight lines of Mara’s dress now emphasized by her bound posture. It wasn’t a lustful gaze, not in the conventional sense. It was an analytical assessment, a cold dissection of her vulnerability. Linus’s gaze is fixed on the delicate architecture of vulnerability Amy unwittingly presents.

  The royal crimson fabric of Mara’s dress, never designed for restraint, now stretched taut across Amy’s shoulders, creating elegant tension lines that mapped her submission. The costume, meant to evoke power and majesty, now only highlighted her helplessness.

  What truly arrested him, however, was the contradiction embodied in her posture: the regal bearing of the costume juxtaposed by the sinuous arch of her spine as her bound wrists thrust her breasts upward, like offerings to his hungry gaze. He saw the subtle flush that spread up her neck, the way her pulse quickened. It was a heady mixture of power and desire, a heady wine that made him drunk with lust. It was power and weakness entwined in a single form—Mara’s authority draped over Amy’s compliance—a visual representation of everything he sought to achieve in the kingdom itself.

  He envisioned the nobles, the councilors, and the very King, all similarly bound by his will, their power stripped away, their loyalty secured through carefully orchestrated manipulations. In this moment, Amy was a microcosm of his grand design, a living embodiment of his ambition.

  When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “You look… magnificent, Amy,” he said, the words laced with a chilling detachment. A princess in chains.” He allowed the statement to hang in the air, a dark compliment that underscored the true nature of their dynamic. He wasn't admiring her beauty; he was admiring his control over it.

  He then began to pat her down, his touch deliberate, his fingers lingering along the contours of her body. The pretense of security dissolved with each deliberate stroke of his fingers, becoming increasingly transparent even to himself. Linus acknowledged the deception even as he maintained it; this was no security measure but rather a calibrated exercise in dominance. A slow, methodical claiming of territory.

  His fingers began their cruel caress at her shoulder, slithered down her arm with a deliberation that was almost sadistic. He felt her muscles tense and heard her breath catch in her throat. A small, satisfied smile played at the corners of his mouth. His thumb circled her elbow, pressing hard enough to leave a mark, his eyes never wavering from hers. He watched as a flush crept up her cheeks and saw the slight parting of her lips as she struggled to keep her composure.

  His hand traced her torso, fingertips starting at her navel. He drew slow, tortuous circles around it, feeling her stomach quiver under his touch. His hand slid upwards, tracing the delicate underside of her breast. She held her breath even as her pulse quickened beneath his touch. His touch was light, almost mocking, his thumbs groping against the soft underside of her breasts, gently testing their weight and firmness, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

  His hands explored locations that held no tactical significance, places where a weapon couldn't possibly be concealed, yet yielded intimate power—the power to elicit a response, gauge her submission, and remind her of his control.

  His hand drifted lower, tracing her hip around her belly button on her dress. His fingers caressed the contour, circling and pressing gently, savoring the yielding softness beneath his touch. He could feel the warmth of her skin even through the material and the way her body subtly responded to his exploration, leaning ever so slightly into his touch despite Amy's attempts to remain still. He squeezed with firm pressure, his fingers kneading her hips, taking note of every nuance of her form.

  Linus's large hands then gripped her buttocks, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp. A soft moan escaped her lips, whether from pain or pleasure, she couldn't tell. Linus smirked, his eyes glowing like embers in the dim light, a mix of satisfaction and malevolent desire.

  His hands caressed downwards, tracing the firm swell of her buttocks, before following the curve down to her thighs. He could feel the muscles shuddering beneath her skin, sense her trembling response to his touch.

  He wasn’t searching for anything. She was the search. He was mapping the landscape of her body, claiming it as his own.

  He didn’t offer a word of comfort or acknowledge her discomfort. He simply continued, his movements slow and deliberate, relishing the subtle shift in the power dynamic. The silence in the room was thick with unspoken intentions, a suffocating weight of control. He was a sculptor, and she was his clay. And he was just beginning to mold her into the desired shape.