Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of breaking in and CNC situations that may be distressing to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.***

There was something about him that turned heads without trying. A sort of coiled energy wrapped in a body carved by years of quiet discipline rather than vanity. Salt-and-pepper hair framed a sharply handsome face, the silver threading through his beard giving him the air of a wolf who had survived more than one winter. His frame was tall, solid, with broad shoulders that stretched the dark fabric of his sweater just so. His movements were efficient, deliberate — the kind that said he didn’t rush unless he wanted to. And when he wanted something, he took it.

He was up later than he should have been the night before, prowling through ShadowBind, a lesser-known but deeply decadent playground for those who thought FetLife was too vanilla. The feed on ShadowBind was a hedonist’s dream: video clips of rope biting into trembling thighs, slow-motion slaps painting perfect handprints, the glint of sharp teeth against exposed skin. He lost hours there, catching up with old friends, savoring new videos, and indulging in photos so raw and primal they left a pleasant ache simmering in his gut.

By some miracle, his life wasn’t shackled to a 9-to-5 grind, not in this bloodless economy. No, today he was just another man pulling a shift for QuickBite, sliding food orders to strangers too busy or too tired to cook. As he yanked a dark brown sweater over his head, the scent of his favorite cologne — something spicy and old-world — lingered in the air. His phone chimed on the dresser. New order.

He straightened the hem of his sweater, grabbed his phone, and tapped approve without much thought. While the app loaded, he spritzed another dash of cologne onto his neck — old habits die hard — and headed out the door, boots thudding against the cracked pavement outside.

Several hours and too many deliveries later, he sat slouched in his car at a grimy gas station, watching the sunset smear itself bloody across the horizon. He was ready to call it — until his phone vibrated again. Another order. His finger hovered over deny, already tasting the freedom of home and a stiff drink, when the customer's name snagged his attention like barbed wire.

Unusual. Unmistakable.

His heart stuttered once, hard and loud. Could it be? She did live around here... somewhere. He tapped on the name. The cell service, true to form, dragged its feet. Outside, the click of the gas pump announced his tank was full. Muttering a curse, he tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and climbed out to finish up.

When he slid back behind the wheel, the profile had loaded.

It was her.

A shiver, not quite fear and not quite excitement, crawled up his spine. His thumb hovered. Maybe he should let it go. Maybe he shouldn’t blur the lines they had been so careful to draw.

His hand moved anyway.

Approve.

Liliana was wrapping up her workday, her fingers tingling from hours of typing spells into life on a keyboard. She stretched luxuriously in her chair, teal curls spilling over her shoulders in a riot of mermaid rebellion. Her hair, a beacon against her pale skin, framed a face that had been described as “dangerously cute” more than once — blue eyes flashing with mischievous intelligence, full lips usually quirked in a knowing smile.

She was curvy in a way that made people stare — a siren with tattoos instead of scales, each one a story etched into her skin, too many to count now. Her apartment reflected the same vibe: mermaid gothic, a dreamscape of deep teals, shadowy purples, and bone-white accents. Candles flickered on almost every surface, their soft light throwing strange shapes on the walls.

With a happy sigh, she ordered sushi from her favorite little haunt using QuickBite. She hit confirm, double-checked her order, and set her phone down to drift into the world of Sleepy Hollow once more — a show she loved for its delicious blend of historical creepiness, dark romance, and supernatural mischief. (And, let’s be honest, that gloriously unhinged portrayal of the Headless Horseman? Chef’s kiss.)

Tidy, tidy, she murmured to herself, flitting around the apartment, straightening pillows and lighting another candle because why not? Her phone chimed. Order approved. A small smile curved her lips. One step closer to taming the beast in her stomach.

Luke pulled into the parking lot and found her building without effort. Apartment 16.

 His heart jackhammered against his ribs — a frantic drumbeat of nerves, sure, but threaded through it was something darker, older, something primal and feral that he rarely let off its leash.

From his car, he saw her — framed in the soft, golden rectangle of the window, padding barefoot into the kitchen. She moved with that unselfconscious grace that only the wickedly unaware possess, reaching for a bottle of water without the faintest idea that she was being watched. The curve of her hip. The lush swell of her thighs. Tattoos danced over her skin like wild spirits called from the deep, wrapping her legs in swirling art that told stories he ached to read with his teeth.

He swallowed thickly, his throat suddenly parched. Gods, she was perfect. Flesh made to bruise, to bind, to worship and ruin.

A memory sparked — the echo of a conversation, late one sleepless night on ShadowBind.

 ShadowBind: the anarchic wildlands of the fetish world, half-forum, half-hunting ground. No polished dating app gloss here — just raw hunger laid bare. Kinked souls exposing their soft throats to see who would bite, who would devour.

He remembered how her bratty little taunts had danced across the screen, her messages baiting him, daring him. She had confessed her dark little fantasy — whispered it like a secret and then laughed as if she hadn't just handed him the keys to her deepest need.

 *She wanted to be taken.

 Ravished.

 Claimed by a stranger who didn’t bother with permission after the first, agreed-upon nod.*

Luke’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened.

 Right now, as he sat watching her from the shadows of the parking lot, he realized — he wasn’t just a man delivering sushi anymore.

He was a predator.

 And tonight… he was hunting.

---

He watched her until she vanished from sight, the soft flicker of the television screen taking her place. With a rough exhale, Luke forced himself to look away, letting the engine idle while he opened his car door. That mischievous little siren had no idea just how close the wolf was tonight.

**Liliana**: Still no address or number for you, Sir. Gotta keep you guessing. 😘

 **Luke**: You know you're playing with fire, brat.

 **Liliana**: Good. I like it when it burns a little. 🔥

 **Luke**: Careful. One day, you’ll find yourself exactly where you fantasized. Tied up. Gagged. Dragged out of bed in the dead of night.

 **Liliana**: Promises, promises. 😈

 **Luke**: Not promises, sweetheart. Plans.

She sent back a laughing emoji, but even through the screen, Luke could feel the slight edge in it — that tiny spike of nerves behind her bravado. She wanted it. Craved it in the marrow of her bones.

 And hell, if he wasn’t aching to give it to her.

His chest tightened at the memory. They had danced the line of trust, of danger, for months now. Neither of them daring to tip it into the real world. Yet here he was — the wolf at her door.

He set the bag carefully down and knocked firmly before retreating to the parking lot.

The door creaked open.

"Thank you!" she called, voice sweet, easy.

He turned, catching a glimpse — oversized t-shirt skimming bare thighs, tattoos swirling over skin he could practically taste already. She was all curves and ink and unrepentant softness.

A low, dark grin curved his lips.

 Oh yes. She was everything she promised — and more.

Later that night, after a few strong drinks and a mind buzzing with temptation, he messaged her again on ShadowBind.

**Luke**: Picture this. You’re asleep. On your stomach, that gorgeous ass barely covered. Moonlight spilling across your back. You feel a hand… sliding under the blanket. Palms rough. Exploring. Waking you up, slowly. Before you can even scream — the rip of duct tape unfurling in the dark. A strong hand clamping over your mouth. Whispered words against your ear: "Hello, Liliana."

The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

**Liliana**: ...

 **Liliana**: You're evil.

 **Luke**: You say that now. Let’s see what you’re begging for when I’ve got you bound and dripping.

Her reply came slower this time.

**Liliana**: ...You wouldn't even know where to find me, Sir.

 **Luke**: Wouldn't I?

He could almost hear the way her breath would catch at that. The little flutter of prey realizing just how close the hunter truly was.

 The thought made his blood thrum through his veins, heavy and electric.

He tucked his phone away, feeling the sharp bite of control settling back into his bones.

 Tonight wasn’t the night.

 No, the hunt would be sweeter if he let her squirm just a little longer.

But soon...

Oh, soon, Liliana would learn exactly what happened when you dared to tempt a wolf.

---

It had been a week — seven aching days and nights — since Luke had last dared to prod her boundaries through a screen.

 Seven days of sharpening the knife of his restraint, honing his patience like a blade on a whetstone.

 Seven nights of her dancing in his dreams, taunting him with the sway of her hips and the defiant glint in her eyes.

Now, it was time.

The moon was a thin silver grin above him, winking through the ragged clouds as he slipped from his car with the grace of something feral.

 Apartment 16. Same building. Same window glowing faintly from the living room.

 He wore black — simple, unremarkable — and moved in shadows, his breath a ghost in the crisp night air.

The lock was laughably easy.

 A credit card and a little persuasion, and the door sighed open on silent hinges.

Inside, her world smelled like her — vanilla and books and the faint smell of cedar.

 Luke stood for a moment, drinking it in, feeling that ancient, older-than-language thrill coil in his gut.

 The hunter was inside the den.

He moved without a sound, a shadow gliding over carpet and hardwood, guided by the softest hint of breathing down the hall.

 Her bedroom door was ajar, a sliver of warm light cutting across the floor.

There she was.

 Face down in a nest of blankets, one bare leg thrown over the covers, a threadbare tank top riding high up her side.

 The ink across her thighs whispered stories he wanted to spend hours reading with his tongue.

Luke's heart pounded, slow and deliberate, as he crossed the threshold.

 He stood over her for a long moment, just watching the way her chest rose and fell, the way her fingers curled loosely around a pillow.

Now.

 The wolf stirred, stretching its long limbs inside him.

He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out a roll of silver duct tape.

 The soft rip of it unfurling split the silence like a blade.

Liliana stirred, murmured something incoherent — and froze.

 Too late.

A hand — his hand — clamped hard over her mouth.

 Another gripped her wrist, pinning it effortlessly to the mattress.

"Hello, Liliana," he murmured, his voice rough velvet against her ear.

She thrashed, a delicious, instinctual burst of panic — but he had her.

 Of course he had her.

 This had been written in the stars long before she even dared flirt with him.

"You should’ve known," he whispered, a low rumble vibrating against her spine, "I was always going to come for you."

With a deftness that spoke of long practice, he flipped her onto her back, catching both wrists in one big hand and sealing her mouth with a thick strip of tape.

 Her eyes, wide and glinting with a cocktail of fear and arousal, met his.

Gods, she was even more beautiful like this.

 Trapped.

 Trembling.

 His.

Luke’s fingers slid down her ribs, slow, savoring the trembling muscles beneath.

 He leaned closer, close enough that she could feel the heat of him without the mercy of his touch.

"You remember what you begged for, don't you, little brat?" he purred.

She whimpered behind the gag, but her thighs shifted, hips arching ever so slightly off the bed — an unconscious plea.

Luke smiled — slow, wicked, victorious.

The hunt was over.

 The feast had just begun.

---

Luke stayed crouched over her like a shadow given flesh, savoring every quiver of her body, every ragged breath sucked in through her nose.

 Her wrists strained against his grip, but it was a struggle meant to be lost.

 He could see it in her eyes — that glorious war between fear and surrender, panic and desperate hunger.

The wolf in him, the ancient thing, growled low in his chest.

 She is mine.

With exquisite slowness, he peeled her wrists apart just long enough to tape them together — snug, not cruel, but inescapable.

 Another strip anchored them to the ornate ironwork of the headboard.

 A third piece — thick and gleaming — remained across her mouth, trapping her moans to little, muffled keens that shot straight through him like lightning.

He knelt beside her, hands greedy but patient, drinking in the sight of her bound and helpless.

"Do you know how long I’ve waited to do this?" he rasped, his voice dark and hungry.

 "I counted the nights, little one. I counted the hours."

His fingers brushed the hem of her tank top, lifting it inch by inch, baring her belly to the cool air.

 Goosebumps followed his touch, blooming like flowers under frost.

He could have ripped it off — a part of him wanted to — but no, no.

 This was a feast to be savored.

Luke lowered his head and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to her navel.

 She jerked beneath him, hips bucking, a muffled sound of protest or plea — it hardly mattered.

 Every reaction, every twitch and shiver, was his.

He nipped at her skin, little bites just shy of pain, marking a slow, deliberate trail up her ribs.

 When he reached the side of her breast, he dragged his teeth across it, just enough to make her arch off the bed in helpless invitation.

"Mm. Sensitive," he murmured, the corner of his mouth curling into a devilish smile.

 "Good."

Then, without warning, he bit down — harder.

 Not cruel, but with an edge sharp enough to make her cry out against the tape, her thighs clenching.

 The smell of her — desire, raw and bright — hit him like a hammer.

Luke growled low, the sound primal and pleased.

He sat back for a moment, dragging his gaze down the beautiful ruin he was making of her:

 the flushed skin, the heaving chest, the wide, tear-bright blue eyes.

One hand slid down her body, leisurely, almost lazy, until it cupped her inner thigh.

 He squeezed, fingers digging into the soft flesh, before pushing her legs apart with an authority that brooked no disobedience.

"There’s nowhere to run now," he whispered, voice thick with heat.

 "You offered yourself up, remember? You asked for this."

Another whimper, another arch of her back — as if she could chase his hands, even bound and gagged.

Luke’s fingers found the edge of her panties — black lace, soaked through.

 He chuckled, deep and delighted, a sound that seemed to vibrate right through her.

"Greedy little thing," he said, peeling them down her thighs inch by agonizing inch.

 "You wanted to be hunted. To be caught. To be... eaten."

And then, with the patience of a saint and the savagery of a sinner, he lowered his mouth to her.

He devoured her like a man starving.

Not neat, not gentle — not at first.

 His tongue lashed against her in rough, hungry strokes, each one pulling a new, frantic sound from behind the gag.

 He pinned her thighs wide with his shoulders, forcing her to take every wicked, relentless lick.

When she began to shake, when her hips fought to jerk away from the overwhelming pleasure, he only gripped her harder — sinking his nails into her hips just enough to warn.

You stay. You take it. You asked for this, you delicious little thing.

And just when she was teetering — just when her muffled cries turned high and desperate — Luke pulled back, lips wet, eyes gleaming.

"Not yet," he growled. "I decide when you break."

She sobbed a sound of frustration, thrashing weakly against the restraints, and Luke smiled a dark, triumphant smile.

Luke didn’t let her have time to breathe.

 Not fully.

 He kissed the inside of her thigh, slow and burning, and then — cruel as winter — withdrew entirely.

She whimpered, writhing like a fish on a hook, her body desperate and so beautifully undone.

Luke stood, pulling his shirt over his head in one swift, impatient motion.

 Muscles shifting under inked skin — every scar, every tattoo another story written in flesh.

 She watched him with wide, shining eyes, frantic and needy, her wrists straining against the tape with little useless jerks.

"You want to come so bad," he said, his voice a gravelly tease, dripping with dark amusement.

 "Poor thing. All tied up... nowhere to run... nowhere to beg."

He moved from the bed and slid his jeans down, slow and deliberate, every inch a taunt, every second another thread pulled tight between them.

 The soft rasp of denim against skin filled the room, sharp in the charged silence.

 And when he finally straightened, bare and unashamed in the dim light, she saw him — truly saw him — for the first time.

The hunger carved into every tense line of him, muscles flexing and twitching with the effort it took not to simply devour her.

 The thickness of him, heavy, proud, already slick at the tip, a gleaming promise of how brutally she was about to be taken.

Her thighs twitched instinctively, hips giving a helpless jerk like her body was trying to retreat from him without permission.

Her mouth went dry.

 Her pulse hammered in her ears.

Her body knew.

 It knew.

It recognized the threat and the promise standing between her spread thighs —

 recognized it with some ancient part of her lizard brain that whispered:

 "You will be ruined, little one, and you will love it."

Her eyes went wide, pupils swallowing up color, lips trapped around a sound that never quite escaped.

 Was it fear?

 Maybe a little.

That fleeting flash across her face — that tremor of instinctual, primal dread —

 it lit Luke up like dry tinder in a lightning storm.

He smiled.

 A slow, wolfish thing, all teeth and dark amusement, seeing the way she shivered under his gaze.

"Oh, no. What a pretty little thing," he murmured, voice a lazy, dangerous drawl as he climbed onto the bed, "You’re just now realizing what you signed up for?"

She whimpered, a tiny sound, wrists jerking at the bonds in a useless flutter.

Luke loomed over her, caging her in with the weight of his body, his cock dragging hot and heavy across the slick heat of her, teasing her opening but not yet pushing inside.

Every instinct in her body screamed that she should run.

 Every instinct in her soul screamed that she should stay.

"Too late now," he whispered against the shell of her ear, his voice almost gentle — a cruel mimicry of comfort — as he lined himself up.

One hand snaked into her hair, fisting it tight at the base of her skull, wrenching her head back to bare her throat to him. And with a slow, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, dragging a raw, desperate sound from her throat that was half-pleasure, half-overwhelmed surrender.

Fuck, she was perfect.

 Tight. Slick. Gripping him like she never wanted to let go — or maybe like she couldn't.

 Luke groaned, a low, brutal sound punched out of him by the sheer, savage force of it.

He stayed there, buried to the hilt, his chest heaving against hers, savoring the quake in her body, the way her toes curled and spasmed.

 Pinned. Claimed. Ruined.

"Feel that," he snarled into her ear, his voice rough and ragged with restraint.

 He rocked his hips — just enough to grind that wickedly sensitive spot inside her, to make her back bow in a helpless arc. "Every inch. Every fucking part of me."

Her only answer was a sob against the tape stretched over her lips, a sweet, strangled sound of overwhelmed need.

 And then — she fought.

It was pure instinct, a flash of rebellion sparking through the haze of pleasure and surrender.

Her thighs clenched around him, trembling with the effort to push him away —

 as if she could somehow deny him, as if she could escape the inevitable.

Luke’s eyes darkened, his muscles going taut as a drawn bow.

 He snarled, the sound feral, as he caught her hips in bruising hands and forced her down hard onto him.

"Oh, no you don't," he growled against her throat, teeth scraping the delicate skin there.

 "You don’t get to run now, little fighter. You asked for this."

He ground himself even deeper, wrenching a high, broken cry from her muffled by the tape still across her mouth, her legs trembling and fluttering uselessly against him.

 Pinned once again, completely at his mercy — even as her body betrayed her with every slick, shuddering pulse around him.

And then — the rhythm began.

 Not gentle.

 Not soft.

 Brutal.

 Hungry.

Every thrust forced her bound body to take him — to feel him split her wide open in the best, most ruinous way.

She was losing herself, he could see it — her pupils blown wide, her muscles trembling, her whole body tuned to the brutal, beautiful rhythm he set.

"Cum for me," Luke growled, reaching down to rub quick, rough circles against her clit with his thumb.

 "You’re not going anywhere, slut. Not till I say."

Her whole body bowed up, straining against the restraints, the sounds spilling from her mouth growing frantic, near-sobbing.

So close.

Luke slammed into her harder, relentless, driving her higher, higher— "Cum." he commanded, voice raw and absolute.

And she shattered.

It ripped through her like a tidal wave, unstoppable and violent —

 her whole body spasming, thighs clamping around his hips, muffled screams spilling out in a torrent of blissful ruin.

He didn't stop.

He fucked her through it — riding the clench and flutter of her walls, dragging every ounce of pleasure from her wrecked, beautiful body — until she sagged limp against the bed, whimpering from overstimulation.

Only then, only then, did Luke let himself follow.

He thrust once, twice, and then with a snarl ripped the tape from her mouth —

 just in time to hear her cry out as he spilled inside her, heat flooding deep and sure and claiming.

They stayed there, tangled and gasping, for a long moment.

 Sweat-slick. Bruised. Marked. Owned.

Tears streamed freely down her flushed cheeks, carving silver trails through the heat and chaos of her face.

 Not from pain — not truly — but from the overwhelming, shattering, all-consuming force of it all.

Luke, still buried deep inside her, lifted his head and caught the glisten of her tears in the low light.

 Something primal and hungry stirred behind his eyes — and something else too, something darkly protective.

With a low, guttural sound, he leaned in, dragging his tongue up the wetness on her cheek, slow and savoring.

 Tasting the salt of her surrender.

 Tasting the storm he'd unleashed inside her.

"Fuck," he rasped, his voice ruined and reverent all at once.

 "You’re so fucking beautiful like this."

Her body twitched beneath him — oversensitized, wrung out, trembling from the inside out — but still he held her steady, grounding her in the wreckage they had made together.

He pressed a kiss to her temple, the gesture so achingly tender it nearly undid her again.

 Almost reverent.

 Almost... loving?

"You survived, little one," he whispered into her hair, a rough chuckle curling at the edges of his mouth.  "Good. You'll need your strength for next time."

 His hands, so cruel only moments ago, now stroked down her sides with a feather-light touch, sending shivers chasing over her abused skin.

Then — softer still, a dark promise just for her ear alone:

"And I was being gentle with you... this time."

A full-body shudder racked her frame, helpless and raw, as she realized —

 This was only the beginning.

 This was Luke holding back.