His Voice Alone

Chapter 25

Ezra’s POV

I reread her message again, thumb pressed to the phone like it anchors me: “Do it again. Do whatever you want. Just don’t ever stop speaking. For me. Only me.”

There’s no hesitation in it, just surrender. She means it, every word carries the kind of truth that doesn’t take itself back.

She’s ready, even if she doesn’t understand what that kind of honesty costs.

I wait until it’s late, long after the building has gone still. Her roommate’s already gone, and Leia’s curled beneath the blankets the way she always does when she wants to feel untouched, small, safe, and hidden beneath layers.

She doesn’t hear me come in. I know the code, I’ve always known it. The door closes behind me without a sound, sealing us in.

Her desk lamp still burns low, casting a soft, amber glow across the floor. I don’t hesitate, my hand covers her mouth gently, not to frighten, just to claim. She doesn’t scream, doesn’t even flinch. Just breathes in, deep and sharp.

First comes recognition, then comes surrender.

I lift her out of bed, blankets sliding from her body. She comes with me like she’s weightless, like she was waiting. I carry her across campus, down through the maintenance tunnels no one uses anymore.

Buried beneath the architecture, hidden behind decades of silence and rotted stories. At the end of the corridor stands a forgotten door, a worn utility panel that time had nearly erased.

I take the key, unlock it, and step inside to reveal what I’ve built for her, for us.

The walls absorb every sound, thick, soundproofed, and sealed from the world outside. The air stays warm, balanced, never shifting.

Each step lands silently against padded flooring that softens every movement. In the center of the room, a single bed waits, bolted to the ground. Hooks line the ceiling above it, fixed and ready.

Along one wall stretches a mirror, tall enough to reflect everything, its surface clean and unblinking.

Cameras sit in the corners, small red lights blinking like a heartbeat, silent but watching. For now, they record nothing. For now, they wait. I lower her slowly, her bare feet touch the soft padding beneath us.

She doesn’t flinch or resist, she doesn’t ask what comes next. She just stands there, still, quiet, and ready.

“You wanted this,” I say softly, my voice low and even. “Now look at what that means.”

I lift the blindfold and slide it over her eyes, slow and steady. There’s no sharpness in the motion, this isn’t punishment, it’s a rite.

A quiet ritual she’s ready for. Her breath hitches the second it settles across her face, caught somewhere between need and fear, and she doesn’t fight it.

I take her hand and place it over my chest. She jolts at the warmth, then freezes completely when I draw the blade across my palm. Blood spreads in a slow smear across my skin, thick and sure.

She doesn’t pull back. Once I sit on the bed, I guide her into my lap, settling her to face the mirror.

Her legs fall open easily, naturally, like her body already knows what to do. She melts against me, trembling and quiet, her breath shaky as she leans in. She doesn’t speak, not needing to. She’s already giving me everything.

I keep my voice steady as it finds her ear. “Do you see it? What you are when you’re mine?”

She gasps the second I sink into her, slow and complete.

I don’t move. I don’t thrust. I stay buried deep, holding her there, letting her feel every inch without escape.

Her breath catches, body tensing in that quiet, stretched moment between surrender and awareness. Then I reach up and slide the blindfold off.

Her lashes flutter as light floods in, and the mirror across from us reflects everything. Her hair is wild, sticking to damp skin. Her cheeks are flushed.

The collar hugs her throat, stark and matte black, impossible to miss.

Her eyes lower on their own, drawn to the place where we’re joined. It’s red and raw, marked from what I’ve done to her, from what she gave without being asked. Her thighs twitch, not from discomfort, but from the weight of knowing, of seeing.

I tighten my grip on her hips, fingers sinking into her skin, anchoring her in place. She doesn't flinch or look away. She watches, silent, wide-eyed, as I hold her open and still, filled and owned.

And in that stillness, she knows, this is what it means to belong.

“You love how filthy you look when you’re full of me,” I murmur against her skin.

Her moan breaks free, raw and desperate. She starts to move, slow, steady rolls that spread slick heat across her thighs.

Her eyes stay locked on the mirror, witnessing how I fist her hair. Tilting her head back until she’s fully exposed, no room left for shame.

“Say it.”

She chokes on the word before it rips free from her perfect lips. “Yours.”

The sound tears something loose in me. I growl, dragging my mouth across her shoulder, pressing teeth into the place where I’ve already left bruises.

“All of it,” I demand.

“I’m yours,” she cried out when my eyes were on her lips again. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

Her body starts to shake. She folds against me, sobbing into the pleasure as it takes her apart. Her nails dig into my arms.

She clings like she’s afraid of who she’ll be if I let go now. I don’t, I hold her tighter, locking my arms around her and keeping her there through every spasm, every tremble.

I whisper the only thing that matters into her ear. “Good girl.”