That Sinful Touch

Chapter Seven: The Price of Disobedience

The silence in the hallway was thick—too thick. Xochi felt it cling to her skin like damp fog, the kind that crept into your lungs and made breathing hard. Chris hadn't said another word. He simply walked ahead, his pace unhurried, yet his presence radiated a quiet fury that made the air shift around him.

She followed, a step behind, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Not from defiance. From fear. Because whatever came next—it wouldn’t be gentle.

He led her to one of the unused drawing rooms. The door clicked shut behind them. No guards. No Henri. Just the two of them in a room too big, too quiet, and too filled with tension.

Chris turned slowly. His eyes landed on her like a weight. “You let him in.”

Xochi blinked. “I didn’t—”

“You spoke to him,” he cut in. Calm. Cold. Controlled. “That’s enough.”

“I didn’t know it was him at first,” she said quickly. “He had on a uniform, I thought—”

“You thought?” His head tilted. “You thought? After everything, you still think you get to think, Xochi?”

That made her flinch. She hated how small his voice could make her feel. Not even from volume—just the way he said her name like it belonged to him. Like she did.

“I didn’t let him in,” she tried again, voice quieter now. “He pushed past me.”

Chris didn’t respond straight away. He walked past her instead, towards the far wall, where long velvet curtains hung heavy and untouched. He pulled one aside, revealing a hidden camera embedded in the corner.

“I already watched the footage,” he said. “So let’s not waste time pretending.”

She felt her stomach drop.

“He didn’t touch you,” Chris said, still watching the wall like it might offer more answers. “But you didn’t stop him, either.”

“I froze,” she admitted. “I was scared.”

Finally, he turned to her again. “Good. You should be.”

The words landed with a sting. But it wasn’t just his threat—it was the look on his face. That icy exterior, the mask he wore so effortlessly. Except this time… it cracked just a little. Just enough for her to see the shadow beneath.

“I told you,” he said quietly, stepping toward her, “anyone who tries to touch what’s mine—dies. That includes you, if you let them.”

She took a shaky breath, backing away. “Is that what I am to you? Property?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he closed the space between them in two slow, measured steps.

“You tell me,” he murmured. “When he looked at you… did you want him to?”

“No,” she whispered.

“Louder.”

“No.”

His hand came up—not to strike her, but to lift her chin, his thumb brushing her jaw. Gentle. Unexpected.

“But you didn’t scream,” he said, softer now. “You didn’t run.”

“I didn’t have time.”

He studied her. Then dropped his hand.

“I gave you a room, safety, everything you need,” Chris said. “But maybe you need to remember why you’re really here.”

She swallowed. “Why am I here?”

Chris leaned in, his breath warm against her cheek. “Because I chose you. And that means something. To you. To me. And to everyone watching.”

He pulled back, eyes still locked with hers. “Now get cleaned up. You’ll dine with me tonight. And you’ll wear the red dress I picked.”

Her brows lifted. “You’re rewarding me?”

“No,” he said simply. “I’m reminding you who you belong to.”

She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. The heat in her face wasn’t just anger—it was shame. Confusion. And something far more dangerous.

Desire.

He left without another word, the door closing behind him like a final warning.

Xochi stood there for a long moment, the air stale around her. Her heart beat in her throat. The red dress. Dinner. A performance. She was back in the cage—but this time, she wasn’t sure if the lock was on the outside or inside.

She made her way to her room. Laid out on the bed was the dress—blood red silk, delicate straps, slit high at the thigh. It was beautiful. Seductive. A trap.

She should’ve refused.

But she didn’t.

Later that night, as she descended the staircase, every step echoing like a countdown, she spotted him waiting at the base—Chris, in black, his stare unapologetically slow as it travelled up the length of her body.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“You clean up well,” he said. “Let’s hope your manners match.”

Then, from the corner of her eye, she noticed Henri whisper something into Chris’s ear—too low for her to hear. Chris’s smile faded in an instant.

And just like that, the air shifted again.

“Change of plans,” Chris said, turning to her.

She tensed. “What kind of plans?”

He gave a half-smile. “You’ll see.”