Mahir hung exactly as she had left him. The rope-and-hook predicament still held him in that cruel balance—arms pulled high, metal hook seated deep, urethral rod locked in place, weighted clamps still dragging at his nipples. The red marks of her slaps had darkened on both cheeks. His cock remained stubbornly hard, a thin bead of fluid still welling around the metal from time to time. His wolf ears twitched at every small sound. His breathing stayed shallow and careful so the weights would not swing too hard.
Julian had stopped being calm.
The initial stunned acceptance had worn away with every passing minute. The heavy throb in his own cock had never fully subsided; if anything the prolonged, unfinished tension in the room had left him more tightly wound. He shifted in the armchair for the third time in ten minutes, jaw tight, ice-blue eyes moving between the two still-restrained Vanguards and the closed door.
Finally he spoke, voice low and edged with frustration.
