The possessive sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with temperature.
I consider the question.
Consider all the ways I could answer—the things I've done before, the things I've tolerated, the things I've pretended to like because it was easier than explaining what I actually wanted.
But this is different.
He is different.
And could this mean I can be honest?
"That depends," I say, letting a smirk curl my lips. "How risky do you like it?"
His eyes darken.
Interest.
Intrigue.
The predator in him is rising to the challenge in me.
"Try me, Sweetness."
CHAPTER 8
Undo Me Like A Sacred Ruin
~SAGE~
The first sensation is the bite of metal.
Not the pain of violence, not the blade edge of threat—just the cool, unyielding reality of steel wrapped around bone, biting into skin in the way that says there’s no way out…unless you want there to be.
Unless you’re me.
Handcuffed.
To a bed.
And not just any bed—Seraphine’s bed.A sanctuary carved out of hell, all pale linen and tangled sheets and the ghost of cherry blossoms clinging to every inch of fabric. I flex my wrists, once, twice, feeling the mirrored press of metal against vein, the way the cuffs force my arms above my head, offering up my entire body to her view.
I should be panicking.
Planning my escape like any artist with my caliber—mapping out the tension, the torque, the way a single twist could pop the lock and free me for whatever comes next.
But that’s not what I do.
Instead, I watch her.
She moves through the low blue light like something conjured—bare, unashamed, every inch of her skin catalogued and archived by my greedy eyes. She’s tiny, built on the lines of a dancer but haunted by the kind of scars you don’t get from falling off a stage.
There’s beauty, yes?—
But it’s the haunted kind. The kind you earn. The kind you bleed for.
She’s strip-lit in shadow, her body all flex and flow, the arch of her back so sharp it’s almost a threat. Scars crisscross her stomach—one especially, jagged and mean, slicing her porcelain from hip to hip. Corset bruises bloom purple and green along her ribs, tight bands that speak to years of being laced in, crushed in, made beautiful by pain and force. Old cigarette burns dot her left hip, a constellation only someone with a trained eye would spot. There’s a long, thin mark on the inside of her thigh—knife? Wire? History.
Artistry rendered in hurt.
