I think he likes me ruined.
No. I know he does.
He flips me fast—hands on my hips, dragging me up until my knees dig into the mattress, my face pressed into the sheets that still smell like wax and iron.
Something cold touches the curve of my spine.
I jerk. “What is that?—”
He shushes me.
“Mine.”
A sharp hiss. A click. Then?—
Agony.
White-hot pain bursts across the top of my ass cheek.
I scream. Arch. Shake.
The smell of scorched flesh.
I twist and look over my shoulder. He’s holding a branding iron. Small. Hand-forged.
In the shape of a moth.
I sob once. But not from fear.
Because I feel it—the raw, searing truth:
This is mine now.
This is a moment no one else gets.
“You’re branded,” he says softly. “So you never forget who you crawled back to.”
He reaches under me again, two fingers thrusting deep, spreading me until I squirm, slick and desperate.
But still—he denies me.
Pulls out. Slaps my ass. Grabs my jaw and shoves two spit-slick fingers between my lips.
“Taste how close you are.” I suck them instinctively, and he laughs. “Pathetic little mouth. No control at all.”
His hand slides back between my thighs.
He touches everywhere but where I need it.
Then—click.
I hear metal.
Chains? A latch?
No.
A clamp.
