I kiss her like I’m trying to tear her apart.
And she lets me.
I should stop. I should walk away, make her sign, and be done with it. But then she looks at me, lips swollen, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths, her blood smeared across her skin like something sacred. And I know.
I know in this moment with a certainty I’ve never felt before.
I will never walk away from this.
From her.
A feeling, dark and ancient twists in my chest, something possessive, something cruel. I reach for the knife again, the handle warm now from her skin, the blade still slick with the thin smear of her blood.
She watches as I lift it. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t protest.
She knows what’s coming.
I flip my grip and, without hesitation, press the edge against my palm. The pain is sharp, quick, a hot flash of fire cutting through flesh. Blood wells instantly, dark and rich, sliding over my fingers. Martine’s breath catches, and I see it, the way her pupils blow wide, the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips.
She’s not afraid.
She’s mesmerized.
I don’t give her time to think. I reach for her, placing my palm on her chest, between her gorgeous tits. Our blood smears together, hot and slick, mingling at the seam where my palm meets the warm skin of her breastbone.
A shudder runs through her, but she doesn’t pull away.
I push harder, caressing the raw wound of my palm against hers until I feel her pulse thrumming against mine, our blood mixing, binding.
Her lips part on a shaky exhale.
I smirk. "You feel that?"
She nods, dazed.
"That’s a promise," I whisper, "A claim. You're bound to me now."
She swallows, eyes flicking down to where my hand is, pressed to her chest. Our blood mixed, blood smeared across our skin like ink on a contract. When she finally looks back up at me, something has shifted.
Her look has softened, and there are tears in her eyes.
I bring my hand down and smear the mixture of our blood across the marriage contract, marking it with our ritual of hate and desire.
“I’m bound to you,” she whispers.
There’s something primal in it—a permanence in the whisper of her voice.
For a moment, I let her breathe it all in, the only sound against the blue wallpaper and dark wooden floors of the room is the candles on the dining table fluttering, and the gasping sounds of her trying to regulate her breath.
Once I’m sure she isn’t going to pass out, I move.
I lean forward and bring my mouth to her gorgeous tits, and drag my tongue through the blood at the center of her chest, tasting the salty and sharp iron and heat of her.
Martine shudders, her breath ragged.
"Now," I murmur against her skin, my voice rough, raw, edged with something dangerously close to devotion, "sign the fucking contract."
Martine Lilian Herron
