My smile cuts wrong, teeth bared, the kind that belongs on a predator who’s already feasting.
“Oh, I’ll do it, little star.”
I tighten my hold on her wrists, my hook glinting in the dim firelight as it drags slow down the length of her arm. Not cutting—yet. Just grazing, reminding her what sharpness feels like when it’s this close. Her breath catches, eyes locked on the curved steel tracing her skin.
“You think glass hurts?” I murmur, voice curling like smoke. “Glass shatters. Steel carves.”
I press the hooked edge against her nightgown, catching the delicate lace at her collarbone. A small tug, and the fabric tears with a sound that makes her flinch. I do it again, slower this time, slicing down until her chest is bared to the cold air, to me, to the red blink of the camera.
Her lips part on a gasp she tries to swallow. My hook pauses just above her ribs, pressing hard enough to leave a shallow line, not deep enough to bleed—yet. My other hand holds her pinned, fingers bruising her wrists into the wood of the headboard.
“You wanted ink and blood?” I growl, dragging the tip down the valley of her chest. “Here’s the pen.”
She jerks under me, a sound breaking from her throat—half fear, half something darker. I press my knee harder between her thighs, forcing them wider. She’s trembling, but not resisting. Not really. Her body arches into the pressure even as her eyes spit hate at me.
Good girl.
I hook the hem of her nightgown and rip it up, tearing it in strips until the thin lace is nothing but ruins tangled around her hips. She gasps as cold air bites her skin, as steel traces the edge of her stomach, curving down, lower, lower.
Her thighs twitch, squeeze, tremble.
“Still think you’re not mine?” I whisper, hooking the thin fabric of her underwear, tugging until the elastic snaps. The hook scrapes her hip, leaving a thin welt, a mark she’ll feel every time she moves.
Her hips buck against me, a strangled sound ripping from her throat.
“That’s it,” I murmur, pressing the blunt curve of the hook just above where she aches. Not cutting, not yet—just threatening, taunting, making her pulse hammer so fast I can feel it through the steel. “Bleed for me without the cut. Scream for me without the wound. You belong to me whether you want to or not.”
Her back arches. Her wrists twist uselessly against my grip. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, her body betraying her with every shiver.
I drag the hook lower, between her thighs, pressing the cold steel against her heat through nothing but the smear of blood and ruin. Her cry is sharp, strangled, desperate.
“Say it,” I demand, voice like gravel. “Say who you belong to.”
Her teeth bare. “Fuck you.”
I laugh, low and guttural, pressing the hook harder against her until she shudders, torn between terror and want. My hand leaves her wrists only long enough to grab a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back so her throat strains, exposed.
“Good girl,” I snarl into her ear. “We’ll carve it into you instead.”
I press steel against her skin again, not cutting—but promising. And then I push my body against hers, grinding her down into the shards of glass and ink until there’s nowhere left for her to go.
Her scream splits the silence wide open.
And I drink it in.
Her scream rips through the room, jagged and raw, and it only makes me harder. I fist her hair tighter, yank her head back until her throat arches like an offering, every ragged breath dragging across her exposed skin.
“You break mirrors, little star,” I snarl against her ear, the hook gliding down between her thighs again, cold steel sliding against soft flesh. “But I’ll break you.”
Her body jerks under me, a sob caught in her chest. I press harder, the blunt curve of the hook dragging slow circles against her clit until she shudders, trembling, tears brimming in her eyes. Not cutting—yet. Just torment. Just a reminder that even pleasure is sharp when it’s mine.
“Stop,” she chokes, but her hips betray her—tilting, grinding against the cold steel like her body doesn’t understand her mouth.
“Say it again,” I growl, grinding the hook harder, faster. “Beg me to stop while you fuck yourself on my blade.”
She shakes her head, tears streaking down her cheeks, but her thighs clamp around me, desperate, filthy. Her wrists strain against my grip until they bruise. Her pulse slams against my fingers where I choke her throat.
I release her wrists and use my free hand to drag her hips wider, nails biting, forcing her to spread open under me. Blood smears across her thighs from the glass embedded in the sheets, painting her like war.
