Every inch of her, mine.
I release her throat just long enough to drag my hand down, fingers bruising into her hips as I shove her legs wider, forcing her open again. She tries to clamp them shut, but the hook curves inside her thigh, pressing, threatening, making her obey.
Her body betrays her. Always. The slick heat between her thighs glistens in the dim firelight, wet against steel, staining me with her surrender no matter how her mouth spits curses.
“You hate me?” I whisper, pressing the hook against her cunt again, harder this time. She shudders violently, another sob cracking her chest. “Good. Hate me with everything you have. Hate me until it burns your lungs. Because hate binds tighter than love ever could.”
I slide the steel against her clit, brutal, merciless, making her scream again, her body writhing beneath me as tears streak her cheeks. Her hips buck without her permission, grinding against the metal like she was born to take it.
“That’s it,” I snarl, grinding harder, forcing her to the edge again. “Scream my name. Say who owns you.”
Her nails rake down my arms, breaking skin, blood smearing the papers scattered across the bed. Her back arches, body taut as a bowstring, and she breaks—screaming my name so loud it rattles through the walls, a sound halfway between agony and ecstasy.
I hold her there through it, pressing steel harder, forcing her to cum again, and again, until her voice gives out and her body collapses limp beneath me, soaked in sweat, blood, and ruin.
Her eyes flutter shut. Her chest heaves. Her lips tremble with words she doesn’t dare speak.
I drag the hook up, smeared with her desire, and press it to her mouth.
“Open.”
She hesitates. Defiance flickers in her eyes. But then—slow, trembling—she parts her lips.
Good girl.
I slide the steel across her tongue, watch her gag on the taste of herself, her tears spilling harder as I hold her jaw firm. She licks it clean because I don’t give her a choice. Because there’s never a choice.
When I finally pull away, I trace the curve of the hook across her cheek, smearing her own taste into her skin like a brand.
“You’re signed in blood now,” I murmur, voice low and ragged. “Paper burns. Glass shatters. But scars—scars last forever.”
Her body trembles beneath me, her eyes glassy, broken, but still burning. That fire will never go out.
I don’t want it to because war tastes sweeter than obedience.
Every time she spits hate at me, I’ll carve it deeper into her until she realises the truth.
She isn’t mine because of paper.
She isn’t mine because of blood.
She isn’t mine because of ink.
She’s mine because I made her this way.
Her body is limp, trembling, a wreck of sweat and blood and broken glass—but when I lean over her, when my weight presses her deeper into the mattress, something shifts. Her thighs twitch. Her hips lift just enough to brush mine.
I go still.
Her eyes are half-closed, lashes wet with tears, lips trembling. But she moves again—small, slow, deliberate—grinding her hips against the hardness she knows is waiting for her.
My smile spreads sharp and feral.
“Look at you,” I murmur, dragging the hook under her chin, forcing her face up to mine. “Bleeding. Bruised. Still aching for me.”
A whimper claws up her throat, but her hips roll again, bolder this time. She presses against me, desperate, hungry, filthy. The papers crumple under us, ink and signatures smearing into her skin as if she’s signing herself over with every movement.
I grip her hair and yank her head back, my teeth grazing the pulse hammering in her throat. “You hate me so much, little star? Then why does your body beg like this?”
