Good.
Hate is stronger than love. Hate binds tighter. Hate keeps her tethered when her body begs me for more.
I slide a page from the wreckage, smooth it against my thigh. Her name stares back, blurred with blood. Mine now. Ours.
This isn’t just obsession anymore. It’s ritual. It’s law.
I take her wrist—delicate, torn, bruised—and drag the hooked edge across her palm until fresh blood wells up, scarlet pooling fast. She flinches, a whimper breaking from her throat, but she doesn’t fight. Her body is too far gone for that.
I press her bleeding hand to the paper. Hold it there until crimson soaks through the fibres, her pulse marking every line.
“There,” I whisper. “Signed properly. The only contract that matters.”
When I pull her hand away, the page is ruined—black letters drowned in red, the stain blooming outward like it’s alive. My cock stirs at the sight, blood and ink mingled, her name swallowed whole.
I press the paper flat against her chest, over her heart, the blood still wet between us. My mouth grazes her ear.
“Now you’re bound to me in every way. Ink. Blood. Flesh. Hate. You can tear the pages. You can smash the mirrors. You can scream until your throat breaks. But you’ll never unwrite this.”
Her eyes open then, glassy, broken, but still burning. The fire’s smaller now, but it’s there. Always there. And I want it to stay.
Because I don’t want obedience. I want resistance. I want war.
I want her to hate me so much she can’t breathe without thinking of me.
My hand slides down her stomach, slow, possessive, smearing blood across her skin like a signature. I don’t pushfurther. Not this time. She’s too raw, too wrecked, too perfect in her ruin.
Instead, I lift the paper from her chest and tuck it into my coat, safe, sealed, sacred.
My blood. Her blood. Our contract.
Forever.
Her eyes flicker, glassy and unfocused, but they never leave mine. Even ruined, she clings to defiance like it’s the last weapon she has.
I cup her jaw with my hand, fingers rough, thumb smearing the blood on her cheekbone into a streak that looks like warpaint. She tries to turn her head away. I don’t let her. I hold her steady, force her to feel every second of me watching.
“You think the glass made you sharp?” My voice is low, cruel, heavy with satisfaction. “You’ve only made yourself easier to bleed.”
Her lips part, a rasp escaping, broken and fragile:I hate you.
I grin, teeth bared, leaning closer until my breath warms the curve of her ear. “Good. Hate is the chain that keeps you close.”
Her body shudders, weak, but she doesn’t pull from me. Maybe she can’t. Maybe she won’t.
I shift, lowering myself until I’m stretched against her again, my weight pinning her into the bloodstained sheets. The papers crinkle under us, soaking through with sweat and crimson. Every movement presses her deeper into proof. Every breath drives me further into her skin.
Her pulse flutters like a trapped bird under my mouth as I press a slow, deliberate kiss against the bruise I left on her throat. She flinches, gasps, but I don’t move away. I mark her again, open-mouthed, teeth scraping until she trembles.
“Every cut,” I murmur against her skin, “every scar, every drop of blood—it all spells the same thing.” My hook drags gentlyacross her stomach, light enough to make her shiver, heavy enough to remind her it could cut. “Mine.”
She squeezes her eyes shut, but tears force their way out anyway, streaking hot down her cheeks. I lick one away, savouring the salt like it’s sacrament.
Her body softens beneath me then, her resistance slackening, her breath slowing. Not surrender—exhaustion. She’s fading, slipping into that dark place where even her hate can’t keep her awake.
I brush the hair from her face, my fingers surprisingly careful after all I’ve done. My gaze catches on her hands, shredded and raw from the glass. She’d destroy herself before she let me own her clean.
And that only makes her mine more.
