The silence hums electric between us, more dangerous than any scream.
For a moment, it’s real—power in my hands, his life balanced on a shard I pulled from the wreckage.
In that moment, I know the truth.
I don’t want to kill him.
I want to make him bleed and live.
I want him to feel what he made me.
Resurrection isn’t about escaping the monster.
It’s about becoming one.
The glass bites deeper, a bead of his blood sliding slow down his throat. I expect him to grab me, to slam me into the wall, to remind me who owns the cage.
But he doesn’t.
He steps back instead, slow, deliberate, hands loose at his sides, that maddening half-smile still carved across his face. Hisboots crunch through glass as he retreats toward the bed, never breaking eye contact.
My pulse thrums hot in my ears. I follow, every muscle shaking but steady, shard pressed firm to his throat. He doesn’t resist. He lowers himself onto the mattress, sprawls across the ruin of papers and blood like a king taking his throne. The firelight licks at his face, his chest, the gleam of the hook resting against the sheets.
“Go on then,” he murmurs, voice low, inviting, taunting. “Show me what you’ve learned.”
I climb after him, straddling his hips, my knees digging into the mattress, glass still poised at his neck. His cock twitches under me, arrogant even in surrender. I press harder with the shard, dragging it just enough to open a thin line, watching red bloom against his skin.
His breath hitches but he doesn’t move. His eyes lock on mine, dark, burning, daring.
The power hums through me, hot and dizzying. For the first time, he’s beneath me, body pinned by mine, blood at my mercy.
I lean down, lips grazing his ear, voice breaking into a whisper:
“Go on, little fairy.”
The words taste dangerous, foreign, electric. I spit them back at him, the name he branded me with, twisting it sharp, making it mine.
His laugh rumbles low in his chest, vibrating against my thighs where I pin him. “There she is.”
I dig the shard harder against his throat, drawing more blood, the scent of iron filling the air between us. He doesn’t flinch. He tips his head back, bares his neck to me, a king surrendering to his executioner.
And I realise—this is what he wanted all along.
Not obedience. Not submission.
A monster to match him.
My hips press down against his instinctively, rubbing against the hardness straining beneath his trousers, glass trembling in my hand as I grind into him.
His blood stains my fingers. My blood still streaks his chest. The papers crumple under us, every thrust of my hips grinding his proof into nothing.
I press the shard harder, watching him bleed for me, and smile.
“Your move, Hook.”
The shard shakes in my hand, pressed so deep into his throat now that another bead of blood trickles down, sliding into the hollow of his collarbone. He doesn’t fight me. He doesn’t lift the hook. He just lies there, body stretched beneath mine, eyes lit like he’s been starving for this moment.
His smile curves cruel and sure. His voice breaks low, ragged, guttural:
