He shifts then, lifting his hook, dragging it slow across my collarbone, tracing a path down my chest. The cold bites, makes me shudder, makes my breath catch.
“You confessed,” he murmurs, voice low, guttural, as if he’s savouring the memory. “Now I’ll make it permanent.”
The hook lowers, cold steel pressing against the soft swell of my breast. My body jerks, panic and heat colliding in my veins.
“No—” The word cracks from my throat, thin, useless.
He smiles, sharp and cruel. “Yes.”
The steel presses harder, not enough to cut deep, but enough to score a line across my skin, shallow, stinging, burning. A brand, not a wound.
I gasp, back arching, eyes burning. He watches me like a god sculpting his altar.
“This isn’t ink,” he says softly, voice like gravel. “This isn’t paper. This is forever.”
As the line blooms red across my skin, I realise—he isn’t just writing on me, he’s carving me into who he always wanted me to be.
The hook bites shallow, a thin sting that sears hotter than fire. My breath rips ragged from my throat, my chest arching against it. I want to twist away, but his weight pins me, his hand grips my jaw, and the steel keeps moving, slow, deliberate, dragging across my skin like a pen etching a story into parchment.
It burns. It hums. It owns.
I bite down on my lip so hard I taste blood, but the sound still tears out of me—a gasp caught between pain and something filthier.
His eyes don’t leave my face. He’s watching me more than the line he’s carving, feeding on every twitch, every breath, every betrayal of my body.
The hook lifts, cold and wet, and when I look down there it is: a shallow red mark scarring across the curve of my breast. Not deep enough to kill, not shallow enough to fade. A scar that will stay.
My chest heaves. My heart hammers. Shame floods my cheeks, hot and burning, but beneath it, something else coils—dark, sharp, addictive.
He drags the tip lower, circling my nipple, pressing just enough to make me cry out, my back bowing off the sheets. The sting lances through me, cruel and searing, but my thighs clamp together, wet, throbbing.
“Stop,” I rasp, the word cracking, fragile.
He tilts his head, lips curving. “Say that louder.”
I choke on a sob, tears sliding hot down my temples, my body trembling under his weight. “Stop.”
His laugh rumbles low, feral, vibrating through my bones. “And yet your cunt’s soaking the sheets.”
The hook scrapes lower, tracing my stomach, leaving faint red trails like tally marks across my skin. Each one is shallow. Each one is mine to carry. Each one says the same word.
His.
I close my eyes, but the darkness only makes it worse. I can feel every movement sharper, every scrape branding me deeper. My body arches, shudders, writhes, but I don’t fight him anymore. Fighting doesn’t erase the marks. Fighting just gives him more to carve.
When the hook finally lifts, my skin burns with fresh wounds, shallow but unyielding, my body trembling, breath torn and broken. I look down, and my chest, my stomach, my hips—they’re all streaked in red, painted with proof.
I hate myself for it because all I can think is that I’ve never looked more alive.
The sting is still fresh, every shallow line burning hot, my skin alive with fire and shame. My breath shudders out in broken gasps, my body trembling under him, and for a moment I think he’s finished—satisfied with what he carved into me.
His mouth finds the first mark, lips closing over the raw line, tongue dragging slow and wet across the wound. I jolt, a cry bursting free, half agony, half something far worse. My fists clench in the sheets, glass cutting into my palms, but I can’t move away.
He kisses it again, softer this time, sucking the blood until I feel his tongue lap it clean. Heat pools low in my stomach, filthy and wrong, but my thighs squeeze together, wetness already betraying me.
He moves lower, mouth finding the next line, lips worshiping what his hook carved. Each kiss is a brand of its own, searing deeper than the steel. He moans against my skin like my pain feeds him, like the taste of my blood is sweeter than anything else.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs between licks, his voice rough, guttural. “Every scar I give you makes you more mine.”
