“No—fuck—it’s too much—Hook, please?—”
“Take it,” I growl. “Take what you begged for, you filthy little fairy—thank me for it.”
“Thank you—oh god—thank you, Hook—thank you—fuck—thank you?—”
And that’s the moment I’ve been waiting for.
The one where she breaks so beautifully I want to frame it.
Where her pride melts into tears and obedience like ice under heat.
Where her cunt is still clenching and leaking all over my hand and her voice is nothing but breathless gratitude for the man who ruined her on purpose and she’ll remember it forever.
Every time she cums after this, it’ll be my name she hears echoing.
Every time she thinks about fighting, she’ll feel my fingers between her legs again because I didn’t just make her cum tonight.
I made her belong to me.
She’s trembling in the seat beside me, soaked through, twitching with aftershocks, her throat raw from screaming and her cheeks slick from tears she didn’t mean to cry—but that’s the thing about girls like her, the ones who think they’re strong.
They always cry in the end.
Even the strongest ones.
Especially the strong ones, actually because when they fall, they fall hardest, have further to plummet.
I watch her chest rise and fall, ragged and uneven, like her lungs are still deciding whether they want to breathe or break. Her mascara’s a wreck, black streaks painting her face. Her thighs are sticky with evidence. Her hoodie’s pulled up past her ribs. And her eyes—god, her fucking eyes—look like war zones after the last bomb’s dropped and everything’s gone quiet and I’ve never seen anything more perfect in my life.
I take a slow breath, filling my lungs.
Not because I need it particularly because I like how the air tastes when she’s just been ruined—thick and heavy and mine.
It’s thick with her surrender. Heavy with possibility. Mine in a way nothing else has ever been.
I reach forward and run my fingers down her inner thigh, slowly now, indulgently, like I’m tracing a bruise that hasn’t bloomed yet but will by morning. She twitches but doesn’t stop me. She’s too wrecked, too raw, too open.
Good.
She’ll learn faster like this, with her defences stripped away.
“Don’t move,” I murmur, not because she was going to—but because she needs to know she’s still under my command, still mine to direct.
She nods weakly.
That’s new and noteworthy.
No snarling. No spitting. No kicking or clawing.
Just obedience.
Not from fear exactly.
From conditioning, from the realisation sinking in because I didn’t just fuck her with my hand tonight.
I rewrote the rules in her head, changed the fundamental programming.
Tore out the pages that said she had to be strong all the time, and replaced them with something better, something more honest.
