She doesn’t wear it yet, the physical manifestation. But she will.
The real one’s in the drawer, waiting.
Silver. Thin. Unbreakable.
Like her, or like what she’ll become.
I slide the drawer open slowly. Let the links clink against each other like a threat and a promise rolled into one metallic sound. I palm it, run my fingers over the tag attached, over the name etched in the metal that she hasn’t seen yet.
Property of Hook.
Not James. Not Captain. Not any other name I’ve ever been called.
Just Hook.
That’s all I am to her now—an idea, a punishment, a god who controls her reality.
I stand from my chair, joints protesting slightly. The screens hum softly as she turns her back to them, and I watch the shake in her hands as she throws something at the mirror in a fit of rage. Her reflection breaks into fragments. The pieces fall to the floor with musical tinkling. And I smile.
Not because she’s breaking down.
I finally see the real her emerging from beneath the performance.
Raw. Animal. Terrified. Wild.
Perfect.
My cock throbs beneath the tailored line of my slacks, demanding attention, and I do nothing to adjust it or relieve the pressure. Let it ache. Let it burn. Let it scream with the same hunger that’s been ripping me open since the second I saw her walk into that club weeks ago, dress too short, mouth too cocky, heart beating too loud for someone who thought she was invisible.
She thought she was there for one night of anonymous pleasure.
She never understood what that night meant, what it would cost her.
I reach the door to her room, hand on the handle. I don’t knock. I don’t speak a warning.
I just open it with deliberate slowness.
The second she spins around, fury straightening her spine, glass clutched in her hands like a weapon, blood in her stare—my grin splits wide across my face.
I know exactly what I’m going to do next, have been planning it for hours but she doesn’t have a clue and that’s the part I love most—the moment before understanding dawns.
Her whimper is still echoing in the room when I shut the door behind me.
And fuck me, I’m still hard as steel.
Not just aching in the usual way—throbbing, pulsing, skin pulled tight around the need to break her worse than I already have, to take her further. I left her there earlier, flushed and ruined, drenched and desperate with no release granted, because I wanted her to remember what happens when she disobeys. What happens when she thinks she owns her own body, when she forgets that I purchased that right.
I warned her clearly.
I told her not to touch herself, made the rule explicit and she did it anyway.
She reached for me like I was hers to claim.
Like she had the right to touch without permission.
Maybe I should’ve let her have what she wanted—maybe I should’ve fucked her into the mattress until she passed out from the combined pain and pleasure and powerlessness—but that would’ve been mercy, a kindness.
I’m done with mercy.
