Arianette turns toward the sound, eyes wide behind her mask. “Who–”
“Shh.” I step close, fingers brushing her jaw. “He’s watching. And he wants a show.”
Her lips part, but no protest comes. Just a soft inhale that trembles.
The voice returns. “Start with her clothes. One piece at a time.”
She raises her arms without hesitation, trusting me. That trust is a blade in my gut.
The sweater falls and I yank down the cups of her lace bra. Her tits spill out, the piercings catching the low light. My mouth waters at the sight of the silver bars DK threaded through her flesh, begging to be twisted. My cock throbs painfully, but the darker hunger is louder with the need to pinch until she cries out, to pull until tears spill behind that mask.
A shudder runs through me when I finally cup her tits, soft and heavy in my hands. My thumbs brush the bars and she arches into me with a soft whimper.
Fuck.
I’d realized when the King revealed himself as Timothy Maddox that he would know about my time at Noir Sanctum. He’d know what rooms I frequented and the kind of people I watched. This is a gift he’s giving me. One I assume comes from the loyalty and commitment I’ve given to him and the Barons.
“Don’t stop,” the voice says. “Pinch. Pull. Go with your instinct.”
My breath stutters. I pinch–harder than I should on the first try. The metal bites between my fingers, her nipple stretching. She cries out, body jerking, but she doesn’t pull away.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
“Yes.” Her teeth bear down on her bottom lip.
My erection thickens, and I move again, twisting, tugging outward until her knees buckle and she sags against me.
Every sound she makes feeds the monster. Every flinch makes me harder. And beneath the rush of power, terror coils. What if this is the edge? What if I drag her over it and I can’t pull her back? What if I like the fall too much?
“Remove the skirt,” the voice commands. “Let’s see her pussy.”
I drop to my knees in front of her, easing the fabric down. She steps out of it when I tell her to, leaving her in just black panties and the collar around her throat. I touch her between her thighs and find her already damp at the center.
“Jesus, you smell so good.” I hook my fingers in the waistband and peel them down her thighs.
“Spread her on the bed.”
With two hands, I push her back. She falls, body bouncing on the mattress. Her legs spread, and I see the glint of DK’s other mark. There it is–the silver ring speared through her clit hood, already slick and swollen. I spread her wide, then tug the ring. She cries out, thighs trembling.
“Harder,” the voice growls. “Make it sting.”
I do, pinching the sensitive flesh beneath the piercing and rolling the tight peak cruelly between my fingers. Her hips buck into my hand, chasing the pain like it’s pleasure. Tears glisten at the edges of her mask. Between her legs she's soaked, thighs slick, and my fingers glide lower, teasing the entrance of her without mercy. That's when I feel it: the thin string, tucked away, but unmistakable.
I freeze for a beat, thumb brushing the thin cord. She's on her period. The thought hits me like a cold splash–raw, intimate, and messy in a way that strips away the polished fantasy of this place. Part of me wants to pull back, to protect her from the vulnerability, from me turning this into something too real, too bloody. But the monster in me stirs harder, aroused by the taboo, by the chance to claim even this part of her.
The speaker hums to life again, the King's voice cutting through the haze like he can read my fucking mind. Or maybe he already knew. She told DK in the car this morning that he was the one who made the bruises on her lower back. He wanted me to find it.
"She's bleeding, ripe with life," he says, low and approving. "Remove it. Make her watch you do it."
Permission again. That word is a drug, loosening the chains I've wrapped around myself for years. My cock aches at the command, at the thought of exposing her like this–bare and unfiltered–while he watches. While I watch her face for any sign I've gone too far. Fear coils in my gut: what if this night breaks her? Breaks me? What if I see blood on my fingers and crave more, push harder until pain turns to real harm? I could stop now. Ishouldstop.
But her eyes behind the mask are locked on mine, her chest heaving. She's not pulling away. She's waiting.
I swallow hard, voice rough as gravel. "You heard him. Spread wider for me. Let me get a good look at your cunt."
She does, and I grab her hips, yanking her to the edge of the bed. Her legs part on the crimson sheets and I kneel between her thighs again, one hand steadying her hip–fingers digging in just enough to leave faint bruises, because I can't help it. The other hand traces the string, following it up until I feel the soft give of the tampon inside her.
I tug gently at first, testing. She gasps, a mix of discomfort and something hotter, her pierced clit twitching under my gaze. The King's silence is heavy, expectant. I pull slower, inch by inch, feeling the resistance, the slick warmth as it slides free. Blood clings to it–dark red, visceral–and I hold it up between us for a second, letting her see. Letting him see through the glass.
