Maybe.
But isn't everything about this world weird?
People get off on power dynamics. Surrender. Control. The illusion of danger wrapped in absolute safety.
It's an excuse to do things without guilt. To explore the darker edges of desire in a contained environment where nobody gets actually hurt.
Scarletta wanted it.
She checked the boxes herself. TPE. Forced confession. Psychological dominance. She gave me permission to weaponize her own writing against her.
She wrote the maze.
I just built it.
If she didn't want to be hunted by monsters, why did she spend forty-two thousand words describing exactly how it should feel?
The logic holds.
I stroke myself faster, chasing the edge. My other hand braces against my thigh, gripping hard enough to leave marks.
Heat floods my abdomen. My balls draw up tight. Every muscle in my core tightens, coiling.
I see Volk's face. The moment he realized. The exact second understanding hit—that I wasn't going to let him walk away. That money, and connections, and diplomatic immunity meant nothing here.
That terror.
That absolute helplessness.
My cock pulses in my hand.
I see the knife cutting through his Achilles tendons. The way his legs spasmed. The scream that tore out of him when he understood what came next.
My breathing goes ragged.
I see myself circling him. Naked. Hard. Deliberate.
He knew what I was.
He knew exactly what kind of monster stood in front of him.
And there was nothing he could do about it.
My hand moves faster, rougher. I don't bother with finesse. I'm not performing for anyone. This is just me and what I am.
I see the blood spraying across my chest. My stomach. My cock.
The way Volk's body jerked and thrashed while he bled out.
The way I kept stroking myself, matching my rhythm to his dying heartbeat.
"Fuck," I grind out. My voice sounds wrecked.
Pressure builds at the base of my spine. My thighs shake.
I see Scarletta's face. Her eyes wide. Watching me come on a corpse.
Watching me become exactly what I am.
