Page 114 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

“I can’t.” His eyes meet mine, and they’re burning with fury. “Someone put their hands on you. Someone hurt what’s mine.”

Since when did I become his?

“I’m going to bed.” I push away from the wall, putting distance between us. “Forget about this. It’s handled.”

I turn toward the connecting door to my room. This conversation is over.

But I only make it three steps before he’s there. Moving faster than I expected. His hand catches my wrist and spins me back around.

The shift is instant and terrifying. This is the Garrett from the dungeon. The one who tortures information from prisoners. The one with dark, dangerous eyes that see violence as a solution.

“You’re not leaving until you tell me who touched you.” His voice is cold, controlled rage.

I try to pull free. “Let go.”

His grip tightens. “You think I’m just going to let you walk away without knowing who did this?”

“It’s none of your business—”

“The fuck it isn’t.” He crowds into my space, backing me toward the door.

“You need to calm down,” I snap, but he’s already pushing me through the door into my room.

We cross the threshold and he kicks the door shut behind us. Then he’s on me. Hands on my chest, pushing me backward until the back of my knees hit the bed.

We tumble onto it together. Him on top of me, pinning me with his weight.

“Get off—”

“No.” His hands find the laces of my suit, fingers working them with quick efficiency. “Not until you understand.”

He pushes the leather aside, revealing the scars underneath. Decades of violence written on my skin. But his eyes are only focused on the bruises on my throat, the clear imprint of fingers. His expression goes dark and murderous.

“I want to hunt them down,” he says quietly, voice shaking with barely controlled rage. “I want to make them understand what it means to hurt what’s mine.”

That fucking word again.

“I’m not yours.”

“Aren’t you?” His eyes meet mine, challenging. “You said this isn’t just a job anymore. You said you’d drag me back from hell. That sounds like mine to me.”

His mouth descends on my throat, kissing my bruise like he can erase it with his own touch.

“Only I get to mark you,” he murmurs against my skin. “Only me.”

Then his teeth sink into my collarbone. I gasp at the sensation.

“This is—fuck, Garrett. Your father hired me to guard you,” I manage to say, even as my hands slide into his hair. “This crosses every line.”

He pulls back just enough to look at me with those dangerous eyes. “I don’t care about that.”

His mouth moves lower. Soft at first, gentle nibbles tracing down my ribs that make my breath catch. Then his teeth sink in harder, marking the skin over bone. Pain flares sharp and immediate. I bite back a sound.

He doesn’t stop. Another bite, lower this time. Harder. The pain blooms hot and I jerk against the bed. His tongue drags over the mark, easing the sting. I don’t know if I want him to stop or keep going. He’s claiming territory, branding me one painful inch at a time.

My breathing comes ragged now. He works his way across my ribs, teeth and tongue in turn. By the time he’s done I’m shaking, skin hypersensitive everywhere he’s touched.

“No one else gets to mark you,” he says against my ribs. “No one else gets to hurt you. Do you understand?”