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But I knew he’d probably hate me if I did something like that in front of his best friends, so I swallowed down that ridiculous ache in my chest and gave him a lollipop instead.

“Wait—”

“I’m not waiting.”

I say it against his mouth, then I pull the fabric up. He twists and tries to catch my wrists. I pin both of them above his head with one hand and keep going with the other, shoving the sweater and the shirt underneath it up his ribs until his chest is bare and he has nowhere left to hide.

He tries anyway. His shoulders curl inward, his entire body contracting around itself as though he can make the damaged parts disappear simply by becoming smaller. I hate it. I hate how instinctive hiding is for him and how desperately he wants to vanish from my eyes the moment he feels exposed.

I drop my weight, knees bracketing his hips, both of his wrists still trapped in my grip, and then I look. He still has the same marks I saw last time, but there are no new ones.

I let go of his wrists only so I can take his hands instead. I turn his left arm, then his right, and I put my mouth on the first bruise.

He flinches. “Don’t do that.”

I hold him while my fingers lock around his forearm and my thumb presses to the inside of his wrist so I can feel his pulse kick. I kiss the next one. Some irrational part of me wants tenderness to possess restorative properties. I want my mouth to become an eraser.

“Don’t tell me what to do with what’s mine.” I kiss another.

He jerks, and I pin his arm to the mattress and work down the line of old hurt, one kiss for every place someone else thought they were allowed to touch him. My other hand slides under his waistband just to keep him from squirming off the bed.

“Look at me.”

He doesn’t, so I bite the inside of his bicep, and then I soothe it with my tongue.

“I said look at me, prince. I want to see those beautiful eyes.”

His eyes drag up. I watch the fight drain out of him in pieces, and I take each piece.

“That’s it.” Another kiss, lower, closer to the crease of his elbow.

I kiss the darkest one last as I suck until the old color blooms warmer under my lips.

A broken little sound catches in Ilya’s throat, and my eyes lift to his. “Every one,” I tell him. “I’m going to kiss every bruise you tried to hide from me. Then I’m going to put new ones where I want them.”

I hold his arm still and press my mouth to the next mark.

After that, I stand up briefly and take my clothes off. I don’t rush. I let him look. I have spent days starving for the sight of him while he starved himself of me in return, and I’m finished participating in the deprivation. When I’m certain he’s had enough time to understand the point, I glance around his room, searching for what I need next.

I open the cabinet next to the window, and well, well. It’s lube. I turn the bottle in my hand and come back to the bed.

I click it open and start coating my fingers. “Interesting inventory.” I tilt my head. “Did you use this on someone, prince? Did you let another pair of hands open you up in my place? Or worse, did you let another cock inside of you?”

I already know the answer is no. I basically threatened Hideo that if he doesn’t give me a full report on Ilya every day, I’ll escape and have his head, and then Kenji’s.

“Maybe.”

His answer makes me arch an eyebrow. Oh, what a fucking brat.

“Then I won’t be gentle about it.” I strip his pants down and shove his thighs apart. My three fingers press against him, and then, no warning, I push them in.

He gasps like I punched the air out of him. His hole clamps down, trying to lock me out and keep me in at the same time.

“This tight, and you still want me to believe someone else had you?”

His fists twist in the sheets. Teeth bared. “That hurts—”

“It should.” I lean over him, voice low. “If another cock had been in here, you’d already be soft for me.”