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His grip tightens incrementally, and I gasp as my lungs suddenly struggle for air.

"I can fix that."

He pushes me back against the post, making the ropes strain above my head. His hand constricts around my throat—not enough to crush my windpipe, but enough to steal my breath in small, terrifying increments.

"You're going to forget him," he whispers, watching my face closely.

I shake my head weakly, stars beginning to dance at the edges of my vision.

"You're going to remember what it means to belong to me."

The pressure increases again, and my legs begin to buckle, my weight supported only by the ropes at my wrists and the tips of my toes against the concrete. My mouth opens in a silent plea for air, but nothing comes out.

"Shh," he soothes, thumb stroking the side of my throat even as his fingers continue their methodical constriction. "That's it. Just feel it."

He presses his body against mine, his hips grinding forward as his breath warms my ear. "Do you know what happens next?"

I struggle to speak, but my lungs are screaming.

"You learn."

Suddenly, mercifully, he releases me. I collapse against therestraints, my body dropping hard as I gasp and wheeze, the cold air knifing into my oxygen-starved throat.

"See? That wasn't so hard." He smiles, leaning in until his face is just inches from mine, his voice dark and hungry. "Say it. Say you're mine."

I stare straight into his eyes, gathering what little strength I have left.

"Go fuck yourself," I spit the words directly into his face.

For a moment, he simply stares, his expression unreadable.

Then his hand strikes my face with brutal efficiency. The crack echoes through the warehouse as my head whips sideways, skin burning from the impact.

"Wrong fucking move," he says quietly. Then a smile spreads across his lips. "Still, I've missed that mouth."

He steps close again, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear with surprising gentleness, as if he hadn't just hit me hard enough to leave a bruise.

"We'll work on your obedience."

He circles me again—slow, methodical steps that remind me of a predator assessing its prey. His casual demeanor makes it all the more terrifying, as if hurting me is merely foreplay. As if the real pain is still to come.

"You can hate me all you want," he continues, voice smooth and reasonable. "It won't matter. I'm going to rebuild you, Luna. Strip out every piece he touched. Replace it with something better." He pauses behind me, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Something mine."

His hand suddenly grabs a fistful of fabric at my hip and jerks upward. The sound of tearing satin cuts through the silence as my dress splits along the seam, the material gaping open from thigh to ribcage, leaving my skin exposed to the cold air.

He doesn't stop there. His hands move to the top of my dress, gripping one of the thin straps and snapping it clean off. The neckline slips down, exposing the top curve of my breast, making me feel naked despite still being partially clothed.

"You don't deserve to wear anything he touched you in," he mutters, his breath hot against my neck.

I thrash against the ropes, fighting desperately despite the pain shooting through my shoulders.

His hand immediately grabs my jaw, fingers digging in as he forces my head back at a painful angle. "Do that again," he growls, face hovering beside mine, "and I'll make it hurt."

His eyes bore into mine, all pretense of civility vanished. "I'm not Beckett Sinclair. I don't need your consent."

His palm slides slowly over my stomach, a possessive touch that makes my skin crawl. "I remember this body. How these tits feel in my hands."

His hand moves upward, rough and demanding as he cups my breast through the torn fabric of my dress. I flinch, unable to suppress my body's instinctive reaction.