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She doesn't flinch, doesn't back down. Instead, she lifts her chin slightly, a silent challenge that makes something in me stir with anticipation.

"Here's how this goes," I continue, keeping my voice smooth and controlled. "You stay here. You follow the rules. You don't lie to me again."

"And if I do?" The question carries no fear, only curiosity.

"Then I show you exactly what it means to be owned." The words fall between us like stones into still water, creating ripples of tension.

Her arms tighten across her chest—not retreating, but bracing. "And what if I don't follow your rules? What happens then?"

I close the distance between us in two measured steps, bringing us close enough that she can feel the heat radiating from my body. "Then I fuck the disobedience out of you."

Her breath catches, the slight hitch betraying what her expression tries to hide. She recovers quickly, lips curving into a sardonic smile. "You make it sound so generous. Do I get a treat if I sit when you say? A pat on the head for good behavior?"

"You get to come," I answer simply, watching her pupils dilate slightly at my words. "That's the reward for obedience."

"You like breaking things?" she asks, something vulnerable flickering behind her eyes before disappearing.

"No." I reach out, tracing the line of her jaw with my fingertips. "I like watching them realize they want to be broken for me. There's a difference."

The slight tremble in her throat, the quickening of her pulse beneath my touch—these small tells reveal what she tries so hard to hide. Still, she doesn't yield, doesn't look away.

"And if I say no?" The question hangs in the air between us, a final test of resolve.

My hand drifts down to the hem of the shirt—my shirt—that barely covers her. I brush my knuckles deliberately up the inside of her thigh, feeling the heat of her skin. "Say no."

Her lips part, words forming and dying in the same breath.

"You can leave at anytime."

"With nothing."

"Exactly," I pause. "So say no."

Her eyes hold mine, conflicted and dark with something that isn't fear. After a moment of silence, she closes her mouth without speaking.

"Didn't think so," I murmur, satisfaction curling through me.

She breaks the contact first, brushing past me with a deliberate casualness that doesn't mask the tension in her movements. She moves through my space as if she belongs here.

"You don't know where the shower is," I call after her as she disappears down the hallway.

"I'll find it," she replies without looking back, voice stripped of emotion.

I follow her at a measured pace, watching the way she navigates my home—skin flushed, steps determined, hair wild around her shoulders. Even broken, she wants to win. Even claimed, she refuses to submit completely.

The contradiction is intoxicating.

She pauses before an open doorway, taking in the black marble, the chrome fixtures, the glass shower enclosure designed to intimidate as much as function. For a moment, she simply stands there, as if weighing her options, deciding whether to cross another threshold in a night full of boundaries broken.

"I need to get clean," she says finally, the words directed at the wall rather than me.

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed over my chest. "Then do it."

She doesn't wait for further permission. With deliberate movements, she steps into the center of the bathroom, standing beneath the overhead light like an actress taking center stage. Her shoulders straighten, her chin lifts, andwithout ceremony, she grasps the hem of my shirt and begins to pull it upward.

The fabric rises slowly—not a tease, not a performance—but the methodical removal of a layer she seems desperate to shed. It's the act of someone trying to reclaim control, to distance herself from what's happened by removing the physical evidence.

What she doesn't understand is that the shirt is merely the surface. What's beneath—her body, her skin, the marks I've left—those belong to me now, too.