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His laugh this time is dark and amused, like I just played right into his hands.

“That,” he purrs, stroking himself lazily, “is a magic cross.”

And he’s not lying.

Two steel bar piercings cross vertically and horizontally through the head of his cock. Silver balls gleam at the ends, forming an actual fuckingcrossmade of metal and sin.

But that’s not the part that really unhinges me.

It’s the ink.

Bold. Black. Twisting along the shaft in unapologetic, brutal font.

Darling.

I blink. Once. Twice. My voice is sandpaper as I choke out, “You tattooed my name on your dick?”

He strokes himself lazily, like this is just another morning. Like this is normal. “Of course I did,” he says, calm and sure. “It belongs to you.”

The words hit like a blade slipped under my ribs.

Not because they’re sweet. Not because he says it so matter of fact like there is no disputing them. But because I want them to betrue.

Because the worst part—the part I want to tear out of myself with my bare hands—is how my bodyreactsto them.

A fresh flush rolls over my skin, heat pooling low, my breath hitching even as my spine stiffens in rebellion. I don’t want this. Ishouldn’twant this. But want is clawing up my throat anyway.

Ruin shifts closer, his cock heavy and thick in his hand, the tip inches from my mouth. Then he grips my hair—hard. A firm fist at the roots, yanking my head back just enough to assert his control.

“Don’t bite,” he says, low and dangerous. “Or you’ll regret it.”

I glare up at him, mouth twisted in a defiant smirk even as his grip burns against my scalp. “Not as much asyouwould,” I rasp, voice rough and raw and almost shaking. Not from fear. From the thrill of it. From how fucking unhinged this moment is.

Because this should disgust me. This should humiliate me. This should make me scream and kick and fight my way out of this twisted web he and Rule have spun around me.

But it doesn’t.

Itelectrifiesme.

There’s something feral growing in my chest. Something that feeds on defiance and devours shame. Something that whispers:If this is the game, then I’m not losing. I’m taking the board with me.

So I stop pretending. Just for a second.

My hands rise and I slide them up the backs of his thighs. The fabric of his pants is coarse under my palms, the muscle beneath unyielding. I let my nails drag slightly, enough to make him feel it. Enough to show him that if I’m doing this, it’s not submission.

It’s war.

I hook my hands around his thighs anddraghim forward, steady and strong, until the head of his cock brushes my lips. My breath hitches against the cool steel of the piercings, my mouth parted.

He tightens his grip in my hair, his other hand twitching slightly at his side. Waiting. Watching.

But I don't give in right away. I let the momenthang.

Let him feel the burn of anticipation that he usually forces onto me.

My tongue darts out, slow, dragging across the underside of the head and over one of the piercings.

“You want me to beg?” I whisper, voice hoarse and laced with grit. “You better fucking earn it.”