Page 43 of Carved Obsession (The Sanctum Syndicate #4)

I exhale slowly, blowing all that air over her opening, watching how it pulses and begs to be filled.

She moans something filthy under her breath, and I bring that metal-clawed middle finger to her pussy.

I scratch the sharp end on the inside of her labia, marveling at the goosebumps that bloom over her thighs and belly.

Her gaze flickers to the crowd gathered by the window as I continue the sharp exploration on her sensitive inner thigh.

Holding her gaze, I press the tip deeper as I bear down on that sensitive bundle of nerves with two fingers.

She cries out and the thinnest trace of blood appears from the scratch, but she doesn’t protest one bit.

I repeat the motions on the other thigh, scraping the claw gently in a spiral motion before I press it harder, applying more pressure on her clit at the same time.

Her velvet-soft, creamy skin looks beautiful with the trickles of crimson staining it. She’s a stark contrast to my heavily tattooed skin, and I’m thoroughly enjoying her untouched quality—minus some faded scars I’ve noticed on her back. But I’ll keep those questions for later.

I rise, walking behind her as I drag the claw over her skin.

Red scratches rise in my wake, some deeper, with tiny droplets of blood welling over them.

Wherever I go, she turns her head in my direction, seeking me, desperate to hold my gaze.

She’s slightly uncomfortable with all the others watching her, even though they have no idea who she is with that mask on.

I stride to the wall and grab my favorite riding crop—smooth on one side of the clapper, with small stainless-steel spikes on the other. Starting with the smooth side, I slap her thighs as I search her gaze for limits she doesn’t voice. I increase the force, but she barely flinches.

I snap it over her inner thigh, where she’s much more sensitive.

Again, she takes it well. Repeating the motion, I hit harder this time, and she gasps, flinching, but I can tell she can take more.

Then I drag the clapper over her exposed pussy, stopping right over her slick hole, and slap her once more.

“Aaah!” The moan ripping out of her mouth is nothing short of visceral. Vivid.

I drag the leather over her clit, and when I whip it, she cries out for a god I don’t recognize.

“More,” she urges.

Fuck, she’s exquisite. My cock responds to her demands, desperate to feel her again.

I turn the crop around, the small spikes now the stars of the show as I whip them over her thigh.

She attempts to jump within her bonds but fails, and I reach over from behind her, sliding a finger through her exposed center, snapping the spiked crop against the front of her thigh again.

Her core twitches, slick pleasure coating my finger.

I drag those spikes up her body and plunge three digits inside her warmth. She cries out, squeezing them, writhing even harder when I slap the leather against her mound.

My fingers thrust and roll in and out of her as I slap the clapper against her flesh on the same rhythm. She moans louder, trying to push against my hand and fuck herself with it, her gaze constantly seeking me over her shoulder.

Only, it’s the pleasure she’s wholly focused on. No pain clouds her gaze. No tears. No soft pleas chanted from her lips.

And that’s what I need from her.

I drag the metal claw over Scarlet’s skin, reveling in the arch of her body, muscles pulling against the leather straps.

Then I snap the spiked crop against her thigh, harder than I’ve ever done before with any sub.

She cries out, breathing quickening, lips parting with little gasps that make my cock ache.

She’s not showing it, but I must have hurt her. I peek over and droplets of blood seep rapidly from the graze I left over her ribs. She might have enjoyed it, but my stomach drops just enough to make me uneasy.

Her gaze flickers to the viewing window again. Frowning, I turn to the crowd, walk over there, and in one swift motion, I pull the curtains shut.

“Better?”

She nods with jerky, rushed movements.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask.

“I-I know you like it. I thought it’s what you want.”

“You silly, silly girl.” I rip off our masks, grasp her jaw in my hand, and hold her attention hostage. “It’s you I want.”

Her eyes widen, lips parting in surprise as her gaze flickers between my eyes and my mouth. She wants a kiss, but I release her without gracing her with one. Instead, I give her one more painful whip of the crop, and her body jumps in response, as much as the restraints allow.

“Look at you,” I murmur, circling her with patient steps. “You take it so beautifully, kitten. But let’s see how much you can really endure.”

I flick the riding crop against her inner thigh, and the spikes leave a delicate constellation of marks. Her body jolts, her head tipping back as she moans—a sound that’s almost too pretty. Too deliberate. It fuels something dark and unrelenting in me.

Switching the crop to my left hand, I let the claw glide up her ribcage, just barely breaking the skin.

Her chest heaves, and I drag the claw higher, over her nipple, circling it before flicking the point directly against the sensitive bud.

Her cry is sharp, a perfect symphony of pleasure and pain—or so it seems.

I strike again, and the crop lands on her exposed cunt this time. The spikes leave tiny indentations on her soft flesh, the perfect contrast to the slick arousal coating her. Another cry spills from her lips, and her hips jerk forward.

I don’t stop. I scratch the claw down her stomach hard enough to leave shallow, stinging cuts. The crop’s spikes bite into her outer thigh, then her inner, and then directly over her clit. Each strike is deliberate. Calculated. My gaze fixes on her face, searching for the cracks.

Her cries grow louder, more breathless, her body shuddering with every touch, but something about her reactions doesn’t sit right.

Her moans are flawless, her trembles almost too perfect.

I switch back to the crop only and slide my fingers inside her inviting warmth, fucking her with them simultaneously.

Pleasure and pain are a wonderful combination, and yet, she only seems to respond to one of them.

Pressing the tip of the crop against her clit, I thrust three digits into her, hard, relentless, curling just enough to make her body tighten around me.

I strike her inner thigh again, harder this time, and watch her jolt against the restraints.

Her head snaps up, and she gasps loudly, a cry spilling from her lips that feels. ..off.

She’s performing .

I pull my fingers out, my pace slowing, my movements deliberate. My gaze locks on hers, and my free hand grips her jaw, forcing her to meet my eyes.

“You’re lying to me, kitten.”

Her breath catches, her mask of pain faltering for the first time.

“N-no.” Her faint voice trembles, not with fear, but with effort.

Cocking my head, I watch her as I lower my hand to find one of the crimson welts on her skin and trace it with my thumb. “You’re faking it.”

She hesitates, her lips parting and closing, but no words come out.

“Scarlet.” My tone sharpens, brooking no argument.

Finally, she exhales, her composure shifting to straighten, mask falling like she flipped a switch. “I can’t feel pain,” she says softly. The admission shatters like glass between us. “I have CIP—congenital insensitivity to pain. I can’t feel it, Carter. I never have.”

I freeze, the words sinking in, my mind dissecting their meaning with clinical precision. The world narrows to just her words, and the implications slice through me.

No pain.

None of the usual methods I use to break people will work on her. None of the responses I feed on will ever come from her.

How fascinating.

She breaks people to see the pain strung through their eyes, and I break them to rip out their emotional responses. We both feed on opposite sides of the spectrum. Sides we will never relate to.

For a moment, I wonder if we’re too different. But I quickly realize...we’re exactly what each other is missing.

Stepping closer, I grip her chin firmly, forcing her to look at me. Her pupils are blown wide, her lips swollen, begging to be kissed.

“Why?”

“I wanted—” Her voice breaks and she shakes her head. “I wanted to feel something, Carter. Anything. I wanted what I see in others when they’re with you. The pleasure born out of pain, that visceral sensation that seems to send them to another world.”

The words stab at something deep inside me, unfamiliar and sharp.

I’ve built my world on pain, on control, on feeding off the reactions I draw from others.

Learning from them. And yet, here she is.

Unyielding. Untouchable in the way I know best—and somehow still the most real thing I’ve ever encountered.

I drag my thumb over the curve of her lip again, my grip on her jaw tightening just enough to hold her steady and crush my lips to hers in a bruising kiss that imprints on both of us.

“You don’t need what I’ve given others. What you get from me from now on, Scarlet, will only ever be yours. I’ll give you pleasure that will make you fucking proud you can’t feel pain.” I kiss her again, punctuating those words to make sure they sink in. “Only yours. Only for you.”

She nods, her breath shallow, her body straining against the bonds like she’s trying to reach me. I release her slowly out of them, then hold her to make sure she can stand.

Maybe she can’t feel pain, but her body still bears the effects of it. I sit her down, clean every single welt I left on her body. I rub soothing lotion on each red mark the crop left. She quietly shifts and turns as she drinks her water, letting me take care of her.

The more we sit in silence, the more my mind reels. I knew she was fascinating, but fuck me, the universe had something in store for me. I have some research to do.

But first, I need to take her home.