Page 9 of His to Ruin

“No.” His breath hitches. “You don’t get to claim me like I’m some—some thing you can own.”

I chuckle. “Oh, but I do.

He stiffens when I take his hand, pressing his palm flat against my chest. I let him feel it—the heat, the hunger, the thing inside me that is only ever awake for him.

“Your heart is…” he trails off, confused.

My lips barely graze his ear. “Beating for you.”

His pulse thrums beneath my fingertips, a drumbeat of delicious, aching conflict. I tighten my grip on his wrist, holding him there.

His voice is hoarse, so desperate for conviction. “You can’t have me.”

I grin, wicked and triumphant. “Oh, Little Nightmare.” I tilthis chin up, eyes burning into his. “I already do.” I crash my mouth down on his. Not soft. Not kind. A claiming kiss.

Christian gasps against my mouth, and I take the opportunity to devour him properly—fingers tangled in his hair, tongue sliding past his lips, fangs grazing that tender bottom lip I want to bite until he’s marked.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

When I finally pull back, his lips are swollen and his chest is heaving.

I press my forehead against his, murmuring against his breath, “Say it.”

He blinks, dazed. “Say what?”

I drag my claws gently down his throat, feeling the shudder that runs through him.

“Say you’re mine.”

I brush my thumb over his bottom lip, swollen from my kiss, admiring the way his pupils are blown wide and the way his lips part like he might beg if I gave him the chance.

“Be a good boy,” I murmur, watching the way his pale lashes flutter, the little shiver that rolls down his spine. He hates how much that gets to him. But I know. I know everything. Christian lets out a shuddering breath, and his fingers twitch against my chest like he’s about to push me away—or pull me closer. I tilt his chin up, drinking in the sight of him.

Wrecked.

Beautiful.

Mine.

“You’re—” He swallows, blinking fast like he’s trying to clear his head, to make sense of what’s happening. “You’re in my head.”

I chuckle, the sound low and dark against his throat. “Oh, Little Nightmare.” I brush my lips against his jaw, just the ghost of a kiss. “I am so much deeper than that.”

He shudders.

Good.

I lean in close, my lips brushing against his ear as I whisper, “Dream of me.”

He stills.

I step back, watching the way his body sways, lost in something he doesn’t want to name.

“Because I’ll be watching,” I continue, my voice dipping into something softer, more insidious. “Always.”

I let the truth sink in, watching as realization dawns in his heavy-lidded eyes. No escape. No pretending I don’t exist. No one will ever hurt him, shame him, make him feel like there is something wrong with him. Not with me around.

Christian will learn, eventually. He belongs to me. His love, his body, his soul. He will never be afraid again because I will carve fear out of the world itself for him.