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Chapter 29

Seanna

No. No. No.

I repeat the word like a shield, like it’ll hold the line as Rule presses in, his blade dragging slow and deliberate over my skin. But my body—the traitorous bitch—is already arching toward the threat.

His voice snakes through me, low and level. Scream for me. Beg for me to break you.

I should spit in his face. Snarl something violent and sharp. Fight until my body gives out.

But instead, my thighs tighten. My breath catches.

And the heat between my legs pulses like a fucking metronome, synced perfectly to every shift of the blade.

God. Fucking. Dammit.

This isn’t me. I don’t give in. I don’t beg.

But he isn’t backing off.

And that edge… that cold steel sliding across my chest, down my ribs, lower—taunting—has my thoughts spiraling into a molten mess. The way he moves like this is inevitable. Like my resistance is just the warm-up act.

The burn in my wrists from his grip. The throb between my legs. The sting in my lungs as I try to hold back the sound clawing its way up my throat.

I’m unraveling and he knows it.

The worst part? I don’t even know if I want to stop it anymore. I’m tired of resisting.

“I hate you,” I whisper, breathless, the words trembling.

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t flinch. Just tilts his head slightly, blade brushing across my stomach like a calculation. Like he’s measuring how close he is to cracking me open.

And fuck, I hate that he’s close.

Because I feel it.

The weight of him straddling me, solid and unyielding. The hard, unforgiving ridge of his cock pressing into my lower stomach through the layers of our clothes—and it’s not subtle. He’s thick and hard and ready . My hips shift again without permission, and that’s when I know:

My pussy is a traitorous fucking bitch.

She doesn’t care about the humiliation. She doesn’t care about the mask or the knife. She wants that goddamn cock. She wants to be bent over and taken— used until the fight bleeds out of me in moans and broken cries. She wants him to make me beg. To make me weep for it.

And I hate that I want it too.

This isn’t supposed to happen.

I’ve spent my life building walls and sharpening edges, making sure no one could get close enough to even touch me. But Rule doesn’t knock on doors. He carves through them.

I clench my jaw, trying to breathe around the ache inside me. Rage and heat war for dominance, and still, that blade traces the lines of my body like he already knows what the answer will be.

I jerk against his grip.

Not hard enough to break it though I doubt I even could. Just enough to say, I'm still here.

His hold tightens.

“You want to fight,” he says quietly, calm as steel. “And you think that means you’re still in control.”

I grit my teeth.

I can’t see his eyes behind those reflective lenses. Can’t read a thing from that blank, armored mask. But his presence is everywhere—pressing into me from all sides.

He’s already inside. Not physically, not yet. But close. Too fucking close.

And every second I spend fighting myself is another second he wins .

I feel the slick heat between my thighs. The way my body keeps subtly grinding against him—seeking friction, chasing what it needs . Every inch of me is trembling, pulsing, aching. My pride is burning out like a dying star, and all that’s left is a desperate want.

I want to bite him. I want to scream. I want to rip free and murder him.

But more than all of that?

I want to submit. I want him to destroy me .

Control yourself, Seanna.

But I can’t. Not fully. Not when he’s this close. Not when I can feel how hard he is—feel the tension in his thighs, the pressure of his hips, the way he holds his position like a king above his prize.

“Still holding on?” he murmurs, blade grazing the underside of my breast—light, taunting. “Even when your body’s already given you up?”

My back arches before I can stop it. My wrists pull hard against his grip. I hate the sound that slips from my throat—it’s not a protest.

It’s a whimper .

“Fuck you,” I snap, desperate to reclaim something— anything —of myself.

His head tilts.

“You will,” he says, calm and controlled. “But not until you ask .”

And that? That breaks something loose.

Not my will. Not completely.

But the wall between resistance and need crumbles, brick by crumbling brick.

His blade drags lower—not cutting. Hovering. Waiting.

“You want the pain,” he murmurs. “You want someone to take everything you’re carrying and rip it away. You want to feel something stronger than guilt or anger or control.”

I don’t say no. But I can’t say yes either.

So I stay silent, my entire body screaming louder than any words ever could.

He waits. Quiet and still.

And I feel myself falling into the space he’s carved out for me—this cage, this moment, this fucking need .

I’m done pretending I don’t want it.

I’m done pretending I don’t want them, him.

My voice scrapes up from the back of my throat, raw and reluctant. “Please.”

One word. One betrayal. One truth too ugly to hide.

Rule stills above me. The knife pauses just below my ribs, his body tensing as though that one word hit harder than any punch I’d landed in the fight.

His voice comes low, almost a whisper. "Say it again."

I grit my teeth, shame and heat choking me. My pride’s bleeding out somewhere between my thighs, and still—it pulses.

"Please," I force out again, quieter. More desperate.

"Please what?" he demands, calm as steel, the edge of control still in his voice even as the pressure in his body coils tighter. "Say it, Seanna. Beg me."

"Fuck you," I hiss—but it’s broken now, the venom hollow. “Please… fuck me. Just—do it already.”

He waits.

And the stillness strangles.

“Please,” I whisper again, voice cracking. “Please, Rule. I need it. I need you. I need—”

My throat closes. I can’t say it. But it’s already there, in my voice, in my body. Everything inside me is unraveling.

He hums, satisfied.

The knife vanishes from my skin, set gently on the forest floor beside us. His weight shifts, just long enough for him to reach into one of the deep side pockets of his pants.

I barely have time to breathe before there is rope unfurling like a viper in his hand. He doesn’t hesitate.

He binds my wrists together, tight and sure. Firm with no give. Then he pulls a steel spike from another pocket and drives it into the forest floor. Pinning the rope into the dirt, anchoring me in place.

I tug once, instinctively. There’s no escape.

Only then does he pick the knife back up.

He leans over me slowly, that maddening calm still clinging to every motion. The blade kisses my hip first—pressing just beneath the waistband of my pants.

Then it slices .

The sound of fabric tearing is obscene in the quiet between us. He cuts slowly, methodically, and occasionally—deliberately—slices through skin.

Little lines of red bloom across my thighs, my stomach, my ribs. Not deep..

But intentional.

He doesn’t just cut—he carves. Slow drags. Crosshatches. A series of shallow, deliberate slashes that sting and burn, every one a punctuation mark to my surrender.

My body arches without permission. Heat floods my core. The pain stings, electric and sharp—but it only drives the hunger deeper.

He drags the flat of the blade through one of the lines, collecting blood on the edge.

Then he brings it to my lips.

“Taste yourself,” he commands.

I glare. But my mouth opens.

The metal touches my tongue. I taste copper and heat and something primal. It causes my breath to shudder.

He lowers the blade and presses his thumb to one of the shallow wounds, smearing the blood across my stomach in slow, reverent streaks.

“War paint,” he murmurs. "You wear it well."

He paints me with my blood. My body becomes his canvas. Long strokes down my ribs. A smear between my breasts. He presses a hand to the small of my stomach and slides it up, leaving a crimson trail behind.

And then lower. Between my thighs. His fingers dip into the slick heat already pooling there, mixing it with the blood. He smears that up my inner thighs and across my stomach, painting words with his fingers, like a signature.

By the time he sets the knife aside again, my body is a live wire. I’m drenched. Aching. Writhing.

He kneels between my thighs, unbuckling his pants.

And then I see it.

Two steel barbells pierce across his cock. His cock is thick and flushed, heavy in his hand. And of course it’s pierced. Of course his dick is accessorized like Ruin’s.

My breath catches, eyes flicking down.

And yes. There it is. Tattooed in bold, black ink. Darling .

I choke on a sound. A strangled, disbelieving laugh. Does every part of them belong to me now? Is that the point?

He lines himself up, and I feel the slick head of his cock drag through my folds—cool steel bumping against hypersensitive flesh.

My whole body locks up.

He thrusts in—hard. Savage. Unrelenting.

The stretch is brutal. Pain lances up my spine, white-hot and blinding.

Fuck . Of course my uterus decides to be a bitch and join the party. The cramp screams—but so does the pleasure.

It twists together, blurs the lines. Pleasure and pain folding into something I can’t name.

He’s thick. Hard. Piercings grinding inside me, dragging against every nerve. My mouth opens in a silent cry.

“Feel that?” he growls, voice tight now, no longer calm. “That’s me. Every fucking inch of me. Right where I belong.”

And then he starts to move.

Each thrust is a demand. A punishment. A reward.

My wrists strain. My thighs tremble. The sharp pain deep inside me adds to it all—makes me more raw, more desperate, more alive than I’ve ever fucking been.

He fucks me like he's snapping my spine in half with every thrust.

And I take it.

I scream. I moan. I sob his name.

Tears blur my vision. I don’t know if I’m crying because it hurts or because it doesn’t hurt enough.

I beg. Not because I want mercy. Because I need more.

“Please—harder—faster—please—”

He growls and obeys, slamming into me with savage force. Every stroke is dizzying, maddening. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

My back arches off the forest floor. My body convulses around him.

“Please, Rule—I can’t—I—”

But I can. I want to. I need to.

His hand drags up my ribs—slow, possessive—then wraps around my throat, cutting off every gasp of air I’m not using to beg him with. The pressure is perfect—tight, unyielding—and it pushes me to the edge of delirium.

His other hand presses down on my lower abdomen—right where the ache is deepest. The dull pain flares sharp again beneath his palm, throbbing, insistent.

He thrusts deeper—each angle hitting that one spot inside me, the one only they seem able to find. That maddening, impossible place that makes my vision blur and my hips jerk, desperate and wild.

The pressure builds. Deep. Tight. Spinning.

And just when I think I might survive it—

I clamp down. Hard.

My body contracts so violently it forces him out.

And then I gush.

It sprays the ground beneath me—hot, wet, blinding.

“Fuck yes,” he snarls, reaching down and rubbing my clit hard and fast, coaxing the climax to new hights, dragging the pleasure out of me.

My body convulses. I sob his name, because it’s too much. I’m breaking apart at the seams.

He presses harder, working me through it.

“Good fucking girl,” he growls. “Making a mess for me.”

And just as my body begins to still, he grips his cock and slides it back to my entrance.

Then thrusts back in. Deep and hard.

He keeps fucking me through the aftershocks, through the wreckage, through the whimpers.

My body’s limp beneath him, hypersensitive and raw. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter.

His cock grinds against every swollen nerve, the drag of his piercings making my breath hitch with each thrust.

The second climax rises slow—less violent, but no less consuming. A heavy, molten ache that builds and builds until I’m crying out beneath him again.

“Please—please, I’m—”

It breaks.

My pussy clenches around him, tight and trembling. The wave crashes through me, dragging him down with me.

He groans—deep and rough—and his hips jerk once, twice—then they still as his cock pulses.

Hot, thick release spills inside me.

He stays buried deep, panting harshly, body braced over mine.

And I can feel it all. The twitch of him. The heat. The burn.

And even though he has pretty much destroyed me—I want more .