Chapter 56 #2
My reflection stares back at me; hair disheveled, skin flushed, something dark and unrecognizable burning in my eyes. I don’t look like the girl who used to write about him. I look like someone who belongs to the aftermath.
His hand slides to my lower back.
Then lower.
He traces the familiar place where his mark lives.
The V.
His mark.
The one no one else ever walked away with. The one carved into a body that is still breathing. The mark I’ve seen on crime places, on his countless victims.
“All the others who wore this,” he says quietly, his fingers pressing over the shape, grounding it into me, “are gone.”
I swallow.
“You are the only one who carries this and lives.”
He releases me just long enough to turn me around.
When I face him again, the rawness in his eyes almost steals my breath. Not softness. Not regret. Possession, in its rawest form. He takes my face in his hands, not gently, rough.
“After this you won’t follow me,” he says. “You will not come looking. You won’t write what happens next. You don’t chase the version of me you meet tonight.”
I search his face, memorizing the angles, the scars, the way his tattoos disappear beneath the open collar of his shirt.
“Yes.”
My chest aches, but I won’t show him that. I won’t ruin my last moment with the monster I’ve chased half my life.
He doesn’t kiss me like someone afraid to lose me.
He kisses me like someone who knows he already has.
And with it the world narrows, the cabin disappears.
There is only the heat of him, the weight of his presence, the way he commands my body without ever asking permission.
The way he positions me with hands that know exactly how much force I will take.
The way every movement is instruction, every pause deliberate, every breath controlled.
Once we’re done, both breathless, restraint follows.
I don’t fight it.
I don’t want to.
He takes my wrists, pulling them behind my back with a grip that makes it immediately clear I am no longer standing on my own terms. My shoulders are drawn back, my posture forced open, my balance already compromised.
The red rope is cool against my skin as he loops it around my wrists, tight enough to make movement useless, tight enough to make it numb. He wants me aware of it.
Of him.
Then his hand comes to my throat.
The rope slides there next, a double line of pressure circling my neck, cutting off air, not final yet, but promising exactly how little control I will have once he decides to change that.
“Move,” he says.
I do with cheeks flushed.
He guides me forward until I am directly beneath the beam in the ceiling. I don’t understand what he’s doing until the rope tightens upward and my body is forced onto the balls of my feet, spine pulled long, breath instantly thinner than it was a second ago, deadly.
My balance wavers.
The pressure increases.
He still towers over me, and fastens the rope overhead with the same precision he uses for everything else. The position is brutal, as is he. Every tremor matters. Every shift of muscle risks punishment.
I swallow.
The movement makes the rope tighten.
My breath stutters.
He steps back just far enough to see all of me, and I hate it. I want him closer.
“You understand now,” he says quietly.
I don’t answer. I can’t, the rope will take my speech.
I am suddenly acutely aware of my own body, how small movements change everything, how fragile balance is when it isn’t yours to control.
He moves closer again, circling me slowly, like he is studying an experiment he already knows the outcome of.
“I killed someone here,” he says calmly. “In this exact position, one of my firsts.”
My pulse spikes.
The room feels smaller. Colder.
His voice does not change.
“They didn’t last long.”
My feet slip a fraction.
The rope bites.
My breath fractures into something sharp and involuntary.
He watches the reaction closely, like he is reading data off my body.
“How does it feel,” he asks softly, “to hang where someone else stopped being human?”
I force air into my lungs.
“It feels—” My voice breaks. I have to stop. Start again. “It feels like I belong to the dead.” After speaking those words, the rope tightens.
He steps in close.
“No,” he says. “You belong to me.”
One knuckle drifts down the front of my body, not gentle, not rushed, a slow, deliberate reminder of exactly how exposed I am in this position. I can feel how my body betrays me, how heat and tension and something dangerously close to surrender coil through me despite the fear, despite the threat.
He notices.
Of course he does.
“Will you hurt me?”
“Yes,” he murmurs near my ear.
I tremble, my body falters. The rope responds. My breath shortens again. He doesn’t touch the knot, he doesn’t loosen it. He lets the balance do the work for him.
“You asked for the version of me that I don’t allow anyone,” he murmurs. “This is it.”
His knuckle brushes my soaked panties, a touch that already knows the answer. The contact is light, almost clinical, and it makes my breath fracture anyway. Two fingers trace my clit through fabric, slow enough to feel like cruelty. I make a sound I don’t recognize as my own.
He watches it happen to me.
“Lucan… please,” I whisper, the word scraping out of a throat already tight with want.
There is something dangerous in the way his gaze travels over me. Not possession. Not tenderness. Calculation. As if he is deciding exactly how much of me I am allowed to have.
He shoves the panties aside, two fingers disappear into me, and with that his touch finally finds me properly.
The sensation is immediate, overwhelming, too much and not enough at the same time.
My body answers him before my mind can. I make another sound, sharper this time, helpless in the way he seems to enjoy most.
He moves in and out with patience that feels like punishment. Slow, deliberate, exact. Drawing me open, coaxing response after response from me while keeping himself untouched and dressed. I am nothing but reaction under his hands.
The tension builds until it feels like something inside me is going to split.
And then—
He stops.
He lowers himself out of my line of sight, the rope refusing me even the mercy of watching him. My pulse hammers. I can’t see him. I can only feel the shift in the air, the certainty of his nearness.
His hands ghost over my skin, and my breathing hitches when he digs his fingers into the top of my panties and pulls it down my trembling legs.
His lips kiss my skin, everywhere except where I am already aching for him; inner thighs, ass, and stomach. The contrast is unbearable, control dressed as worship, devotion that feels indistinguishable from threat. It’s like being offered to the devil, but he won’t have me.
When his lips finally claim my pussy completely, it is not gentle. It is consuming. Devouring. As if this is his last meal, and he’s dying if not fed.
His hands come up to my ass, and he grips my cheeks, pulling them apart.
I tense as his tongue continues to slowly move higher.
His warm, wet tongue, runs along my throbbing pussy.
My back arches despite myself. My legs tremble.
The only thing holding me upright is the same thing that makes escape impossible.
And in that suspended, breathless space between surrender and ruin, he stands upright—and he takes me.
Removing the rope entirely, freedom, or so its faked form.
He picks me up, carrying me towards a different room; a bedroom.
It’s pretty cozy looking for what’s about to go down here.
He puts me down, our lips inches apart. I suck in a deep breath of air.
It feels nice; not being chocked by a rope.
Leaning his lips to my ear, he takes my lobe into his mouth and sucks on it, making a shiver run up my spine.
Pulling away, he whispers roughly. “I’m going to fuck you tonight as mine.
That nosy mouth is mine. That pretty tight ass is mine.
You’re fucking mine. Do I make myself clear? ”
“Very,” I whisper, my body trembling with anticipation. “I belong to you.”
I whimper as he pushes me down onto the bed.
My pussy starts pulsing at his words, at what just happened.
At how forbidden this is, but how bad I crave this.
His stormy gray eyes are on fire. It makes my stomach turn at how much he wants me.
And at how much I want to give him. How willing I’ve always been at his touch.
He finally undresses, shirt first, the fabric sliding away to reveal what he keeps hidden from the world.
As he turns slightly the snake tattoo comes into view; inked in dark, deliberate lines, devouring its own tail in an endless circle, a promise of destruction and rebirth carved into his skin.
Bruises bloom in shades of violet and yellow across his ribs, old scars cut pale paths through muscle, each one a quiet testament to violence survived and inflicted.
His body is a map of war and willpower: ink, sinew, and damage forged into something terrifyingly controlled.
There is nothing soft about him. He’s like a nuclear weapon given human form; contained, silent, and devastating, every line of his body warning of what happens when the restraint finally breaks.
Once he’s back on me his fingers gently massage my clit, and I moan.
“I will cover you in bruises from my hands.” My hands find his hair, but are immediately pinned back into the bed.
“Leave them there,” he orders. He then spreads my pussy and slides a finger inside me, forcing me to lift my hips.
“Marks from my teeth.” He bites down on my neck, and my body breaks out in goose bumps while I cry out for him.
“No other man will ever make you feel the way I make you feel.”
I nod, it’s fast, too fast. A cruel smile spreads across his face.
“You’re such a good girl,” he whispers as his fingers pleasure me.
“Aren’t you?” he asks. I want to be his good girl, but in a bad way.
“Yes.” I breathe. My body has never felt so alive, so wanted.
So needy for a man so dangerous. With his free hand he slaps the side of my breast, and I yelp.
The pressure is building. I try to twist my hips as his fingers move in and out slower now.
I know he is taunting me, making me wet and needy. Making me wait for him.
Just when I think the waiting will be endless I hear his zipper.
He doesn’t give me time to adjust. He pins me into the mattress with both hands, and thrusts his hard dick into me.
Stretching me with his large size, and making me scream.
I love that I’m the only one he’s ever done this to.
I love that he can’t help himself. That he has this primal need to make me his.
“That’s my girl,” he groans.
He picks up his pace, and wraps both hands around my already bruised throat.
My hands come up to grip his arm, but he doesn’t budge.
My lungs begin to burn, water in my eyes.
He continues to fuck me, his eyes on mine.
My heart races, and tears fall from my eyes, but a wave is coming.
It’s going to pull me down straight into hell.
The room starts to spin, oxygen runs out, and the dam begins to break.
Just then he releases my throat, oxygen filling my lungs. I inhale every bit of oxygen I can.
He uses one hand now to pin both wrists, with the other free hand he grips my hair. With that he yanks my face back, fucking me roughly until we’re both coming and tears are running down my face.
Whether that’s from the force of his dick, or this being our final chapter, I don’t know.