Chapter 8 #2
I break the kiss slowly, dragging it out, catching his bottom lip gently between my teeth before letting it go. He makes a soft sound, dazed, and my hand eases off his throat, thumb stroking once more before I slide my fingers to his jaw instead.
Holy fuck, the way he looks at me—shocked at his own pleasure, terrified by how much he needs more—lights a fire under my skin I didn’t know could burn hotter.
His lips are swollen and slick, flushed dark. There’s a smear of color across his cheeks, and his hair is a wreck against the pillow.
“Look at you,” I murmur, taking him in. “All fucked up and we barely did anything.”
He swallows, chest rising and falling fast. “You… kissed me,” he says dumbly.
“Was that what it was?” I ask, mouth curving. “Thought I hallucinated it.”
He scowls weakly. “You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re still under me,” I say. “Checkmate.”
His fingers are still curled in my shirt, knuckles white. He hasn’t let go. I glance down at his hands, then back up to his face. He notices where I’m looking and immediately tries to yank them away, embarrassed. I don’t let him. I catch one of his wrists in my free hand, grip firm but not painful.
“Don’t hide,” I say quietly. “You already gave yourself away.”
He glares again, but there’s no heat behind it now—just lingering shock and a bone-deep confusion that makes my chest twist. He genuinely doesn’t know what to do with himself. No script covers this. There’s no youth group pamphlet for “what to do when you like it when the monster kisses you.”
“Why did you…” he starts, but the words fall apart halfway.
I don’t answer him, not with words. I let my hand slip from his throat to his shoulder, then down his arm, fingers tracing the line of muscle through the thin cotton of his T-shirt.
When I reach his wrist, I curl my hand around it, feeling the frantic flutter of his pulse there too.
He watches me, dazed, suspicious, and wanting, all at once.
On my own wrist sits the leather cuff I’ve worn for years. It has a simple design showing overlapping dark leather worn soft over time, fastened with two small metal buckles. People think it’s a fashion thing, no one asks where it came from.
It started as a weight and a reminder. Over time, it became one more piece of armor; one more thing that’s just part of me.
The idea hits me with the same inevitability as the kiss.
Without breaking eye contact, I reach over with my free hand and undo the buckle.
I slide the cuff off and it leaves a faint band of lighter skin behind. My wrist feels weirdly naked without it, exposed in a way I don’t like. I shift my grip on Brendon’s arm so I’m holding him gently, his hand resting palm-up on the rumpled blanket.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice still rough from the kiss.
“Marking what’s mine,” I say.
His eyes widen again. “I’m not—”
“You are,” I cut in. “You just haven’t caught up to the reality yet.”
He tries to pull his hand back, but I tighten my fingers and with my other hand, I wrap the leather around his wrist. It looks darker against his skin, the strap snug but not tight, overlapping just so.
My fingers move with familiar ease as I fasten the buckles on the underside, turning his hand slightly so I can secure it.
He watches the whole thing like he’s seeing some kind of binding spell in motion.
“Dom…” he whispers, and there’s something raw in the way he says my name like that for the first time. Not Dominic. Not Mr. Volkov under his breath in faculty hallways. Dom—short, intimate, and so fucking dangerous.
I press my thumb against the leather to make sure it’s secure, then I let go. The cuff sits snug against his skin, the leather warmed by my body and already picking up his heat.
Brendon looks up at me, confusion and panic flickering in his eyes. “Why are you putting this on me?”
I shrug, going for nonchalant. “Because you’re mine now too, and I like my shit where I can see it.”
His breath catches. “I’m not a thing, Dominic.”
“You’re not a thing to me, Little Sin, you’re a choice,” I say. “You’re also my pretty little toy, and I don’t share my choices, or my fucking toys.”
“I’m not wearing this,” he snaps, panic bleeding into anger. “People are gonna see—”
“No one’s gonna look at your wrist and think anything except ‘nice bracelet,’” I cut in. “You’re the only one who’s gonna feel what it means.”
He shakes his head. “My dad…”
“Your dad doesn’t go here,” I say. “And even if he did, he’s not going to notice a piece of leather on your wrist while he’s too busy worrying about your soul.”
His jaw clenches. “You’re mocking him again.”
“Yeah,” I say. “He deserves it.”
He glances down at the cuff again, flexing his fingers. I don’t like how my wrist feels without it, but I like it on him more.
“You’re gonna keep it on,” I say, letting the words settle. “You’re gonna take it off to shower, but that’s it. You keep it on when you sleep, pray, or go to class. You’ll only take it off if I tell you to. You understand?”
His throat works. “And if I do take it off?” he asks, almost daring me.
I lean closer, close enough that my next words brush his cheek. “Then I’ll come get you, and we’ll have a much longer conversation about obedience than you’re ready for.”
I feel the way he shivers under me, a full-body tremor he can’t disguise. This has that same twisted thread of darkness woven through it—a curiosity that keeps him here instead of driving him to call for help.
“You can’t just… own people,” he says weakly.
“That’s the thing, you’re the one who handed me the leash, Brendon.”
He blinks at that, then lets his head drop back against the pillow with a quiet exhale, eyes closing briefly. His wrist, the one with the cuff, rests between us on the blanket.
I watch him—the flush still on his cheeks, the swollen mouth, the leather snug around his skin—and I feel that same sick little thrill, the one that used to come only when someone took their last breath under my hands. Different stimulus, same high.
I’m going to get addicted to him.
Not just to kissing him or to the sounds he makes, and how he looks under me.
I’m going to get addicted to this process.
To taking a pristine, polished thing and watching my fingerprints appear on it, one-by-one.
To seeing my mark on him in places no one else will understand.
To knowing that under his clean clothes and his cross and his polite smile, he’s carrying pieces of me around all day.
This is worse than killing in many ways.
Killing ends. This doesn’t.
I sit back slowly, letting a little distance open up between us even though every greedy part of me wants to press in closer to see what other noises I can pull out of him this morning. I need to ease off. He’s already overloaded. I can see his thoughts spiraling behind his closed eyelids.
He’s been chained his whole life; the only difference now is who’s holding the other end.
I reach out and tap the cuff lightly with one finger. “Get used to it,” I say. “That’s not coming off.”
He opens his eyes, looks at me, looks down at his wrist, then back. His voice is barely a whisper when he answers, but I hear it.
“Yeah,” he says. “I got that.”