7. Chapter 7 #2
The question hangs in the air between us. I should probably be scared. I should definitely be apologetic, maybe beg for mercy, explain myself. Instead, I find myself smirking back at him.
“Stalking is such a strong word,” I say. My voice is steady now, the last effects of the paralytic gone. “Maybe I just happened to be in the same places at the same times. You know, coincidence.”
Suha takes another drag of his cigarette, watching me. “Coincidence.”
“Yeah. Seoul’s a small city when you think about it. Bound to run into the same people now and then.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Not anger exactly, more like dark amusement mixed with something dangerous. He stubs out his cigarette in an ashtray on the side table and stands, motioning to one of his guards.
The guard steps forward and hands him something. A rolled leather packet, the kind I’ve seen in movies when they show old-timey doctors making house calls. Suha takes it and moves closer to the bed, his footsteps silent on the carpet.
My bravado falters. Just a little, just enough that I feel my heart rate pick up.
Suha sets the leather packet on the bedside table and slowly unrolls it.
The contents gleam in the afternoon light streaming through the windows.
Scalpels of various sizes, their blades catching the sun.
Forceps, both straight and curved. Needles, some thin as hair, others thick enough to make me wince just looking at them.
Everything arranged in neat rows, organized by size and function.
They’re surgical tools. Medical instruments. The kind of things you’d find in an operating room, except these are laid out on my bedside table while I’m chained to a bed.
Well, fuck.
I watch Suha’s hand move to the leather packet. His fingers, long and elegant, trace over the instruments with the kind of familiarity that makes my throat tight. He selects a scalpel—one of the smaller ones, the blade catching the light as he lifts it from its slot.
He tests the edge against his thumb, pressing just hard enough that I can see the skin indent but not break. His eyes stay on me the whole time, watching my reaction with that same blank expression that gives away absolutely nothing.
“Strip him,” he says to his guards without looking away from my face.
The two brick walls move immediately. One of them produces a pair of heavy-duty scissors from somewhere, the kind with serrated edges meant for cutting through tough material.
They don’t bother with finesse or care—one grabs the collar of my shirt and the other starts cutting, the blades slicing through fabric with quick snips that make me flinch.
My shirt falls away in pieces. The cool air hits my chest and I realize I’m breathing harder than I should be.
They move to my jeans next, cutting up the seams from ankle to waist, peeling the denim away like they’re unwrapping a package.
My boxers go the same way, shredded and tossed aside until I’m completely naked and exposed on these expensive silk sheets.
The guards step back and I’m suddenly very aware of how vulnerable I am.
Spread out, chained, unable to cover myself or hide anything.
Every mark from our first encounter is on full display—the bite marks on my shoulders and thighs, still healing into purple-yellow bruises.
The deeper one at the junction of my neck and shoulder where he bonded me, scabbed over but visible.
Fingerprint bruises on my hips. The fading marks around my throat from when he choked me.
Evidence of what we did. What I made him do.
Suha’s eyes track over my body slowly, noting each mark. His expression doesn’t change but something shifts in the air between us. Recognition, maybe. Or possession. Hard to tell with him.
“Who sent you?” he asks. His voice is conversational, like we’re discussing the weather or what to have for dinner. He moves closer to the bed, the scalpel still held loosely in his hand.
“Nobody sent me,” I say. My voice comes out steadier than I expected. “It’s nothing like that.”
“Which syndicate are you working for?” He sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “The Crimson Serpents? The Black Dragons? One of the smaller families trying to make a move?”
“I’m not working for anyone. I’m a fucking street fighter who lives in shitty apartments and runs from loan sharks. What the hell would a syndicate want with me?”
Suha tilts his head slightly, studying me. “Then why the borderline obsessive interest with me?” He gestures vaguely with the scalpel toward where my phone sits on the chair. “Why go through the trouble of tracking my rut cycle and breaking into my hotel room?”
I open my mouth and then close it again.
How do I explain this in a way that doesn’t sound completely insane?
Oh, I just really wanted to get fucked by the strongest alpha I’ve ever met, so I stalked you and tricked you into knotting me.
No ulterior motive, just good old-fashioned sexual desperation.
Not likely.
“What information were you supposed to gather?” Suha continues when I don’t answer. He brings the scalpel up, turning it so the blade catches the light. “Financial records? Client lists? Shipment schedules?”
“I wasn’t gathering information. I just wanted—” I cut myself off, biting down on the words.
“Wanted what?”
I press my lips together. There’s no good way to say this. No explanation that won’t make me sound like a complete lunatic.
Suha waits a moment longer, then shrugs slightly. “Have it your way.”
He leans over me, and I feel my heart rate spike.
The scalpel comes down and I suck in a breath, bracing for pain, but he doesn’t cut deep.
He just traces the tip around the outside of my left nipple in a slow, deliberate circle.
The sting is sharp and immediate, like a paper cut multiplied by ten.
Blood wells up along the shallow line, bright red against my skin, and starts to drip down my chest in thin rivulets.
“I can carve pieces off you all day if I need to,” Suha says calmly. He lifts the scalpel and examines the blood on the tip. “See how long it takes before you start talking. I’m a patient man.”
The pain radiates outward from the cut in hot waves.
It stings like hell, sharp and burning, and I can feel more blood trickling down my ribs to pool on the sheets beneath me.
But underneath the pain is something familiar and almost welcome.
That edge of hurt that makes my nerves light up, that makes me feel alive and present in my body.
I look up at him and grin, even though my chest is on fire. “Jokes on you because I’m into that shit.”
Suha pauses. The scalpel hovers in the air between us, and for the first time since he walked into this room, his expression shifts. Not much—just a slight quirk of his eyebrow, a faint curve at the corner of his mouth that might be amusement.
“Is that so,” he says. It’s not a question.
He sets the scalpel down on the bedside table, next to the other instruments. My relief is short-lived because he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out something else. Something sleek and black and unmistakably shaped like—
Oh, fuck.
It’s a butt plug. Not just any butt plug either, but one of those expensive ones with the smooth silicone coating and the little charging port at the base. The kind that vibrates. The kind that probably has multiple settings and can be controlled remotely.
My stomach does this complicated flip that’s half dread and half something I don’t want to examine too closely.
Suha holds it up, turning it in the light like he’s admiring a piece of art. “Since you’re so fond of pain,” he says, still in that same conversational tone, “let’s see how you handle something else.”
He nods at his guards. They move to either side of the bed and grab my legs, spreading them wider despite the chains already holding me open. One of them produces a bottle of lube from somewhere and hands it to Suha.
I watch, unable to look away, as Suha uncaps the bottle and drizzles the clear liquid over the plug. He takes his time coating it thoroughly, his movements unhurried. Then he shifts position, moving between my spread legs, and I feel the blunt tip of the plug press against my hole.
“Wait—” I start to say, but he’s already pushing it in.
The stretch burns. I’m not prepped, not ready, and even with the lube it’s too much too fast. My body tries to resist but he’s relentless, pushing steadily until the plug slides home with a final push that makes me gasp.
The flared base settles against my rim and I can feel it inside me, thick and intrusive, pressing against places that make my toes curl.
Suha sits back, surveying his work with what might be satisfaction. He pulls something else from his pocket—a small remote, black and sleek to match the plug.
Oh no.
He presses the button.
The plug roars to life inside me and I arch off the bed with a strangled gasp.
The vibrations are intense, stronger than I expected, buzzing against my prostate with relentless pressure that makes stars burst behind my eyelids.
Heat floods through my body, pooling low in my gut, and my cock fills almost instantly.
“Fuck,” I gasp out, pulling against the chains. The metal bites into my wrists but I barely feel it over the overwhelming sensation of the plug vibrating inside me.
Suha watches me with that same blank expression, like he’s just observing. He adjusts something on the remote and the vibrations shift, pulsing in waves that make my hips jerk involuntarily.
The pleasure builds fast, too fast. I can feel my orgasm approaching already, coiling tight in my belly, my cock leaking against my stomach. Just a little more, just a few more seconds—
The vibrations stop.