Chapter 13 #4
He takes another drag, his dark eyes holding mine through the haze of smoke. “My number is in your phone. You are to come when called. I expect you here to service me a minimum of four times a week. I’ll text you the schedule.”
The audacity of it, the sheer, casual ownership in his delivery, makes a hot spike of anger pierce my lethargy.
A sneer twists my lips. I don’t argue. It would be pointless.
My body is evidence of how well arguing works with him.
Instead, I swing my legs slowly over the side of the bed.
My feet touch the plush carpet. Every muscle screams in protest. The fresh burns on my thighs pull tight.
The deep ache in my ass is a constant, throbbing background noise, and the strange internal pressure of the tag makes me feel off-balance.
Standing is a project. I have to brace my hands on the edge of the mattress, my arms shaking.
I take a slow, careful breath, and then push myself upright.
The room does a slow, lazy spin. I lock my knees, waiting for it to pass.
My own nakedness suddenly feels more vulnerable than it did when I was chained.
He’s just watching, smoking, his gaze staying there.
My clothes are in a torn heap near the door where his men dumped them after stripping me in the car.
I walk towards them, my gait stiff and awkward, a pronounced limp in my step.
Each movement sends fresh twinges through my battered body.
Bending down to pick up my jeans is an exercise in agony.
I hiss as the denim scrapes over the tender skin of my thighs and ass.
Getting them on is a clumsy, humiliating struggle.
I have to lean against the wall for balance.
The button-up shirt is missing several buttons, and the collar is stretched.
I pull it on anyway, not bothering to fasten it, letting it hang open over my bruised chest.
I find my boots and socks, sitting by the door. Putting on socks is almost comically difficult. Sitting on the floor feels like surrendering, so I brace myself against the doorframe and try to do it standing, wobbling precariously. Finally, I get them on, then my boots.
I straighten up, running a hand through my hopelessly tangled hair. I feel wrecked. I look wrecked. I can smell myself—sweat, sex, pain, the faint, acrid scent of burnt skin clinging to me.
I don’t look at him as I reach for the door handle.
“Oh, and Yujeong?”
His voice stops me, calm and clear. My hand freezes on the cool metal. I don’t want to turn around. But I do. Slowly, I turn my head to look at him over my shoulder.
He’s leaning forward in the armchair, elbows on his knees, the cigarette held loosely between his fingers.
He holds my gaze, and his eyes are no longer casually bored.
They are flat, dark, and utterly serious.
“If you allow anyone to damage what’s mine again,” he says, his voice dropping into a lower register, “I will personally remove any part of their body that touched you. Is that understood?”
The words hang in the air between us. He isn’t yelling. He isn’t even raising his voice. That’s what makes it so much worse. He’s stating a simple, factual consequence.
I understand immediately. No more fighting.
No more stepping into the ring. No more letting other alphas’ fists connect with my jaw, my ribs, my skin.
No more bruises that aren’t put there by him.
No more blood drawn by anyone else’s hands.
He’s not just claiming my submission during sex.
He’s claiming my violence, my pain, my entire physical being. It all belongs to him now.
The threat isn’t against me. It’s against anyone foolish enough to lay a finger on his property.
And I believe him. I can see the certainty of it in his face.
He would do it. He would have a man’s hands cut off for hitting me.
He would carve out the eye of someone who looked at me wrong.
The cold, psychopathic logic of it settles in my stomach like a stone.
I look at him, at this man who has just spent hours breaking me apart and then casually set me free with a tracker in my body and a threat on my lips. The bond between us gives a low, persistent thrum in my chest, a twisted anchor line.
I nod once, a sharp, jerky motion. My throat is too tight to speak.
I turn back to the door, twist the handle, and step out into the hallway.
The walk through the silent, opulent mansion feels endless.
My boots are too loud on the marble floors.
Every servant or guard I pass avoids my eyes, but I feel their stares like touches on my battered skin.
I keep my head down, my open shirt flapping around me, and limp towards the grand front entrance.
The night air outside is cool and sharp, a shock after the cloistered, scent-heavy heat of Suha’s bedroom. I take a deep, gulping breath of it, but it doesn’t clear my head. I start walking, with no particular direction in mind. Just away.
With every step, I can feel it. Not a pain, but a presence. A deep, internal pressure, a cold, hard spot nestled inside me. A constant, silent reminder with every shift of my hips, every footfall on the pavement. I am not free. I am tagged, tracked, and owned.
I belong to Suha now, whether I like it or not. And the terrifying, shameful part of me, the part that craved this very brand of absolute domination, thrums with a dark, satisfied hum.