Chapter 6 #3
“If you’re going to think about running, at least commit. The little glance is fucking insulting.”
“You’re insane.”
“Heard that before, now it’s rather boring.”
“I hate you.”
“Better, but still lazy.”
He sets the bulb carefully on the counter. Carefully. Like manners matter now. Then his hand closes around my wrist, fast and smooth, and the tongs hit the floor before I can swing.
Johnny looks down at them, then back at me. “See? Terrible weapon choice.”
I yank against his grip. “Let go.”
“Say please.”
“Fuck you.”
His grin flashes. “Mmm. Much better.”
I shove at him with my free hand, but he catches that too and lifts both of my wrists above my head. The chain brushes my skin, cold and thin, and my breath catches before I can stop it.
He notices, and his face changes.
His expression changing to something, hungrier.
“Well,” he says quietly. “That was new.”
He leans closer, and I can smell rain on his jacket, smoke under it, something expensive and wrong beneath both.
“With Jagger,” he says, looping the chain once around my wrists, “you get to pretend it’s simple.
Big scary fighter. Bad decisions. A little cut on your pretty tit. Very dramatic. Very him.”
I pull against the chain, but he’s already securing it with calm, practiced movements that make my stomach drop.
Johnny smiles up at my hands before looking back at my face. “But me? I’m not simple.”
“Let me go.”
“You don’t even believe yourself.”
My cheeks burn.
His gaze drops to the mark under my sweater again, and this time, when he brushes the fabric aside with one finger, I hate how still I go.
“See, that’s what I don’t understand,” he says, studying the thin red line. “He marked you like a warning.”
“Don’t touch it.”
Johnny’s eyes lift.
That was the wrong thing to say.
His finger hovers just beneath the cut, close enough to make my whole body lock.
“Jagger wanted me to see this,” he says. “That’s the funny part. He wanted me to look and know he got there first.”
“He did.”
This time, I say it on purpose and Johnny goes still.
The air changes and then he laughs softly, like I’ve finally done something worth his time.
“Careful, Alice.” His hand slides to the torn edge of my tights, butterfly knife flashing open with a clean little click. “Keep defending him, and I’m going to start taking it personally.”
“Is that supposed to scare me?”
“No.” He lowers the blade to the fabric, and drags it slowly enough that the rip sounds loud in the small room. “It’s supposed to make you wonder why it doesn’t scare you enough.”
My breath shakes.
The red light of the darkroom is no longer a glow; it’s a bruise. I’m stretched thin, my toes barely grazing the cold tile, my arms pulled taut until my shoulders ache.
I can see the photos of Jagger hanging behind him—raw, grainy shots of him in the ring, muscles coiled, eyes feral. In those photos, he looks like a god of war. Here, in the dim red haze, he’s just a backdrop for Johnny’s theater.
“This isn’t funny, Johnny,” I hiss, my voice cracking. I struggle against the silver links, the metal clinking with a sharp, rhythmic sound that only seems to amuse him.
Johnny tilts his head, studying me with a clinical, detached curiosity, as if I’m a specimen pinned to a board. He steps closer, his presence not a wall of heat like Jagger’s, but a cold, invasive draft.
“So, little brother got there first. Cute,” Johnny murmurs, his voice smooth and devoid of any primal urgency. He reaches out, his fingers grazing the jagged cut Jagger left on my breast.
“You’re a fucking freak,” I spit, but as he moves his hand lower, my breath hitches.
I hate it. I fucking hate that my skin is humming.
With Jagger, the fear was a choice, a dark dance we both stepped into. With Johnny, the fear is different. It’s the feeling of being studied, of being disassembled piece by piece while he watches the clock.
“You keep looking at his pictures like they’re going to save you,” Johnny notes, his eyes flicking to the prints of Jagger. He lets out a soft, mocking exhale. “But even I can tell you don’t want to be saved.”
Before I can even get another insult out, he moves. He rips my tights away with a sudden, violent efficiency, leaving me shivering and exposed under the red glow of the darkroom.
He steps back just an inch, eyes locked on mine, and reaches into his black jeans. With a slow, deliberate motion, he frees his cock.
I gasp, the sound catching in my throat.
He’s thick, pulsing, and violently hard, the head already glistening with a bead of pre-cum as he wraps his hand around his shaft and gives himself a few slow, heavy strokes his eyes never leaving mine.
The sound of his palm sliding against his skin is wet and rhythmic, echoing in the silence.
I start to fight, twisting my body and wrenching my arms upward.
The silver chains rattle violently against the ceiling light, the metal biting into my wrists as I try to pull away from him, to get some distance, to regain some shred of control.
But the struggle only makes my chest heave more with every desperate tug.
He watches my pupils dilate, a small, cruel smile touching his lips. He’s such a sick fuck that he loves that I'm fighting.
He fucking gets off on it.
"Look at you," he purrs, his voice a low, mocking velvet. "Still trying to play the proud artist, but your little pussy is already twitching for me, isn't it? I can see it from here, Alice. You're practically begging for it."
He gives himself one last, firm squeeze, his knuckles white. "I wonder if Jagger ever made you feel this small. I bet he just crashed into you like an animal. But me? I want you to feel every single second of this. I want you to remember exactly who owns you while I'm stretching you open."
I scream something foul at him, a desperate attempt to claw back some power, but he just chuckles. He isn't rushing; he's savoring the anticipation, treating my arousal and fear like a fine wine.
"Don't blink," he whispers, leaning in close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath on my ear. "I want your pretty little eyes on mine the moment I fucking break you."
Then, the playfulness vanishes as he grabs my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh with bruising force, and drives his cock into me in one brutal, singular fucking thrust.
I gasp, my back arching, as the chains rattle violently overhead.