Chapter 8 Undo Me Like A Sacred Ruin #2
Her scent suffocates me—cotton candy and cherry blossom, sugar so intense it’s almost painful. I inhale it, drowning, letting it erase any sense of control I thought I had.
The cuffs dig in with every pull.
Every time I tense, the metal bites a little deeper—a reminder that I’m hers, not by force but by choice. That I could break free, but I won’t. Not yet. Not until she’s finished proving whatever dark, beautiful point she’s trying to make.
I try to distract myself from the inevitable.
Catalog her instead.
Her shoulders—delicate but corded with muscle.
The fine tremor running up her left arm, an OCD tell I recognize from years of my own tics and rituals.
The way her right hand is so steady despite the chaos in her eyes.
She’s a contradiction made flesh—soft but cruel, broken but invincible, laughably tiny but somehow more dangerous than anyone I’ve ever met.
The mattress creaks beneath her.
Her knees slide forward so she’s almost sitting on my thighs, the lips of her glistening pussy hovering just out of reach of my cock, just close enough that if I wasn’t restrained, I could arch up and bury myself inside her. Just smelling her arousal alone is going to drive me mad.
She knows this.
She’s taunting me with it.
I watch the way the light hits her skin—moonbeams catching on raised scars, pale blue veins visible beneath the surface, every inch of her mapped in hurt and healing.
There’s blood tonight, too—old, dried to brown at the edge of her thumbnail.
She must have picked at it, compulsively, while waiting for me to wake up.
“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” My voice comes out rough, almost a growl.
She shrugs, but the movement is a parody of apathy.
“I like power.” She says it like she’s confessing a secret. “It’s the only thing I get. The only thing they let us have, here and everywhere else. Better to be a little monster than someone’s victim.”
She’s right.
I know it in my bones.
Circus was no different.
You played the part—the chained angel, the escape artist, the boy in the glass box—because that’s what sold tickets. But offstage? Offstage, you had to be brutal. Had to be more monster than man, or they’d eat you alive.
I shiver.
Not from cold.
From something harder to define.
She notices.
“You want me to ride you?” she asks, voice gone dreamy. Sarcastic. “Make it slow, hurt you a little?”
I almost lose it, right then.
Just from the idea.
But I hold on.
Barely.
“I want you to do whatever you want to me,” I say, and the purity of the statement is a surprise, even to me.
She giggles.
The sound is so bright it’s almost cruel.
“You’re so fucked in the head, Sage.”
She says my name like it’s something holy.
Like it’s a secret invocation designed to bring me to heel.
“Yeah,” I say. “Guess I am.”
There’s no shame in it.
Not when she’s the same.
She’s beautiful and broken and staring down at me with eyes that look like they’ve never been cold, not even when blood is drying beneath their lashes.
She leans in, bracing herself on my chest, her tits swinging forward until they almost brush my jaw.
She still hasn’t stopped stroking me.
Her grip alternates—tight, then barely-there. Fingertips tapping along my shaft, four beats at a time, always even, always ritual.
It’s almost clinical, the way she builds the tension.
But it’s not impersonal.
Every so often, she’ll twitch—shoulders jerk, eyebrow spasm, tongue dart out to lick the corner of her mouth. When there’s too much sensation, her foot starts tapping on the mattress, beating out a rhythm that matches the pulse thundering in my ears.
I want to catalog all of it.
To write a manual on how to worship someone so beautifully unstable.
But for now, I just let her work.
She watches the precum pool at my tip, fascination bright in her mismatched gaze. She dips down, closer, her hair brushing my stomach, and grins up at me from beneath her lashes.
“You ever have an Omega do this to you?” she asks, almost teasing.
I shake my head.
Never.
She hums.
A sound of victory.
Or maybe hunger.
Then—without warning—she flicks her tongue across the head of my cock, and I nearly break the handcuffs then and there.
I hiss.
Arch.
Her grip tightens, keeping me pinned. She giggles at the reaction, delighted. Sadist.
She leans in, mouth hovering just millimeters from my skin.
And the last thing I see before everything disappears into sensation is the look in her eyes— hungry, crazed, determined to ruin me in every way possible.
I hope she does, and I never recover.
The first real touch of her tongue is like a current—electric, devastating, aimed straight at the root of me.
She licks once, slow, a lazy swirl around the head that makes my hips jerk up off the mattress.
She’s grinning, the little psycho, lips parted in a smile that’s half seduction, half threat.
Her hand still works me with merciless precision—down, squeeze, twist, up, thumb across the slit to gather the slick there and paint it over and over, like she’s trying to leave her mark in biology as well as in mind.
Every muscle in my body is tight.
My biceps flex against the cuffs, the cold metal biting in, a perfect counterpoint to the heat gathering between my legs.
I’ve never been this desperate—never so totally at someone’s mercy, not in the troupe, not in the cartel, not even on nights when violence was a promise instead of a gamble.
This is a new kind of bondage.
Voluntary.
Worshipful.
She watches the effect she has on me.
Every time my thighs tense, she giggles—manic, delighted, head tilting just a little so pink hair falls across her cheek. She tucks the stray strands behind her ear with her left hand, then resumes her mission, tongue flicking out for another taste.
She’s enjoying this.
That much is obvious.
Not from obligation. Not from some internalized script about Omega obedience.
She’s getting off on the power.
She slides lower, positioning herself between my knees so she can look up at me as she opens her mouth—letting out an unhinged little sigh, like this is the best seat in the house and she wants everyone to know.
Then she takes me in.
Hot.
Wet.
Inch by inch, so slow I want to scream.
Her lips wrap the head, sealing over the crown while her tongue flattens beneath, tracing the sensitive underside.
She moves down another fraction, then up, then back down, gradually taking more, more, never all at once, always drawing out the moment like she’s savoring every fraction of my surrender.
My eyes roll back.
The handcuffs rattle as I flex against them, fighting the need to thrust—to force her deeper, to rut into her throat the way instinct demands.
But I can’t.
I’m helpless.
And she fucking loves it.
Her hand strokes what her mouth can’t reach, perfectly coordinated so there’s never a moment without sensation. She hums as she works, the vibration transferring through my length to my spine, making me arch again.
I bite my lip so hard I taste blood.
There’s a kind of humiliation in how fast she can reduce me to this.
But it doesn’t feel bad.
It feels honest.
Like maybe I was built for this, for being wrecked by a beautiful monster who never learned her own strength.
I have to know.
Have to talk, or I’ll lose it.
“Where’d you learn to do this?” The words come out ragged.
She pops off—just the tip, a wet sound, obscene.
Her hand keeps working, rhythm never faltering.
She cocks her head, eyes huge and wild in the dark.
“Needed to know,” she says. Another giggle, quick and sharp.
“If I was going to survive, I had to be the best. Omegas don’t get power, Sage.
They don’t get anything but scraps. So I learned how to do this right.
” She gives a slow pump, deliberate. “It’s the only leverage I get.
Why wouldn’t I master it? Why wouldn’t I want to make an Alpha lose his mind, even if it’s the only time the tables turn? ”
The words hit hard.
Deeper than she can ever suck me.
I know what it’s like.
To be the weapon they pass around.
To make your helplessness your art.
I want to tell her she’s more than that.
But she’s already back on me.
Mouth wide, hair brushing my thighs, wrapping her hand around the base to keep it steady as she sinks down—two, four, six, eight, always even, always slow. Her tongue massages the underside as she draws back, and when she hollows her cheeks I almost sob.
“—fuck—“ It’s all I can get out.
She pulls up, nips the tip, smears the bead of slick across her lips like warpaint.
Then she pauses.
Just holds there, face hovering inches above my shaft, eyes locked on mine.
“Do you think I’m like other Omegas?” Her voice is soft. Not playful now—genuine, vulnerable, a shimmer of something raw beneath the bravado.
I shake my head, breathless.
She licks her lips.
“Do you think you’ll be like the other Alphas?”
There’s a challenge in her gaze—like she’s testing me, daring me to break her heart.
I force myself to answer, through the pulse pounding in my temples.
“No.”
She smiles, then.
For real.
All the way to her eyes.
She leans in, brushes the head against her cheek.
“Why?”
I can’t lie.
Can’t pretend.
“Your eyes aren’t cold like theirs.”
The admission hangs there, fragile and enormous.
She stares at me.
For a second, I think she’s going to shatter.
But she shakes it off, giggling again—a sound that says, not today, not me, survival is the only religion worth praying to.
She takes me back into her mouth.
No teasing now.
She works me like a pro—squeezing the base, lips tight, tongue stroking in counterpoint. She picks up the pace, every movement practiced but not mechanical; there’s artistry here, a sadistic joy in making me writhe.
I lose track of time.
Lose track of everything but the suction and the wet sound and the way her eyes keep flicking up to watch me, check that she’s winning.
She is.
She fucking is.