Chapter 6 #3
My hand moves before I decide to do it, reaching for her face.
My fingers trace the edge of her jaw, then slip lower, my thumb dragging over the corner of her mouth.
The lipstick smears instantly, staining her skin in a messy, ruined red streak.
I hum, tilting my head as I take her in, enjoying the sight of her like this, imperfect, disheveled, all because of me.
“You look better like this,” I murmur, my voice low, satisfied. “All messy for me.”
Her nostrils flare, fury sparking in her eyes, but she doesn’t pull away. Not yet. I can see it in the way she stiffens, the way her fingers twitch like she wants to slap me but knows she won’t. Knows she can’t.
A slow smirk curves my lips.
She’s learning, and I can see that she was bred to behave in a certain way. No matter how much she fights it, she's desperate to be successful in her obedience. A perfect, posh, blue-blooded princess, messy in front of me. On her knees for me.
I let my thumb linger at her lip, pressing, smearing more of the red across her cheek. “You think this is the worst I’ll do to you?” My voice is amused, almost soft, like I’m letting her in on a secret, “I could make a mess of you in ways you can’t even imagine.”
Her breath catches, barely noticeable, but I catch it anyway. It’s in the way her pulse flutters at her throat, the way she’s fighting not to react. I grin.
She wants to hate me.
She does hate me.
And I hate her too. I want to ruin her for taking up so much of my focus, for consuming my thoughts.
But I can see the way her body betrays her. And that, that, is my favorite part.
“You can glare at me all you’d like,” I continue, my hand slipping lower, ghosting over the delicate line of her throat, feeling her swallow again. “How often you’re punished for your misbehavior is up to you, after all.”
Her teeth clench. “Go to hell.”
I laugh, dark and low, as I lean in just enough that she can feel the heat of my breath against her skin. “Darling,” I whisper, letting my lips barely graze the shell of her ear, knowing I’ll gladly make her worst nightmares come true, “you’re already there.”
I feel her shudder, barely, but enough. Enough for my fingers to tighten at her throat in the subtlest hint of possession before I pull away, studying her, waiting.
I give her a look that implies a dare as I stand.
She stares back, breathing hard, every muscle locked in resistance. But she’s still here, still in my space. Still kneeling and playing my game. And I can’t wait to see what happens when she finally breaks.
She kneels at my feet, her spine stiff, her hands curled into fists against her thighs. She’s still reeling, still burning from the humiliation I forced on her, and yet she refuses to crumble.
Defiant little thing.
I grab my tumbler from the table and bring it to my lips, the ice-cold vodka slicing through the warmth of the room as I take a slow sip. The burn is clean, sharp. Not unlike the look in her eyes when she glares up at me, barely concealing the loathing simmering beneath the surface.
I let the silence stretch, watching her. Watching the way she fights herself, the way she’s choking on her obedience. She could have spat the food in my face. Could have lashed out in one final, desperate attempt at control. But she didn’t.
Because on some level, she knows.
I own her now.
I fought it the same way. I still do. But she doesn’t need to know that. All she needs to know is I’m all she has left.
But with every push, there must be a pull. So while I’d prefer to slam her body over the dining room table and stripe her ass red for her mouthy little fucking outburst with my belt, I contain myself.
Even though I rarely do things I don’t want to do, I still give her an out. I tip my glass slightly, ice clinking, and say, almost lazily, “Since you refuse to eat, you can return to your room.”
It’s safer for her this way. I can feel my temptation and curiosity start to bleed outside the lines. It’s dangerous for everyone involved.
Her breath shudders in her chest, but she stays still.
Doesn’t move.
Doesn’t take the offer.
I smirk, swirling the glass in my hand. She wants to play. What a good girl. “You want to stay?” The flicker of hesitation she fails to mask is intoxicating. “Or do you just want to be difficult?”
Still, nothing.
She’s holding out, but I can see the war in her eyes. She’s unraveling, thread by thread, too stubborn to notice how close she is to coming apart.
Oh, darling, me too.
I finish the rest of my drink in one sharp swallow, then lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, meeting her gaze with the kind of patience that should terrify her.
And then, finally, she breaks.
Slowly, stiffly, she moves, shifting onto her heels, preparing to stand.
I smile.
Wrong move.
“You’re not allowed to walk,” I say, my voice cutting through the air like the crack of a whip.
She freezes.
Her breath catches, and her hands twitch at her sides. The look she gives me is pure, undiluted disbelief. “What?”
I set the empty glass down beside me with a quiet clink. “You heard me.” I tilt my head, drinking in the fury that overtakes her features. “If you’d like to leave, you may do so on your hands and knees.”
The room tightens around us. The air between us turns thick, electric.
Her fingers curl into fists, her knuckles turning white. “No,” she grits out, “I won’t.”
I hum, running my tongue over my teeth, amused as I watch her lips quiver. “You will.”
Her nostrils flare. “You can’t make me.”
She has no idea what I can make her do, and while I would prefer her to be willing, I don't require it.
I move before she can brace herself, grabbing her chin, tilting it up with just a bit more force than needed to remind her who’s in control.
“Oh, darling,” I murmur, my voice laced with dark amusement, with certainty, “I can make you do anything.”
She trembles beneath my grip. It’s subtle. A flicker. A crack. But I see it.
She doesn’t move.
She kneels there, her body wound tight, her breath ragged from holding back the storm inside her. Her pride won’t let her obey. But her fear, her awareness, is starting to sink in.
I see the way her throat works, the way her fingers flex against her thighs like she’s imagining wrapping them around my throat instead.
I smirk.
I tighten my grip on her chin, just enough to make her feel it. Just enough to remind her what she already knows.
“I don’t like repeating myself,” I say, my voice velvet-soft, laced with something dangerous. “But I’ll give you one last chance to listen.”
She swallows, her pulse beating against my fingers like a drum of defiance. Her lips part, her breath shaking.
Then, “Fuck you.”
I laugh. God, I love the fight in her.
Without breaking eye contact, I move. One hand tangles in her hair, gripping, twisting just enough to tip her head back, baring her throat to me. The other ghosts down her cheek and across her puffy lips, smearing the ruined lipstick further, tracing her parted lips.
“So vulgar,” I murmur, dragging my thumb over her bottom lip before pressing enough to make her mouth open wider. To remind her who’s in control. “But I’ll allow it. For now.”
Her breathing is sharp, uneven, her body betraying her no matter how much she wants to hate me.
I release her chin, but keep my grip on her hair, keeping her tilted to force her to hold my gaze. “You want to walk out of here with your head high, don’t you?” My voice drops lower, quieter, like I’m letting her in on something dark. “You want to pretend you have control.”
Her jaw clenches.
“But you don’t.”
I tug her hair, hard.
She gasps.
“Crawl.”
She shudders a ripple of resistance and rage, and I drink it in.
And then, finally, she moves.
Slowly. Stiffly. Every muscle in her body was trembling with fury.
But she moves. And I don’t like how it untangles my hand from her hair.
Lowering onto her hands, she bows herself to the floor. I watch in pride as she obeys my command.
A slow, satisfied smirk spreads across my lips as I watch her.
“That’s better.”
She doesn’t look at me as she moves forward, crawling across the floor with quiet, burning fury. But I watch. I take my time, savoring every second.
She’s learning. And this? This is only the beginning.
I lean back in my chair, spreading my legs slightly as I watch her move.
The soft sound of her palms meeting the cold floor echoes through the room, a quiet, broken rhythm that only deepens my smirk.
She sucks in a shuddering breath, her shoulders trembling as she crawls, but she keeps moving. Bare knees against hard marble, hands pressed flat, body tight with humiliation.
What a good girl.
Her hips sway with every movement, the silk of her dress clinging to her curves, riding higher as she drags herself forward. And her ass, fuck. Tight, perfect, shifting deliciously with every crawl. Begging to be fucked.
I take in the way she shakes, the way her body betrays her again and again. I can see from the side of her face that she’s crying silent, angry tears that slip down her cheeks, catching on the ruined lipstick I smeared across her skin.
But I don’t care.
I can’t care.
Caring would make this something else. Something I refuse to acknowledge.
So instead, I focus on what I can allow myself.
I allow myself to enjoy this moment.
The way she sniffs sharply, trying to contain her emotions. The way her shoulders shudder with a silent sob she won’t let me hear. The way her fingers twitch against the floor, nails dragging slightly as if she’s imagining raking them across my skin instead.
Pathetic little thing.
I exhale slowly, dragging my tongue over my teeth as I let my gaze sweep over her again.
“You make a beautiful mess,” I murmur, just loud enough for her to hear.
She flinches, making me grin. And still with my taunts, she keeps crawling, pushing forward even as her body shakes, even as her breath stutters in her throat.
She hates this.
Hates me.
But she obeys.
And that’s all that matters.
She reaches the doorway of the dining room, hesitating for a fraction of a second, like she’s waiting for some kind of reprieve. A command to stand or a twisted form of mercy.
I give her nothing. She hasn’t earned it yet.
She sucks in another sharp breath, then slowly, stiffly, drags herself over the threshold, disappearing into the dark.
I watch until the last of her vanishes, until the only trace of her left is the ghost of her perfume in the air.
And then I pick up my tumbler, swirling the melted ice in slow, lazy circles.
I should leave it at that.
Should let her sit in her misery.
But instead, I let my voice slip through the open doorway, smooth and edged with cruel amusement. Knowing she can hear me.
“Good girl.”
I hear her sharp intake of breath. Hear the way she stiffens, like she wants to lunge at me, wants to scream.
I smirk.
This is going to be fun.