Tahlia
Iwait for the door to close behind him, holding my breath.
I wait for the click of the lock, for the quiet hush of footsteps disappearing down the hallway, for the shadows to pull back into something I can survive, something manageable.
None of that comes because he doesn’t leave the room.
He just stands there in the doorway, watching me with that unnerving stillness. Breathing with that same calm cadence that drives needles under my skin, methodical and controlled. As if this—me, shaking in the corner of a bed I tried to destroy—is exactly what he wanted, what he orchestrated.
I feel it happening.
The change.
Not in the room, but in me, deep in my bones.
There’s a stillness that wasn’t there before, settling over me like dust. Not peace. Not calm. Something heavier and more dangerous. Like my bones are learning a new kind of gravity, and I’m not sure they want to stand back up anymore, not sure they remember how.
“You should’ve walked away,” I say, my voice low and bitter as ash.
Hook tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to read the words straight off my skin, like they’re written there in invisible ink.
“No,” he murmurs, voice gentle in a way that makes it worse. “You should’ve known better than to run.”
I turn away before he can see what that does to me, what cracks it opens because he’s right.
And I hate him for it.
I hate the way my body responds to his voice before my mind can catch up and mount defences.
I hate the way my pulse flutters when he takes a single step forward, like my heart knows something my head refuses to accept.
I hate the way part of me wants him to cross that line again, just so I don’t have to keep pretending I didn’t already step over it myself.
“You want me broken,” I say, not a question, but a war cry thrown into the void.
He doesn’t answer immediately.
The silence between us says everything that words can’t. It’s not made of absence—it’s made of intent, thick and tangible. Every breath he takes feels like a blade slowly dragging across my skin, marking me in ways no one will ever see but him, invisible scars that map his ownership.
I stand slowly, carefully. Careful not to show the tremble in my knees that threatens to betray me.
“If you want me on my knees, Hook,” I hiss, forcing steel into my voice, “you’re going to have to knock me the fuck down.”
His expression doesn’t change at the challenge.
But his eyes—
God, those eyes—
They burn like lit fuses wrapped in silk, like something combustible barely contained and that’s when I realise something awful, something that makes my stomach drop.
He doesn’t want me obedient and broken.
He wants me burning, still fighting.
His eyes drag over me like a match across petrol, searching for the spark.
There’s something coiled in his posture now—tight, waiting, violent in its restraint, like a predator deciding whether to pounce. And when I take one step towards him, chin lifted, defiant in the worst kind of way, he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t blink.
He smiles.
“You think I won’t touch you when you’re like this?” he says, voice a threadbare whisper soaked in filth. “You think I’ll wait until you behave?”
I don’t answer because the heat rolling off him is already peeling the strength from my spine, melting my resolve.
Part of me is daring him to try, wants to see what happens.
And I know he sees it. Knows it. Smells it in the air between us.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, taking one deliberate step forward. “You want to run, but your thighs are pressed together like you’re afraid I’ll see how badly you want the opposite.”
“Fuck you,” I whisper, even though it doesn’t have teeth anymore, even though the words sound hollow.
Even though I’m the one who should be afraid—but all I feel is the fire consuming me from the inside.
Hook tilts his head, and for a breath, everything slows to a crawl. His smile cuts sharper across his face. Crueller, more knowing.
“Say please, and I’ll ruin you right.”
I shouldn’t respond but my breath catches on a moan that betrays me anyway, slipping out before I can stop it because his words are poison spreading through my veins.
And I’m so goddamn tired of pretending I’m immune to the toxin.
“Please,” I choke, the word scraped raw from somewhere I shouldn’t reach for, somewhere vulnerable.
He inhales—deeply, like that one word was the most addictive thing he’s ever tasted, like he could get drunk on my surrender.
“Good girl,” he growls, satisfaction darkening his voice. “Now be still whilst I make you beg again.”
And that’s when the world narrows to a single point.
To him.
To me.
To the heat in his voice and the restraint in his hands and the monster between us whispering that this was always going to happen, that it was inevitable.
And I let him close the distance between us.
His mouth brushes my ear, not kissing, not soft. Just there—a warning, a promise.
“You’re going to stay exactly where I put you, little fairy,” he murmurs, each syllable dragging heat across my spine like a razor dipped in honey. “You’re not going to cum. Not until I say. Not even if it hurts. Do you understand me?”
My pulse slams against my throat, visible beneath my skin.
I nod, barely, breath catching in my chest.
He clicks his tongue, low and disapproving. “Words, Tahlia.”
“Yes,” I manage.
He exhales like the word pleased him—like he could unravel me just for speaking it, just for that small capitulation.
Then he moves with sudden purpose.
Fast and decisive.
Rough fingers claim my wrists, dragging them up to the headboard where he pins me, not with ropes yet, not with restraints, but with command alone, the weight of his authority.
His body cages mine without touching, a promise coiled in every inch of space between us, potential energy waiting to be released. One shift and I’d be consumed.
But he waits.
Watching me squirm under the heat of his restraint, enjoying my discomfort.
“You’ve been mouthing off all day,” he says, voice slick with control. “Breaking things. Testing limits. So now, I get to teach you how you break properly.”
My throat tightens with anticipation and dread.
His hand moves—not to strike, not to comfort—but to command. It wraps around my throat with pressure soft enough to let me breathe, hard enough to remind me I belong to him now, that my oxygen is his to control. My legs tense. My thighs press together involuntarily.
“You’re wet for this, aren’t you?” he croons, filthy and satisfied. “You like it when I make the rules. You like being punished.”
“Don’t—” I whisper, but I’m arching into him already, betraying myself in ways I swore I never would.
“Don’t?” His thumb brushes my bottom lip, teasing. “Say that again with conviction, darling, and maybe I’ll stop.”
I don’t repeat it.
I can’t.
Because his hand is sliding lower now, and every inch of my skin is wired for him—buzzing, trembling, desperate for contact.
Then he pauses.
Right there.
Hovering above where I need him most.
“Last chance, Tahlia,” he murmurs against my ear, his breath scorching. “You say no, I stop. You say red, I leave. You say mine—and I wreck you until the only thing you remember is my name.”
My heart slams against my ribs. My thighs tremble.
And I look him dead in the eye.
“Wreck me.”
His grin is wolfish, wicked, starved for this moment.
Then he moves—and the world shatters around me.
His mouth crushes mine without warning.
Not tender. Not gentle.
It’s a punishment. A claim. A storm of control disguised as a kiss, and I’m caught in the eye of it, drowning in heat and humiliation as he swallows every sound I make, consuming my protests.
He doesn’t undress me gently. He drags the fabric out of his way like it’s offended him—tugging my top up over my breasts with one sharp yank, exposing me to the cold air and his hotter stare.
My bra snaps a second later, his fingers ruthless and unbothered by seams or cost, just wanting access. Just skin. Just me. Bare and shaking.
He doesn’t let me cover myself.
Doesn’t let me hide from his gaze.
“I want you like this,” he says, breath rough. “Stripped. Open. Ashamed.”
My breath catches on the word, snagging in my throat.
He feels it, notices everything.
Smiles.
“And I want you to remember it,” he murmurs, tilting my chin so I can’t look away from him. “Remember how it felt to be nothing but heat in my hands. How wet you were. How badly you ached for me.”
His hands slides lower with purpose.
Not soft.
Not slow.
Just firm enough to make me whimper—and still not enough to satisfy.
He leans in, teeth grazing the shell of my ear. “You’re going to stay right here whilst I watch. You’re going to let me use your body the way I own it. And when I stop, when I leave you shaking and soaked and begging… you’re going to thank me for that too.”
My thighs clench involuntarily.
He notices immediately.
“Oh? Is that where you want me?” he murmurs, dragging his fingers to the edge of my knickers but not touching what matters. “There?”
I nod, desperate and beyond pride.
He pulls back deliberately. Just a little. Enough to make me feel the absence.
“No,” he says, cold as steel. “You don’t get to want. You get what I give.”
Then he drops his mouth to my neck and bites.
Hard.
My breath chokes off. My back arches. The burn blossoms across my throat, and when his tongue follows, soothing and slow, I swear the entire world narrows to just this—to him.
The next sound he makes isn’t a word.
It’s a growl.
A deep, guttural, starving sound that echoes through my bones as he finally slides his fingers down—
And stops. Again.
Hovering.
“I told you, you don’t get to cum,” he whispers, voice molten. “And I meant it.”
I gasp. Squirm. Try to shift forward.
He laughs.
Then he leans down and whispers the filthiest thing I’ve ever heard in my life, right against the most sensitive part of me—hot breath, no touch—and my whole body clenches in betrayal.