Chapter 8 Undo Me Like A Sacred Ruin
Undo Me Like A Sacred Ruin
~SAGE~
The first sensation is the bite of metal.
Not the pain of violence, not the blade edge of threat—just the cool, unyielding reality of steel wrapped around bone, biting into skin in the way that says there’s no way out…unless you want there to be.
Unless you’re me.
Handcuffed.
To a bed.
And not just any bed—Seraphine’s bed. A sanctuary carved out of hell, all pale linen and tangled sheets and the ghost of cherry blossoms clinging to every inch of fabric.
I flex my wrists, once, twice, feeling the mirrored press of metal against vein, the way the cuffs force my arms above my head, offering up my entire body to her view.
I should be panicking.
Planning my escape like any artist with my caliber—mapping out the tension, the torque, the way a single twist could pop the lock and free me for whatever comes next.
But that’s not what I do.
Instead, I watch her.
She moves through the low blue light like something conjured—bare, unashamed, every inch of her skin catalogued and archived by my greedy eyes. She’s tiny, built on the lines of a dancer but haunted by the kind of scars you don’t get from falling off a stage.
There’s beauty, yes—
But it’s the haunted kind. The kind you earn. The kind you bleed for.
She’s strip-lit in shadow, her body all flex and flow, the arch of her back so sharp it’s almost a threat.
Scars crisscross her stomach—one especially, jagged and mean, slicing her porcelain from hip to hip.
Corset bruises bloom purple and green along her ribs, tight bands that speak to years of being laced in, crushed in, made beautiful by pain and force.
Old cigarette burns dot her left hip, a constellation only someone with a trained eye would spot.
There’s a long, thin mark on the inside of her thigh—knife? Wire? History.
Artistry rendered in hurt.
And fuck me, but every mark makes my cock harder.
I’m no stranger to beauty as currency.
In the underground, your body is your ticket out. You become a legend, or you become someone’s toy. Either way, they want you flawless. Hair exactly so, smile just right, wrists delicate enough to fit inside a cuff without bruising — unless they want the bruises.
You learn fast: pain is part of the performance, and desire is just another kind of violence.
She knows this.
Lives by it.
Her nakedness isn’t weakness—the way she stands, loose-limbed, slightly twitching, toes flexing and unflexing as she stares at my restrained form. There’s nothing vulnerable about her. It’s all power. It’s all ritual.
She paces the foot of the bed, toe tapping out a silent count on the polished wood floor—two, four, two, four—like she’s winding herself up for an entrance, a dance, some moment where she gets to show the world exactly how much of a monster she is.
And I am completely, absolutely, fucking helpless for her.
The scent is everywhere.
Cotton candy, thick and sweet enough it coats the back of my throat.
Cherry blossom high note, overlaid with frost—sugar attacking every inch of exposed skin.
Clean linen underneath, grounding, a whisper of home in a world that hates softness.
Metallic edge now, a stress note, a warning—but not fear.
More like excitement, gleaming on her tongue.
Every inhale is her. Every exhale is want.
She doesn’t speak at first.
Just watches me—cataloging, assessing, the way I did to her in the rain and the post office, two animals circling to see which one gets to eat and which one gets to run.
I’m not running.
I’m not even pretending.
I want her too much to play at disinterest.
Her eyes catch mine—heterochromatic, blue and green, the colors more brilliant in the dark than they were under the stage lights, shot through now with insanity and precision.
She giggles.
High, bright, just this side of deranged.
The giggle breaks the tension, splintering the silence with a wild edge that makes my heart stutter. She slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes going wide, and then she does it again, just to see what happens.
I grin.
Can’t help it.
“Got me right where you want me, huh?” Voice rough because talking is the only thing holding my sanity together at this point.
She cocks her head.
Steps closer.
Her hair is loose now, falling around her face in tangled, damp waves—pink-highlighted silver, like a burn left on glass.
Strands cling to her neck and collarbone, beads of water still tracing down her chest from the shower.
She hasn’t bothered to dry off completely.
There are droplets clinging to the downy hair on her arms, the soft hollow between her breasts, the ridged curve of the scar on her belly.
She looks like she was sculpted from a cloud, then run through a war zone.
I want to touch her so badly that I almost break the cuffs just to do it.
But I don’t.
Because this is hers.
Her moment of power in a dynamic never woven for her victory.
She slides onto the bed—fluid, flexible, the way only dancers and nightmares can move. Her knees dig into the mattress, hands bracing herself above me so that her body blocks out everything except the look in her eyes and the way her thighs bracket my hips.
For a second, she just watches me.
No simpering, no shy blush.
Just—
Consuming.
Always counting. Her fingers flex and tap against the sheet—one-two-three-four—before she settles her hand on my chest, just over my thrumming heart.
I can see her body up close now.
The bruises on her ribs. The tangle of pale pink stretch marks at her hips.
The old ballet scars across both knees and the inside of her ankles—tissue built from years of training, of being the best, of winning and surviving and earning her right to exist. Her nails are painted with chipped silver polish and stained underneath with… red? Blood? Whatever.
She smells like a hit of sugar, the afterburn of adrenaline, and ozone from the storm outside.
She traces a finger along my pec—down the line of muscle, over the tattoo there, pressing hard enough I know she’s cataloging the feel of me as much as the look.
“You like to be restrained?” she asks.
The words are soft.
Almost innocent.
But the way she says it—like she already knows the answer, like it’s a secret we share—makes my cock twitch, impossibly, unbelievably hard.
“Depends who’s doing the restraining,” I say, voice lower now.
She giggles again, a giddy little sound.
Genuine.
Unhinged.
Flutter of muscles—she’s fighting off an internal earthquake, something boiling just beneath the surface. Her toes tap with every shift, her heel digging into the bedspread—precision and madness, locked in a dance no normal brain could choreograph.
I watch the way her breasts rise and fall with each breath—shallow, fast, pink nipples gone tight and peaked from the chill in the air or maybe from the way my eyes are devouring her.
The skin across her stomach is so pale it nearly glows.
She has the body of a story no one will believe.
And I still can’t fucking touch her.
Sadist.
The thought surfaces and sticks.
She likes this. Likes the way I can’t fight back. Likes watching me strain against the cuffs, muscles bunching, veins standing out on my arms because I want her so badly it hurts.
She wraps her hand around my cock.
No hesitation.
No shame.
Just—clinical, almost, the way she fits her palm to my shaft, thumb running along the underside, fingers curling until she has a perfect grip. Her hand is delicate but strong—callused from blade play, bars, and pointe shoes.
She pauses, just for a second.
Looks down at what she’s holding.
Then looks up at me, one brow arched, like she’s waiting for a reaction.
Like she wants me to beg.
I laugh.
Short, low, helpless.
“You sure you’re not the Alpha in this arrangement?”
She snorts—a wet, unfiltered sound, half giggle, half derision.
“Oh, I’m definitely the Alpha here. Psychotic, deranged, little-miss-top-energy.” Her hand gives a slow, deliberate squeeze. “If I were a man, I’d probably be fucking you into this mattress. Would you mind?”
It’s meant as a taunt.
A challenge.
But the truth is, I don’t mind at all.
I shake my head, wrists flexing against the cuffs, my body arching toward her hand even as I pretend I’m unaffected.
“If it was you? Or some version of you? No.” I pause, let the admission settle between us. “But maybe that’s just because I’m—”
“—horny as fuck?” she supplies, eyes glittering with amusement.
“Yes. Accurate diagnosis, doc.”
She giggles again—higher, more frenetic, and this time it has an edge. Like she could start ripping me apart with her bare hands or kiss me until I forget my own name.
She starts stroking me.
Slow at first.
Deliberate.
Like she wants to drive me insane, build tension with every drag of her palm.
Her fingers squeeze just below the head, twisting slightly on the upstroke, then slide down to the base, knuckles pressing into my skin.
She watches as precum beads at the tip—a glistening, obscene invitation—and dips her finger in it, swirling it around in a way that makes my hips jerk off the mattress.
The urge to move is overwhelming.
I want—need—to touch her.
Need her thighs around my head, her hands in my hair, her body arching over mine as she rides me slow and mean, watching my face for any sign of surrender.
But I’m bound.
Captive.
Her grand prize.
“You like being at my disposal?” she asks, voice gone lower, more intimate. She leans forward so her hair swings around her face, forming a curtain between us and everything else.
I nod, because words are momentarily impossible.
She grins.
Wide.
Vicious.
Her tongue flicks out between her lips, wetting them.
“Good,” she purrs. “Because I have plans for you.”
Her hand is merciless.
Soft, then brutal.
Slow, then rapid-fire squeeze—alternating the rhythm the way a dancer alternates steps, never letting my body get used to it, always keeping me on the edge of something catastrophic.