Chapter 33 Mine to Break
Mine to Break
—Kira—
Something in me snapped, and anger took the reins.
I moved before he could say another word. In one motion I pushed him onto the bed and straddled him, my weight settling over his hips, my palms landing against his chest.
I slapped him.
Once. Sharp. The sound cracked the air between us.
“Stop this self-sacrificing bullshit,” I said, breath shaking but voice steady. “I’m not that easy to get rid of.”
The second slap was nothing but a tease. His nostrils flared, his jaw locked, and I felt the rigid heat of him straining through his clothes. My whole body responded, raw and alive, like I’d just seized control of something wild and barely leashed.
I grabbed his throat.
His pulse leaped under my fingers, wild and hot. His breath stuttered once. He didn’t fight it. Didn’t even blink. Just held my stare, eyes dark pools of hunger and challenge, like he’d let me choke the life out of him if I asked nicely.
His hands hovered at my thighs, fingers flexing like he was fighting not to grab. Waiting for permission.
“But,” I added, tightening my grip just enough to make my point, “I’m going to have to tame you. You can’t slaughter every idiot who gets too close.”
“Yes I can,” he replied, voice steady, almost amused.
I leaned in until my forehead rested against his, our breaths mixing.
“But you won’t,” I snarled. “Next time someone touches me and you want blood, you ask. And if I say yes? I’ll help you hide the pieces.”
“Do you understand?” I whispered, voice lethal.
His throat worked under my hand. “I understand,” he rasped.
His grip on my thighs turned vicious—claiming, starving—like he’d already surrendered to the monster we’d become together.
I felt the thick weight of him, straining now, fully hard beneath me.
The heat between my legs turned molten, dripping onto the fabric of his sweats as I rolled my hips, shameless and aching.
His breath stuttered, and I knew he could feel all of it—how badly I wanted him, how soaked I already was for him.
I caught the hem of his hoodie and yanked it up sharply.
The fabric bunched in my fists, tension snapping between us.
His eyes flicked to mine, understanding immediately.
Without breaking eye contact, he lifted his arms, letting me strip it off him.
I dragged it over his head roughly, tossing it aside.
“Malaya,” he said, voice rough. “You’re still unwell.”
“Do I look unwell?” I asked.
Then I untucked the towel from my body and let it fall onto the bed in one sharp motion. I grabbed his hand before he could react and pressed it firmly against my breast, forcing his palm to feel the heat of my skin.
“Do I feel unwell?”
His eyes locked onto mine as he squeezed, slow and firm, his thumb brushing across my nipple. His gaze turned ravenous.
I grabbed his hair with both hands and made him look at me.
“I heard your apology,” I said, fingers curled tight in his hair, “but it doesn’t fix the way you made me feel. Like I was a fucking toy you were done playing with.”
His expression didn’t shift away. If anything, it deepened with guilt.
“I acted like a coward,” he murmured. “You want to punish me? Do it. Fuck me up. Make me bleed for it. I’ll thank you with every breath.”
My eyes burned as I stared down at him. And then slowly, deliberately, I stood.
I remembered where he kept them.
Crossing the room, I opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out the handcuffs he’d stashed there. The click of metal felt like power.
“Lie back. Near the headboard. Hands up.”
Wordlessly, he moved to the headboard, back hitting the frame with a thud, chest hard as stone, jaw clenched.
I climbed onto the bed again and locked his wrists in place, the cuffs catching the faint light as I fastened them to the frame.
Then I tugged off his sweats and underwear, leaving him fully exposed. His cock was already hard, thick and flushed, veins bulging like it was begging for attention.
My mouth watered at the sight. For a split second, instinct screamed at me to drop to my knees, to take him down my throat, to worship him the way my body ached to.
But that wouldn’t be punishment.
That would be mercy.
And I wanted him to suffer.
I ran my fingers over him once—just once—and watched his breath catch, his hips bucking instinctively.
Then I sat in front of him, our legs barely touching, and spread my thighs.
I started slow.
One hand teasing across my breasts, the other trailing between my legs. I dipped a finger into my mouth, watching his jaw tighten as I sucked it slowly, then let it wander lower.
I didn’t touch him.
I let him watch.
“Do you like it?” I whispered, breath catching as my fingers found my clit. “Do you like how it feels to want something you’re not allowed to have?”
His eyes darkened to black, lips parted, panting.
I moaned, head tipping back, as I rubbed harder. First one finger slipped inside me, then a second, stretching me open. Wetter now, messier, I fucked myself with both, eyes locked on him the whole time.
He was straining now, breathing heavy, his cock so hard it looked painful.
Still, I didn’t touch him.
I kept going. Teasing, moaning, driving myself higher and higher—just out of his reach.
“Tell me you want me,” I said, my voice breathless but firm.
“I wake up hard and desperate for you,” he said, eyes dark. “I fall asleep fucking you in my head. I want you every fucking moment, Kira.”
“Good,” I said, fucking myself faster, harder, hand slamming against my clit with every thrust. I was dripping, desperate, riding the edge—and his voice was dragging me closer. “Keep going.”
His chest rose and fell hard. “Your pussy owns me,” he groaned, voice cracking. “I need to bury my face between your legs and eat you until I drown. Let me taste you like it’s the last thing I’ll ever do.”
“Begging so pretty,” I smirked, easing back against the mattress and parting my thighs even more. “Too bad you don’t get a say tonight.” I drove my fingers in harder, the other hand working my clit fast and messy. I was dripping all over the sheets, right there in front of him.
“Jesus, Kira… you’re gonna make me come just looking,” he growled, barely holding it together. “I need to be inside you—right fucking now. Please.”
The second he said it, I broke. The memory of him inside me—stretching, filling, ruining—hit like lightning. My pussy clenched around my fingers, body jerking as I came, breath caught. When I finally looked up, his eyes were feral. Desperate. Like he’d go insane if I didn’t touch him soon.
I rose, slow and commanding. “Open.” When he did, I shoved my slick fingers past his lips—still wet from my orgasm—and he groaned, sucking them like he was starving.
Then I climbed into his lap and dropped down onto his cock in one brutal, greedy thrust—so deep, so hard, I gasped like I’d been punched. He filled me to the brim, thick and pulsing, and I swore I could feel every throb, every vein, as he pulsed inside me like he belonged there.
His head snapped back on a choked gasp, throat bared like a sacrifice, every muscle in his neck and shoulders pulled razor-tight under sweat-slick, flushed skin. The cuffs dug into his wrists as he yanked against them, body bowing hard off the mattress, hips snapping up in frantic, helpless rhythm.
“Fuck, Kira,” he groaned, voice thick and ruined. “You’re so fucking sexy when you own me like this. Use me—fuck me exactly like that.”
The metal clinked again—he fought the restraints, but never begged for release. He just surrendered completely, worshipping with every ragged groan, every desperate upward thrust from below.
“I’d give you my fucking soul,” he rasped, eyes glassy and wild. “Anything you want. Just don’t stop riding me.”
I rolled my hips, dragging out every inch, every reaction. My thighs were slick, my pussy swallowing him greedily, squeezing him deeper.
I grabbed his cheeks firmly between my hands, forcing his gaze to lock with mine. “Say who you belong to,” I demanded.
“You,” he gasped. “I belong to you. I’m yours. All fucking yours.”
“Good boy,” I whispered, lips brushing his.
He looked up at me, eyes glassy with need. “Uncuff me, Kira. I need to touch you. I need to kiss you—please.”
I leaned in close, lips brushing his ear. “You haven’t earned my kiss yet.”
Then I pulled off him suddenly, leaving him hard and wanting.
I slid off the bed, moving slow and taunting, my body still humming from the contact.
“Malaya,” he said, straining against the cuffs, “don’t you fucking dare.”
But I didn’t stop—I walked straight for the door, bare and gleaming, wicked smile sharp enough to cut.
“Next time,” I said over my shoulder, “if you want to fuck me, maybe don’t treat me like I’m disposable.”
I walked slowly, letting him watch the sway of my hips, letting him sit there, cuffed and wrecked, while I put one foot in front of the other.
Then I heard it.
The wooden frame behind me groaned under the strain—an ugly, splintering crack tearing through the room.
I turned just in time to see it fracture beneath the force of his arms.
Maksym stood.
Still cuffed. Still wild.
But free.
My breath snagged in my throat.
I stepped back on instinct, pulse hammering—not quite fear, more like the electric thrill of prey feeling the predator close in.
“Don’t,” I whispered, voice trembling.
He didn’t listen.
He advanced with terrifying calm, cock rigid and flushed, chest rising and falling like he’d clawed his way out of a grave.
I turned to run, but I barely made it two steps before his body crashed into mine.
He slammed me against the wall—breasts flattened to the icy surface.
I gasped, hands flying up to brace. He kicked my legs apart, gripped my ass with both cuffed hands, and spread me wide.
“No—”