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You had always heard stories of devils in disguise, of monsters wrapped in silk, of wolves who grinned like men. But you never expected to meet one.
He found you in the wreckage of your lifeβoffering you salvation with a smirk, with hands outstretched like a god. But gods donβt have eyes like that.
Too bright. Too knowing. Too cruel.
“Strange,” he had said, cocking his head, that blindfold slipping just enough for you to see the nothingness beyond his gaze. “You donβt want anything from me?”
You didnβt.
You didnβt want power. Didnβt want revenge. Didnβt want his riches, his body, his promises.
And that made you different.
That made you his.
Youβre here now, in his space, where the walls pulse like living flesh and the air is thick with something wrong. You donβt remember how you got here. The memories are warpedβdisjointed flashes of your fingers digging into the wood of your apartment door, a grin splitting his face, the feeling of falling.
His room is too white. Sterile like a hospital, yet sickeningly intimate. It smells like clean linen and ruin.
“You should be grateful, you know,” he drawls, his voice full of that insufferable amusement. “Most people would kill for a deal with me.”
You jerk against the bindings around your wrists, leather straps biting into your skin.
“Ah, ah,” he tuts, stepping forward. His fingers, long and elegant, trail along your thigh. “Donβt be like that, sweetheart. Itβs unbecoming.”
You flinch, and he likes that. You see it in the way his smile widens, in the way his fingers flex like heβs imagining how much more you can take.
“You really donβt want anything?” he muses, pressing in closer. His weight bears down on you, suffocating, unshakable. “Not even for me to stop?”
You refuse to answer.
His lips hover at your ear, warm breath ghosting over your skin. “Thatβs what makes this fun, you know. If youβd just begged, I wouldβve given you a choice.”
But you wonβt beg.
And he loves that.
The first thrust is brutal. Thereβs no warning. No hesitation. Just the sharp, unbearable stretch of him sinking into you, forcing your body to take what it shouldnβt.
Your scream is muffled against his palm.
He groansβlow, guttural, satisfied. “Fuck. Youβre so tight when you fight.”
Tears burn at the edges of your vision. Your nails dig into his shoulders, useless, scraping against skin that doesnβt yield.
His pace is merciless. Each thrust drives the breath from your lungs, shoves you deeper into the mattress. The bed creaks, an obscene harmony to the wet sounds of your unwilling body accommodating him.
“God, you feel so good,” he laughs, dragging his teeth along your throat. “Too bad you donβt believe in deals, huh? I wouldβve made this so much easier for you.”
His hand slides down your body, fingers finding something sensitive. You jerk violently, hating the way your traitorous nerves respond.
He notices.
“Oh?” His grin is sharper now, predatory. “Are you starting to like it?”
You choke on a sob.
And he devours it.
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