Archive of Our Own

It had been weeks since the night he killed her friend.
Weeks since the cellar floor had been splattered red and her ears had been filled with the sound of someone choking on their own blood.

On the second day after it happened, he’d come down the stairs carrying a rusted saw. She remembered every detail in crystal clarity — how casually he set it down, how he hummed under his breath while dragging her friend’s limp body into the far corner.

And then, with a grunt, he began.

The first rip of teeth through bone made her scream. She screamed until her voice cracked, until her lungs burned, until her throat bled. She hurled every insult she could think of, cried for him to stop, begged and cursed and pleaded in one breath.

He never looked at her.

By the time it was over, he was spattered in gore, breathing hard like he’d just finished some taxing chore. He bagged the pieces up one by one, knotted the bags, and hauled them up the stairs without a word.

And then… silence.

For almost a full day, she was alone. No footsteps. No voice. No food. No water. Just her heartbeat and the dark.
It was only after the sun had set again that the realization hit her like a cruel joke — if he ever decided to leave and never come back… she’d die here. Chained up, rotting in the dark. She needed him now. And the truth of that made her sick.

The next morning, she heard it — footsteps on the stairs. But this time, there was a strange bounce to them. A pep.

She immediately sat up, chains clinking, pushing herself back against the wall. Her muscles tensed, every nerve in her body screaming danger as the door creaked open.

He appeared with a small paper bag in one hand, descending with the ease of someone who had all the time in the world.
The smirk was already on his face.

“Aww,” he cooed, kneeling in front of her. “Look at you. So tense. You’d think I was gonna hurt you or something.”

Her jaw clenched, eyes darting between him and the bag.

Then, without warning, he reached out and cupped her face in one hand. Fingers pressing into her cheeks just hard enough to make her still.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t soft, wasn’t gentle — just his mouth claiming hers, holding her there until he decided to pull away. She froze under the touch, her breath catching, her stomach twisting violently.

He’d never done that before. Never. He’d always waited until she said she was ready, acted like that was one of his “good boyfriend perks.”

Guess not anymore.

When he pulled back, he wrinkled his nose like he’d tasted something unpleasant.
“…Yeah,” he muttered, tilting his head. “We’re getting you a toothbrush.”

Then, as if remembering something, his expression brightened.
“Oh, right! Almost forgot.”

He plopped the paper bag down in front of her. It crumpled with a dull thud, something shifting inside.

She stared at it, unmoving.

“Well, go on, dove,” he urged, nodding toward it with that same infuriating smirk.

Her hands stayed in her lap for a long moment, eyes fixed on the crumpled paper bag between them.

With one trembling finger, she reached forward and hooked it under the folded edge, peeling it back just enough to see what was inside.

His eyes followed the movement with sharp amusement, the corners of his mouth curling upward.
“Seriously?” he said with a low laugh, rolling his eyes like she was the one being ridiculous.

She swallowed, bracing herself for something horrible—blood, knives, something from her friend—but when she caught the first glimpse, it wasn’t… that.

The tension in her shoulders loosened just enough for her to reach inside with her whole hand. Her fingers brushed against something soft, thick, and faintly warm, like it had been against his body before he came down here.

She yanked it out.

It was an oversized blue sweater, the kind that could swallow her whole, still smelling faintly of clean detergent and something distinctly him. Beneath it were plain black leggings. She dug deeper and felt thin plastic — underwear, still sealed in their packaging.

One pair was pink with a tiny bow at the front.
Another was pale blue with delicate lace trimming.
Nothing overly sexy. Nothing that screamed seduction. But she knew. She knew the way his gaze lingered, the way his fingers flexed slightly at his sides. For him, this was enough.

Her brows drew together as she looked up at him, her voice caught in her throat. She couldn’t make sense of it. Why would he—?

For a moment, something flickered across his face — the smirk falling, his eyes sharpening into a glare.
“What do you say?” His voice dropped, each word edged like a blade.

Her mouth went dry, her heart lurching.
“Th-thank you, Scara,” she blurted without thinking.

Just like that, the smile returned. A slow, satisfied curve of his lips.
“That’s better.”

She stayed still, clutching the sweater to her chest. The itchy, sweat-stiff fabric of her club dress dug into her skin. She hadn’t worn shoes since the night she’d thrown her heels at him. Weeks of dirt and cold clung to her, the dress chafing at her thighs every time she moved.

And now, the clothes in her hands felt heavier than anything he’d given her before.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stood there watching her like she was the only thing worth looking at.

Then, with a slow exhale, he said,
“Aren’t you going to try them on? I didn’t waste my time and mora for you to just sit there clutching them like a scared little rabbit. Don’t start with me.”

She blinked up at him, clutching the sweater tighter, her voice trembling.
“…Now?”

His head tilted, the faintest smile ghosting across his lips — the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Do you see anyone else here, dove?”

Her stomach twisted. He wasn’t yelling. He didn’t need to. She could feel his patience fraying with every second she hesitated.

With legs that barely held her, she pushed herself up onto the thin mattress, the chains at her ankles clinking. He leaned back against the wall, about four or five feet away, watching her like a cat watching a cornered mouse.

Her fingers fumbled behind her, finding the rusted zipper on her dress. She tugged it down, the worn teeth groaning as they parted. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

The first strap slid from her shoulder.

He moved.

One step forward, then another, until her back met the cold concrete wall. His arms caged her in without touching her, his face so close his breath fanned across her skin. His lips brushed just close enough to her neck to make her flinch—

And then he froze.

His head jerked back. His nose wrinkled in disgust.
“Seven hells…” He recoiled entirely, dragging a hand over his face as if she had offended him.

She stood there trembling, humiliated, the strap of her dress half-off her arm.

“It’s been weeks, hasn’t it?” His tone was clipped now, as though she was the one at fault for the filth he kept her in. “No wonder—” He cut himself off with a shake of his head.

Turning away, he waved a dismissive hand.
“Don’t put that on yet. You need a bath first.”

He glanced over his shoulder, almost playfully.
“Knew I was forgetting something.”

He didn’t even bother shutting the doors when he left, letting the cold air seep in. She knew why—he liked dangling the idea of escape in front of her, liked watching the moment she remembered the chains on her ankles and how far they would actually let her get.

When he returned, the wooden steps creaked under his deliberate, slow pace. There it was—that smile. The one that told her he was excited about something, and whatever it was… she wasn’t going to like it.

He hummed as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a loop of keys that jingled softly in the cellar’s still air. She tensed, watching him kneel in front of her. Without a word, he undid the first cuff.

The moment the freezing, bruising metal released her ankle, she gasped—a small, involuntary sound. He chuckled low in his throat.
“Cute,” he murmured, like he’d just caught a small animal reacting to a treat.

The second cuff clattered to the floor, and he rose, slipping the keys back into his pocket. She slowly bent down, rubbing at the raw skin, her fingertips brushing over the deep, angry indentations.

A sharp tut from him made her flinch.
“Ah, ah… I’ll take care of that,” he said with a mock sweetness that made her stomach turn. “In the bath.”

Her blood went cold.

His gaze swept over her, slow and thoughtful, as if taking in every inch. Then his hand shot out and wrapped around her forearm. The pressure built—tight, then tighter—until she winced and whimpered, “You’re hurting me.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes dark but voice light.
“Good. Means it’s tight enough.”

Then, without warning, he yanked her forward, dragging her across the cellar floor. Her bare feet stumbled over the uneven ground as he hauled her up the stairs, his grip unrelenting.

The first breath of outside air in weeks hit her like a shock, crisp and almost dizzying in its unfamiliarity. But it barely lasted a second before his hand shoved hard into her back, forcing her through the side door of his small house.

Inside, it wasn’t the dark, rotting den she half-expected—it didn’t smell of mildew or dust, and there was no clutter piled in the corners. Still, there was something unnervingly impersonal about it. No photos. No warmth. No sign of life.

Her eyes barely had time to sweep over the bare walls before his hand clamped tighter around her arm, pulling her forward again. She stumbled when her bare foot caught the edge of a rug, earning a sharp sigh of frustration from him.
“Honestly…” he muttered under his breath, as if her clumsiness were a personal inconvenience.

It was… surprisingly nice. The tile was clean, the counters free of dust. A deep tub sat along the far wall, its porcelain white and gleaming under the soft overhead light. Steam could have easily risen and curled along the walls here, making it feel almost serene—if not for the man blocking the doorway.

He hummed low in his throat, his eyes lazily scanning her from head to toe.
“I think,” he began, stepping closer and flicking a bit of dried dirt from her arm with the back of his fingers, “you’d rather take a shower. Since you’re so…” His lips curved faintly, though the warmth didn’t reach his eyes. “…filthy. Don’t wanna marinate in your own grime by taking a bath first.”

She blinked, unsure if he was mocking her or genuinely offering an option.
“Well?” he pressed, head tilting. “What would you like?”

A choice. He was giving her… a choice? The concept felt alien after weeks of him deciding every movement she made. Her lips parted—

—but he shook his head before she could speak, as if amused by the idea she’d get the final say.
“Mm… actually, how about both? You’ll get clean in the shower first, and then you can relax in the bath. I remember you liked baths.”

The way he said it wasn’t kind. It wasn’t even about her. It was about the fact that he remembered, that he kept every detail of her locked in his head, to be used when and how he saw fit.

He reached under the sink without breaking eye contact, pulling out a folded towel and a slightly worn rag. Setting them neatly on the counter, he leaned back against the sink like he owned the space—because he did—and arched an eyebrow at her.

“Well? Go on,” he drawled, voice lazy but edged with something sharp. “Do you forget how to use a shower?”

The words cut deeper than they should have, burning in her chest with a quiet humiliation. She swallowed, the back of her neck prickling as she bent down to twist the handle, letting the pipes groan before a stream of water hissed to life.

Behind her, she heard it—the smallest hitch in his breathing.

She hated that she knew what it meant. She hated more that she’d almost forgotten. He wasn’t just watching her because he had to. He was watching her because he wanted to—because every inch of her, every movement, every accidental glance, wound him tighter. Sometimes she’d catch him staring so hard his breaths came quicker, chest rising faster, before he would suddenly storm out like if he stayed a moment longer, he’d lose control.

It wasn’t love. It was fixation. A gnawing, obsessive hunger that never loosened its grip.

She turned, her fingers brushing the zipper at her back. His eyes followed the movement. She tugged it all the way down this time, the quiet rasp of the zipper loud in the tiled room. Her shoulders rolled forward as she slipped each strap down slowly, her gaze locked firmly on the floor, stretching every second like she could somehow delay the inevitable.

The dress slid over her hips and pooled around her feet, leaving her in nothing but her bra and panties—both worn from weeks without change.

She glanced at him, almost against her will, just to gauge his mood.

He wasn’t moving.

His arms were folded, but his nails were digging crescent-shaped marks into his own skin. His eyes didn’t wander; they locked on her with an intensity that made her stomach flip, like he could burn through her with his stare alone. His breathing was slow, controlled, but his whole body was taut, as if holding himself back took every shred of willpower he had.

And that, somehow, terrified her more than if he’d taken a step forward.

She froze mid-motion, fingers still hooked in the waistband of her panties but not moving any further.

His eyebrow twitched upward, and he tilted his head with that infuriating mix of curiosity and amusement, palms turning up in a silent, well?

Her arms dropped in front of her stomach, crossed low in a half-shield, half-hesitant fidget. “…Are you… gonna stay there?” she mumbled, barely loud enough to be heard over the running water.

For a moment, his expression didn’t change—then he let out a short breath, almost like a laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Of course I’m gonna stay here,” he said, his tone laced with impatience. “You think I’m gonna just waltz out and leave you alone? Without chains?” He made it sound absurd, like she’d asked the stupidest question he’d ever heard. “Use your head.”

Her cheeks burned hot, a heavy lump of humiliation settling in her throat. She couldn’t tell if he genuinely thought she was naïve or if he just enjoyed making her feel small.

“Now hurry up,” he added, his voice tightening just slightly as his gaze flicked over her body again. “You’re wasting water.”

The way he said it—it wasn’t just about the water

She whined softly, the sound almost swallowed by the steady rush of the shower behind her. It wasn’t just embarrassment—it was dread, an aching awareness that the line he’d once respected had long since been crossed.

Never once had he seen her completely naked before. Even in the worst moments, he’d always left the room when she changed, turning his back, waiting until she told him she was ready. That strange, twisted version of “patience” had been one of the only slivers of control she had left. But now? Now it was gone.

He’d already forced his mouth against hers earlier, taken that first physical step without asking. And now, standing there in the warm haze of the bathroom, he wasn’t moving, wasn’t offering her the smallest shred of privacy. He was done pretending to be considerate. Done pretending her boundaries mattered.

Her heart was pounding so loud she could hear it in her ears as she sucked in a shaky breath. Her fingers trembled when they reached behind her back, fumbling with the clasp of her bra. The metal hooks finally gave, and the straps slid off her shoulders. She let the fabric fall into the pile of her discarded clothes, the sound muffled by the steam.

Scaramouche’s expression shifted the instant the garment hit the floor. The usual lazy smirk was gone; instead, his gaze sharpened, darkened, locking onto her exposed chest like it was something he’d been starving for.

Her skin prickled under the weight of his stare, the cool air from the shower brushing over her bare skin until her nipples hardened involuntarily. She wanted to cover herself, curl inward—but she couldn’t move, not with him standing there like a predator who’d finally cornered his prey.

His lips twitched before curving into a slow, almost dangerous smile. A low chuckle rumbled in his throat, unhurried, savoring.
“Worth the damn wait,” he murmured, and there was something in his voice—possession, satisfaction—that made her stomach turn even as her legs threatened to give out.

He closed the distance between them in only a few strides, the shift in his presence making her flinch before she even registered the movement. Her instinct was immediate—arms snapping up to shield herself, shoulders curling in—but he didn’t hesitate. His hands shot out, fingers like iron around her wrists, yanking them down to her sides with enough force to make her stumble. The sudden exposure made her throat tighten, a small, panicked squeak slipping out as tears burned the corners of her eyes.

He leaned in slowly, deliberately, until she could feel the heat of his breath against her ear. His voice was low and dark, laced with a hunger that made her blood run cold.
“I could take you right here,” he murmured, each word deliberate, like he wanted them to sink into her skin. “Make you scream until your voice gives out.” His grip on her arms tightened, the pressure bruising. Then his tone shifted—colder, crueler. “But you haven’t earned that yet. You don’t deserve to feel good.”

The words landed heavy in the pit of her stomach, twisting shame with something far more dangerous. She whimpered, her head dipping, refusing to meet his eyes.

He stepped around her slowly, the movement measured, until he was facing her fully. One hand lifted, almost languidly, before cupping her breast in a possessive squeeze. The gasp that tore from her throat was involuntary, her gaze fixed on the floor, humiliation burning through her.

“I’m going to wait outside,” he said, his tone almost casual, though his fingers tightened briefly against her. “Because if I stay, I won’t hold back.” He leaned in just enough to press a faint, mocking kiss against her cheek before giving her breast one last firm squeeze.

“Don’t take too long,” he added with a thin smile, stepping back and slipping out the door, leaving her alone with the pounding of her heartbeat and the hiss of the shower.

She lingered for a few minutes, frozen in place, listening for any sound beyond the door. The house was quiet—too quiet—but she knew he was still there, waiting. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she forced herself to move, pushing her panties down with trembling hands and kicking them onto the growing pile of clothes on the tile. Without wasting another second, she stepped into the shower, yanking the curtain closed as if it could shield her from the weight of his presence just outside.

The spray of hot water hit her skin, sharp at first, then blissful as it loosened the grime caked along her body. She snatched up the rag he’d left her and squeezed some soap onto it from a half-empty bottle on the shower shelf—clearly his. She didn’t care. The scent was clean and faintly herbal, almost sharp in her nose, and she welcomed it. She scrubbed hard, dragging the cloth over her arms, chest, legs—every patch of skin where filth had settled into her pores. Each pass of the rag turned the lather grey, the water pooling at her feet dark and murky before swirling down the drain. The sight alone made her stomach twist and her throat gag.

She worked faster, her hands a blur, hair sticking to her face as she reached for the shampoo and dumped more than necessary into her palm. She worked it into her scalp roughly, fingernails scraping just enough to lift away the grease and dirt that had clung there for far too long. The suds ran down her back in dingy rivulets, carrying weeks of neglect away. She didn’t even glance at the conditioner—every second spent in here was a gamble, and she wasn’t willing to test his patience.

When the water ran clear beneath her feet, she shut off the shower with a sharp twist, the sudden silence in the bathroom deafening. Steam clung to the air, wrapping around her like a false sense of safety. She stepped out quickly, grabbing the towel he’d given her and rubbing herself down with urgency, the soft fabric a stark contrast to the roughness of his grip earlier.

For the first time in weeks, her skin felt smooth, her hair light against her shoulders. She smelled faintly of herbs and clean linen—fresh, almost like herself again. But the comfort was short-lived. Because no matter how much she scrubbed, no matter how good she smelled, she knew who was waiting for her on the other side of that door—obsession wrapped in the shape of a man who would never let her go.

She lingered in front of the mirror, dragging out every movement like it could buy her more time. The towel slid over her hair again and again, each pass slower than the last, until the damp strands clung softly to her neck and shoulders. The sweater and leggings laid neatly on the counter felt almost out of place—too clean, too comfortable—yet she pulled them on anyway. The fabric was soft against her freshly washed skin, the warmth seeping into her bones in a way that almost made her forget how she’d gotten here. Almost.

When she finally lifted her gaze to the mirror, she hardly recognized the woman staring back. Her face was thinner, her cheekbones sharper. The deep shadows under her eyes gave her a hollow look, and the yellowed edges of a fading bruise bloomed across her cheekbone—a souvenir from the day she’d talked back one too many times. She reached up without thinking, fingertips brushing the tender spot, and quickly pulled her hand away as if she could erase the memory with a single touch.

Her eyes drifted downward, catching on something small and out of place on the sink: a brand-new toothbrush, still sealed in its packaging. He’d said she needed to brush her teeth. It wasn’t phrased as a suggestion. With a small, hesitant movement, she tore the plastic open and ran it under the tap, the bristles stiff but promising. The moment she pressed it to her teeth, she felt an almost dizzy rush of relief. The cool mint taste spread over her tongue, the rhythmic scrape and rinse soothing in its own quiet way.

For the first time in weeks, every inch of her felt clean. Her hair was soft, her skin free of the grit and sweat that had clung to her, her mouth tasting fresh for the first time in… she couldn’t even remember. For a fleeting, dangerous second, she allowed herself to close her eyes and pretend she was home, safe, normal. That there wasn’t someone standing just beyond that locked door, waiting, watching, counting the seconds until she came out.

She took in one last shaky breath before her fingers curled around the doorknob, turning it just enough for the latch to click. The door creaked open by an inch, then two, and she leaned forward to peek out, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it might rattle the wood. Scaramouche was stretched out on the bed like he’d been there for hours, one leg bent lazily, a book open in his hands. His eyes moved over the page with practiced calm, but it didn’t last. The moment he caught sight of movement in the doorway, his gaze flicked up with unnerving precision, locking on her like he’d been waiting the entire time.

For the briefest moment, she thought—maybe even hoped—he’d ignore her. But then the corners of his mouth twitched, and she remembered why that particular look always made her uneasy. Sometimes she told herself she was lucky in the smallest, most pathetic ways. He wasn’t a leering, sweaty old man with yellowed teeth and beer on his breath. No—he was young, striking even, with skin pale as porcelain and hair as dark as midnight sea foam, cut through with that sharp, almost metallic blue. And when he wore his hat—oh, that hat—it somehow sharpened every edge of his beauty into something both regal and terrifying. He wasn’t wearing it now. Somehow, that made him feel closer.

He closed the book without a word, the soft thud of the covers meeting sounding far louder in the stillness than it should have. Placing it neatly beside him, he sat up with slow, deliberate movements, his eyes never leaving her. They trailed down from her face to her clothes—his clothes—and lingered there, drinking her in like a piece of art he owned. The faintest smirk curled his lips.

“That’s more like it,” he murmured, his tone carrying a quiet satisfaction that made her stomach twist. He rose from the bed with that same measured pace, each step shortening the distance between them. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze; her eyes dropped to the floor, shoulders curling inwards as if that could make her smaller.

His finger slipped under her chin with disarming gentleness, tilting her head back up until she had no choice but to face him. Before she could speak, his lips pressed to hers—soft, fleeting, almost tender. It should have been comforting. It wasn’t. The kiss was as much a claim as any chain. She whimpered, the sound trembling out of her throat before she could stop it, a quiet plea laced with fear.

He pulled back just enough for her to feel the curve of his smirk against her mouth, his breath warm as he lingered close. That smirk told her exactly what he was thinking—how much he enjoyed the sound, how much power it gave him. And she knew, with a cold certainty, that he wanted her to make it again.

His gaze lingered, heavy and unblinking, as if he was reading something written on her skin. She dared a quick glance upward, only to find those sharp violet eyes still fixed on her, studying her every twitch and breath. He tilted his head slightly, that deceptively calm expression on his face making it impossible to tell if he was about to mock her or reward her.

“It’s really cold in the cellar, isn’t it?” His voice was soft, but there was a calculated smoothness to it, each word deliberate.

She hesitated, then gave a small nod.

“And it’s dirty,” he continued, almost conversationally. “Full of bugs. You hate bugs.”

Another timid nod. Her mind was racing, trying to figure out where this was going, but his tone gave nothing away.

“You’ve been good lately…” He paused, a quiet chuckle slipping from his lips. “…and by lately, I mean the past two days.”

She cringed at the sound—mocking, amused at his own choice of words. He either didn’t notice her reaction or simply didn’t care.

“Do you want to sleep up here with me?”

The question froze her in place. She looked up at him fully this time, confusion and a fragile spark of hope in her eyes. A real bed? Not the thin, damp mattress in the cellar, shrouded in darkness and crawling with things she tried not to think about?

Her lips parted, but before she could answer, he caught the flicker of longing in her face and smirked, leaning in just enough to let his shadow fall over her.

“You like that, don’t you?” His voice dropped lower, the teasing edge curling through it. “Let’s make a deal. You can sleep in my bed with me tonight… if you let me have some fun.”

The words hit like a bucket of ice water in her veins, that tiny spark of hope snuffed out in an instant.

He laughed softly at her expression, a cruel, knowing sound. “Don’t worry, dove,” he murmured, his hand brushing against her side before his fingers began to toy with the hem of her sweater. “I won’t fuck you.”

He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over her ear. “I’ll just… enjoy myself. Using you.”

The way he said it—low, certain, like it was already decided—made her skin crawl.

Her breath came quicker, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm as her mind spun in circles. Was she really about to trade herself for a night in a warm bed? It wouldn’t even be real rest—not with him beside her, not after whatever he planned to do. But the thought of the cellar—the cold stone, the damp, the scuttling of unseen legs in the dark—gnawed at her resolve.

She didn’t notice how long she’d been silent until his patience snapped.

Without warning, his hands clamped down on her shoulders, and she was shoved hard against the closed door. The impact rattled her bones, a gasp tearing from her throat as she turned her face away from him, avoiding his eyes.

His voice came low at first, almost trembling with restrained fury, then sharpened like a blade. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

She flinched, but his grip tightened.

“You vanished for nearly a year,” he said, each word deliberate, venom laced through every syllable. “You think you get to come back and act like you’re above me? Like you’re too good for this?”

Her tears welled faster, but he only leaned closer, his expression twisting.

“This—” his hand slid up to her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze “—is the least you can give me after what you’ve done.”

His tone was quieter now, but far more dangerous, the kind of calm that carried more threat than any shouted words could.

She shook her head, voice trembling. “I–I don’t want this. I’ll just… I’ll go back to the cellar.”

His expression didn’t flicker. Not a hint of emotion—just the stillness before a storm. Then his hand cracked across her face, the sting blooming hot against her skin. She gasped, clutching her cheek, but before she could recover, his fingers clamped around her arm.

“Too late for that,” he muttered, yanking her toward the bed.

She stumbled, but he didn’t give her time to steady herself—he threw her down, the mattress groaning under her weight. Her breath hitched as she scrambled to the far edge, desperate to get away, but he was already on her.

His knees pinned her hips, the weight of him making it impossible to move. A sharp tug on her hair wrenched her head back, forcing her to look up at him.

“You stupid, ungrateful little pet,” he hissed, leaning close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath. “You think you get to choose now? After everything?” His free hand dug into her jaw, forcing it open slightly. “No. You don’t get choices anymore. You belong to me.”

She sobbed, the sound shaking in her throat. “Please—”

“Shut. Up.” His voice was low, cold, each word like a blade pressed to her skin. “Cry, scream, beg—doesn’t matter. You’re going to give me what I want, whether you like it or not.”

Her tears spilled freely now, her pleas breaking into hiccups, but his grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened—like the more she fought, the more it thrilled him.

Her arms were pinned before she could even push him away, his weight pressing her down into the mattress. In one swift, impatient motion, he flipped her onto her back, caging her in. His mouth crashed against hers, not gentle—greedy, starved. The groan that left him was guttural, years of pent-up hunger spilling out in that single sound.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t to give her space—it was so he could murmur against her ear, his breath hot and uneven. "You have no idea… no idea how long I’ve waited to do this again," he whispered, the words dripping with something darker than longing. His lips grazed her jaw, then her neck, lingering like he was memorizing every inch. "You ran… you thought you could disappear from me. But even then, I couldn’t stop thinking about you."

He pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes wild but unwavering. "Every single night," he said with a low laugh, "I imagined this. The sound of your voice. The way you’d look at me. The way you’d… break beneath me." His hands roamed—possessive, almost desperate—as if reassuring himself she was real.

"I still love you, you know," he said suddenly, tone dropping to something almost gentle, though his grip didn’t loosen. "Even if you’re a little liar. Even if you left me." His fingers slid into her hair, tugging just enough to make her gasp, his mouth brushing her ear again. "I can’t stop wanting you. You belong to me. You always have."

His body stayed pressed against hers, the weight of him making it hard to breathe. She shoved at his chest with trembling hands, but the look he gave her froze her in place—sharp, dangerous, like a predator who’d just had enough of his prey’s squirming.

Without breaking eye contact, he reached into his pocket and flicked open a switchblade. The metallic click was deafening in the tense silence. He brought the blade up, the cold steel kissing the side of her neck. She stiffened instantly, her breath caught, shoulders rigid as silent tears welled and spilled down her cheeks.

His voice came low, a rough murmur edged with venom. “Go on. Fight me, and I’ll gut you. Is that what you want?” The words were calm, almost casual, but there was no mistaking the threat buried beneath them.

She shook her head—small, quick, careful. Not enough to nick herself, but enough for him to see the desperate plea in her eyes. “Please… don’t,” she whispered, her voice shaking.

And then, almost cruelly, his expression softened into something sweet. He smiled—gentle, disarming, but laced with something far more sinister. “Good girl.”

With deliberate slowness, he lowered the knife and set it down beside her head on the mattress, close enough for her to see it glinting in the low light… close enough for her to know it wasn’t going anywhere.

Her chest rose and fell in uneven, shallow breaths, every inhale shaky as she fought to keep the sob in her throat from breaking free. Her eyes stayed fixed anywhere but on him—on the ceiling, on the far wall—anywhere that wasn’t that expression on his face.

He looked… happy. Not the cruel smirk she’d seen before, but a genuine, almost boyish excitement. Like a child unwrapping a long-awaited gift. He hummed under his breath, a small, satisfied sound, before leaning down and brushing his lips against hers in a quick peck. Once. Then again. And again, lingering just slightly longer, like he was savoring her.

Pulling back, he ran his fingers through his messy dark hair, exhaling slowly, as though steadying himself. His eyes roamed her face, her body, drinking her in. Then, without warning, his hand trailed upward, sliding over her stomach, under the hem of her sweater. His palm was warm against her bare skin, contrasting with the cold terror crawling through her veins.

She whimpered—quiet, involuntary. Her instinct screamed to pull away, but her body stayed frozen under his weight. His gaze snapped to meet hers, and for a moment, there was a softness there. A smile tugged at his lips, small and almost tender, as if he’d just heard something he liked.

He thought it was pleasure. Not fear. And that made him smile wider, almost pleased, his thumb brushing slow circles against her skin as if rewarding her for it.

Without a single word of warning, his hands shot to the hem of her sweater, yanking it upward in one swift, ruthless motion until it was bunched under her arms. The sudden exposure made her gasp, her arms instinctively twitching to cover herself—only for him to pin them down with his weight.

No bra. He’d never bothered to give her one, and now that fact made his grin split wide, his eyes gleaming with something unhinged. A laugh—sharp and manic—slipped from his throat, echoing too loud in the quiet room.

Then he moved—no hesitation, no restraint. He all but dove in, his mouth latching onto her like a man starved. His teeth grazed, then bit, sharp enough to make her squeak, and his tongue followed, hot and demanding, dragging over her skin in greedy circles. He didn’t care about gentleness—every kiss was a claim, every bite a mark he wanted to leave.

She gasped, her breath catching on every pull of his mouth, every rough suction. Whimpers escaped before she could choke them back, her body arching just slightly under him—whether in pain or… something else, she didn’t know. Shame surged hot through her chest.

This was wrong. Every instinct screamed that this was wrong. And yet—her pulse was racing for reasons that had nothing to do with fear alone.

His laugh rumbled against her skin, low and self-satisfied, as if he could feel that tiny, unwanted crack in her resistance. He bit down again, harder this time, then pulled back just enough to murmur something against her chest, his breath hot.

Her heart was pounding so loud she swore he could hear it, chest heaving with each shaky breath. His grin stretched wide, a disturbingly satisfied glint in his eyes as if he was savoring every drop of her fear. “See? I knew you wanted this,” he murmured, the words dripping with smug certainty, like her reaction was some kind of victory.

She quickly turned her face away from him, shame burning deep in her chest, but before she could even draw her next breath, his hand shot up to grab her jaw in a bruising grip, fingers digging into her cheeks. The sudden pressure forced her to look at him, and his expression shifted—still twisted in that psychotic delight, but colder now, sharp as glass.

“Eyes on me,” he demanded, voice low, calm, and laced with an unhinged kind of dominance. “Look at the one who decides if you live or not.” His tone wasn’t a shout, but the weight of his words hit harder than if he had screamed them. Her throat tightened, tears spilling over again as she whimpered, but his only response was a dark, humorless laugh that rumbled low in his chest.

Without another word, his hands moved fast—one still gripping her jaw, the other dropping to her hip as he suddenly yanked at her leggings. The fabric bit into her skin as he dragged them down in one harsh motion, the waistband snapping against her thighs before he tore them away entirely. She gasped, clutching instinctively at the sheets beneath her, pleading for him to stop, her voice cracking and desperate.

But to him, every broken word sounded like something else—like she was begging for him, not begging him to stop. It twisted his grin into something almost triumphant. His eyes lit with the kind of wild satisfaction that made her stomach churn, his gaze raking over her now-bare legs with slow, predatory delight.

“You sound so sweet when you’re desperate,” he said, almost to himself, the words vibrating with a sick thrill. And the worst part—what made her chest ache with guilt and horror—was that beneath the fear, something deep inside her still reacted to him. Still heated. Still betrayed her.

His eyes raked over her like she was some long-awaited feast, gaze lingering on the pale expanse of her thighs and the soft fabric between them. His voice dropped low, almost reverent, as he murmured how he knew this color would look perfect against her skin—like he’d imagined it a thousand times before.

At first, his touch was deceptively tender, palms warm as they cupped her thighs. The pads of his fingers pressed in slowly, almost like he was savoring the feel before his composure cracked, and that laugh—wild, breathless, wrong—spilled from his chest. It wasn’t joy. It was hunger.

She instinctively tried to pull back, her spine meeting the headboard, but he followed without hesitation, his shadow swallowing hers. “Do you have any idea,” he muttered, voice threading between a purr and a growl, “how tired I am of waiting? Your body was made for me.”

The second squeeze came harder, his fingers digging in enough to leave marks, thumbs hooking against the tender insides of her thighs to part them slightly. The motion wasn’t fast, but it was deliberate, prying her open just enough to make her heart slam against her ribs. He looked down at her like a man who’d finally claimed what he’d been denied, his grin sharp and manic, drinking in every inch of exposed skin as if the act alone was intoxicating.

His hands stilled once her thighs were parted just enough for him to drink in the sight. His head tilted, that perpetual, maddening grin spreading slow and deliberate across his face as his gaze dropped to the damp fabric between her legs. The silence stretched long—too long—until it cracked with a sharp, manic laugh that made her jolt like she’d been shocked.

“Archons above,” he hissed through his teeth, the words curling with glee, “I knew you were such a desperate little slut for me.” His laugh came again, louder, raw with something between amusement and obsession, and she swore the air in the room thickened.

Then, softer—almost pitying, though the mockery dripped from every syllable—he said, “You’re soaked.”

Her heart lurched. Was she? The question clawed up her throat before she could stop it, and she froze under his stare, that wide grin never faltering.

“What? Don’t believe me?” His voice had dropped to a low, intimate hum that pressed against her nerves like a blade to skin.

Before she could even form a protest, he pressed a single finger firmly against the crotch of her panties. The sudden pressure made her gasp and flinch, her hips twitching back instinctively. But he didn’t relent—no, he lingered there, grinding the pad of his finger in slow, deliberate circles, as if confirming something he already knew.

When he finally pulled away, he held his hand in front of her face like a trophy. His grin turned smug, knowing, utterly infuriating. And then she saw it—saw the faint glisten catching the light on his fingertip

Her stomach churned with shame, heat crawling up her neck and into her cheeks. He, of course, looked utterly delighted, like he’d just unraveled the most delicious secret in the world. “Mm,” he purred, gaze fixed on her with dark satisfaction, “my little liar.”

Her whole body burned with humiliation, every inch of her screaming at her to pull away, to close her legs, to hide herself from him—but she couldn’t. Not when his grip was iron on her thighs, not when he was staring at her like that. She’d been trying to avoid looking at him the entire time, staring at the ceiling, at the wall—anywhere but his face. But curiosity, or maybe fear, made her glance down at him.

What she saw made her stomach twist.

He was shaking. Not from anger—no, this was something far worse. His hands trembled with unrestrained hunger, his chest rising and falling quickly as he panted like he’d just run a mile. His eyes were blown wide, locked entirely on her slick folds, a manic grin splitting across his flushed face. And lower… she couldn’t not notice it—there was a heavy, undeniable bulge straining against his pants. It looked—Archons, no—she tore her gaze away, disgust and panic surging through her.

But Scaramouche didn’t give her time to think. He shifted closer, both hands now on her inner thighs, and with slow, deliberate force, he spread her wide open for him.

A groan slipped from his throat the moment he got a full view, deep and guttural, like the sound alone was ripped from somewhere primal. “...Archons, I knew it,” he breathed, his voice trembling with glee. “I knew you’d have the prettiest little clit…” His thumb moved almost reverently, brushing over it in a featherlight touch, and her hips jerked involuntarily.

She gasped, a small, helpless sound, and he froze for just a heartbeat—then smirked. “Ohhh…” The taunt dripped from his lips, low and mocking. “You like that, Dove? See? I told you…” His thumb circled the sensitive bud again, a little firmer this time, watching her twitch and squirm. His voice dropped to a near whisper, intimate in its cruelty. “Doesn’t matter how much you cry… your body’s already mine.”

His thumb ground into her clit just a little harder, and the jolt of pleasure-pain tore through her like lightning. Instinctively, she slapped both hands over her mouth, muffling the shaky sound that wanted to slip free.

That was a mistake.

His grin vanished in an instant, replaced by a cold, sharp glare that cut straight through her. “...Don’t piss me off now, Dove.” His voice was low, dangerous—not loud, but laced with a promise that made her stomach drop.

Slowly, she lowered her hands, her pulse thundering in her ears. The moment her lips were bare again, his expression shifted—like a storm cloud breaking—back into that maddening, hungry grin.

“Good girl…” he murmured, and his attention returned to the swollen bud between her legs. His thumb moved in deliberate, tighter circles, the pressure more insistent now. She couldn’t stop the sudden, sharp gasp—“ah—” breaking past her lips as her hips jerked upward.

The sound he made in return was nothing short of feral—somewhere between a moan and a groan, rough and desperate, like it had been wrenched out of him.

“I can’t—” he muttered, the words almost too quiet, like he was talking to himself rather than her. “I have to—” His other hand slid down without hesitation, cupping the obvious, straining bulge in his pants. The fabric tented obscenely, and as his palm pressed against himself, his breath hitched, head tilting back as a guttural groan tore from his throat.

It was like watching a man possessed—no, not possessed. Obsessed. Completely, entirely lost in her, like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

His lips dragged across her collarbone, leaving heated, shaky breaths on her skin as his middle finger teased her entrance. She jolted at the touch and he let out a sharp, delighted laugh.

“Ha! Sensitive, are we?” he purred, the sound dripping with mockery. His voice lowered as his finger traced slow, agonizing circles around her hole. “You’re trembling like a frightened little rabbit… and yet—” he pressed harder against her slit, the wet squelch making his grin twitch wider— “you’re drenched. Ohhh, Dove, you can’t lie to me like this. Your body betrays you.”

He rubbed faster, his two fingers sliding up to her clit again, making her jolt with a cry she couldn’t hold back. His eyes fluttered, dreamy, drunk on the sound. “Ahhh, that’s it… sing for me… such a sweet little melody…” His free hand stroked the bulge in his pants harder, his voice breaking into a groan as his head fell to her shoulder. “Do you have any idea what you do to me? I’ve starved for this. Every damn night, I’ve imagined splitting you open on my cock… hearing you beg for mercy you’ll never get.”

He pulled back enough to look at her, his grin sharp and wild, pupils blown wide. He dragged his soaked fingers up and spread them in front of her face, strings of slick glistening between them. “Look at this… look at what a mess you’ve made for me.” He laughed, breathless, before shoving those same fingers back against her clit with brutal precision. “Tell me you don’t like it. Go on, Dove—lie to me.”

His fingers dragged lazily down her skin as though he were marking her. “Look at you,” he muttered, voice low and trembling with a mixture of lust and manic delight, “you hate it, don’t you? Hate how filthy I make you feel.”

Her body jolted when his middle finger pushed inside her, slow, deliberate, stretching her just enough to make her gasp. He groaned at the sound. “Tch—listen to you. Even your voice sounds perfect when it breaks.” His pace was unhurried, every thrust dragging out the wet, obscene squelch that made her cheeks burn with humiliation.

“Ohhh, hear that?” he whispered against her ear, the corner of his mouth curling into a twisted smile. “That’s you. That’s your body begging me to keep going. Don’t try to deny it.” He pumped his finger deeper, relishing every clench around him, and laughed when her thighs shook.

She whimpered, hiding her face against her arm, but that only made him tilt his head with a mock pout. “Don’t hide from me. You think I haven’t dreamed of this?” His lips brushed her ear, breath hot, and then his tongue darted out to lick along the shell. She cringed, shuddering, but her hips betrayed her, grinding ever so slightly into his hand.

“Mmnh—hah, gods, you don’t even know what you do to me…” his other hand stroked over the tent in his pants, shameless, needy, groaning when he felt himself twitch. “I could lose my mind, just from the way you squeeze my fingers.” He pressed another sloppy kiss to her collarbone, his voice breaking into a lovesick murmur. “I can’t stop, I won’t stop. You’re mine. Every sound, every tremble—it all belongs to me.”

Her breath came in panicked little pants, her body trembling between fear and arousal, torn between wanting to shove him away and the unbearable heat building inside her. And he knew it. He could feel it.

“That’s it,” he taunted softly, his grin turning razor-sharp as his finger curled inside her, brushing that spot that made her cry out. “Even when you’re scared, your body tells the truth. You love this. You love me.”

And when another helpless whine spilled past her lips, his whole body shivered like he’d just been handed salvation. He threw his head back with a strangled groan, muttering under his breath like a broken prayer: “More… I need more…”

He didn’t give her time to even process the extra intrusion. One second she was struggling to keep up with the rhythm of one finger, and the next he shoved another in, stretching her walls around the intrusion. She jolted, eyes flying open as a sharp, strangled sound tore from her throat—a sound she’d never made before, humiliatingly raw and needy.

Scaramouche froze for only a fraction of a second before letting out a breathless, manic giggle against her ear, his tone twisted with delight.
“Ha… what was that?” he taunted, voice dropping into something darkly amused. “Cute. Too cute. I think I like that one best.”

His pace didn’t falter, if anything his thrusts grew sharper, his fingers curling against that tender spot inside her. She gasped and whimpered, writhing against the sheets, hands gripping at the fabric like it might anchor her from the flood of sensation.

“Gods… so tight,” he muttered, his lips grazing her ear as his voice turned lower, raw with possessiveness. “And I know you’re not untouched. If I ever find the bastard who dared to take what should’ve been mine…” His words cut into a venomous growl. “I’ll kill him. Slowly. Painfully.”

Her body trembled under the threat, a pit of fear blooming in her chest—but it only seemed to coil tighter with the molten heat low in her stomach. A breathy moan slipped past her lips before she could swallow it down, her thighs twitching with each wet, obscene squelch of his fingers working in and out of her soaked cunt.

He groaned when he felt her arousal drip over his knuckles, smearing onto her thighs and stomach with every thrust. “You’re drowning me, darling,” he whispered, almost reverent. His free hand slid down, quick and impatient, yanking his sweatpants and boxers down in one rough tug—just far enough to free himself.

Her breath caught when his cock sprang free, heavy and already flushed at the tip, pre-cum smearing down the shaft. It twitched in his grasp as he wrapped his hand around it, pumping himself to match the rhythm of his fingers driving into her. His hiss of relief was sharp, ragged.

Her wide eyes locked on the sight of it, a feverish flush painting her cheeks. Too big… her mind whispered, panic and arousal tangling into one dizzying knot. Maybe seven inches, maybe eight—her hazy brain couldn’t decide. But the girth, the way it pulsed in his hand, made her thighs squeeze together instinctively, her breath shattering into quick pants.

Scaramouche caught her stare and smirked, tilting his head down until his lips brushed the edge of her jaw, his voice dripping with smugness.
“Like what you see, little doll? Don’t bother lying. Your body’s already telling me everything.”

His fingers curled just right inside her, and when her breath hitched with that little muttered “oh no…” his head snapped up, grin splitting across his face like a wolf scenting blood.

“Ohhh—fuck, Dove, you’re close, aren’t you?” he hissed, pumping himself harder in his fist as his thumb rolled over her clit in merciless circles. “Barely ten minutes on my fingers and you’re already gonna soak me? Hah! Pathetic—so fucking perfect.”

She shook her head wildly, eyes wide, but that only made him laugh—loud, manic, filthy. He pressed in deeper, curling against that spot that made her hips buck.

“Don’t lie to me now. I can feel it—your cunt’s fluttering all over me, begging to let go. You’re gonna cum, aren’t you? Gonna make a mess all over my fingers? Hah—fuck, look at you—”

He leaned down close, breath hot against her ear, whispering ragged with need.

“Do it. Cum for me, Dove. I want to see how pretty you look when you fall apart. I’ll wring it out of you again and again until you forget your own name—until all you know is me.”

She whimpered, squeaking out a tiny, trembling “no…” Her voice broke, and that only seemed to amuse him more. He chuckled darkly, and before she could form another protest—before she could even think—he was gone from her ear, diving down between her thighs.

Her breath hitched, panic and arousal colliding all at once. “Wait—!”

Too late. His mouth latched onto her dripping heat, tongue sweeping through her folds before circling and sucking her clit hard enough to make her squeal. His fingers pumped into her mercilessly, curling inside her, thrusting with unrelenting speed. Her hands shot down instinctively, tangling in his hair—she wanted to push him away, she swore she did, but her traitorous body betrayed her. Her grip tightened, shoving his face even deeper against her.

Her thighs trembled violently as his tongue and fingers worked in tandem, overstimulating her in seconds. He groaned against her, loving every twitch, every desperate little sound. Then it hit her.

Like a train slamming into her, her orgasm ripped through her body. She cried out, the sound breaking into the sluttiest, most uncontrolled moan she’d ever let slip from her lips. Her eyes rolled back as her body arched off the sheets, back bowing, thighs quaking around his head. She hadn’t felt pleasure like this in so long—it was almost too much, her brain short-circuiting on the overwhelming sensation.

He didn’t stop. The second he felt her unravel, he yanked his fingers out, hands immediately grabbing her thighs and forcing them wide open again. She gasped, weakly trying to close them, but he wasn’t having it.

“Don’t you dare hide from me now,” he growled against her.

His mouth sealed over her dripping cunt, tongue working furiously as he slurped up every ounce of her release. Loud, messy, obscene sounds filled the air, and he devoured her like he was starving, groaning as though her taste alone was addicting. Every whimper, every twitch of her hips only spurred him on, drinking her down until there was nothing left for him to take.

When he finally pulled back, his chin glistened with her arousal, lips wet and curled into a sick, satisfied smirk. His eyes burned with triumph as he licked his mouth slowly, like he’d just claimed a prize.

His chest heaved with exhilaration, pupils blown wide as he looked at her sprawled out, twitching and spent. His fingers glistened, dripping with the evidence of her release, and he lifted them to the light almost reverently before curling them into his palm.

“Aahh… would you look at that,” he drawled, voice dripping with satisfaction, dark with hunger. He tilted his hand so she could see the mess coating him. “You came so hard for me, sweetheart. Didn’t even last ten minutes… all I had to do was touch you. And fuck—” his tongue darted across his lips, greedy, filthy. “I came too. Just from feeling you fall apart around my fingers. You know how insane that is? How perfect you are for me?”

Her stomach twisted, and against her will, her thighs pressed together at his words.

He leaned closer, voice dropping into a reverent, husky whisper as his grin widened. “God, you taste better than I even imagined. Sweet and sharp, dripping down my tongue like I’ve been starving for it—and I have. And to actually feel you, finally… to feel this gorgeous cunt of yours clench and spasm around my fingers while you moaned my name? I could die happy.”

Her body went slack at that, a tired sigh falling from her lips as she relaxed, head falling back against the sheets. At least it was over. At least he got what he wanted—

He cocked his head, smile sharpening as he watched her unwind. “...Do you actually think we’re done, darling?”

Her eyes shot open, a jolt of panic running through her as she whipped her head toward him. He was smirking, amusement dripping from every line of his face.

“Selfish little thing,” he laughed low, reaching down to grip her thigh with a squeeze that bordered on possessive. “You think I’m going another night without fucking you? After finally getting a taste?” His grin widened, wicked, hungry, obsessed. “Not a chance in hell.”

She stammered, words tumbling over themselves as she tried to make sense of what was happening. “Y-you said… you said you weren’t gonna...gonna...”

Scaramouche tilted his head, that cruel grin curling across his face like a knife slicing open a wound. “Oh, I wasn’t. That was the deal.” His voice dripped with false innocence, like he was amused she even remembered it. Then his grin widened, eyes flashing with a dangerous spark. “But then you decided to get clever, didn’t you? Turning away my offer, making me chase you? Tsk, tsk. You should’ve known better.”

Her chest heaved, hot tears spilling down her cheeks as she shook her head desperately. “Th-that’s not fair!” she sobbed, the words breaking on her tongue.

He laughed. A jagged, maniacal laugh that rang sharp in her ears as his hand shot out, gripping her ankle and yanking her back down beneath him. She yelped, nails clawing at the sheets, but he was already on her, shadow blotting out everything but him.

His hand clamped around her jaw, fingers digging hard enough to leave bruises, forcing her face up until her tearful eyes met his violet ones. His smirk faded into something darker, his voice low, venomous, trembling with restrained rage.

“You know what’s not fair?” he spat, each word deliberate, seething with old wounds. “What’s not fair is having to drag myself through every damn nation in this miserable world just because you—” his grip tightened, making her whimper, “—thought you could leave me.”

His lips curled, teeth bared in something between a snarl and a grin. “That. Is what’s not fair.”

His scowl melted into that twisted grin again, teeth flashing as he loosened his grip on her jaw only to drag his hands down, fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise. She let out a weak, shaky whine at the pressure, but he only chuckled low in his throat.

“Now,” he said, voice sharp with manic satisfaction, “you’re gonna let me fuck you—because I have earned it.” His eyes glittered with something cruel, delighted in her trembling. “And you’re gonna sit there and enjoy it. Understand?”

Her chest rose and fell in frantic little gasps, eyes darting away, shame swirling in her stomach as heat crawled through her veins. She hated the way her body was betraying her—scared, but the thrum of excitement was undeniable.

He was panting too, feverish, his cock already straining against his grip as he dragged the slick head through her folds, smearing her cum-slick arousal against himself. She jolted at the hot pressure of him sliding across her, and he threw his head back with a manic laugh, a groan tearing out of him.

“Fuck—” he snarled through his teeth, grinding harder against her, savoring every twitch of her body. His grip on her hips tightened, locking her in place, like he was staking his claim. “You feel that? That’s mine. You’re mine.”

His grin widened when he caught the faint twitch of her clit, the way her body betrayed her. He leaned in, his voice low and mocking, laced with dark hunger. “Tch—look at that. Your pretty little clit’s already twitching for me, like it wants this. Disgusting… pathetic…” He chuckled, the sound sharp and cruel, his breath coming heavier as he shifted her leg up onto his shoulder with a rough shove.

Her face burned red, eyes squeezing shut as tears rolled down her cheeks, shame knotting in her chest. She turned her face away, but his laughter followed her like a brand, dragging her back into the moment. His hand slid along her thigh possessively, his bruising grip tightening as he positioned himself.

His cock prodded at her soaked entrance, swollen and messy with her own slick. She gasped sharply at the press, the heat of him making her tremble. He was panting now too, chest rising and falling in sharp rhythm, grumbling under his breath, “Hah… I don’t have time to waste on teasing anymore.”

Without giving her the mercy of warning, he thrust his cock head past her tight entrance. The pressure was overwhelming, her body clenching down instinctively, dragging a raw squeal from her lips. He threw his head back with a guttural groan, savoring the way her walls hugged the thick crown of his cock.

“Fuck… that’s it… tight little thing can’t help but swallow me already.” His voice was ragged, dripping with smug satisfaction as his hips rolled forward slowly, forcing her body to yield inch by inch.

Tears streamed down her face, her body trembling, but not from pain the way she desperately wanted it to be. She wanted to hate this, wanted to thrash and spit and choke on disgust. But instead her body betrayed her—every nerve in her clenched heat screamed pleasure, every thrust of pressure made her walls seize up tight around him. It felt so wrong, so shamefully good, like her insides were alight with a fire that melted her resolve and left her sobbing in confusion.

He knew. Of course he knew. The little tremors running through her body, the way her slick clung to him, how her thighs twitched when his cock forced its way deeper—it was all the proof he needed. That sharp, manic grin stretched across his face as his chest rose and fell in uneven gasps, the sound of his panting tangled with a hoarse laugh that spilled from his throat.

“Ahh, you’re crying like I’m hurting you…” he panted, his voice dripping with cruel delight, “but I can feel it—your walls are gripping me like you’re starving for this.” His head tilted back, his bangs sticking to his damp forehead as he pushed harder, grinding himself flush against her with a low groan. “Pathetic. You wanted this, didn’t you? Look at you—your pretty little clit’s twitching like it’s begging for my cock.”

Her face burned as she squeezed her eyes shut, the shame heavier than the tears streaming down her cheeks. She turned her head away, refusing to meet his gaze, her lip trembling. He only laughed at her denial, the sound cutting sharp through the room. His hand traced down her trembling thigh, his fingers digging in tight before hooking beneath her knee and forcing her leg higher against his shoulder, stretching her open even more.

Her breath hitched, body jolting as the head of his cock pressed deeper into her soaked, pulsing heat. He didn’t bother with patience—he didn’t need to. With a low, impatient growl, he shifted his hips forward, sinking himself in another inch. She squealed, her nails curling into the sheets as her body betrayed her again, tightening, sucking him in.

“Fuck—” his voice cracked into a sharp groan, his head tipping back as his grin faltered into something more frenzied. “God, you feel too good like this. Tight, wet, trembling—like you were made just to take me.” His breath hitched into a rough laugh, his hips snapping forward until every last inch of him was buried inside her.

Her body seized up, her back arching as a strangled cry left her throat, the sheer fullness stealing her breath. He stayed there for a moment, his hips flush against hers, relishing the way her insides fluttered and spasmed helplessly around him. The sound of his laugh was low and broken now, carried on gasps and groans, filth spilling from his lips like he couldn’t hold it back.

“Listen to you… listen to your little sounds,” he rasped, his thumb stroking hard against the inside of her thigh, holding her open. “Crying and whining like you hate me, but your cunt’s already choking me like you’d die if I pulled out. You can’t hide it. You fucking love this.”

He ground himself in deeper, rocking against her walls as his grin returned, sharper than ever. “And I’m not letting you forget it.”

He didn’t give her a moment to breathe, let alone adjust to the sheer size of him stretching her out. The instant he felt even the slightest twinge of boredom—the tiniest lull in the thrill—he nearly withdrew from her completely, only to slam back inside with brutal force. The sudden movement tore a ragged scream from her throat, a sound so raw and desperate that even she didn’t recognize it. It was ugly, broken, primal…and it only made him laugh.

His groan followed almost immediately, guttural and unrestrained, spilling into the air along with a string of shameless moans and low, hungry growls. He sounded as if he was unraveling, as if every harsh slam of his hips into hers was feeding some deep, twisted craving that only grew the more he indulged it. His pace was relentless—merciless. By the third thrust, her insides already felt battered, bruised, like he was breaking her down piece by piece with every brutal snap of his hips.

He braced himself above her, arms planted firmly on either side of her head, caging her in. His head dipped low, raven-black strands of hair brushing her face before his teeth sank against her neck. Each sharp nip made her body jolt, the sting mixing with the overwhelming burn of his thrusts. His hips never faltered—never slowed. He was entirely focused, entirely consumed by the way she squeezed around him, by the raw sound of her cries and the way her body tried so hard to reject the punishment, only to betray her by shuddering beneath him.

And god, it felt good. She hated the thought, despised it, but the truth clawed its way through every wall she tried to put up. The way he moved inside her was unbearable, but not in the way she had hoped—because instead of agony, it was pleasure that overwhelmed her. White-hot, blistering, addictive. She wanted to resist, to fight it, to keep hating him. But her body had already chosen to give in.

Her hands trembled against the sheets as if trying to decide whether to cling to them or to him. At last, she let go—hesitant at first, then with desperate abandon—as she looped her arms around his neck, dragging him closer. Her head tipped back, a broken moan tearing free as she let herself feel. Her fingernails raked down the expanse of his bare back, leaving thin, angry lines across his skin.

She didn’t see it—the flicker in his expression—but his eyes flew wide at her touch. That one act, her choosing to cling to him instead of pushing him away, seemed to ignite something feral in him. His lips peeled back into a wild grin, and a manic giggle burst from his throat. The sound was sharp, unhinged, vibrating against her skin as he pressed harder against her neck.

And then, as if the pace wasn’t already ruthless, he pushed himself even further—hips snapping faster, sharper, with manic determination. He was gasping now, panting, laughing between each ragged breath as though the chaos between them was the most exhilarating thing he’d ever experienced. Every time she moaned, every time she tightened around him, it only drove him further into frenzy.

Her body trembled violently beneath him, caught between hate and desire, pain and ecstasy. And him—Scaramouche, manic smile carved across his face—was reveling in every second, every sound, every shiver she couldn’t control. He was relentless.

And he wasn’t planning on stopping.

His lips trailed hot, desperate kisses along the curve of her neck, no longer biting, no longer trying to mark her with violence—just pressing his mouth against her skin as though every touch was worship. His voice was ragged between gasps, his words spilling without filter, without shame, almost like he was chanting a prayer directly into her ear.

“I love you—do you hear me? I love you, I love you, I love you—” His tone cracked with obsession, heavy with hunger. “You’re mine. I can’t exist without you—I won’t.”

His hips snapped against hers with ruthless rhythm, each thrust forcing broken moans from her throat. She didn’t even bother holding back anymore. Her cries and gasps filled the air, her nails digging into his back like she needed to anchor herself to him or else be swallowed whole by the sheer intensity of his pace. His body was unrelenting, hips slamming into her over and over, his breath hot and uneven against her ear as he kept whispering those frantic confessions.

Her cheeks burned, shame and heat coiling inside her, and yet she clung tighter, her arms wound desperately around his neck, pressing him closer as if she needed to feel every word against her skin.

And then the thought hit her.

...Living like this… would it really be so terrible?...

Her eyes fluttered shut, tears prickling at the corners but never falling as her mind betrayed her, spinning circles around the reality she’d been so desperate to escape.

...The first time he took me, before I ran, he wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t heartless. He was… sweet, even gentle. He cared for me in ways no one else ever has....

She arched into him as another moan escaped, her body trembling beneath his relentless thrusts. And right now—right here—he’s being so loving. He’s kissing me, telling me I’m everything. He’s holding me like I’m his entire world.

Her heartbeat stuttered at the dangerous comfort in the thought.

...Could I… really live like this? Locked away, cut off from everyone I knew, but… adored so completely that he’d destroy the world for me?...

Every slam of his hips rattled through her bones, pushing the answer closer to her lips than she wanted to admit.

...Is that a fair trade? To be trapped—but cherished beyond reason?...

Her voice broke the quiet with desperate cries, moaning his name over and over, each syllable spilling out like a prayer and a curse all at once. Her body arched and twisted beneath him, sweat glistening across her flushed skin as her head fell limply to the side. Scaramouche didn’t slow—not for a second. His rhythm grew sharper, quicker, as though every thrust was meant to carve his presence deeper into her body, his soul into hers. He wasn’t chasing his own release; no, his every movement screamed with single-minded devotion—he wanted hers. Only hers.

His slender fingers slid lower, finding her swollen clit, circling it in delicate but deliberate motions that made her body jolt violently. Her voice climbed into a near scream, her thighs trembling and twitching as her muscles fluttered around him. She cracked her eyes open for only a heartbeat, drunk on the blur of pleasure, and through the haze she caught sight of something glinting.

The faint shine snagged her attention—his pocket knife, lying just within reach next to her head on the sheets.

The metallic gleam flashed every time his hips slammed into hers, each jostle sending it shifting just slightly on the surface.

Her breath caught—not from the pleasure this time, but from the intrusive thought worming its way into the fog of her mind. The knife was no more than an arm’s reach away. Her hand could shoot out, fingers curling around the cool handle, and with a single movement she could plunge it into his pale neck. The image seared itself into her mind as her body spasmed, as his mouth clung desperately to her breasts, whining into her skin like he could never bear to let her go.

Her brain wasn’t functioning properly, not through the haze of ecstasy drowning her, but the thought lingered. How easy would it be? Just one decisive motion, and she’d be free. Free of his grip, his obsession, his suffocating love disguised as devotion.

Her mind thrashed against itself, caught between the heady, dizzying waves of pleasure rolling through her body and the brutal clarity that snapped like glass in her chest. Her friend’s face—sweet, kind, now twisted in memory, broken at the bottom of those cellar stairs—flashed so vividly it almost knocked the air out of her lungs. She’d never been able to forget the way the blood had spread, dark and heavy, pooling beneath a body that had once laughed with her.

And then Elliot. She saw him again. The memory came back as sharp as the cold night air on New Year’s Eve. The way he’d smiled, offering to walk her home, a harmless, gentle gesture. And the way Scaramouche had looked at him—a predator watching prey. She remembered the sick crack of bone, the sudden collapse, the life stolen before her eyes.

Her heart hammered, not just from the rhythm of his hips, but from the weight of it all pressing in at once. This was who he was. The man who spoke venom with every word when she dared to talk back. The man whose temper left bruises she’d hide. The man who caged her, convinced her love and violence were the same thing.

No.

The thought slammed into her chest like a bell tolling. No. This can’t be it. This won’t be it. She wasn’t going to be another story whispered behind closed doors. Not another body broken at the bottom of the stairs. Not another girl who never came home. Her fingers twitched against the sheets, and she swallowed hard, fighting to keep her breath steady.

She wouldn’t let her life be defined by his cruelty. She wouldn’t waste away waiting for the next storm of rage, the next body on his hands. She wouldn’t spend the rest of her days beneath the weight of his control, convincing herself love meant swallowing pain.

This isn’t love. This is survival.

And she refused to survive like this anymore.

Tears and sniffs came openly now from her, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. She had to end it—she knew she had to, no matter how much her heart twisted in her chest. Her trembling arm stretched out toward the nightstand, fingers blindly tapping against the wooden surface until they brushed the cold, familiar handle of the blade. Her hand curled around it, grip weak but desperate.

Scaramouche’s sharp ears caught the sound of her soft cries, the broken hiccups slipping past her lips. His brows furrowed, his rhythm faltering as he looked up—not at her hand, but at her face. His violet eyes scanned every twitch of her features, every tear clinging to her lashes. Slowly, carefully, he brought one hand up to cup her cheek, his palm surprisingly warm against her damp skin. His thrusts grew sluggish, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he should stop completely.

“You’re crying,” he said quietly, the edge of his voice carrying confusion more than anger. His thumb brushed clumsily against the wet trail of a tear. “Why? What did I do wrong?” His gaze searched hers, sharp but unsettled, like a man suddenly afraid of an answer. “Does it hurt?” He asked it softer this time, tone stripped of arrogance, laced instead with a rare and unsettling sincerity.

For a moment, silence hung in the air between them, broken only by the sound of her ragged breathing. Her chest heaved, her vision blurred with tears, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. His violet eyes—sharp, calculating, always so damned unreadable—looked softer now, touched with a flicker of something like concern. It should’ve been enough to stop her. It should’ve unraveled her resolve. But instead, something inside her snapped.

Her fingers clenched so hard around the knife that her knuckles blanched white. The cold steel trembled in her grip, as though it knew what was coming. With a guttural, animalistic scream that tore from her throat, she thrust upward and drove the blade into the side of his neck.

The sound was wet. Sickening.

His eyes flew wide, pupils dilating as a strangled gasp escaped his lips. He reached up instinctively, fingers brushing the blade now lodged deep in his flesh, and hot, dark blood welled up instantly, spraying across her chest and face. It spattered against her lips, warm and metallic, soaking into the sheets beneath them. His mouth opened, closed, like he wanted to speak but no words came—only a wet, gurgling rasp.

She didn’t give him a chance.

With a violent shove, she pushed him backward, forcing his body flat against the bed. The knife quivered in his neck as he fell, and her sobs broke into frantic screams. Both hands wrapped around the handle now, and she yanked it free with a sickening squelch before plunging it back into him.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Each stab was frenzied, fueled by a cocktail of rage, guilt, and grief. Blood sprayed with every downward motion, slicking her hands, her arms, her chest, until she was coated in crimson. His body jerked and twitched beneath her as she struck again and again, her sobs mixing with the wet sounds of tearing flesh. His breath rattled, a choking gurgle spilling from his throat, flecks of red bubbling at the corners of his mouth.

“Why? WHY?!” she screamed, voice breaking, tears streaming down her bloodstained face. Her arms shook violently, muscles aching, but still she drove the blade down, each strike a release of the storm tearing her apart inside.

The knife rose and fell again and again, her arm jerking wildly as the blade tore through flesh and bone with wet, sickening cracks. His chest was caved in by the sheer force of her frenzied strikes, his collarbone shattered beneath the blade’s repeated intrusion. The air reeked of iron and death, each plunge of the knife splattering her skin with thicker layers of his blood until her body gleamed in crimson under the dim light.

Her eyes weren’t even seeing him anymore—weren’t seeing the corpse beneath her. They were somewhere else, somewhere buried in the dark pit of memory. She saw his shadow looming over her, felt the dirt grinding into her cheek as his hand shoved her face down, heard her own screams echo back at her, raw and broken. Each downward thrust of the knife was less about ending him—he was already gone—and more about drowning those echoes, about punishing every ghost of him still haunting her skin.

Her shrieks tore out of her throat like an animal being gutted alive, jagged and furious. The sound didn’t even feel human anymore. Blood dripped from her chin, mingled with spit and tears as she wailed, her knuckles white around the slick handle, stabbing until the body beneath her was nothing but torn meat and shattered bones.

At some point—she couldn’t tell when—the light left his eyes completely. The deep violet glassed over into a dull, clouded gray, empty of malice, empty of anything. Dead. Gone. Just a lifeless shell while she tore him apart.

When her arm finally gave out, she arched back, her chest heaving. Her hands were sticky and trembling, drenched to the wrist in his blood. Her hair clung to her face in thick, wet strands.

She tilted her head back and screamed again, but it was different now—no longer sharp, no longer manic. It was guttural, hollow, breaking apart into sobs that wracked her whole body. Tears streaked through the gore on her cheeks as she cried into the silence of the room, his warmth still seeping into her bare skin. She was coated in him—his blood, his death, his end.

It took her a long time to come back to herself. Her chest heaved, lungs straining to pull in air that felt too hot, too thick, like it was made of ash instead of oxygen. Each ragged breath left her trembling, shoulders rising and falling with jerks she couldn’t control. The knife was still in her hand, slick, heavy, slipping each time her fingers flexed around the handle. The manic, shrill cries that had torn from her throat only moments ago were gone now, leaving behind a painful ringing in her ears and the deep ache of an overworked voice box. For a second, she wondered if the sound of her own screaming might be lodged permanently in her skull.

She blinked. Once. Twice. Slow, disoriented. Her gaze dragged downward, landing on the man beneath her, and she froze as if seeing him for the first time. His body was a ruin. What remained of his chest rose and fell no more, torn apart and torn open in jagged punctures and deep slashes, skin shredded to a mess of reds and purples. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and syrup-thick, soaking into the mattress and dripping over the edges of the bed like some grotesque waterfall. It was still warm against her thighs, clinging in sticky patches to her bare skin.

His face was almost unrecognizable now, smeared and streaked with crimson. His once-neat hair was a wild halo, strands clumping together where blood had splattered across them. His eyes, those dark, violet things that had always glittered with cruelty, stared up at nothing. Their color had drained, the vibrance replaced with a dull, pale lavender, cloudy and lifeless. His mouth hung slightly open, lips slack, as if frozen mid-breath in shock. Even in death, he looked surprised—like he had truly never believed she could do this to him.

Her hand shook as she pressed it to his chest, using him as leverage to pull herself off his body. The contrast startled her: the cooling rigidity of his flesh against the living warmth of her palm. She shifted to sit beside him instead, the mattress groaning beneath her weight and the sticky wetness of his blood soaking further into the sheets. The knife clattered from her hand onto the floor, forgotten.

For a long time, she just sat there. Blank, hollow. Her eyes stayed fixed on him, unblinking, watching the way the light caught the still-wet blood and made it shine like oil. There was no sense of triumph. No deep satisfaction. Just a ringing silence inside her skull, so loud it almost drowned out the faint drip-drip-drip of blood hitting the floorboards.

She thought maybe she should feel something—guilt, relief, horror. But there was nothing. Nothing but the strange, heavy numbness dragging her down like chains, the overwhelming weight of exhaustion setting into her bones. Her body ached from the violence, from the screaming, from the sheer force of it all. And yet the only thing that registered, the only thing she was capable of acknowledging in that moment, was that she was tired. Bone-deep, soul-deep tired.

Her chin tilted back, eyes fluttering shut, and for a moment, she let herself simply breathe—slow, empty, mechanical breaths. Blood clung to her skin, drying in sticky patches across her arms, her thighs, her stomach, but she didn’t move to clean it. She didn’t move at all. Just sat there in the ruin of what she’d done, staring with a vacant face at the corpse beside her, the silence in the room pressing down heavier than the act itself.

Her joints cracked one by one as she got up, her arms arching upward with a long, satisfied sigh—as if she had just woken from a dream, not torn the life from the man who had made hers a waking nightmare. The coppery tang of blood still clung to the air, thick and nauseating, but she didn’t flinch. Her hands, slick and trembling only from exhaustion, dropped to her sides, leaving sticky trails down her thighs where crimson had already begun to dry and flake. The sheets were ruined, soaked through, the mattress a permanent shrine to violence. She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to.

Her legs trembled beneath her weight, each step unsteady, but she pressed forward until she reached the door, descending the staircase one bloodied step at a time. Every movement echoed, wet and obscene—bare feet slapping against wood, leaving behind dark, sticky imprints that tracked her descent like a confession. She didn’t attempt to wipe herself clean. Naked, drenched in gore, she wore it like a second skin.

At the base of the stairs, her dull eyes lifted to the coat hanger. The black cardigan hung there, untouched, soft in contrast to the carnage she carried on her skin. His cardigan. Scaramouche’s. The one he wore when he prowled through streets and alleys, searching for her with a paranoia that might’ve been called love once. She reached for it with reverence, sliding her arms into the long sleeves. It swallowed her whole, draping down past her thighs, concealing what little she still considered hers to hide. The blood clung to its fibers instantly, seeping into the black wool. She didn’t care. She didn’t even feel it.

Wrapping the fabric tighter, she pulled it across her chest as though it could shield her from everything—her sins, her shaking, the hollow pit inside. The cardigan’s familiar scent—faint soap, musk, and cold air—lingered beneath the metallic sting of blood, ghosting her senses. For the first time in hours, she exhaled.

The door groaned open. Dawn crept in to greet her. Pale light spilled across her face, illuminating every splatter, every streak where the crimson had dried into rusty patches. Her hair was a disaster—knotted, wild, matted as though someone had dragged her head along asphalt, every strand jutting out in directions that defied reason, the kind of mess that looked less like neglect and more like destruction.

Her face carried a grotesque mask of her own making: splashes of red across her cheeks and chin, smudges caked into the curve of her jaw, faint trails down her neck where blood had rolled and dried in place. Her lips trembled, but then—like a twisted sunrise—curved upward. A smile. Small, thin, painted against her bloodstained skin.

Her legs quivered with each step onto the street, the pale curve of her calves marred with dried streaks and violent blotches, little constellations of crimson dotting her bare knees. She swayed slightly, unsteady, but kept walking. The cardigan clung heavy and damp around her, sticking to her body in places where blood refused to let go. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with cold morning air, letting it sting as though to remind her she was still alive.

And for the first time in so long, she smiled. Not out of relief. Not out of victory. But something darker—an exhaustion and freedom tangled together, a satisfaction smeared with guilt.

She looked like a monster. She looked like a survivor. And she didn’t notice the difference.

She hummed a distant, broken tune under her breath, the kind of song a child might sing to themselves when no one else is listening. Her voice was soft, cracked, almost cheerful, though the sound carried something far more sinister beneath it. She swayed with each step, her body moving to the rhythm of the music only she could hear, like a puppet being tugged along by invisible strings.

The pavement beneath her feet left faint, wet prints—her cardigan so saturated that droplets of blood trailed behind her in a line, marking her path like breadcrumbs. Her hair clung to her face in thick, matted strands, darkened by crimson. The knife, still clutched loosely in her hand, glistened with the remnants of what she had done, catching faint reflections of streetlights as she passed under them.

The street where his apartment was sat on the edge of town, more forgotten than the bustling center, dotted with a few old houses and families trying to live quiet lives. It was several minutes of her mindless wandering before she even started noticing signs of life around her—though "noticing" wasn’t quite the right word. She wasn’t aware of anything anymore. Her world was locked inside her head, spinning, whirling, suffocating.

The people sitting on porches saw her first. At first, they squinted, confused, thinking it was just some woman out too early. Then they caught sight of the stains—thick, heavy, dried in places and still fresh in others. They saw her vacant smile stretched across her face, the wide, glassy eyes that didn’t look at them so much as through them. She looked like she had stepped out of a nightmare and wandered straight into their quiet lives.

A father playing with his toddler froze, scooping his child into his arms without a word, retreating quickly inside and slamming the door. A woman watering her flowers dropped the can, water spilling over her feet, before she stumbled backward into her house, fumbling to lock the door. Curtains fluttered as families hid themselves behind glass, watching her in horrified silence.

The children walking to school down the block saw her next. Their laughter cut off mid-sentence, faces draining of color when they realized what they were looking at. They didn’t scream, not at first—they just froze like deer in headlights. And then one ran, and the rest followed, backpacks bouncing against their shoulders, sneakers slapping against the asphalt as they tore down the street, desperate to get away.

But she didn’t notice. She didn’t hear their gasps or the panicked slamming of doors behind her. Her humming grew a little louder, her body swaying harder now, her free hand drifting upward like she was conducting some invisible orchestra to her strange little song. Her smile stayed fixed, serene and unshakable, streaked by the dried tears still on her face.

To her, none of it mattered. The world had always been too loud, too heavy, too suffocating. But now… now she felt light. Liberated. Every step was an echo of her freedom, no matter how much blood clung to her skin or how horrified the eyes watching her from behind curtains became.

Because no matter where she went—no matter how far she wandered, or how many people recoiled in terror at the sight of her—she would always carry this one truth with her, carved deep into her soul.

She would always be free.