Chapter 174
Adrian Kael
I use him with the precision of someone handling a blade: care where
it’s convenient, pressure where it hurts. He is useful. He is necessary.
And because of that idiotic love, I gain the world I desire.
A world where, in the end, I’m the one who dictates the rules.
I walk to the bed and lay him down carefully on the silk sheets. The
contrast between his marked skin and the soft fabric is almost poetic.
I go to the shelf, grab the first–aid kit, and return. I sit on the edge,
holding his wrists. The dried blood has already darkened in some
spots, but the flesh still pulses, wounded.
With gauze and disinfectant, I clean them slowly, a gesture bordering
on devotion. Every time he moans unconsciously, the tightening in
my chest isn’t pity–it’s pleasure.
I apply healing ointment with slow, circular movements, like a caress.
I bandage each wrist firmly, ensuring nothing gets infected.
“You are mine.” The sentence comes out low, loaded with a certainty
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that admits no contest.
I grip his neck firmly, feeling his pulse quicken under my fingers.
‘You won’t escape. My warm breath brushes his skin. ‘If you try to
pull away, I’ll cut off every limb of your body. Legs, arms… I’ll rip off
everything that gives you freedom. You will depend only on me to
breathe, to exist.‘
I increase the pressure of the grip, just enough to feel him shudder.
“Because I love you.” My tone drops to something feverish, sickly. “I
hope that, someday, you can love me too.”
I lick my lips before invading his mouth. My tongue penetrates
without permission, exploring every corner, sucking, and savoring as
if it were forbidden nectar.
The kiss is deep, desperate, and possessive–a mixture of saliva and
muffled groans. I move my head, intensifying it, biting the corner of
his lips just to feel the flesh give way.
When I pull back, my breath still warm against his, I observe with
satisfaction the drool trickling from the corner. I tilt my face, running
my tongue slowly, gathering every drop as if it were treasure.
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“So beautiful.” I smile.
I set the kit aside, stand up, and grab a water bottle and two pills
from the shelf: an anti–inflammatory and a painkiller. He needs to
recover.
I return to the bed, holding his chin delicately. I place the pills in my mouth, take a sip of water, and lock my lips onto his. I pour the medicine and liquid in a forced kiss until he swallows.
He coughs, turns his head, and tries to resist even while unconscious, but he ends up swallowing. I lick the remnant of the water and smile.
“Good boy.”
He sighs, his breathing irregular, and returns to his stupor, too
exhausted to react.
I lie down beside him for a moment, observing his sleeping face. My hand rises almost by instinct, tracing his rough beard, his firm jaw, and his split lips.
My fingers move down his neck, over his broad chest, finding the purple marks. I press lightly, and a shiver runs through my body at the sight of this masterpiece.
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Each bruise, each scratch, each cut causes me no guilt, but pride. The
world may call them wounds; to me, they are declarations. This skin
is territory to mark, to subjugate, to devour.
It isn’t touch; it’s possession. Each new mark reaffirms that he
belongs to me.
I observe every line of his face, now calmer, like someone
contemplating a sculpture. Even with swollen lips and a marked face,
Magnus remains perfect–a painful, almost divine beauty.
The tightening in my chest is raw pleasure at finally having him
trapped. It isn’t pity; it’s triumph.
It hurts to know that he hates me, that he despises me with every
fiber. This pain fuels my will to mold him. I will do everything to tear
something from his heart besides hate: devotion, love, and
submission.
If it’s necessary to reduce the others to dust, to break bonds, to leave
them with no voice or power, I will do it. I will destroy every loyalty
until all dependence turns toward me. When that happens, the only
rule will be clear: to have anything in this prison–warmth, food,
comfort–they will have to beg me.
Especially Magnus.
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He will need to humiliate himself, to admit dependence; it will be a
slow, patient, relentless lesson. Not out of gratuitous cruelty, but
because every step is toward an end: to tear a true feeling from his
chest.
When, finally, he looks at me without hate, when he knows how to
prove what he feels, I promise the violence will cease.
My reward will be his surrender. Then, my devotion will be whole and
forever.
I laugh softly, excited by the anticipation.
The game has only begun.
And I already know I’m going to win.
[…..]
I
I wake up with my body pressed against his. The heat emanating from my god is a balm, a silent reminder that he is finally where he always
should have been: by my side.
I open my eyes slowly, taking a deep breath, and the first frame I see is Magnus’s face at rest–his features relaxed, his mouth slightly open, and his breathing deep. A smile spreads across my face on its
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own.
I lean in, brushing my lips against his in a slow kiss, almost a touch of reverence. His warm breath fills my lungs like incense. Then, I slide down to his neck, biting lightly before distributing kisses across his marked skin. With every touch, I feel his body react, even in sleep.
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
