Chapter 41 (M)

The glass was cool in my hand, condensation dripping down my fingers. The burn of the wine did nothing to drown the heat rising in my chest, and it had nothing to do with the alcohol.

I'd been trying — really trying — to keep it cool. Lingling was standing beside me at the bar again, her hand occasionally brushing my hip, her smile brushing against my skin like silk and flame. Her laugh was low, distracted, and she'd only just started to relax again after she walked off into the crowd.

But of course.

Of course, she came back.

Alisa.

Wearing less than before — her silk slip dress now barely pretending to stay up on her shoulders, the sharp line of her collarbone glinting under the lights, her perfume thick and aggressive. I didn't have to look to know Lingling noticed it too. Not just her — everyone noticed her. The club was a stage and she knew she belonged in the spotlight.

"Oh, I just remembered," she purred, placing her manicured hand lightly on Lingling's arm like she had to touch her to speak. "You still owe me that drink. Or are you going to pretend you've forgotten how you used to pour them for me?"

Her voice practically dripped history. It was bait.

And Lingling? She bit.

She leaned slightly toward her, a smirk curling at her lips. "Maybe I did forget," she said, smooth and playful. "You'll have to remind me."

I blinked. Once. Twice.

Lingling wasn't even looking at me.

Alisa tilted her head. "I remember you used to pour it with two fingers of whiskey, just the way I liked it."

I didn't say a word. I didn't have to — my silence was louder than any outburst. Lingling could feel the tension vibrating off me like static. And yet...

She glanced over her shoulder at me, and her smirk deepened — she was doing this on purpose. She saw the fire in my eyes and stoked it anyway.

"Orm," she said without turning her body, just her face, voice smooth, "You want anything?"

"No," I said, sharp. "I'm good."

Lingling turned back to Alisa. "She doesn't like whiskey. Doctor things." A teasing tone in her voice, like I was being cute for not drinking battery acid.

I saw red. Not enough to explode — not here, not now — but enough to make my pulse thunder in my ears.

Lingling leaned just slightly toward Alisa, lips brushing closer as she reached past her to grab a bottle from the bar behind. Not touching, but almost. The space between them thinner than the line of a scar.

Alisa laughed — that same high, silk-slicked laugh — and placed her hand on Lingling's chest. Right over her collar, her fingers lingering a little too long, like she owned part of Lingling's past and wasn't afraid to show it.

I didn't move at first.

I stood still, watching from across the room, just by the edge of the balcony doors. Lingling caught my gaze out of the corner of her eye, and I saw it — the tiniest twitch in her jaw, the tiniest rise of her brow. She knew I was watching. She wanted me to watch.

I clenched my jaw, heart pounding like a drum against bone. My jealousy wasn't just burning now — it was molten. Liquid, violent, dangerous. I'd never felt this before. Not like this. It wasn't just about the way Alisa touched her — it was the way Lingling let her.

Then it happened.

Alisa leaned in, her lips brushing Lingling's ear, her hand still on her chest. And she whispered something. I couldn't hear it. I didn't need to hear it.

Lingling tilted her head back slightly, eyes flickering closed for half a second — half a second too long.

My body moved before I could stop it.

Heels clicking hard against the marble floor, I stormed toward them. Lingling heard me coming and straightened up, smirk already forming — until she saw my eyes.

I didn't even look at her.

I walked straight up to Alisa, grabbed her wrist — the one touching Lingling — and removed it.

Politely. Firmly. Without hesitation.

"Touch her like that again," I said, voice low, laced with steel, "and you'll leave here with broken fingers."

Alisa blinked. Amused at first. And then she saw it — the truth behind my eyes. The fury. The claim.

"I see," she said slowly, lips curling. "You're the reason she hasn't been answering my calls."

I took a step closer, not backing down an inch. "No. I'm the reason she won't ever answer them again."

Alisa glanced at Lingling, but I didn't care anymore. I wasn't playing games. "Go," I said. "Before I really stop being polite."

There was a beat. Lingling stayed quiet, letting me have the floor. Letting me take the reins.

Alisa stepped back, one brow arched, faux-smiling. "Well. Guess some things really do change."

She turned and walked away.

The moment Alisa disappeared into the blur of the club crowd, I didn't wait. I didn't look at Lingling. I didn't speak.

I just turned and walked — fast, heels clicking across the polished floors, through the thick bass and fog of light.

I didn't care who was watching. I didn't care that this was Lingling's new nightclub, or that I was drawing stares. My jaw was locked, heart pounding in a way that didn't feel like music anymore. It felt like betrayal.

"Orm—" her voice called behind me, amused, playful, still dripping with that smugness that made my blood boil.

I didn't slow down.

Lingling caught up just before I reached the exit, slipping in front of me, blocking my way with that damn smirk — one she wore like armor. "You're really gonna leave just because of a little flirting?"

I looked her dead in the eyes.

"A little flirting?" My voice was low, tight. I didn't raise it — I didn't need to. It was sharp enough as it was. "Is that what that was?"

Lingling tilted her head, grin faltering slightly. "Baobei..."

"No." I stepped around her. "Don't 'Baobei' me."

I pushed the heavy doors open, the night air hitting me like a slap — cold, sharp, nothing like the heat bubbling under my skin. I kept walking, even though I had no idea where I was headed. I just needed to breathe.

But Lingling wasn't far behind. Her heels crunched against the pavement as she caught up to me outside, still dressed in that sharp, impossibly expensive suit.

"Okay," she said, trying again, voice softer this time. "It was stupid. I was just—"

"Trying to get a reaction?" I snapped, spinning on her. "Congratulations. You got one. Dumbass."

She stared at me, hands shoved in her pockets. I could see the shift in her then — the realization that this wasn't just another one of our games.

I took a breath, but it came out shaky.

"You don't get to play with me like that, Lingling," I said. "I don't care what she used to be to you. I'm not going to stand there while someone pawns at you like I'm not even there."

Lingling's brows pulled together, something flickering behind her eyes. She opened her mouth, but I kept going.

"I get what you are," I said. "I get what your world is like. But I'm not one of your men who'll bow and say 'yes, boss' while you do whatever the fuck you want."

Her silence hurt more than I expected.

I took a breath, eyes burning now.

"I don't want to fight," I added, voice softer. "I just... I don't want to feel like I'm someone who can be overlooked."

That's when she moved.

Lingling didn't say anything when I pulled my arm out of her grasp. But then she moved fast — fingers curling around my wrist with just enough pressure, dragging me.

Lingling didn't give me a choice.

She opened the passenger door of the G-Wagon, shoved it wide, and forced me to sit inside.

The door slammed shut after me. She stalked around the front of the car and got in the driver's side. Her jaw was tight, eyes straight ahead.

I didn't say anything. Not yet. My chest rose and fell with every sharp breath.

The engine was off. We sat in silence, the heat of our anger filling the car more than any heater ever could.

"You're really going to drag me out of a club like that?" I snapped finally, turning to her, voice laced with disbelief and fury. "After that? After you let that woman put her hands all over you like I wasn't even there?"

Lingling didn't flinch.

"You're overreacting," she said coldly.

That set me off.

"Overreacting?" I shouted, my voice echoing in the enclosed space. "She had her hand on your chest, Lingling! She was practically undressing herself in front of you, and you smiled!"

"She's no one—"

"You sure didn't look at her like she was no one!" I fired back. "Who the hell is she?"

Lingling finally turned to face me, eyes sharp, expression unreadable. "Alisa," she said. "She used to be around. That's all."

"Used to be around?" I repeated, my voice bitter. "What does that even mean? You used to do what—play cards? Cook dinner together? Knit scarves?"

Lingling's eyes narrowed. "We used to do stuff, alright?"

Silence.

The words cut so fast, I barely registered it until the silence slammed between us like a wall.

I felt like something inside me cracked. The fury in me bubbled to something darker. Something that hurt.

"Oh," I said, the word cold. Sharp.

Lingling immediately exhaled like she realized what she'd just admitted. "It was before you, Orm. Years ago. She meant nothing—"

"Then why the fuck did you let her touch you like that in front of me?" I shouted, my voice hoarse now. "Why would you disrespect what we have like that?"

"Because I didn't think—" she started, but I was already shaking my head.

"No. You don't get to do that. You don't get to play it off like you were thoughtless. You're never thoughtless, Lingling. You're a strategist, a planner, a fucking tactician. You knew what you were doing."

Her fists clenched on the steering wheel, knuckles pale. "I didn't do it to hurt you."

"You did it to get a reaction."

The car filled with the kind of silence that didn't settle—it seethed.

I didn't look at her once after that—not when the engine growled awake, not when the streetlights flicked shadows across her jawline. Not even when she pulled up in front of my apartment and stepped out before I could touch the handle.

Lingling opened the passenger door for me in silence, the same way she always did—like nothing had just happened. Like she hadn't just let another woman drape herself over her like I wasn't even real.

I stepped out without a word, heels clicking against the pavement. She followed me—of course she did.

The elevator ride up was no better. The tension in the air was blistering. I kept my arms crossed, jaw locked. She leaned back against the mirrored wall, looking like a storm waiting to tear through everything. But she didn't say a word either.

Not even when we got to my door.

I pushed it open, stepped inside, then turned on my heel. "Leave."

She just stood there.

"Lingling," I said, voice colder this time, sharper. "I need space. I need time. And right now, I need you to leave."

Her eyes flickered. Something in them broke for just a second—but then she stepped forward anyway, crossing the threshold.

"I'm not leaving," she said quietly. "Not until I know you're okay."

"I'm not okay," I snapped. "You want honesty? There it is. I'm not okay, Lingling. You made me feel like I was just another passing thing. Like you could still entertain someone else and I was supposed to just sit there and smile."

Her fists were clenched now, arms stiff at her sides. "That's not what I meant. You know it's not. I was just—"

From Lingling's Perspective 🐅🖤

I knew the second the words left my mouth, I'd made it worse.

"That's not what I meant. You know it's not. I was just—"

But Orm—God, the way she looked at me.

Like she didn't recognize me. Like everything I was to her had twisted, shattered right there in the wreckage of that stupid, selfish moment.

Her anger burned hot and pure, laced with something far more dangerous—hurt. And that was the part that killed me. The storm in her eyes wasn't about jealousy alone—it was betrayal.

I didn't plan to say any of it. I didn't plan to let that woman touch me like that, or lean in the way I did. I just saw the way Orm's jaw clenched earlier, the glint of possessiveness in her usually composed eyes, and I got drunk off the idea of it.

I just wanted to tease her.I didn't expect it to go too far.I didn't expect to break her.

But I did.

She turned away from me again, arms tight across her chest like she had to hold herself together. Her voice came low, sharp. "Don't touch me right now."

And maybe I should've listened. Maybe I should've given her space like she asked.But I couldn't—not when she looked like that. Not when I'd put that look on her face.

I stepped forward.One step.Then another.

And then I grabbed her by the waist—firm but gentle, grounding us both—and pulled her to me.

She tried to push me away, stiff and tense, but I didn't let go.

I leaned in and kissed her.

Not like I was sorry—But like I couldn't bear another second without tasting the only truth I knew anymore.

Our mouths crashed together, heat meeting heat, fury folding into need. Her lips parted in protest—or maybe in surrender—and I took it. Deep. Slow. Desperate.

My hand slid up her spine, fingers threading into her blonde hair, tugging gently until she gasped into my mouth. I kissed her like an apology. Like a confession. Like I could kiss away the sting of what I'd done.

Her hands pressed against my chest, not pushing me away now, just there, like she didn't know if she wanted to claw her way out of me or hold me tighter.

I pulled back just an inch, breathless, forehead resting against hers.

Her lashes were wet.

Her breathing shaky.

And my own heart felt like it was cracking open in my chest.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I just— I'm a fucking idiot, Orm. But I'm yours. Only yours."

And I waited—right there, in her arms—for whatever came next.

Orm didn't say anything at first.

Just stood there with her breath catching in little broken pulses against my neck, like she was holding back a scream—or a sob.

Then, with a shove that wasn't strong enough to move me but sharp enough to make her point, she jerked back just enough to glare up at me.

"You think you can just kiss me and fix this?" Her voice cracked, rough with fury. "You think I'm that easy?"

"No," I said, fast, honest. "I think I already broke you. And I'm trying not to break myself next."

Her eyes flashed.

And then she grabbed the collar of my dress shirt like she wanted to rip it in two—and maybe me with it. "You don't get to do that," she hissed. "You don't get to hurt me and then need me."

I didn't answer. I just kissed her again.

Harder.

Not asking, not apologizing this time.

Just taking.

And God, she let me.

Her mouth opened with a sound—angry, breathless, hungry. I swallowed it like penance, like punishment. Her hands fisted in my shirt, dragging me closer, closer, until we were pressed chest to chest and the space between us disappeared entirely.

"Say it," she growled against my lips, breath hot and wild. "Say who you belong to."

I looked at her—wild-eyed, desperate—and said it like a vow.

"You. Only you. Always you."

She grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking just hard enough to make my knees weak. "Damn right."

Orm's kiss turned feral—messy, punishing, all tongue and teeth. It wasn't a kiss, it was a claim. A reckoning.

Then—rip.

Buttons scattered across the floor like shrapnel. She'd torn my dress shirt open with both hands, baring skin and chaos, breath ragged, eyes molten with fury.

I gasped—not from fear. From shock. I'd never seen her like this. Not composed. Not clinical. But furious. Unhinged. And burning with something savage and dark and barely restrained.

Her glare pinned me in place. Her hands hovered at my chest, fingers twitching like she didn't know whether to clutch me or carve me.

"Orm," I whispered, trying to tether us to something solid—but my voice was already unraveling, thick with want. "God, you're so fucking hot like this."

Her eyes narrowed, jaw tight. "Don't," she spat.

"I mean it," I groaned, mouth dragging along her jaw, tasting the salt of her skin. "You're angry and wild and I'm fucking starving for you."

Wrong thing to say.

Or the right one—if I wanted to suffer.

Her slap cracked across my cheek before I could blink.

A sharp sting. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to ignite.

I froze. Chest heaving. Her hand still suspended in the air, trembling, her ambers wide like she hadn't planned to go that far.

Time fractured.

No sound. No breath.

Then I smiled.

Slow. Twisted. Dripping with hunger.

"You want to hurt me?" I whispered, voice like velvet dragging over broken glass. "Do it. Ruin me. I fucking want you to."

Her lips parted. Her rage shimmered—but it was shifting now. Twisting into something darker. Filthier. Needier.

"You think you can beg now?" she growled, voice low and vicious, sliding over me like a threat. "After what you fucking did?"

I leaned in, eyes locked on hers, heart thundering. "I think I want to be owned by you."

Her breath caught.

She grabbed my jaw, nails digging in, forcing my head back. Her grip was cruel. Delicious.

"You don't know what you're asking for," she said, voice rough, dangerous, sex-soaked.

"Then show me," I breathed. "Use me. Break me. Just don't stop."

She crushed her mouth to mine, a brutal collision of lips and dominance. Her teeth scraped. Her tongue invaded. She didn't kiss—I let her devour.

I moaned into it, needy and open and undone, already hers.

Whether she forgave me or not—I didn't care.

I just wanted to burn.

As long as she was the fire.

My hands moved on instinct, slipping beneath the hem of Orm's dress—needing to touch her, to feel that fevered skin that haunted every filthy dream she left me with.

But before I could lift the fabric, her hands clamped around my wrists—tight. Desperate. Unsteady.

"No."

I froze. My breath caught halfway to a moan. Her grip shook.

Her eyes didn't.

"Did you kiss her like this?"

And just like that, her name cracked through the heat like a whip.

Alisa.

The girl from the club. The one who meant nothing. The one whose hands I should never have let near me.

My jaw tightened. "I told you—"

"Answer me."

Her voice detonated in the space between us, sharp and laced with venom.

I could've lied.

Should've.

But something wicked coiled inside me instead. Something that wanted to bleed. Something that ached for her rage.

I leaned in, lips brushing hers without touching—drinking in her fury, her heat, her heartbreak.

"Maybe I did," I whispered, slow and deliberate. "But she didn't taste like you. No one ever does."

She didn't hesitate.

Her hand cracked across my face again, the sound slicing the air clean in half. My head snapped sideways, skin burning hot where her palm had landed.

Still, I didn't flinch.

Didn't pull back.

I smiled.

Because now she was trembling. Now she was burning. And now I was under her skin—exactly where I wanted to be.

"Get on your knees."

She didn't shout.

Didn't repeat herself.

Just commanded.

And I dropped.

Not out of guilt. Not shame. But because belonging to her—kneeling for her—was the only thing I wanted.

I looked up from the floor, shirt torn open, breath heavy, pulse thundering in my ears.

"This what you want?" I asked, voice low and hungry. "Me down here, aching for you? Begging for your anger like a good little whore?"

Orm stood above me like a god in a storm, fists clenched, chest heaving beneath her dress, skin flushed with rage and desire tangled tight.

"You don't get to beg," she said, voice flat and cold. "You lost that right the second you let her touch you."

I tilted my head, locking eyes with her, letting every ounce of need soak into my voice. "Then don't let me speak. Don't let me breathe. Just use me. Break me open. You already fucking own me."

She stepped forward, slow, the hem of her dress brushing my cheek. My breath hitched. Everything narrowed—just her above me, and me beneath her, trembling under the weight of what I'd ruined and everything I still craved.

Then her fingers—slow, commanding—curled under my chin. Forced my face up.

"Look at me," she whispered, her grip steel. "I want you to remember exactly who you belong to."

My lips parted, but she didn't let me speak. Didn't want my words—only my obedience.

"You're mine," she said. A whisper soaked in fire. "And I don't share."

"You never have to," I breathed, the words catching in my throat like a prayer.

But it didn't soften her. God, no.

If anything, it made her amber eyes turn black with need.

"I'm going to ruin you," she said, her voice honey and knives. "You won't be able to think of anyone else without tasting me on your tongue."

I swallowed hard, dizzy with the weight of her.

"You already have," I whispered.

And fuck—I wanted her to do it.

Harder.

Wilder.

Until I forgot anyone else had ever existed.

Orm stared down at me like she didn't recognize me.

And maybe she didn't.

Maybe the version of me she once knew—the one who never bent, never broke—was already unraveling at her feet.

Her fingers still gripped my jaw, thumb dragging slow over the heat blooming on my cheek from her slap. Possessive. Claiming.

"You know what's funny?" she murmured, voice like silk drawn over a blade, venom sweet on her tongue. "I used to wonder what made people so scared of you."

I stayed silent. Kneeling. Breath unsteady. Heart pounding like a warning I didn't want to hear.

She crouched down in front of me, close enough that her scent fogged my brain—clean skin and heat and fury.

"You walk into a room and people freeze. Men flinch. Women melt. You break lives with a nod. You've made killers kneel." Her gaze dragged over me—shirt torn open, skin flushed, pulse visible in my throat. "But now look at you."

She smiled, slow and cruel. "On your knees. For me."

Her eyes glittered, dark and dangerous. "Tell me, Lingling Kwong. When you let that little club slut paw at you—was this what you wanted? Did you imagine crawling for her the way you're crawling for me now?"

I swallowed hard. Her words sliced deep. Shame twisted in my gut, but I forced myself to hold her gaze.

"I didn't feel anything for her," I said, voice rough.

Orm laughed. Low. Cold. Mean. "No? Then why'd you let her touch what's mine? Why'd you let her breathe you?"

I opened my mouth—then closed it again. The truth was filthier than the lie.

"Because I wanted you to look at me," I finally whispered. "I needed to see how you would react. That I could make you feel something. Even if it was jealousy"

Something flickered in her eyes. Pain. Regret. And then fury again—deeper now. Hotter.

She leaned in, lips grazing mine so softly it hurt more than if she'd bitten me.

"You wanted to provoke me?" she murmured. "You wanted to wake the monster?"

I nodded once, breath catching. "Yes."

"Congratulations, mafia queen. You fucking did."

I shuddered, the heat of her breath ghosting across my lips, my skin taut with need, with ache, with repentance I couldn't voice.

"But here's the thing," she whispered, voice razor-sharp. "You don't get to be in control tonight. You don't get to hide behind power or pride. Not with me."

She rose slowly, hand sliding from my jaw to my chin—lifting it, forcing me to look up at her, eyes wide, lips parted, body trembling.

"You gave yourself to me the second you dropped to your knees," she said. "Now say it."

My voice cracked on the way out. "You own me."

"Louder."

"You fucking own me, Orm."

Her lips curled—not a smile. Something darker. Possessive. Ferocious.

And under all of it, that same fractured hurt—sharp, glinting through the dominance.

"Good," she said, voice barely a whisper. "Now don't move. I'm not done showing you what that means."

She circled me slow—each step deliberate, like she was hunting me from all sides. Not a lover. A storm in human form.

But I didn't run. I didn't plead.

Because this wasn't surrender.

This was worship.

And I'd burn, crawl, bleed—if it meant I could stay at her feet.

I heard her footsteps retreat—slow, deliberate.

I didn't move.

Still on my knees, shirt gaping open, breath coming in shallow bursts like I'd just crawled out of a fire. But I knew the flames hadn't died down.

They were just getting started.

Then I heard it.

The soft clink of a drawer opening. The metallic slide of something sharp being pulled free.

My pulse stuttered.

When Orm came back, she didn't hurry. She didn't have to. She knew I'd still be exactly where she left me—wrecked and waiting.

And I was.

She padded into the room barefoot, golden hair wild around her face, cheeks flushed, eyes molten with fury and something far darker.

In her hand, she held a kitchen knife.

Not oversized. Just a sleek, clean blade, glinting under the low light.

But in her grip? It was a weapon—not just of fear, but power.

Control.

My breath caught in my throat. "Orm—"

"Quiet."

She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. The air between us bent to her will.

She walked right up to me, then knelt—slowly, with intention, like she was preparing to dissect me. And in a way, she was.

One hand slid up my chest—fingernails dragging, deliberate, tracing my sternum like she was marking her territory.

Then—metal.

Cold and hard, the flat of the blade pressed into the hollow of my collarbone.

A warning.

A tease.

"You scared yet?" she murmured, breath brushing my lips.

I met her eyes. Wild. Beautiful. Lethal.

"Yes," I whispered. "But not of you."

She tilted her head, and a cruel smile ghosted across her lips. "You should be."

The knife stayed perfectly still, pressing just enough to remind me it was there. Not cutting. Just claiming.

"You think you can fuck with me?" she said, her voice thick with heat and hate. "Break my heart, then come crawling back, pretending you're mine like nothing happened?"

"I'm not pretending," I said, barely breathing. "I'm yours. I've always been yours."

Her jaw flexed. The blade shifted slightly—dragging over bone, making my skin sing with the threat of pain.

"You let her touch you," she growled. "Let her fucking breathe you."

"I hated every second," I whispered. "But I wanted to feel something. Anything. I needed to see your reaction."

Orm leaned in, close enough that her lips almost brushed mine, but didn't. Her eyes locked on me, glowing like embers about to catch.

"You want to feel something?" she hissed. "I'll make you feel. I'll carve it into your fucking soul."

She dragged the knife down from my collarbone to my sternum—still flat, still not cutting, but God, the threat of it made my skin thrum.

"I could ruin you," she whispered. "Ruin that perfect little control you hide behind. Ruin that mouth until you forget how to speak unless it's to beg for me."

I shivered. Not from fear. From the sheer unbearable need she poured into every word.

"Do it," I breathed. "Mark me. Break me. Just don't stop touching me."

Her lips curved into something feral.

"You think you're addicted to me now?" she murmured. "Wait 'til you're bleeding my name into the floor."

My head fell back, throat bared, the cool kiss of the knife now a comfort compared to the fire raging in my chest.

"I already am," I whispered. "Every inch of me—every breath, every filthy thought—it's all yours. I don't want anything but your hands, your anger, your fucking jealousy."

Her gaze burned down my body like flame licking gasoline. Her free hand gripped my jaw, long nails digging in.

"I should cut that mouth open," she whispered, "just to see if you'd still talk back."

"I'd thank you for it," I rasped.

"Fuck," she breathed, almost to herself. "You're so far gone for me it's pathetic."

"I want to be," I said, eyes on her mouth. "I want to be the wreck you use when you can't sleep. The thing you fuck just to hurt."

The blade didn't fall.

Instead, she tilted it—just slightly—angling the edge against my skin where bone met breath. Cold steel kissed the shallow dip of my collarbone.

Then she moved.

Not fast. Not violent. Controlled. Surgical.

A deliberate drag of metal over flesh—just enough to make me feel it.

The cut bloomed open, a whisper of pain sharp as lightning. My breath stuttered. The sting wasn't deep—but it was there, searing hot beneath the chill of steel, and it rooted me in the moment like a brand.

Orm didn't look away.

She watched me feel it. Every inch of heat that flared under my skin. Every tiny twitch of my muscles trying not to flinch. Her mouth parted, eyes heavy-lidded with something close to hunger.

"You feel that?" she whispered. Her voice was low, guttural. "That's mine. You bleed for me now."

A thin red line bloomed, bright against skin gone pale with adrenaline. She traced it with her fingertip—then brought her hand to her mouth, licking it. Slow. Eyes on mine.

I couldn't breathe.

"Fuck," I gasped.

Her finger hovered just above her mouth as she spoke.

"You like that?" she murmured. "You like bleeding for me?"

I was shaking. Completely undone. "Yes."

She smiled—dark, knowing.

"Say it like you mean it."

"I like it," I choked out. "I like it when you—when you mark me."

Her hand gripped the back of my neck again, pulling my face up to hers. Her mouth was stained with the taste of me, her pupils blown wide with possession and fury.

"You're not saying it right," she said.

"Try again."

I swallowed hard. "I love it. I love it when you hurt me. I love it when you own me."

"Beg for it," she said, voice like velvet and venom. "Not for forgiveness. For me. For everything I'm about to do to you."

"I want it," I breathed. "I want your anger. Your hands. Your knife. I want to feel you everywhere."

Her breath hitched. Just slightly. And in that flicker, I saw it—the part of her that was unraveling too.

She leaned in, licked a slow, deliberate stripe across the bleeding cut, tasting every inch of what she made. I shuddered—my whole body tightening around the sharp heat and low, dark ache that pooled low in my belly.

She growled against my throat. "I could ruin you."

I nodded, desperate. "Do it. Ruin me."

"You're not afraid?"

"I'm wet for you."

That made her laugh—a low, vicious sound.

"You should be ashamed," she whispered. "But you're not, are you?"

"No," I said, voice raw. "I've never felt more fucking alive than when you're cutting me open like this."

Her palm flattened over my heart, feeling it race. She kissed me—hard, filthy, claiming—then bit my lower lip, dragging it between her teeth until I whimpered.

"You're going to stay on your knees," she whispered against my mouth, "until I'm satisfied. Until you remember exactly who you belong to."

Orm's gaze darkened with something fierce and raw—an edge sharpened by desire and anger as she watched me squirm beneath her intense scrutiny. My breath still hitched from the sting of her lips on the cut, my skin still tingling from the sharp bite of the knife.

"Tell me," she demanded, her eyes burning through me like molten gold, "how were you with her? With Alisa?"

I hesitated, swallowing the lump in my throat. The question felt like a poison, but i didn't want to give her the satisfaction. So I stayed silent.

Orm's grip on my hair tightened the second I smirked.

She saw it coming. That gleam in my eyes. That little curl of my lips—the one I wore before starting a war.

"You really want to know how it was with Alisa?" I asked, voice honey-thick, velvet-soft with venom. "Fine."

Orm didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stared—daring me.

"I had her pinned to the wall before she even knew what was happening," I murmured, slow and deliberate, dragging each word like silk over blades. "One hand on her throat, the other between her legs. She moaned every time I told her she wasn't allowed to come until I said so. You should've seen the look on her face—like she'd sell her soul for another inch of me."

Orm's jaw clenched.

"But you know what?" I whispered, leaning in just close enough to feel her heat. "She didn't taste like you. She didn't fight like you. She didn't own me like you do."

Her breath hitched—just once—but I didn't stop.

"I made her beg, Orm," I went on, voice low, cruel, craving her reaction. "On her back, on her knees, bent over, hands tied—she had begged. And I didn't give her a damn thing until I wanted to."

Silence.

And then—Orm moved.

Her hand struck my cheek, hard and clean. My head snapped sideways, breath caught in my throat—but my smirk only deepened.

"You're jealous," I taunted. "You hate that I had done to her what you want to do to me."

Orm's voice dropped, guttural. "No. I hate that you think you're still in control."

She stepped forward, eyes wild and gleaming, the storm back in full force. "Because you're not. Not with me. Never with me."

Her hands shoved me backward until I hit the wall—hard. My breath left me in a gasp. But I didn't resist.

"I'm the only one who can make you break, Lingling," she whispered, nose brushing mine. "The only one you let crawl beneath your skin. Alisa? She got your body. I get your fucking soul."

I laughed, breathless. "Then take it."

Her mouth was on mine in an instant—not soft, not searching. Just claiming. Just punishing.

Orm kissed like she was trying to make me forget every name but hers.

And when she pulled back, breath ragged, her voice was a rasp of thunder:

"Strip."

I stared at her—half-wrecked, heart hammering—and obeyed. Shirt. Pants. Everything peeled away until I stood bared before her, the cut on my collarbone still fresh, blood still drying like a signature across my skin.

Orm circled me like a hunter. Like a queen inspecting her most disobedient subject.

"You look like power on your knees," she said, tone razor-sharp. "But naked? Marked? You look like mine."

She grabbed my jaw, forcing me to meet her amber eyes again. "Tell me what I am."

"You're everything," I breathed. "You're the only one I kneel for. The only one who gets to break me."

"And what do I get to do now?"

"Anything," I said, voice hoarse. "Everything."

She leaned in close, lips brushing my ear. "Then I'm going to do all the things she couldn't handle. And you're going to take it—every word, every touch, every fucking second—and remember who owns you."

I nodded, unable to speak.

Because in that moment, I was nothing but hers.

And that was the most dangerous, beautiful truth of all.

Then she moved.

Fast.

Her fingers tangled in my hair, sharp and possessive. Not cruel—but close. She yanked my head back, forcing me to meet her eyes.

I didn't resist.

I couldn't.

"Get up," she said, voice low and rough.

I rose, slow and obedient, never breaking her gaze.

She didn't let go of my hair.

Didn't even loosen her grip.

Instead, she turned, dragging me with her—through the dim hall, past the silence of the house, her steps silent but full of intent. My bare feet padded along behind hers, my pulse thudding hard in my ears.

When we reached her bedroom door, she didn't hesitate.

She pushed it open with one hand and led me inside.

The room smelled like her—fresh linen, faint rose, something warm and clean that clung to everything she touched. But tonight, it was different. Tonight, it smelled like tension. Like storm air right before lightning strikes.

She released me at last, letting her fingers fall from my hair, then turned and faced me fully. Her chest rose and fell with something deeper than anger. It was hunger. It was betrayal. It was the kind of fury that came from loving someone too much and not knowing what to do with it.

"You look like a mess," she said, her voice tight.

I didn't answer.

"Collarbone bleeding, cheeks flushed, mouth open like you don't even care what you look like. Like you want me to see you like this."

"I do," I whispered.

She shook her head—slow, furious.

"You don't even know what you're asking for."

"Then show me."

Her mouth tightened into a hard, dangerous smile. She stepped forward until we were chest to chest—my skin against the cool fabric of her dress. Her fingers skimmed the edge of the cut again, tracing the blood like it belonged to her.

"You're not the mafia leader in this room anymore," she said, her voice like smoke, thick with warning. "You're not the one in control. Understand?"

I nodded.

"Say it."

"You're in control."

"Louder."

"You're in control, Orm."

Her eyes searched mine, and something in her shifted. Still angry. Still hurting. But craving something too—some release, some answer to everything I'd broken between us.

She leaned in, her lips ghosting against mine, voice a whisper:

"Then kneel again."

I did.

Not out of weakness.

But out of choice.

Because here, in her shadow, under her fire—

I'd never felt more like myself.

"Stick out your tongue," she said.

My breath hitched.

"Now."

I obeyed. Tongue out. Lips parted. Shaking.

Her gaze dropped to my mouth, then lower, like she was drinking me in—like she could already taste the ruin she'd leave behind.

"Good girl," she purred, then lowered herself just enough to grind against my mouth—bare, slick, flushed with heat. She didn't move fast. She didn't need to. She used me like I was already hers.

Her hips rolled forward, slow and wet, and I whimpered against her. She dragged her core over my tongue like it was a sacrament and a punishment all at once.

"Don't suck," she warned, voice low and trembling with restraint. "Don't lick. You don't get that yet."

She moved again—long, deliberate strokes of herself over my face, my mouth, my obedience.

"You just kneel and take it. That's all you're for right now."

I was shaking. Knees raw against the floor. Tongue aching to move, to worship, to beg.

She moaned. God, the sound of it. Dark and broken, like I was hurting her in all the right ways.

"You feel that?" she asked, grinding again, slower now. "That's how wet I am just from dragging you in here. From knowing you'd kneel the second I told you."

She pulled back, breath ragged, her core flushed and glistening in the lamplight. My lips were damp with her, jaw tight with tension.

Then she stepped back.

Stood tall again.

And stripped fully—taking her dress off with painful slowness—until the only thing she wore was the air between us and the heat rolling off her skin.

"Eyes on me," she growled. "Don't fucking blink."

And I didn't.

I watched her fingers trace the curves I wasn't allowed to touch. Watched her tease her own nipples, her thighs, her stomach—slow, cruel, and shameless.

"You want to be used?" she asked. "Or do you want to break?"

"Both," I whispered. "Please."

Her laugh was low and sharp, soaked in heat.

She walked toward me again, each step deliberate, hips swaying like a dare. When she reached me, she didn't bend. She didn't lower herself. She stayed standing, powerful and gleaming, her scent thick in the air between us.

Then she slid her fingers down—slow, deep—and began to fuck herself right there, just inches from my mouth.

Just like that.

No warning. No mercy.

And I choked on the sound she made—loud, sharp, almost a sob. Her knees wavered. Her head snapped back. The tendons in her neck stood out like cords, and her mouth fell open in a moan so filthy I felt it in my spine.

"Watch," she said, voice rough and electric. "Watch me tear myself apart because I know you're too afraid to ask for it."

I whimpered. Couldn't breathe.

Couldn't look away.

She moaned again, louder this time, her whole body twitching under her own hand. Her other gripped my hair so hard I swore I saw stars, anchoring me to the spot.

"Look at you," she gasped. "So ruined already. And I haven't even let you touch me."

I was crying now. I didn't know when it started. But the tears were real, salt stinging my cheeks, jaw trembling.

"You'll come from this, won't you?" she asked. "From kneeling. From watching. From me losing control."

I nodded, desperate. Wordless.

She groaned—raw, frantic—then shattered under her own fingers. Her thighs shook, her body arched, her breath caught in her throat as she came like a storm crashing through glass. Loud. Violent. Beautiful.

I watched all of it.

And when she was done—legs trembling, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat—she looked down at me like I was nothing.

Nothing, and completely hers.

"You don't get to come tonight," she said, still panting. "You get to remember this. You get to ache for me."

She hovered above me, sweat still clinging to her skin, the flush of her climax still blooming across her chest and throat. Her fingers were sticky with herself, and she brought them to my lips—slowly, deliberately—smearing the taste of her across my mouth like a brand.

"Lick it," she said.

I did. Eager, silent, reverent.

She hummed low in her throat, pleased, and crouched to my level—not to comfort, but to watch me closer. To drag me further under.

"You look pathetic," she whispered, brushing damp strands of hair from my face. "And you love it, don't you?"

"Yes," I breathed. "For you."

"You'd give me everything?"

"Everything."

"Your empire?"

"Yours."

"Your name?"

"Hers. Yours."

She smiled, a sharp, devastating thing. "Your pride?"

She slapped me.

Hard. Open palm. A crack against my cheek that echoed in the silence.

My head jerked to the side. I gasped, but didn't move. Didn't retaliate. Didn't even blink.

"Yes," I whispered. "Even that."

Another slap—this time softer, more mocking than punishing. She tilted my face back toward her with two fingers under my chin.

"And you'll kneel for me like this every time I ask, won't you?"

"Always."

"You'll cry when I tell you, beg when I want you to, and suffer when I need it."

I nodded.

"No," she said, voice sharpening. "Use your mouth."

"I'll cry for you," I whispered. "I'll beg for you. I'll suffer for you."

She slapped me again. My skin burned now, but I didn't flinch. Didn't look away. My eyes stayed locked on hers—full of tears, yes, but full of hunger, too. Worship. Despair. Love twisted into something monstrous and beautiful.

"God," she breathed. "Look at you. On your knees for me. You're the most feared woman in Asia and you're fucking trembling because I slapped you. Because I used you like a toy and told you not to come."

I whimpered.

"You love this. You love being my obedient little ruin, don't you?"

"Yes," I gasped. "I love it. I love being yours."

Orm leaned in—so close I could feel the heat radiating off her, the damp air between her legs, the scent of sweat and sex clinging to her skin.

"You could snap me in half," she whispered, tracing my bruised cheek with her thumb. "But you won't. You'd rather fall apart at my feet than raise a hand to me."

"I would never hurt you," I said. My voice cracked on the truth of it.

"No," she agreed. "Because you love me."

She stood again, tall and gleaming and terrible in her beauty.

"You love me like a fucking religion."

I nodded. "I do."

Orm turned her back then—finally—walking toward the bed with the grace of a goddess sated, hips loose, long legs trembling slightly with the aftershocks of her pleasure.

She climbed onto the bed without a word—fluid, unhurried, like she had all the time in the world to drag me apart one thought at a time. The mattress dipped beneath her as she sprawled back against the pillows, legs spreading lazily, glistening skin flushed with sweat and power.

She didn't look at me at first.

She looked past me. Through me.

Like she was already in a dream she didn't want to wake up from.

And then her eyes found mine—slow, heavy-lidded, full of heat—and her lips curled into a grin that could burn cities to ash.

"You're so sexy," she murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. "Fuck. Look at you."

My body tensed at the sound—like a whip across my spine. She saw. Of course she saw.

But she wasn't really seeing me anymore.

Not exactly.

Her gaze turned inward, distant, hungry. She slid one hand down her stomach, between her legs—coating her fingers in her own slick heat—and began touching herself again with slow, deliberate strokes.

But her voice—God, her voice—wasn't just for her anymore.

It was for the version of me in her head.

"You'd do it, wouldn't you?" she whispered. "If I told you to put your hands on yourself right now—if I gave you just that much—you'd fall apart for me in seconds."

I couldn't breathe.

"I can see it," she groaned, hips rolling against her own fingers. "You on your back, legs spread, touching yourself like a desperate little slut—just because I said so."

She moaned, louder now, neck arching, her free hand sliding up to squeeze her breast hard, dragging her nails across flushed skin.

"God, I want to watch you ruin yourself for me," she hissed. "I want to see your fingers inside that perfect, wet cunt—want to hear how messy it gets when you start losing control."

My thighs clenched. I was trembling.

"You'd be so loud, wouldn't you?" she gasped. "Moaning my name while you fuck yourself like you can't take it anymore—like your body belongs to me and only me."

"Orm—" I choked, not sure if I was begging or praying.

She gasped, a broken sound. Her body jerked, fingers moving faster now, soaked and furious with need.

"You'd keep going even when it hurts," she said, panting. "Because I told you to. Because all you want in that filthy little head of yours is to make me proud."

"Yes," I whispered, shame melting into want. "Yes—Orm, please—"

She groaned at that. Like she felt it inside her. Like my voice was the thing dragging her closer to the edge.

"You'd look me in the eye the whole fucking time," she said, moaning. "You'd cry for it, wouldn't you?"

"I would—I would—"

"God, you'd sob while you came. Shake all over. Your whole body begging me to let you touch me. But you don't get to."

She moaned again, loud and ragged, her body a live wire now—hips thrusting up off the bed as her orgasm built again, vicious and fast.

"You don't get to touch me until I'm done imagining you on your knees, soaking wet and broken because I said you could play with yourself."

Her head snapped back. Her eyes rolled. Her back arched so hard she nearly lifted off the bed as she came—harder this time, meaner, wetter.

"F-fuck, Lingling—fuck, yes—"

She cried out, hips stuttering, thighs twitching violently around her own hand. Her body rocked through the waves, her voice raw and glorious and soaked in everything she felt but hadn't said.

And I watched her break.

Because of me.

Because of the picture in her head—the mafia queen undone by her own fingers, crying for mercy that only Orm could give.

Orm lay sprawled across the bed—naked, glowing, wrecked in the most exquisite way. Her body was a map of aftershocks, flushed and twitching, chest rising in jagged, uneven breaths. But her eyes—God, her amber eyes—still burned. Still hunted.

She lifted her hand, fingers slick and trembling, the scent of herself heavy between us. An offering. A dare.

"Come here," she rasped, voice low and wrecked. "Crawl."

I did. Slowly. On hands and knees, each shift of my hips intentional, every sway of my body designed to make her ache again. I knew what I looked like—mouth parted, pupils blown wide, hair clinging to sweat-slick skin. Not broken.

Predatory.

Submissive only in the most dangerous sense—like I wanted to be devoured just to take her down with me.

When I reached the edge of the bed, she didn't let me climb up. She didn't need to. Her hand hung between us, fingers glistening inches from my lips, commanding without a word.

"Open."

I obeyed.

I parted my lips and sucked her fingers into my mouth, slow, deep, like I wanted to taste every second of her undoing. My tongue curled around her, warm and wet, savoring her like she was the first and last thing I'd ever want.

She gasped.

Her whole body twitched—hips flexing, toes curling into the sheets. I felt her come alive again from just my mouth.

"You dirty little thing," she breathed, watching her fingers disappear between my lips. "You love how I taste."

I moaned around her, letting the vibration hum through her hand. I wanted her to feel it everywhere.

"I can feel you sucking like you're starving," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Like you'd rather die than stop."

I pulled back just enough to let my tongue trail up her fingers—slow, lewd, teasing. "Because I would."

Her eyes snapped wide.

I smiled, the kind of smile that made people beg and break. "You think I kneel for anyone, Orm? This—" I sucked her middle finger back between my lips, dragging my tongue down the length of it— "is a fucking privilege."

She whimpered. Actually whimpered.

"God, you're so full of yourself," she hissed, but her voice was shaking, her thighs clenching again.

"No," I murmured, kissing the pads of her fingers. "I'm full of you."

Her moan broke open, low and raw and shaking with need.

"You're ruining me," she gasped, grabbing my hair harder now, dragging me closer.

"No, baobei," I whispered, kissing her wrist. "I'm making you mine."

Then I opened my mouth again—slow and wet and deliberate—and dragged her fingers back in, fucking my throat on them like they were something bigger, something more. My eyes stayed locked to hers the whole time.

And she watched.

Watched like she couldn't breathe.

Her free hand gripped the sheets, trembling.

"I want you on your knees every night," she growled. "Slick, filthy, and hungry for it."

"I will be," I said, licking her palm now, tracing the lines like a map to her soul. "I'll kneel for you until you forget your own name."

"Say it," she snapped. "Say what you are."

I smiled against her skin.

"I'm your little whore," I whispered. "But only for you. Always for you."

She groaned—guttural, undone—and pulled me harder into her lap, her legs falling open again.

She pulled her fingers from my mouth—slow, glistening, trembling. Not just from the intensity of my lips or the aftermath of her own pleasure. No, this tremble was different. It came from restraint. From everything unspoken between us. From me.

I stayed on my knees, eyes cast down, hands resting softly on her thighs. Not to tease. Not to tempt.

To submit.

"I'm sorry," I said, voice hoarse, lips still slick with the taste of her. "I shouldn't have let Alisa touch me."

She didn't speak. Didn't blink. But I felt it—the shift in her muscles under my palms. The name lit a fuse inside her.

"She meant nothing," I whispered, desperate now. "She was never going to mean anything. I was stupid. I just wanted to make you jealous."

Her silence was a blade, sharp and waiting. I forced myself to look up.

"It worked."

Her eyes—god, those eyes—burned into me. No longer soft. No longer sweet. Just hot. Territorial. Feral. She looked at me like a predator deciding whether to bite or kiss.

"And now you're here," she said, voice thick. "On your knees. Apologizing like a good girl."

My breath hitched. I was being good. For her. Only for her.

"I only want you," I said, louder now, steadier. "No one else. Never again."

Orm leaned forward, slow and deliberate, like she was stalking prey already caught. Her fingers brushed the edge of my ribs, then lower—trailing across my bare stomach. She traced the lines of my abs, each one sharp and tense under her touch.

"You let her touch this?" she asked, voice trembling—not from weakness, but from the effort it took not to lose control. Her hand flattened possessively across my skin. "This body? This mouth?"

I nodded—ashamed. Exposed.

Her grip snapped up to my jaw, fingers digging in just enough to make my pulse pound. She tilted my face up to hers, so close I could taste the heat of her breath

"Then you're going to make me forget."

I shivered. "Anything. Everything. Just say it."

Her lips brushed mine. "No games tonight. No masks. You're not the boss of anything right now."

"I'm yours," I breathed, without hesitation. "Just yours."

Orm's eyes flashed, something primal rising beneath the heartbreak. Her fingers drifted down between my breasts, slow and claiming.

"You're not my monster," she said, lips brushing the corner of my mouth. "You're my punishment. My reward. My dirty little secret. And you're going to be a good girl and let me use you."

My gasp melted straight into her mouth as she kissed me—hard, possessive, her body pressing forward until I lost balance and caught myself against the edge of the bed. Her hands roamed with purpose, no hesitation now. She took—not like a thief, but like a queen claiming what was always hers.

It wasn't soft. It was devastating.

And I let her.

Because this was what I craved.

In public, people bowed to me. Obeyed me. Feared me. But behind these walls?

Orm Kornnaphat owned me.

Her fingers tangled in my hair, tugging, guiding, making me look at her. Her eyes were wild now—starved, electric.

"You like being treated like this?" she asked, voice rough. "You like it when I take charge?"

I whimpered. "Yes. God, yes."

Her smirk returned—sharp, knowing, proud. "Of course you do. Big bad Lingling, on her knees, saying sorry like a good girl."

Her hand slid down my chest again, slow and firm, thumb brushing the swell of my breast.

"You like being punished by someone who's usually soft."

I bit my lip.

"You need it," she whispered, voice dripping with heat. "Need to be reminded who you belong to."

"Yes," I said, trembling. "Please—remind me."

Orm's hands were fire now—burning a path down my sides, gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. She pulled me into her, our bare skin meeting in a slow, aching press. Her breath ghosted over my lips again.

"You let her touch you?" she whispered, cruel and beautiful. "Then you're going to make it up to me with that filthy mouth of yours."

"Tell me what you want," I breathed.

"I want to see you worship me like it's the only thing that keeps you alive."

She pulled me into her kiss again—deeper this time, more desperate—and I felt it: the shift. The way her dominance frayed at the edges. The way her body trembled just a little too much.

"You're shaking," I whispered against her skin.

"I'm not—"

"You are. You're pretending to be in control," I murmured, kissing her throat. "But this turns you on too much."

She moaned, low and breathless.

"You love seeing me fall apart for you," I whispered into her skin. "But admit it—you're the one coming undone."

Her hands gripped my hips, digging in.

"I love it when you act like this," I whispered, teeth grazing her jaw. "Like you own me."

And just before I kissed her again, I said it—soft, but certain.

"Because you do."

And this time, when she pulled me down into the bed and wrapped her legs around me, when her mouth met mine with fever and need—

There was no more punishment.

She kissed me like she wanted to erase every kiss I'd ever had before hers.

And maybe she did.

But when she pulled back, something in her eyes had changed—darker now. Hungrier. Her pupils blown wide, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. She looked at me like I was the most dangerous thing in the room—and she was ready to set me off just to see how far I'd go.

Her fingers snapped to my chin, grip hard, unforgiving. She tilted my face up until all I could see was her—lips swollen and red, hair wild, eyes burning like she was past the point of restraint.

"You still think you're in control?" she growled, her voice wrecked with lust and fury.

I didn't answer.

I didn't have to.

She saw it in my eyes—the dazed heat, the surrender already flooding my body, the trembling ache in my thighs. I wasn't fighting her. I wanted this.

I wanted her like this.

And Orm?

She broke.

Her hand came down fast. A slap—sharp, clean, echoing in the air between us.

My head jerked, cheek stinging instantly, the heat blooming across my skin like wildfire.

And I moaned.

Soft. Filthy. Willing.

Orm froze.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her pupils dilated further, impossibly wide.

"You like that?" she whispered, disbelieving. A pulse beat hard in her neck. "You liked that?"

I turned back to her slowly, the side of my face flushed, eyes heavy-lidded with need. And I smiled.

Wicked. Devoted. Ruined.

"For you?" I murmured. "I'd beg for more."

And that was it.

Orm slapped me again.

Harder.

My body jolted from the force of it, a gasp falling from my lips that melted into a helpless moan. My thighs pressed together, slick with want, and I looked at her—gave her everything.

"Fuck," she hissed, staring down at me like I was something unholy. "You're so goddamn beautiful like this."

Her hand lingered at my jaw, fingers brushing the sting, almost tender now—but not soft. Never soft. She wanted to own the look on my face, the way I melted under her.

"You like being hit?" she rasped. "Like being marked by me?"

I nodded, breathless.

"It makes me want to ruin you," she whispered. "Again. And again. Until the whole world knows you belong to me."

I shivered beneath her. "Then do it."

She slapped me again.

And this time, I moaned loud—deep and guttural, eyes rolling back, lips parting in something between worship and madness. The sound of it broke something inside her. Orm growled, real and raw, like she couldn't stand it anymore.

She straddled me fully now, grinding down onto my hips, the wet heat between her thighs pressing against my skin. Her hands grabbed my wrists and pinned them to the mattress above my head.

"You're such a good girl when you're hurting," she breathed, her mouth ghosting over mine. "So sweet. So filthy. You don't even want control—you just want me."

"All of you," I panted. "Every savage piece."

Her mouth crashed into mine again, tongue hot and demanding, claiming me with every stroke. She kissed me like she wanted to devour me—and I let her.

Her hips rocked down again, slow and steady, dragging moans from both of us.

"You think you're dangerous," she hissed into my mouth, "but this?" Her thigh pressed harder between mine. "This is dangerous. Me. Owning you. Watching you fall apart because I said so."

"Please," I whispered, already lost. "Please, Orm..."

She leaned back just enough to look down at me—hair a golden mess, sweat slicked across her skin, her mouth curved in the most devastating smirk I'd ever seen.

"You're already mine," she said. "But now? I want you to show me."

Her hand slid down my chest, fingers brushing the curve of my breast, the sting of her slaps still pulsing on my cheek like a second heartbeat. She was watching every twitch, every breath, every sigh.

Orm's breathing deepened as she moved against me, thighs flexing, fingers clawing at the sheets on either side of my chest. Every grind of her hips was a brutal drag across my abs, her soaked heat leaving a wet trail with every pass—like she wanted to brand me with her need.

Her eyes fluttered shut—just for a second.

Then they snapped open again.

Sharp. Wild. Glazed with lust and power.

"You fucking like this," she hissed. "Me using you like this."

I didn't speak. I didn't have to.

She could feel it—my body rigid with want beneath hers, abs flexing, jaw tight, nipples hard under the sweat-slick heat between us. My pulse thudded so loud, I knew she could hear it through the sheets.

She ground down harder. Crueler. Her nails bit into the sheets beside my head, barely missing skin.

"Put your finger in your mouth," she said, voice cracked and low. A command, not a request.

God.

I obeyed.

Slow, deliberate, never breaking eye contact, I slid my hand up and slipped one finger past my lips. I sucked it in, slow and dirty, tongue curling around it like I wanted her to see exactly what I could do with my mouth.

Orm twitched.

Her hips faltered on the next grind, her whole body jerking forward slightly with how hard she clenched.

"Jesus," she choked out. "You're fucking obscene."

I smiled around my finger—dragging it out slick and slow, letting it shine between us—then rested it on my lip, my tongue still teasing the tip.

"You told me to," I whispered. "I'm just being your good girl."

Something inside her snapped.

"Liar," she spat, leaning down over me, her face close enough for me to taste the fury in her breath. "You're not good. You're mine. Mine to ride. Mine to break. Mine to fucking wreck."

And she did.

She slammed her hips down hard, her soaked cunt grinding against my abs in long, punishing strokes. The friction was raw—hot—filthy. The sound of it was enough to kill me: her ragged breathing, the slap of skin on skin, the wet smear of her heat marking me.

I groaned beneath her, head tipped back into the pillows.

She laughed. Bitter. Shaky.

"You moan for me like that again," she said, panting, "and I'll come before I even fucking touch your mouth."

My hands grabbed her thighs—hard, bruising—and held her there, guiding her rhythm without stealing her power.

She slammed her hips down again—deliberate, rough—and this time I did moan.

Low. Wanton. Just to hear that shattered gasp escape her throat.

"I can feel your abs clenching," she said, voice almost broken. "Feel how hard you are underneath me. All that strength—gone. Just for me."

I looked up at her—eyes half-lidded, mouth slick from sucking my own finger—and let her see everything.

"You're shaking," I murmured.

"No I'm not," she snapped, but her voice cracked.

I dragged my hand up her thigh, fingers trailing sweat and slick.

"You are," I whispered. "You're trying to dominate me. But you're fucking dripping on me, baobei. You've been close since the second you sat on me."

Orm let out a wrecked sound—part growl, part whimper.

Then she moved.

She shoved herself up, muscles trembling, crawling higher with a raw, broken grace. Her thighs shook as she moved up my body, knees dragging on the sheets until she was straddling my face—hovering just high enough to tease, to threaten.

And fuck, she looked divine.

Hair tangled, amber eyes wild, her cunt flushed and slick and right there above my mouth.

I rested my hands on her thighs again—gentle this time. Anchoring her. Worshipping her.

She looked down at me, her chest heaving, cheeks flushed with more than exertion.

There was violence in her body, but submission in her eyes.

"Look at you," she breathed. "Waiting for me. Like you need this."

I didn't answer.

I just opened my mouth.

Wide.

Inviting.

And that wrecked her completely.

"Fucking good girl," she moaned, voice low and cracked, her hands flying to my hair. "You want me to ride your face now? After I've slapped you, ground my cunt on your abs, fucked you like I hate you?"

"Please," I whispered, voice desperate. "Orm—please."

Her breath stuttered. Her thighs trembled.

Then she sat.

Hard.

Her heat slammed down onto my mouth, and she gasped—head snapping back, thighs clenching around my skull. She rocked once, a shudder wracking through her.

I groaned into her, tongue already buried deep, and that was it.

She lost it.

Her hands fisted in my hair, riding me with wild, broken rhythm—grinding, panting, her hips jerking every time my tongue found that perfect spot. She was dripping, loud and messy, every moan ripped from her throat like she couldn't hold it back anymore.

"You're mine," she gasped, fucking my face with helpless need. "Mine, Lingling. Say it—say it, or I swear—"

I pulled back just long enough to growl against her skin, "Yours."

Her whole body seized.

And she came.

Loud. Shaking. Devastated.

Her thighs clamped tight around my head, and her voice broke on a sound that didn't even resemble a word—just a cry. Raw. Cracked open.

I held her through it, mouth still working her gently, letting her ride every wave of it out.

She was still shaking above me—legs trembling where they framed my face, her whole body raw and wrung out. Her hips twitched every time I so much as breathed against her, and the sounds spilling from her lips weren't words anymore. Just soft, broken gasps. Whimpers. Moans.

She tried to lift herself—once, twice—but her thighs buckled each time.

Too much.

Too sensitive.

I didn't let her go.

Not yet.

My hands held her down—gentle, steady.

And I kissed her.

Soft at first. Slow. Like reverence pressed into her skin. But then my tongue slid over her again—slow and deep—tasting her like I'd earned it. Like she owed me this.

She screamed.

Her back arched, fingers clawing the sheets, and her voice cracked with something almost panicked. "L–Lingling—fuck—you're still—"

Her thighs quivered. Her breath hitched. She was trying to sound furious, but her voice was soaked in helpless need.

"You're insane," she whispered, but there was no venom. Just awe.

I smiled into her.

Licked her again.

Deeper this time.

"You made a mess," I murmured, dragging my tongue over every slick, swollen inch of her. "I'm just being good."

Orm let out a sound—half strangled, half sobbing.

"Th-that's not good," she gasped. "That's evil."

I kissed her again, slower now. Letting her feel it. Letting her need it.

"You keep saying that," I said against her skin, "like it'll make me stop."

Her hands fisted in the sheets again, knuckles white. Her hips jerked forward before she could stop herself. She was edging herself now, riding the line between overstimulation and surrender.

And that subby sweetness—the one I loved, the one she always tried to bury—was leaking out of her in every gasp, every twitch, every desperate grind of her hips.

This wasn't her place. Not really.

She wasn't meant to be on top.

She was meant to fall.

And she was so close.

Then she looked down at me—eyes glassy, mouth trembling—and the question hit like a slap.

"Did Alisa ever... use your mouth like this?"

Her voice cracked halfway through it. Shame. Rage. Jealousy. All coiled tight in her chest.

But it wasn't just anger.

It was fear.

She needed something. Needed to hear it from me.

So I kissed her again—slow and sinful—and let her feel it deep.

Then I spoke.

"No," I whispered, licking her with devastating softness. "Alisa never sat on my face like this."

Orm's breath caught.

"She never made me moan for it," I went on, dragging my tongue across her clit so lightly she shivered. "Never made me beg to taste her. Never made me come just from eating her out."

Orm whimpered.

"She didn't even know what I could do with my mouth."

Another lick. Slower. Crueler.

"She wasn't you."

Orm's thighs clenched around my head like she was going to come again right there. Her body jerked forward, oversensitive and shaking, and I held her still.

"No one's ever made me feel this filthy," I said, licking her again. "No one's ever looked at me like you do when I'm between your legs."

She moaned—shattered—and her hands flew to my hair, not to pull me away, but to keep me there.

She needed this.

She needed to hear it—to own me.

And I gave her everything.

"You're perfect when you ride me like this," I whispered, voice dark and steady. "You're a fucking goddess, Orm."

Her hips twitched violently.

"You need praise, don't you?" I murmured, licking the swollen edge of her clit, just barely grazing it. "Need me to tell you you're better than her."

"I am," Orm gasped. "I am."

"You're everything," I said. "You're the only one who's ever made me lose control. The only one who can break me."

She sobbed into a moan, bucking forward instinctively—but I pulled back, just enough to deny her what she craved. Her whole body vibrated above me, desperate and undone.

"Please," she whimpered, the sound soaked in desperation. "Please—don't tease—"

I kissed her inner thigh, slow and reverent, and whispered against her skin,"You don't want me to stop. You like being ruined."

And then I gave it to her.

All of it.

I wrapped my arms around her thighs and pulled her down onto my mouth like she was the only thing that could keep me breathing. I sucked hard—merciless—tongue fucking her, teasing her clit until her cries turned into screams. Her body bowed above me, spine arching, arms locked, her hands fisted in my hair as she rode me, helpless and raw.

And when she broke again—when she came with a sob that shook the bed, louder than she'd ever been, shuddering violently above me—I came with her.

Just from the sound of her.The taste of her.The feel of her completely losing herselfon my tongue.

My hips jolted off the mattress, thighs clenched, pleasure ripping through me like a current. I came hard, soaking the sheets beneath me, my cries muffled by the skin of her thighs as I held her down and drank her in. My orgasm hit with the force of hers—twin detonations, tangled and wild—her moans feeding mine, my moans shaking hers loose from her lungs.

"Fuck—Lingling—" she cried, broken and loud, grinding against my mouth, lost in it, drowning.

And still I licked her.Slower now, but deep. Filthy. Worshipful.

Her whole body was twitching, thighs spasming, and still she didn't stop pressing down, as if she needed to fuse into me completely.

"You make me fucking crazy," she whispered, voice cracking, her fingers tugging my hair back hard enough to make me gasp. "You—God—you're mine. Mine."

I looked up at her through the haze, through the wetness, through the ache and pleasure still pounding in my veins.

All I could do was nod.

Because she'd made me come harder than I ever had in my life—with my mouth full of her, my body wrecked beneath hers, and every single inch of me owned.

Orm slumped forward, shaking, her chest collapsing over mine, lips catching mine in a kiss that tasted like blood, sweat, and the unspoken truth of what we were.

Not lovers. Not even just obsession.

But something feral.Something claimed.Something irreversible.

And we hadn't even started to burn through all of it yet.

Orm stayed collapsed on top of me for a moment—panting, trembling, her breath hot against my neck. I could feel the mess between my thighs, still pulsing from the aftershocks of my own orgasm, but more than that, I could feel the wet heat smeared across my cheeks, my mouth, my chin—everywhere.

She'd drenched me.

Twice.

My face was soaked with her, thick and slick and impossible to ignore.

I didn't wipe it away.

I wore it.

And when Orm finally pulled back and looked down at me, her eyes went wide—dark, molten, dilated—and her lips parted on a groan so low it made my skin break into goosebumps.

"Fuck..." she whispered, staring at me like I was a feast and she was starving all over again. "Look at you."

I smirked, barely able to move, drunk on her taste and the wreckage we'd made of each other. "I told you. I'm yours."

Her mouth trembled—not with hesitation, but with hunger—and she leaned in slowly, reverently. Her tongue swept over the corner of my lips, catching a drop she'd missed, her breath shuddering as she tasted herself on me.

"Oh my god," she breathed, like it physically hurt to look at me. "You're beautiful. You're so beautiful."

I barely had time to react before her mouth was on me again—kissing, licking, dragging her tongue across my jaw, my cheek, over the sticky trails she'd left. She groaned against my skin, overwhelmed by it all, by me, by the wreckage she'd made.

She reached my cheekbone, her eyes flicking to the dark mole just beneath it. That familiar spot. That small thing she'd kissed a thousand times before.

This time, she didn't just kiss it.

She moaned into it.

"God, this mole," she whispered, pressing her lips to it again, slow and full. "I used to think it was cute. But now? Now it's mine. It's—fuck—it's the sexiest thing I've ever seen."

Her tongue darted out, tracing it, then licking the slick just below, as if claiming the space around it too. She pulled back to look at me again, and her expression had changed—less wild now, but no less intense.

She licked across my lips and moaned when I opened for her, letting her kiss me deep, wet, filthy—her tongue pushing into my mouth to reclaim the part of herself she'd left there.

"You wear me so fucking well," she breathed, kissing down the line of my jaw, her voice gone rough and hungry. "You let me come all over your face and didn't stop once. You just took it. Like a good girl."

I whimpered, hips jerking again, my body unable to stop reacting even though I was already sore, already shaking.

"Oh?" Orm smirked, pulling back just enough to watch me twitch. "You liked being used like that, didn't you?"

I nodded, breathless. "You taste like sin."

She laughed—low, wicked—and leaned in to suck hard on my pulse point, leaving a mark that would last for days. "And you taste like surrender."

Her hands framed my face now, thumbs brushing over the slickness she hadn't licked away, smearing it deeper into my skin like she wanted it to stain me.

"I want you to smell like me tomorrow," she whispered, pressing her forehead to mine. "I want everyone to know what I did to you."

My breath caught, thighs pressing together instinctively. But Orm noticed.

She always did.

"Oh, baby..." she cooed, voice dripping with dark affection. "You're still aching, aren't you? After all that."

I bit my lip, nodding.

Her fingers slid through the slick mess between my thighs, her grin turning wicked.

"Oh, Ling," she growled, voice gone molten. "You're soaked. Did you come that hard just from being under me?"

I couldn't answer.

My whole body was already shaking again, overstimulated, hungry, feral. My skin felt too tight, my breath couldn't catch, and still her fingers kept moving—slow, steady, filthy.

"God, you're so wet," she moaned. "You're dripping for me. Look at you, Lingling. You're fucking ruined."

Her mouth latched onto my nipple, sucking hard, and my body jerked—pleasure crashing into me like a second wave already building. My thighs twitched. My breath broke.

She bit. Sucked. Then licked over it again.

"I'm not stopping until you come all over my hand," she whispered. "Until you scream my name the way I screamed yours."

Her hand moved faster now, fingers curling just right, and I sobbed—legs shaking, hips bucking up into her.

"You're mine," she breathed against my chest. "Say it. Say who you belong to."

"You," I choked, trembling. "I'm yours—Orm—fuck—please—"

"Good girl," she growled, her mouth dragging lower, lower—leaving a wet trail of kisses and bites all the way down my body. "You gave me your mouth. Now give me everything else."

Orm's mouth was everywhere—wet, hot, possessive—like she could claim me through touch alone. Her fingers never stopped moving between my legs, each stroke calculated, brutal, dragging me closer to the edge with the kind of focus that made it feel personal.

But then she paused—just for a breath—her lips hovering above my collarbone.

Right where she'd cut me earlier.

The skin was still raised, scabbed over in a thin angry line. A mark I hadn't even touched since she'd made it. A mark she hadn't forgotten.

Her fingers pressed in deeper, her rhythm tightening—relentless and cruel—but her mouth didn't move. Not yet. She just breathed against the wound, letting the heat of her mouth tease the ache there.

And then she bit.

Hard.

Pain shot through me—sharp, hot, electric—and I screamed, hips jerking against her hand as blood bloomed fresh under her teeth.

"Fuck— Orm—!"

She licked it. Slow. Deliberate. Proud.

"Look at that," she rasped, blood painting her lips like a crown. "Still mine. Still bleeding for me."

My legs shook. My brain went white. I was too far gone to pretend I had any control left—if I ever did.

"You think that bitch could've marked you like this?" she sneered, teeth grazing the cut again. "Think she ever made you bleed for her?"

Her hand moved harder now—slick, merciless—her fingers dragging through my arousal like it belonged to her, like she was entitled to every drop.

And she was.

"Fucking soaked," she growled. "Bleeding and dripping for me at the same time. Look what you are when you're under me."

I whimpered, half-moan, half-sob—because she wasn't going to let me come. Not yet.

She was edging me, holding me at that threshold until my whole body trembled with need. Until my voice broke trying to beg for it.

Orm's mouth crashed against mine—messy, open, full of tongue and blood and heat. She bit my lip so hard I tasted iron, then kissed me deeper, shoving her hand harder between my thighs until my back arched off the bed.

"You don't get to come yet," she hissed. "Not until I say. You don't get to break until I let you."

I was gone. Writhing. Desperate. My nails clawed at the sheets—at her arms—but she was unshakable. She held me down like I was something she'd earned and wasn't about to let go.

"You let her touch you," she spat, fingers slowing again—taunting. "But I own this. Every part of you that's ever gotten wet thinking of someone else? Mine now."

My hips bucked, trying to chase her hand, but she pulled away. Just enough to make me scream.

"You don't get to come like that," she whispered. "Not without paying for it."

Then she slapped me.

Her palm cracked across the inside of my thigh—hot, stinging, sharp. I cried out, pleasure and pain colliding so fast I almost came just from the shock.

And then she yanked my head back—her fingers twisted deep in my hair, jerking my face toward hers.

"Say it," she snarled, eyes wild and beautiful and cruel. "Say who this pussy belongs to."

"You—Orm—fuck—you!" I sobbed. "I'm yours. I'm yours—please—let me come—"

Her grip in my hair tightened. "You don't beg like that for anyone else. Ever."

I nodded wildly, tears slipping down my cheeks. "Never. Just you. Only you."

Her hand slammed back down between my legs—fingers curling perfectly, rhythm savage—and this time, she didn't stop.

"Then come," she growled. "Come for me like the filthy fucking bitch you are."

And I did—my body seized, arched, screamed as I came harder than I ever had in my life. She slapped my thigh again when I bucked, and when I cried out her name, she yanked my hair hard and kissed me through it, devouring the sound like it was hers too.

I shattered—wrecked and raw and completely hers.

And she held me there.

Kept her fingers moving just enough to make me twitch, to make me shake.

"You'll feel this for days," she whispered against my ear. "Every time you close your legs, you'll remember who did it to you."

Then softer—almost too soft for the fire in her voice:

"Good girl."

And her blood-wet mouth kissed mine again—slower now, reverent.

Because she'd broken me.

And loved it.