I pant against the pillow, sweat beading on my forehead again. Shame coils in my stomach, acidic and hot. And beneath the shame, an undeniable thread of arousal pulls tight. The utter humiliation of it, the complete loss of control... it sparks something dark and hungry in the wreckage of my nerves. My cock, spent and soft just minutes ago, gives a feeble, interested twitch against the mattress. I hate it. I hate him. I hate myself.
Finally, he stops. The probe holds still, buried deep. Then, with a slow, careful withdrawal, he pulls it out.
The absence of the tool is almost as startling as its presence. But the tag remains. I can feel it now, not as a sharp presence, but as a deep, internal pressure, a cold spot lodged high up inside me where I can’t touch, can’t reach, can’t remove it.
He pulls the probe free completely. I hear the soft sound of it being placed back on the nightstand.
I am panting, my face burning with a humiliation that goes bone-deep. There’s a fucking tracker embedded inside me. Noton my clothes, not in a bag.In my ass.He can find me anywhere now. Anytime. I’ll never be out of his reach.
I don’t hear him move, but I feel the dip in the mattress as Suha sits on the edge of the bed beside me. His hand lands on the small of my back. I flinch, the muscles there jumping under my skin. I expect another bite, another slap, another cold intrusion.
Instead, his fingers find the first nipple clamp. The little metal jaws are still dug into the swollen, tender flesh of my left nipple. He pinches the small lever at the top and releases it.
The sensation is a shock of a different color. It’s a sharp, biting sting as the clamp’s grip loosens, followed immediately by a hot, prickling flood as blood rushes back into the constricted tissue. It’s a pain that borders on pleasure, a relief so intense it’s almost worse than the clamp itself. A hiss escapes my clenched teeth, my back bowing slightly. The nipple throbs, feeling huge and hypersensitive, the ghost of the clamp’s teeth still etched into the skin.
He does the same to the right one. Another hiss, another full-body jolt. I press my forehead harder into the pillow, my fingers twisting in the sheets. The two points on my chest feel like they’re on fire, a bright, singing ache that pulses with my heartbeat.
Slowly, every movement a careful negotiation with pain, I push myself up onto my elbows. The room tilts slightly. I blink, taking in the scene. Suha is standing beside the bed now, completely naked and utterly unselfconscious, gathering the scattered tools of my torment. He picks up the metal cuffs, the leather straps, the nipple clamps, the sinister-looking probe. He carries them over to a heavy wooden chest at the foot of the bed and deposits them inside with a series of soft thuds. The lid closes with a final, heavy sound.
He turns back to me, his expression unreadable. He walks to the armchair where he’d sat for hours, watching. His clothes aredraped over the back. He pulls on his black slacks with that same casual grace, buttoning them but leaving them unfastened at the top. He doesn’t put on a shirt. He just settles into the chair, reaches for his silver cigarette case on the side table, and taps one out.
I watch him, confusion cutting through the haze of pain and exhaustion. My voice, when I find it, is rough and scraped raw. “You’re letting me go?”
He lights the cigarette with a flick of his thumb on a sleek, matte black lighter. He takes a long drag, exhaling the smoke towards the high ceiling. He shrugs one shoulder, a minimal movement. “You’re tagged now,” he says. “So I know where to find you if I need you.”
He takes another drag, his dark eyes holding mine through the haze of smoke. “My number is in your phone. You are to come when called. I expect you here to service me a minimum of four times a week. I’ll text you the schedule.”
The audacity of it, the sheer, casual ownership in his delivery, makes a hot spike of anger pierce my lethargy. A sneer twists my lips. I don’t argue. It would be pointless. My body is evidence of how well arguing works with him. Instead, I swing my legs slowly over the side of the bed. My feet touch the plush carpet. Every muscle screams in protest. The fresh burns on my thighs pull tight. The deep ache in my ass is a constant, throbbing background noise, and the strange internal pressure of the tag makes me feel off-balance.
Standing is a project. I have to brace my hands on the edge of the mattress, my arms shaking. I take a slow, careful breath, and then push myself upright. The room does a slow, lazy spin. I lock my knees, waiting for it to pass. My own nakedness suddenly feels more vulnerable than it did when I was chained. He’s just watching, smoking, his gaze staying there.
My clothes are in a torn heap near the door where his men dumped them after stripping me in the car. I walk towards them, my gait stiff and awkward, a pronounced limp in my step. Each movement sends fresh twinges through my battered body. Bending down to pick up my jeans is an exercise in agony. I hiss as the denim scrapes over the tender skin of my thighs and ass. Getting them on is a clumsy, humiliating struggle. I have to lean against the wall for balance. The button-up shirt is missing several buttons, and the collar is stretched. I pull it on anyway, not bothering to fasten it, letting it hang open over my bruised chest.
I find my boots and socks, sitting by the door. Putting on socks is almost comically difficult. Sitting on the floor feels like surrendering, so I brace myself against the doorframe and try to do it standing, wobbling precariously. Finally, I get them on, then my boots.
I straighten up, running a hand through my hopelessly tangled hair. I feel wrecked. I look wrecked. I can smell myself—sweat, sex, pain, the faint, acrid scent of burnt skin clinging to me.
I don’t look at him as I reach for the door handle.
“Oh, and Yujeong?”
His voice stops me, calm and clear. My hand freezes on the cool metal. I don’t want to turn around. But I do. Slowly, I turn my head to look at him over my shoulder.
He’s leaning forward in the armchair, elbows on his knees, the cigarette held loosely between his fingers. He holds my gaze, and his eyes are no longer casually bored. They are flat, dark, and utterly serious. “If you allow anyone to damage what’s mine again,” he says, his voice dropping into a lower register, “I will personally remove any part of their body that touched you. Is that understood?”
The words hang in the air between us. He isn’t yelling. He isn’t even raising his voice. That’s what makes it so much worse. He’s stating a simple, factual consequence.
I understand immediately. No more fighting. No more stepping into the ring. No more letting other alphas’ fists connect with my jaw, my ribs, my skin. No more bruises that aren’t put there by him. No more blood drawn by anyone else’s hands. He’s not just claiming my submission during sex. He’s claiming my violence, my pain, my entire physical being. It all belongs to him now.
The threat isn’t against me. It’s against anyone foolish enough to lay a finger on his property. And I believe him. I can see the certainty of it in his face. He would do it. He would have a man’s hands cut off for hitting me. He would carve out the eye of someone who looked at me wrong. The cold, psychopathic logic of it settles in my stomach like a stone.
I look at him, at this man who has just spent hours breaking me apart and then casually set me free with a tracker in my body and a threat on my lips. The bond between us gives a low, persistent thrum in my chest, a twisted anchor line.
I nod once, a sharp, jerky motion. My throat is too tight to speak.
I turn back to the door, twist the handle, and step out into the hallway.
The walk through the silent, opulent mansion feels endless. My boots are too loud on the marble floors. Every servant or guard I pass avoids my eyes, but I feel their stares like touches on my battered skin. I keep my head down, my open shirt flapping around me, and limp towards the grand front entrance.
