Page 113 of Lethal in Pink

My fingers find the heart-shaped rhinestone case buried beneath my keys—cold against my palm, the little bow charm dangling uselessly from the side.

I palm it. My thumb finds the twin activation points on opposite sides.

Looking down at him—completely open, completely devoted, holding me like I hung the stars—my chest aches with a suffocating panic. But I can't afford to break.

My thumb presses down.

The compact whirs, a faint charge building in the capacitors, and the electrodes slide out along the bottom edge with a soft, mechanical click.

Before my resolve can shatter, I pull back just an inch, press the compact hard against his thigh through the denim hidden beneath my knees, and fire.

Fifty thousand volts, delivered straight through the fabric into the muscle of his leg.

Jae jolts.

Visibly. Sharply. His whole body tenses, his spine locking straight, his hand flying to his thigh where the compact is still pressed against the denim. His eyes widen, his breath catches—and then, instead of dropping, instead of immediate neuromuscular lockup and unconsciousness, he looks down at himself.

Then at me.

Then at the compact still pressed against his leg, its rhinestones glittering under the fairy lights like a harmless accessory.

“What the fuck was that?” he says.

His voice is perfectly level, perfectly coherent, and entirely, bafflingly not the voice of a man who has just taken fifty thousand volts.

I yank the compact back. My mouth opens. Nothing comes out at first, then I word vomit all over him. "It's this thing i saw and it looked super hot so i was like okay new kink unlocked and thought why not try a little spark to liven things up. Hindsight, i can see that trying to take control of you this way may have been a bad idea."

In my ear, Penelope makes a sound. A sharp intake of breath, a pivot into sheer fascination, and finally a low, choked noise that I recognize as my best friend trying very hard not to laugh and failing miserably.

“So you tase me?” Jae asks. He’s not angry. He sounds genuinely curious, like I’ve just shown him a magic trick he can’t quite figure out.

He looks at the compact in my hand, then at my face. His expression shifts, smoothing out into something slower, darker, and infinitely more deliberate. He tilts his head, studying me with an intensity that makes the air in the room go thin.

“If you wanted to take control of me, jagiya,” he says, his voice dropping into a low, unhurried register that flips my stomach upside down, “all you had to do was ask.”

He holds out his hand. Palm up. Expectant.

I place the compact in his palm. He turns it over, examines the rhinestones, sets it on the coffee table with a soft click, and looks back up at me.

“But since you’ve been such a naughty girl,” he continues, the words sending a deep, heavy shiver straight through my core, “I’m going to have to punish you.”

What follows is not the evening I planned.

Jae moves with unhurried precision—no frantic urgency, just the calm, methodical certainty of a man who knows exactly what he wants. His hands find the waistband of my shorts, sliding them down my hips and off my legs in one smooth motion, leaving me in just my camisole and lace thong under his heavy gaze.

“Turn around,” he says.

I turn and his hand settles warm against the small of my back, guiding me forward until I’m bent over his lap, my stomach pressed against his thighs, exposed ad utterly at his mercy. His palm rests against the curve of my cheek, heavy and warm, before the first strike lands.

A sharp, crisp crack echoes in the quiet apartment. Pain blooms—bright, immediate, a hot flush spreading across my skin—and I gasp, my fingers digging into the cushion.

“Count,” he commands.

“One,” I manage, my voice already unsteady.

The second strike lands on the opposite cheek, harder, and my hips jerk involuntarily, a broken sound escaping my throat.

“Two.”