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"Take it off," I growled. She hesitated, and the beast in me snarled silently, impatient.
Piece by piece, fabric fell away from her skin, revealing soft curves and pale flesh. Each garment dropped to the floor was an unspoken apology from my lips to whatever gods watched over girls like her. My hands shook, but not from fear. From fucking need—the raw, primal kind that had no place in this godforsaken room. Every Goddamn time I saw her like this... every time I saw those doe brown eyes staring at me with trust that didn't belong there, I felt my connection to the Cinder Crew shatter, just a bit more. Eventually it would break. And there would be blood.
"What are we..." Her voice, hesitant, threaded with innocence that had no right to exist here.
"Shut it," I snapped, more to myself than to her. Because every fiber of me wanted to wrap her up, shield her from the ugliness that was about to unfold. But this was the game—her body the canvas, my hands the cruel artist's tools.
I stepped closer. The heat from her bare skin called to me. "Fucking perfect... and so damn wrong."
My fingers traced the line of her collarbone, down the valley of her breasts, and lower still. Each touch was a promise. Her breath caught, shivers dancing across her skin. Today, I'd scar this pretty canvas.
My hand found the knife at my belt, the cold steel feeling traitorous in my palm. My weapon of choice was one I'd be using against her. I pressed the blade lightly against her thigh, just enough to draw a bead of crimson. Her gasp filled the silence.
"Shit," I muttered. The edge kissed her flesh, again and again. Fear flickered in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by something else.
I pressed the blade down again, another shallow trail on her arm, closer to the wrist. Blood welled up, a dark promise against her pale skin. "Gotta see you painted in the truth of this world."
Her gaze locked onto mine, stormy with emotions too tangled to unravel. I offered the blade, handle first. "Your turn, sunshine."
Her fingers trembled as she took it, the metal cold between us. A hesitation, then she drew it across my skin, a stinging bite that pulled a grunt from my lips.
"Fuck, yeah." I seized her hand, guiding the knife. "Like that."
I watched her face, searching for disgust, for revulsion. Yet I found none. Just that damn adoration that had no right to be there. It made heat coil in my gut, an animal thing, hungry and raw.
"Chris," she whispered, and it wasn't fear. It was something fiercer, something that clawed at the walls I'd built.
"Christ, you're beautiful." I snatched the blade back, licked the blood from her cut—a coppery tang mingling with the salt of her skin. Then our mouths crashed together, a savage kiss as I bit her lip hard enough to make her bleed.
"Fuck me. Please."
"No." The word was gravel, ground out between clenched teeth. "This is the foreplay, the fucking ritual."
The blood smeared under my hands, warm and slick. I painted symbols, a language only the damned could speak. Her body arched, seeking more, seeking anything.
"Chris, I—" She choked on words, on sensations.
"Shh." I coated her thighs in red, stark against her skin. "You're so perfect, all dolled up and nowhere to go."
"Oh..." she breathed, and fuck if it didn't sound like a prayer.
"Oh what, Ella? Please stop? Or please... more?" My gaze locked onto hers, searching for an answer.
Her eyes, wide and brown, held mine. It was need. Need for me, the very monster who'd brought her to this hell.
"More," she whispered, and the word shattered me.
"Christ, you are something else. Not just a pretty porcelain doll." With deft movements, I cut her again, deeper this time. Relishing in the hiss she let out as the rivulets of red immediately took residence on her skin.
"I... I kinda like it."
"Fuck, little ember," I cursed under my breath, each mark I left on her a brand on my soul. She wasn't supposed to enjoy this.
I dropped the knife, the clatter loud in the charged silence. My hands, now free, roamed her body with a hunger that bordered on reverence. Every inch of her skin, every curve and crevice, I committed to memory. This moment, this connection—it was fucked up and fragile, and I’d be damned if I didn’t savor it.
"Ready?" I asked, though it wasn't a question. It was a warning. I was a storm about to break upon her shores, and she was the lighthouse daring me to come closer.
"Yes," she whispered, and her bravery stoked the fire in my veins.
