Page 121 of His to Hunt

He squeezes harder, thumb rolling over my nipple with practiced precision. A breath hitches in my throat involuntarily, and I want to scream—not from physical pain, but from the humiliation. The shock of it. The violation.

His eyes flash with triumph. He felt it.

"Still sensitive. Even now." His voice drops, intimate and threatening. "That's good. You'll learn faster."

He leans in closer, his breath scorching against my cheek. "I don't care that he got a taste. I don't mind sharing and treating you like the whore you are. I'll still make you mine."

He shifts his position, pressing his body flush against mine. I feel the unmistakable hardness grinding against me through his expensive suit pants.

My skin crawls with revulsion. I try to twist away, panic flooding my lungs like ice water.

His hand on my chest tightens painfully in response. "You'll learn not to fight me."

"Sir."

The voice slices through the room like a blade, unexpected and abrupt.

Christopher freezes against me, his body going rigid.

"Get the fuck out," he snarls without turning around.

"You're needed, Sir."

There's a pause, heavy with tension, before I hear footsteps approaching. I can't see the newcomer from my position, but I sense another presence in the room.

Christopher growls something under his breath, his frustration palpable. "I'm not done with you." He steps away from me, but not before his hand snakes into my hair, fingers twisting painfully as he yanks my head back. His lips brush against my ear. "Next time, there won't be anyone to stop me."

His hand slides from my hair to my jaw, fingers digging in with bruising force until I can't move my mouth, can't turn my head. He holds me there, forcing me to stare directly at him.

"Look at you," he says, something like wonder in his voice. "Still pretending you're not mine."

And then, without warning, he kisses me.

There's nothing gentle about it—just the bruising pressure of his mouth against mine, his lips forcing themselves on me in a violation more intimate than any physical blow. I jerk against his hold, twisting desperately, fighting with what little strength I have left, but his grip only tightens, knuckles pressing into my skin until I can't move, can't breathe.

I feel the first tear slip free, followed by another. I hate myself for giving him this victory, but I can't stop them.

He pulls back, chest heaving as if the act has excited him. "There it is."

He leans in again, his tongue dragging slowly along the track of my tear, collecting it like a trophy. "Salted. Sweet. Just like I always imagined."

I want to scream, but my throat has closed around the sound.

He steps back finally, and for a moment I think it's over. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a length of ribbon—deep burgundy velvet, expensive and wrong against my skin.

With methodical precision, he ties it around my throat—tight, possessive, a perverse mirror of the collar he ripped from my body.

"A gift for Sinclair when he decides to show up."

With one last lingering look, he finally walks away.

The door slams behind him, the sound echoing in the empty space.

And I collapse—legs giving out completely, all my weight falling on my wrists as they tear against the rope, my shoulders screaming in protest. But I barely register the physical pain.

My breath comes in broken, silent sobs that rack my body.

I don't scream. I don't even cry openly.

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