Page 12 of Ma Petite Mort
SMACK.
My hand snaps across his cheek, fast and sharp.
"Uh-uh," I coo, wagging a finger in his face. "No talking yet, pretty boy. Let Mama play."
He flinches.
I giggle, like I just got a pony for Yule.
I pull my dagger with a little dramatic flourish, then press it to his chest like I’m tracing hearts in the snow.
"You know," I murmur, twirling my dagger like a ribbon stick in a pageant from hell, "the gods love a good sacrifice. That’s what all this is about, pretty boy. Disting. Death. Devotion."
I lean in, dragging the blade along his ribs, not cutting—not yet—just teasing.
"Everyone with a red band paid for this. You signed your soul on the dotted line, sweetheart. There’s no take-backs once you step into my ring."
He shakes his head, eyes wide, lips trembling like he wants to cry or scream or beg.
I giggle. "Awww, don’t pout. What’s the matter? Getting cold feet?" I tilt my head, real slow and smile like a wolf with lipstick. "What’s it that Bjorn says?" I ask, tracing a bloody rune onto his chest with my finger. "Oh right…" I slap his cheek lightly, then harder, until his eyes glaze just a little. "Your fate is sealed."
He opens his mouth to speak but I slam the blade down beside his ear and he jolts.
"Too late to chicken out now, pussy," I snarl, then giggle again, pressing my mouth to his cheek like a kiss.
"Hold still," I whisper, biting my lip as I drag the tip just beneath his collarbone.
He hisses.
I hum, all sweet and syrupy.
Thick, ruby red.
My favorite color.
Like candy for my soul.
I smear it with my fingers, paint it across my lips like lipstick.
“You bleed beautifully,” I coo.
I roll my hips, slow and cruel, grinding down against the thick line of his cock beneath me. He groans, low and desperate, hips twitching like he’s not sure whether to thrust or pray.
“Mmm-mmm,” I tsk, wagging a bloody finger in his face. “No cumming without permission. We’ve got rules in this circus, sweetheart. Even the gods like a little discipline.”
He whimpers. Good.
I lean in and lick the blood from his chest, warm and metallic and perfect. He shudders underneath me like I’ve cursed him, and maybe I have.
Then I glance over his shoulder… And there he is.
* * *
Bjorn.
Watching from the altar, backlit by torches and death.
There’s a fresh lineup kneeling at his feet, heads bowed, branded and waiting to bleed.
