Page 49 of Make Me A Sinner
“My... my nipple?” I ask, and at this moment, honestly, I hope it goes there—because the alternative is unthinkable.
I can see him weighing that option too. “Hmm. We could get one for that. Maybe even a pair,” he muses, clearly tempted, but then his eyes darken and he leans toward me. “But that’s not where this one goes,” he punctuates each word like it’d burn itself into my brain.
“Oh no,” I snap back.
“Oh yes,” he counters with the look in his eyes that lets me know there’s no way out of this.
Still, I have to give it my best shot. “Set,” I warn, making it clear this isn’t something to joke about.
Still, he seems in the mood for jokes. “That’s what I planned to have engraved. But I think my initials look better. Don’t you?”
“I’m not wearing that. If that’s what you’re implying.”
“I don’t remember asking. If that’s what you’re implying,” he uses that tone again—the one that leaves no roomfor bargaining. The one that built the ruthless businessman everybody fears.
But right now, I’m more afraid of what he’s planning to do to me than of who he really is.
“So you’re punishing me, is that it?” I ask, trying to sound pissed. Okay, maybe not just trying. I am pissed.
“It’s not a punishment, as you’ll realize in a couple of weeks—maybe sooner. It’s me marking you as mine. It’s me claiming the very last drop of you. And to be honest, you brought this on yourself by running away. My name will be there as a permanent reminder that no other man will ever claim that place.”
“I can give you a Sharpie. They’re pretty much permanent,” I say, with a hint of desperation in my voice, which seems to amuse him, but not enough to raise a full smile on his lips. That lets me know he’s not going to back down from this. So I need to up my game. “I’m not doing this. And that’s final.”
“Yes, you are. But you can have a drink first. Calm your nerves.” He rises from the couch and walks to the bar, pouring me a glass of whiskey. Like that’s ever worked. I’ve tried that trick before, and they don’t make enough whiskey to fix what’s going on inside me right now.
I know there’s no real way out of this because once he sets his mind on something, he never lets it go. And to be honest, the idea kind of intrigues me. It’s not like anyone else is ever going there again. Because I don’t want anyone else to go there. Set’s doing an amazing job, so it’s safe to say no one would ever compare to him.
Still, I’m terrified of the pain. I mean, getting that thing doesn’t exactly scream easy or comfortable in any way. I understand he wants a sign of allegiance after running away, but this is absurd.
My flight-or-fight instinct kicks in, and I choose flight, rising from the couch to bolt.
I only get to take two steps before Set is in front of me. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To the bedroom,” I answer dryly, still holding my stance, and intimidating my way out of this.
“I prefer we do this here. The light’s better. And this isn’t something I want to get wrong,” he says, his words clipped as if he’s already losing his patience.
“Youwant to do it yourself? Are you even qualified?” I ask, but then another question pops into my mind. “Have you done it before?” A ripple of revulsion takes hold of my mind. Is this his thing—branding people?
“You’re asking hell a lot of questions, but I know you won’t stop until I answer you. So, yes, I’ll be the one doing it because I can’t stand the thought of anyone else getting their hands on you. And yes, I know how to do it safely. And no, I’ve never done it to anyone else before,” his voice softens, like this means something to him.
Well, it better—because I’m the one who has to walk around with that between my legs.
Still, I won’t agree to it. And it’s not the mark itself that bothers me. I secretly think that’s kind of hot—even if I just came to terms with the idea that I really am his. Truth is, I’m terrified of what this means in all senses of the way—pain-wise and commitment-wise. This is big, and the aggravation in his tone makes me that much more aware of it. At this point, I’m starting to think I woud’ve preferred the engagement ring.
“How did we get from what just happened on the couch to this?” I ask, still trying to process how I managed to lose every piece of myself in just a single night.
“I’d say they're related. It’s time to stop fighting everything that’s between us. And this is an important step in that process. I need to know where your mind is, so I can trust you again.” There’s a heavy silence between us. His words hit differentlythan I expected—like they’re carving out a hollow space inside of me. As if I’m guilty of doing something terribly wrong, and somehow it’s my duty to fix it.
That still doesn’t mean I’m going down without a fight. I can’t start a relationship by making a compromise that easily. Been there. Done that. Never going on that road again. “Just so you know, I don’t agree with this.” I cross my arms, giving him a look sharp enough to cut through steel. “I know there’s nothing I can do to stop you. But I hope you realize you’re making me take a step back from whatever this is between us.”
“We both know that’s not happening. It’s too late for that,” he says, so convinced it makes me want to prove him wrong just out of spite.
“Watch me,” I dare him.
Not that it fazes him. “Drink this, it will be easier,” he offers me the whiskey glass, and I’m seriously considering throwing it across the room, but I know I’ll need it.
I knock it back in one go, then hand him the empty glass, making sure he sees how my nostrils flare at him like I’m some kind of steaming dragon about to breathe fire. I’m pretty sure I only amuse him, yet I hold my ground.
