Page 35 of Jewel of the Assassin
And that won’t do. Not for what comes next.
Undoing the shackles, I gather her into my arms—limp, glistening, radiant. Soft and sacred, her head lolls against my chest, golden strands clinging to her damp cheeks like a fallen angel.
I descend to another prepared location. Beneath my manor’s refined walls and polished stone lies a second heart—a deeper, older one. The dungeon breathes like a living thing. Its stones hold memory. Pain. Obedience. Power. Death. Torchlight flickers on the stone walls, casting shadows. This place has seen every layer of who I am. The assassin. The king. The lover. The monster.
And now it will witness the full claiming of my queen.
In a way, this will be death for her. And rebirth.
Chains clink faintly from the ceiling, old iron groaning with hunger. At the center of the dungeon waits a suspension rig Icommissioned myself—blackened steel and crimson silks, designed not for cruelty, but for precision and control. For art.
I set her down gently on the padded table and reach for the ropes. The red silk is soft to the touch but strong. Shibari is more than restraint. It’s worship with knots.
I start at her thighs, winding the rope in a religious rhythm up, over, and behind her body. Her arms next. I fold them behind her, at the small of her back, bound in an elegant pattern that lifts and arches her spine. A final loop across her chest, between her breasts, framing her heart.
When I hoist her into the air, the pulleys sing.
She hangs before me now, suspended in silence, head bowed, hair falling around her like a curtain of gold. Her body sways gently.
I take a moment to stroke the soft, downy undersides of her arms, the lithe muscle there. I tenderly knead her breasts, admiring her nipples pebbling beneath my palms. Then cup her wet pussy, still dripping.
Finally, I stoke the brazier at the far end of the room, heating the needles I require. Soon, I will mark her, brand her as mine.
I glance back at her. Still dreaming. But not for much longer.
I lay out a set of surgical needles across a black velvet cloth. Beside them, I unroll the parchment I inked days ago.
The crown.
A mark I will proudly display to show the world who she is to me. I press it to her skin with a damp cloth, transferring the design in soft black lines. A map. A claim. A covenant.
I stroke her pussy with the back of my hand, watching the little tremors ripple up her skin. Then test the needle again—just the tip of it—and begin.
The first contact on her chest is a kiss of fire. The scent of scorched skin curls into the air, and her whole body flinches with a strangled gasp. A pulse of breath trembles through her lips.
Her spine locks up, her eyes shooting open, wide and alertfrom the sudden sting. She drags in frantic gasps through her nose.
“Oh, God, what are you?—?”
“Marking you.” I brace one hand gently against her sternum. “I’ve already crowned you as my queen. This mark will testify it to the world.”
I lift my gaze to hers. Tears brim in her eyes, but she says nothing. Her body fights it. Her soul doesn’t.
I press the needle again, following the etched guide of the crown. Tiny, precise burns, no deeper than necessary. Each touch elicits a twitch, a cry, a stuttering moan.
She’s not screaming. She’sbreathing through it. Her strength makes me ravenous.
She’s so open to me like this, no shame, no battle. As if my fire is cleansing her, freeing her. And God help me—I’ve never felt more devout. Not with blood. Not with steel. Not with the screams of men beneath my blade and bullets.
This is art. This is holy.
I lose myself in it. Her whole body pulls against the ropes in shuddering tension. Her sob sends blood surging to my cock until it’s warring to break free of my pants.
She is crying now with silent tears. And I love her for it.
“Look at you,” I murmur, setting the needle aside. “My sovereign. My masterpiece.”
I lean in and press a kiss to the newest mark—still glowing, still smoking. She flinches.
