"Bad mannnn... Don't rape me againnn..." Alice's voice was a slurred, teary whine as Hades dragged her through the penthouse foyer. Her heels scraped twin lines across the polished marble. The scent of expensive champagne and her floral perfume clung to her, a sickly-sweet cloud of intoxication.

He didn't answer. His grip on her bicep was iron, a counterpoint to the boneless way her body swayed. He hauled her into the bedroom and released her. She dropped onto the vast expanse of his black duvet, bouncing once with a soft, surprised "oof."

Hades looked down at her. His breath hitched, a traitorous little catch in his throat he instantly despised.

She was sprawled like a fallen angel. The severe black dress from the gala was twisted, the high neckline digging into her throat. Her creamy pearl-blonde hair had escaped its pins, fanning across the dark fabric like spilled moonlight. A flush painted her cheeks and chest, visible above the torn lace where he'd earlier marked her. Her bow-shaped emerald eyes were glassy, unfocused, swimming with tears and something else—a raw, unguarded vulnerability that made his stomach tighten.

She looked exactly like she’d stepped out of his wet dreams. The ones he never admitted to having.

"Bad man—" she started again, then her gaze drifted to the ceiling. "Oooo.... Unicorns..." A giggle bubbled out of her, high and airy and totally, infuriatingly out of it. She waved a hand vaguely at nothing.

Hades just stared, his own darkness a silent vortex in the room.

"I liked my old life," she sighed, the smile fading into a pout. Her words tumbled out, a drunken confession. "Cute guys would ask me out... to, like, get fro-yo. I'd get to act dumb and have attention... It was nice. Simple." Her glassy eyes found him, and the pout twisted into something accusatory. "But you? You treat me like some fuckto—"

EEEEK!

The sound was cut off, swallowed by the muffled press of his face against her chest. He didn't kiss her. He buried himself there, in the soft heat and scent of her, and his teeth found the bodice of the dress. The sound of tearing lace was obscenely loud. He worried the fabric, a predator with a kill, until a patch of her flushed skin was exposed. Then his mouth was on her.

This wasn't a kiss. It was a claiming. He sucked the tender skin above her breast into the heat of his mouth, his tongue a rough, wet pressure. He bit down, not enough to break the skin, but enough to make her gasp and arch beneath him. The sharp, bright pain cut through the champagne haze. He felt her hands come up, not to push him away, but to tangle weakly in his disheveled dark hair.

He released the spot, already darkening into a bruise, and moved an inch lower. Another bite. Another suck. He was marking a trail, a constellation of ownership against her pale skin. The taste of her—salt, perfume, and something uniquely Alice—flooded his senses. He hated it. He craved it.

"You talk too much about other men," he growled against her skin, the vibration making her shiver.

"I was just—ah!—telling a story," she whined, her voice trembling. "You're the one who's... ouch!... jealous."

Jealousy? Him? No.

The thought was a poison dart. He reared back, his obsidian eyes blazing down at her. Her dress was ruined, her chest a map of blooming purple. Her eyes were wide, the green depths still drunk but now sharp with a flicker of fear. And challenge.

His hand came down on her ass.

The spank wasn't a playful tap. It was a sharp, stinging crack that echoed in the quiet room. The black silk of her dress did nothing to dampen the force. She yelped, a genuine sound of shock, her body jerking under his.

He did it again. On the other cheek. The impact jolted through her, and he watched, fascinated, as the pain and the shock and the lingering intoxication warred on her face. A tear escaped, tracing a path through her blush. But her mouth... her mouth was parted, her breath coming in quick, shallow pants.

He liked the way she drunk-talked. He hated the way she brought up other guys. The contradiction was a live wire in his chest.

"Again," he commanded, his voice low and rough.

"Wha—"

His palm landed a third time, in the same spot, layering the sting. This time, a broken little moan slipped from her lips. It wasn't a sound of protest. It was a sound of surrender. Of awakening.

Hades froze, his hand still resting on the heated curve of her ass. He felt the tremor that ran through her. He saw the way her eyes drifted shut, the long pale lashes fluttering against her cheeks. The tear was joined by another. But the tension had bled from her body, replaced by a heavy, waiting languor.

Jealousy? No. This was possession. Pure, simple, and absolute.

He leaned over her, caging her with his body. His own arousal was a hard, aching pressure against his trousers. He could smell her arousal now, too, cutting through the champagne. A slick, musky heat that betrayed her. His little liar. His lethal, sunshine-y bride.

"No more stories," he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "The only man you think about is me. The only name you gasp is mine. Understood?"

Alice nodded, a slow, drunken dip of her chin. Her eyes opened, finding his. The glassiness was still there, but beneath it, something darker swam. Something that recognized its mirror. "Hades," she breathed, testing the name. It wasn't a protest. It was an answer.

His control, the cold, calculated wall he lived behind, developed a hairline fracture. He crushed his mouth to hers.

The kiss was a bruise, a brand, a silent war. Hades didn't let up until the taste of champagne and surrender was the only thing in his mouth. When he finally pulled back, his obsidian eyes were black holes, swallowing the sight of her swollen lips and dazed expression. His hands went to the ruined bodice of her dress. With a single, vicious pull, he tore the rest of the way down, the sound of shredding fabric a final verdict.

The black silk fell away, baring her torso to the cool air. And there they were. His marks from the night before, the warehouse and the bath. Dark purple and greenish-yellow bruises bloomed across her ribs, her stomach, the soft skin of her inner thighs. A violent map of his possession, still super dark against her pale skin. The sight punched the air from his lungs. She was already his. Completely.

Alice shivered, her glassy eyes trying to focus on his face. "Cold," she slurred, her hands moving weakly to cover herself.

He caught her wrists in one hand, pinning them above her head on the black silk. "Look at me." She did. He held her gaze as his other hand traced the outline of a particularly dark bruise on her hip. "Mine."

He released her wrists and flipped her over in one brutal, efficient motion. She gasped into the duvet, her ass in the air, the ruined dress a puddle around her waist. He grabbed a pillow, shoved it under her hips, propping her up. The position was obscenely open. Vulnerable. He stared at the curve of her ass, still flushed pink from his spanking. At the shadowed cleft between.

"Tell me what you like," he commanded, his voice gravel.

She turned her head, cheek pressed to the sheets. Her words were muffled, drunken. "Unicorns and kittens—"

His palm connected with her ass again, a sharp crack that made her whole body jolt. The pink skin deepened to a hotter red. A broken little "AH!" escaped her.

"More," he said.

"I love perfumes," she babbled, tears in her voice. "And cute thing— Mmmm!!! Ah!"

He spanked her again, and again, layering the sting. Not random. Methodical. Covering every inch of the exposed curve. Her cries shifted, the pain melting into something else. Her hips began to push back, minutely, seeking the contact. Her breathing was ragged pants against the fabric. "Hades... Hades..."

He leaned over her, his lips at her ear. "Louder."

Another smack, harder, perfectly placed. She cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound. "HADES!!!"

A dark satisfaction coiled in his gut. "Good girl."

His hand left the heated skin of her ass. He trailed a single finger down the damp path between her cheeks. She stiffened. He found the tight, hidden pucker of her asshole. He pressed the pad of his thumb against it, just enough pressure to make her gasp.

"Uwa— Ah ah—" She tried to squirm away, but the pillow held her in place. "Its dirtyyy," she whined, a childlike protest.

He ignored her. He spit onto his fingers, a crude, wet sound. The slickness gleamed in the low light. He brought them back to her, circling the tight ring of muscle. "It's mine," he corrected, his voice low. "Nothing about you is dirty to me. It's all mine to use."

He pressed one finger inside.

The resistance was immediate, a clenching, desperate tightness. She cried out, a sharp, shocked sound that dissolved into a choked moan. He didn't force it. He worked the tip in, just past the first knuckle, and held it there. Letting her body adjust to the impossible, intimate invasion. He felt the internal flutter, the involuntary spasm around his finger. Felt the way her whole body went rigid, then slowly, tremulously, began to relax.

He began to move. A slow, shallow push and retreat. The wet sound was filthy. Her face was buried in the duvet, her cries muffled. He added a second finger, stretching her wider. She sobbed, her back arching. "Too much... it's too..."

"It's exactly enough," he growled, curling his fingers inside her. He searched, and found a different kind of spot. He pressed.

Her reaction was electric. A full-body shudder tore through her. A guttural, broken moan ripped from her throat, nothing drunk or performative about it. Pure, raw sensation. Her hips jerked back against his hand, seeking more of that shocking, internal friction.

Hades watched, mesmerized. His own cock was a rigid, aching line of pressure against his zipper, leaking pre-come that stained the fine wool. He fucked her with his fingers, that slow, relentless pace, each thrust aimed at that spot inside her that made her unravel. Her ass was clenching rhythmically around his fingers, a hot, silken vise. Her earlier protests were gone, replaced by a continuous, low keening.

He leaned forward, his chest pressing against her sweaty back. He bit the nape of her neck, a sharp, claiming pain to anchor her. "This is what you like," he whispered into her skin, his breath hot. "This stretch. This filth. Me."

She couldn't answer. She was nodding, a frantic, desperate motion, her body bowing and trembling under his. He could feel her approaching the edge, a tension coiling tighter and tighter in her core. He sped his fingers, the wet sounds obscenely loud in the quiet room.

He felt the exact moment she broke. Her inner muscles clamped down on his fingers in a violent, rhythmic pulse. A silent scream shook her frame, her mouth open against the sheets. He held her through it, his fingers still inside her, feeling every last shuddering contraction. He watched the waves of pleasure claim her, watched her consciousness fray at the edges until there was nothing left but sensation and his name on her breath.

When she finally went limp, boneless and spent, he slowly withdrew his fingers. They were slick with her and his saliva. He brought them to his mouth, his eyes locked on her ruined, marked back. He tasted her. Salt. Musk. Victory.

He unzipped his trousers, freeing his aching cock. He was thick, flushed dark, the head wet and desperate. He positioned himself at her entrance, not the one he'd just filled, but the other. The one that was already slick and swollen and hungry for him. He rubbed the broad head through her folds, gathering her wetness, coating himself in it. She whimpered, a spent, oversensitive sound.

He didn't push inside. Not yet. He just held himself there, against her, letting her feel the threat and the promise of him. Letting the ache build again in the silence. His breath was ragged in his own ears. Jealousy? No. This was something far more dangerous.

He touched her pussy, his fingers sliding through the slick heat. Still swollen. Still sore from the night before. The thought of her bleeding again, of that delicate skin tearing under his cock, made something primal in his gut recoil. He groaned, a sound of pure frustration, and abruptly shifted his hips.

The broad, wet head of his cock left her folds and pressed against the tight, already-stretched ring of her asshole. He didn't ask. He didn't ease. He shoved forward, burying himself inside her in one brutal, claiming thrust.

Alice screamed. It was a raw, shattered sound that tore from her throat and echoed off the cold bedroom walls. It was so loud, so piercing, that Hades actually winced, his own face contorting in a rare, unguarded expression of pained surprise. He never made expressions. He couldn't help it.

"You'll make me go deaf, solnyshko," he groaned, the Russian endearment gritted out between his teeth. He stuffed his head against her prostate, the internal pressure deliberate and cruel.

She cried out again, a broken, guttural sound. He grabbed a fistful of her pale hair and pushed her face down hard into the black silk sheets, grinding his cock deeper as he did. The fabric muffled her next scream, turning it into a desperate, vibrating sob.

He held himself there, fully sheathed, not moving. Letting her body scream and clench and fight the impossible invasion. He felt every internal spasm, the silken, vice-like tightness trying to reject him. He breathed through it, his own knuckles white where he gripped her hip. "Breathe," he commanded, his voice rough. "Just breathe. It will pass."

It did, slowly. Her frantic struggles subsided into tremors. The choked screams became ragged, wet gasps for air against the sheets. He felt the rigid tension in her core begin to soften, millimeter by millimeter, forced to accommodate him.

Only then did he move. A slow, grinding withdrawal, then a push back in, just as deep. The wet sound was obscene. Her whole body jerked. "No, no, no, it's too—"

"It's exactly what you can take," he cut her off, his rhythm establishing itself: relentless, thorough, harsh. Each thrust was a full, measured stroke, dragging against every sensitized nerve inside her. He set a pace that was not about speed, but about depth. About ownership.

He leaned over her, his chest plastered to her sweaty back. He bit her shoulder, hard. "This is what you get," he whispered into her skin, his breath hot. "For talking about other men. For having a life before me. This is mine now. All of it."

Her ass was a furnace around him, impossibly tight, gripping him with a fierce, hot pressure that threatened to unravel his control. He could feel the precise moment her pain began to twist, transforming into something else. Her gasps lost their edge of panic. They became lower, longer. A moan escaped the sheets.

He changed the angle, tilting her hips higher with the pillow. The next thrust hit her prostate dead-on.

Her back arched violently. A shocked, pleasure-soaked cry was muffled by the duvet. Her inner muscles fluttered around his cock, a frantic, delicious pulse. "There?" he demanded, doing it again.

She couldn't speak. She nodded, a frantic, jerky motion, her face still buried. He fucked her with that new, targeted precision, each deep drive aimed at that bundle of nerves that made her forget her own name. Her earlier resistance was gone. Her body was pushing back against him now, meeting his thrusts, seeking more of that shocking, internal friction.

Hades watched her, his own breath coming in ragged pulls. Sweat dripped from his brow onto her marked back. The sight of her, completely impaled, taking him like this, was the most potent thing he'd ever seen. His control, the cold wall, didn't just crack. It splintered.

He wrapped an arm around her waist, hauling her up against him so her back was to his chest. His other hand slid down her stomach, through the damp blonde curls, and found her clit. It was throbbing, hard and desperate under his touch. He circled it, the pressure firm and unyielding, matching the rhythm of his thrusts into her ass.

She came apart. A silent, seismic shudder racked her frame. Her ass clenched around him in rhythmic, milking pulses so intense he saw stars. A broken, continuous moan vibrated against his chest. He held her through it, fucking her through the contractions, his own climax a tidal wave building at the base of his spine.

He spilled inside her with a guttural groan, his hips stuttering, pumping his release deep into that forbidden heat. The feeling was blinding, a possession so complete it felt like annihilation. He collapsed over her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his face buried in the sweat-damp hair at her neck. They stayed like that, joined, breathing in shattered unison, for a long, silent time.

He rolled them over, his softening cock slipping from her with a wet, final sound. Her ass was a ruined, gaping mess, his release already beginning to leak out onto the black silk. Her eyes were shut, her breathing deep and ragged. He sat up, pulling her limp body across his lap. Her head lolled against his shoulder. He brought his hand down in a sharp, stinging slap against her reddened cheek. The sound cracked through the quiet room. "No more talking about other men," he mumbled, his voice hoarse with exhaustion and spent passion.

She didn't stir. The alcohol, the brutal claiming, the sheer sensory overload of the gala and the night had finally pulled her under. She was out cold, a dead weight in his arms.

Hades stared down at her. The mascara was smudged in dark streaks down her cheeks. The delicate thorned choker was still fastened around her throat, the silver points digging into her flushed skin. Her mouth was slightly parted, her lips swollen from his kisses and her own bitten-back cries. In unconsciousness, the clever, calculating glint was gone from her features. She looked young. Broken. His.

A strange, hollow feeling opened in his chest. He ignored it. He shifted her, his hands moving with a clinical efficiency that belied the intimacy of their position. He assessed the damage. The bite marks on her chest and breasts were already darkening into bruises. The skin of her ass and upper thighs was mottled red from the spanking, marked with the faint imprint of his fingers. There was a raw, tender look to her back entrance, and a slick mixture of their fluids gleamed in the low lamplight.

He should leave her. Let her sleep in the mess. Let her wake to the consequences. That was the lesson. That was control.

His body moved before the thought was complete. He slid out from under her, laying her gently on her side on the ruined sheets. He stood, his own muscles protesting, and walked to the en suite bathroom. The marble was cold under his feet. He wet a soft cloth with warm water, found a bottle of antiseptic wash he used for his own knuckles after a fight.

He returned to the bed and knelt beside her. He started with her face, wiping away the smeared makeup with a tenderness that felt like a betrayal of everything he’d just done to her. The cloth came away black and beige. Her skin underneath was pale and flawless. He cleaned the sweat from her throat, her shoulders, careful around the choker.

He moved lower. He cleaned the sticky, drying mess from between her legs and from the cleft of her ass with the same detached, methodical focus. He dabbed the antiseptic on the worst of the bite marks, watching her face for any sign of pain. She only sighed in her sleep, a soft, unhappy sound. He checked her carefully. She was sore, swollen, but the skin wasn’t torn. A relief he refused to name settled in his gut.

When he was done, he tossed the cloth aside. He pulled the duvet out from under her, the silk stained and damp, and bundled it onto the floor. From a lacquered chest at the foot of the bed, he pulled out fresh, identical black sheets. He remade the bed around her, lifting her hips to slide the sheet beneath, tucking it in with sharp, precise motions. He covered her with a light blanket.

He stood over her, a silhouette against the lamp. The room smelled of sex, antiseptic, and her perfume—something vanilla and stupidly sweet. He was naked, covered in a fine sheen of sweat that was now going cold. The hollow feeling was back. It wasn’t satisfaction. It wasn’t regret. It was a quiet, gnawing vacancy.

She mumbled something in her sleep. A incoherent slurry of sounds. He leaned closer, against his better judgment.

"...unicorns…" she breathed, a faint, dreamy smile touching her ruined lips. "...bad man…"

Hades froze. The words, even delirious, were a tiny rebellion. A reminder that the submission he’d wrung from her body was temporary, chemical. That the wild, lethal girl was still in there, sleeping behind the doll’s face.

He reached out, his fingers hovering just above her cheek. He didn’t touch her. He couldn’t. The urge was too confusing. To stroke? To strike? He didn’t know. He curled his hand into a fist and pulled it back.

He turned away from the bed, from the unsettling sight of her peaceful sleep. He walked to the wall of windows, staring out at the city’s electric grid. His reflection in the glass was a ghost over the skyline—a man alone in a cavernous room, marked with her scratches, smelling of her.

Jealousy? No. This was something far more dangerous.

It was a need. A deep, silent craving that had nothing to do with inheritance or contracts or punishment. It was the way her body had opened for him, not just in surrender, but in a hungry, answering rhythm. It was the broken moan against his chest. It was the fact that cleaning her felt more intimate than fucking her.

He was never weak for women. They were transactions. Pleasures. Distractions.

Alice Sinclair, with her heart-shaped stickers and her killer’s hands, was becoming a problem. A beautiful, terrifying problem he couldn’t solve with money or violence. She was under his skin. And she was asleep in his bed, dreaming of unicorns and calling him a bad man.

He didn’t move from the window for a long time. The city lights blurred into streaks of gold and white. Behind him, her breathing evened out into the deep, slow rhythm of true sleep. The only sound in the room.

Finally, he turned. He didn’t go to the guest room. He didn’t go to his study. He walked back to the bed, his movements silent on the thick rug. He lifted the blanket and slid in beside her, his back to her. The heat of her body was a brand against his spine. He lay rigid, staring at the dark wall, listening to her breathe.

Weakness, he thought. This is what it feels like.

And he didn’t get up.