"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.