Chapter 7: The Mark of Possession
The cold tile bit into Kate’s bare back. Jace’s forearm pressed like an iron bar across her collarbones, pinning her against the wall beside the cracked mirror. Water sheeted down, plastering her ruined hoodie to her skin on one side, exposing ribs, stomach, the plain damp bra on the other. Shards of the whiskey bottle glittered like malicious stars on the wet floor near her feet, the sharp tang of bourbon mixing with steam and the faint, metallic scent of blood – his from the cut on his hand, hers from the stinging nicks on her arm and shoulder.
His bleeding hand was tangled in her wet hair, tilting her face up, forcing her to meet his gaze. Rainwater and tiny fragments of glass dotted his bare shoulders, his chest, catching the flickering candlelight. His eyes, dark pits reflecting the unstable flame, held hers with terrifying intensity. The cut on his hand dripped crimson onto the tile near her bare foot.
"Hold still," he commanded again, his voice a low rasp vibrating through the water’s roar. It wasn’t gentle. It was absolute.
His gaze dropped from her eyes, tracking the thin, diluted trickle of blood running from a nick on her shoulder. It traced a slow path down her wet skin, past the edge of her bra strap, towards the intricate tattooed portraits high on her thigh. He watched its descent, his expression unreadable, carved from shadow and steam. Owning the wound. Owning the moment.
Then his grip shifted. The hand in her hair tightened, pulling her head back further, exposing her throat completely. The forearm across her collarbones slid upwards, pressing harder. His thumb, slick with water and his own blood, found the livid bruise on her neck. He pressed down, not gently, but with deliberate, grinding pressure. Pain flared, sharp and bright, stealing her breath.
His other hand released her hair. Before she could gasp, it moved down. Rough fingers traced the wet, exposed line of her ribs, skimming over the gooseflesh raised by cold air and terror. His touch burned, leaving trails of sensation that warred violently with the sting of glass cuts and the deep ache blooming inside her. His fingers didn't linger. They slid lower, over the trembling plane of her stomach, past the ruined hem of the hoodie.
They found the soft flesh of her inner thigh, just below the vibrant ink. His fingers dug in. Not tentatively. Possessively. Claiming the territory marked by her own failed dreams. A low growl rumbled in his chest, deeper than the shower’s roar, vibrating against her pinned body.
"You're mine, Kate." The words weren't shouted. They were delivered with chilling certainty, each syllable a hammer blow against her fragile composure. His eyes burned into hers, holding her captive. "Every scar." His thumb ground harder into the bruise on her neck. "Every bruise." His fingers dug deeper into the soft flesh of her thigh, making her whimper. "Every fucking breath."
He leaned in, his body pressing flush against hers, the heat of him overwhelming the scalding spray. His breath was hot and damp on her wet skin. His gaze dropped to the exposed curve of her shoulder, near the fresh nick still weeping diluted blood. His head dipped.
Not a kiss.
His teeth sank into the tender flesh where neck met shoulder. Sharp. Brutal. Claiming.
Pain ripped through her, white-hot and immediate. Her body arched violently against him, a desperate, instinctive recoil trapped by the wall and his crushing weight. A choked cry tore from her throat, lost in the water’s thunder. But beneath the searing agony, something else ignited. A treacherous, unwanted spark of pure sensation, deep and primal, flared in her belly, radiating outwards, tangling with the pain until they were indistinguishable. Pleasure laced with violation. Surrender warring with terror. Her fingers scrabbled uselessly against his wet back, finding scars and ink, clinging as much as pushing.
He held the bite, teeth locked in her flesh, his body pinning her convulsive arch. His hand on her thigh tightened, fingers digging into muscle. The world narrowed to the searing pain-pleasure in her shoulder, the crushing pressure on her throat, the possessive grip on her leg, the roar of water, the mingled scents of blood, bourbon, steam, and him.
The world narrowed to the searing pain-pleasure in her shoulder, the crushing pressure on her throat, the possessive grip on her leg, the roar of water, the mingled scents of blood, bourbon, steam, and him. Jace held the bite, teeth locked deep, until the sharpest edge of pain bled into a throbbing ache that pulsed in time with his growl vibrating against her skin. When he finally released her flesh, it was slow, deliberate, his tongue swiping roughly over the new, raw puncture marks before he lifted his head.
Water sluiced over the fresh wound, stinging fiercely. Kate gasped for air, her body trembling violently, pinned between cold tile and his heat. His forearm remained a bar across her collarbones, his bleeding hand still gripped her thigh hard enough to bruise the muscle beneath the ink. His eyes, dark and predatory in the florescent light scanned her face, cataloging the shock, the pain, the unwanted flicker of response she couldn't suppress.
"Look at me," he rasped, water dripping from his jaw onto her wet cheek. His voice cut through the downpour, commanding absolute attention.
She couldn't look away. His gaze held hers trapped. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted the hand still slick with his own blood from the glass cut. He didn't wipe it. Instead, he raised it towards her face. Kate flinched, bracing for another violation. But his thumb, coated crimson and diluted pink, brushed roughly, almost thoughtfully, over the nick on her shoulder – the one he’d watched bleed. He gathered the thin trail of her blood mingling with the water on her skin.
His eyes never left hers as he pulled his thumb away, now stained darker with her blood. He held it up between them, a grotesque offering in the steam-choked gloom. The candlelight glinted wetly on the crimson smear. "Proof," he murmured, the word thick, guttural. "Of the breaking."
He didn't drop his hand. He turned it. With shocking intimacy, he pressed his blood-smeared thumb against the fogged surface of the cracked mirror beside her head. Kate’s breath hitched. He dragged his thumb downwards in a slow, deliberate streak. The condensation parted, revealing a clear, wet path smeared with diluted crimson. BLOOD ON MIRROR.
He did it again, lower down the fogged glass, another stark red line appearing through the steam. Then another. It wasn't random. It was a marking. A claiming of the space, the moment, her. Each stroke was slow, ritualistic, his gaze locked on the crimson trails blooming on the glass like obscene flowers. The scent of copper intensified, sharp and metallic against the damp perfume.
His forearm eased its pressure on her collarbones slightly, just enough for her to turn her head. He didn’t force it. He didn’t need to. The pull of that crimson graffiti on the fogged mirror was magnetic, horrifying. Her own blood, his blood, mixed on the glass where minutes ago she’d only seen her own fearful, fragmented reflection. Now, in the cleared streaks, she saw a distorted glimpse: his dark, intense profile haloed by steam, water sheeting down his scarred back, and her own wide, terrified eyes, her torn hoodie, the livid bruise and fresh bite stark on her pale, wet skin.
"See?" His voice was low, almost conversational, and infinitely more terrifying for it. He rested his forehead against the wet tile beside her head, his breath hot on her temple, watching her stare at the blood-streaked reflection. "No hiding." His hand, still sticky, slid from the mirror and gripped her jaw, turning her face back to him. "That’s us. Marked. Tangled." His thumb pressed against her lower lip, smearing a faint trace of coppery warmth. "Real."
He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Your turn." His free hand closed over her uninjured wrist, lifting it towards the fogged, blood-smeared glass. His grip wasn't brutal, but it was unyielding, guiding her trembling fingers towards the damp surface near one of the crimson streaks. Her knuckles brushed the cold, wet glass smeared with their mingled blood. "Touch it, Kate," he breathed, the command vibrating against her ear. "Own the breaking."
Her finger hovered, trembling violently. The steam curled around it. The candle flame guttered, casting longer, dancing shadows that seemed to reach for her across the blood-streaked reflection. The air thickened, heavy with the scent of iron, wet cotton, fear, and the dark promise in his stillness beside her. Leaving the mark felt like sealing something irrevocable. Her fingertip, cold and wet, touched the glass beside his crimson streak. She didn't move. Didn't smear. Just held contact with the chilling, blood-slicked surface, suspended in the roaring silence.
Her finger trembled against the cold, wet glass smeared with their blood. The coppery-metallic scent filled her nose, thick as the steam. That frozen second stretched, thin as cracking ice. Jace’s breath was a hot brand on her temple, his grip on her wrist an unyielding shackle. Waiting.
Then it snapped.
Not fear. Fury. White-hot, obliterating, surging up from the bruised place beneath his hand on her thigh, from the raw bite on her shoulder, from the years of feeling erased. It tore through the numbness, the dread, the suffocating weight of him. Her free hand, trapped between their bodies, shot up. Not to push. Not to claw.
She twisted her head, fast and vicious, ignoring the tearing pain in her neck. Her teeth sank into the hard curve of his shoulder, right where the muscle met the intricate, dark ink snaking towards his collarbone. Not a nip. A deep, desperate bite, grinding bone-deep, fueled by every cheap bourbon regret and the visceral memory of his tongue tracing her own wound. She bit down with every ounce of broken strength she possessed.
A harsh, guttural sound ripped from Jace’s throat – not quite a yell, more like stone cracking. His grip on her wrist spasmed, tightening then loosening infinitesimally in pure, shocked reflex. His body went rigid against hers, the pressure on her collarbones and thigh momentarily stunned into stillness. She tasted salt, sweat, the sharp iron tang of his blood welling hot and sudden against her tongue. The coppery warmth flooded her mouth, thick and startlingly human.
She held on, teeth locked, a feral animal caught in a trap and turning on the trapper. Water streamed over them, washing the blood from her bite down his chest in thin pink rivulets. His other hand, slick with water and blood, instinctively clamped onto the back of her head, fingers tangling painfully in her wet hair. Not pulling her off. Anchoring. Feeling it.
His ragged breath hitched against her ear. The silence that followed her bite was profound, broken only by the relentless hammer of water on tile and the frantic pulse she felt hammering under her lips, under her teeth, against his skin. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just breathed hard, his chest heaving against her torn hoodie, the hand on her head a heavy, possessive weight. The steam swirled, thick and cloying, smelling of blood, wet skin, and shattered glass.
Slowly, deliberately, Kate released her bite. She pulled her head back just enough, panting, her lips smeared crimson. She met his gaze. His eyes, impossibly dark, burned into hers. No rage. Not yet. Just sheer, stunned intensity, a primal recognition flickering in their depths, watching the blood well from the deep, ragged crescent she’d torn in his skin. Watching the defiance burning in her own eyes, reflected back in the blood-streaked mirror beside them.
A single, slow drop of his blood dripped from her bottom lip onto her bare collarbone. Hot. Insistent. He watched its descent. His grip on the back of her head tightened fractionally. The corner of his mouth, beneath the water streaming down his face, twitched. Not a smile. Something darker. Hotter. Acknowledgment.
"Good," he rasped, the word rough, gravel scraping bone. His thumb came up, slick with water and his own blood, and wiped roughly across her bloodied lip, smearing the crimson. He held her gaze, his breath still harsh. "Now we match."
"Now we match." Jace’s voice scraped raw against her ear, his blood-smeared thumb still pressed to her lip. Steam coiled thick between them, smelling of iron and shattered glass and the bourbon swirling pink on the tiles. His grip on her hair remained, possessive, anchoring her trembling body against the wet wall as water sluiced over the fresh bite on his shoulder, the deep crescent welling crimson again.
Kate spat, a sharp, defiant sound lost in the shower’s roar. Copper flooded her tongue – his blood mixed with metallic water. Her teeth still ached from the impact of bone beneath his ink. "Fuck you," she rasped, the words rough as gravel, surprising them both. Her eyes stayed locked on his, defiant despite the tremor in her limbs, the cold tile biting her exposed back.
A low sound vibrated in his chest. Not a laugh. Something deeper. Predatory approval. His bleeding hand slid from her hair, tracing a wet path down her neck, over the older bruise darkening her skin. "Took you long enough." His fingers paused where neck met shoulder, finding the deep punctures he’d left. He pressed. Hard. "Little moth finally grew teeth."
Pain arced through her, sharp and blinding. She gasped, arching instinctively, only to be slammed back against the tile by his forearm still braced across her collarbones. "Hurts?" he murmured, his other hand finally releasing her thigh, fingers trailing up the intricate inked portraits, slick with water and diluted blood. "Good." His touch felt like ownership etched onto her skin.
Her gaze flickered past him, snagging on the blood-streaked mirror – those stark, smeared lines of them. Proof of the breaking. Her knuckles brushed wet glass near a crimson streak where her hand still pressed, guided by his earlier command. Touch it. The cold surface stung her scraped knuckles.
Revulsion warred with a terrifying thrill. Her fingers trembled. Then stiffened. She dragged her middle finger sideways, deliberately, through the thickest streak of mingled blood on the fogged glass. It left a dark, viscous smear. Warm. Sticky. Real. SHE TOUCHES BLOOD.
She lifted her hand, turning it slowly in the humid air. Rivulets of pink-tinged water streamed down her forearm from the glass nicks. Her fingertip gleamed dark red. Jace watched, utterly still, water sheeting down his face, his eyes tracking the movement of her stained finger. Steam curled around it like smoke.
Without breaking his gaze, Kate brought her bloody fingertip to her own mouth. Her tongue darted out, quick and defiant, tasting copper and salt and him. His breath hitched, a ragged intake she felt against her skin. The look in his eyes ignited, hotter than the candle flame guttering beside them.
The look in his eyes ignited, hotter than the candle flame guttering beside them, reflecting the dark smear of her own blood on her lip. Copper and salt lingered on her tongue, sharp against the steam. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t flinched, just watched her taste their shared violence.
Water sheeted down his face, washing pink rivulets from the fresh, ragged bite she’d torn in his shoulder. The muscle beneath the ink jumped as he took a slow, deliberate breath. His gaze, locked on hers, held no rage, only that terrifying, consuming focus dialed even higher. Predatory approval.
"Little moth," he rasped, the words rough as stones grinding together. Water dripped from his jaw onto her bare collarbone, mingling with his blood drying tacky on her skin. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the arm still braced across her chest. Not weakness. Intensity coiled to strike.
He leaned in, closing the scant inch between them. The heat radiating from his bare chest soaked through her torn hoodie, a furnace against her exposed ribs. Steam curled thickly around them, choked with iron and the faint, sweet decay of the bourbon puddled on the floor. His breath fanned hot across her bloodied mouth.
His good hand, slick with water and diluted crimson, slid from her thigh. Not retreating. Seeking. Rough fingers traced the wet edge of her ripped hoodie, skating over the gooseflesh on her exposed belly. They found the curve of her hip bone, digging in slightly, a claiming pressure that made her breath hitch.
"Teeth suit you," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low growl that vibrated against her skin. His thumb brushed the swell of her lower lip, smearing the blood further. "More than hiding." His eyes flickered towards the blood-streaked mirror, the stark testament to their violence, then back to her. "More than cheap bourbon."
He shifted his weight. The forearm pinning her collarbones eased its pressure, just a fraction, but enough for the cold tile to bite sharply into her back. His other hand tightened on her hip. His bleeding shoulder brushed against her ruined hoodie, the contact sending a jolt of fresh pain through her own bite wound. He smelled like rain, leather, and open wounds.
"Jace—" Her voice cracked, a dry leaf skittering on pavement. It wasn't a plea this time. It was recognition. Of the precipice. Of the drowning he’d promised.
He didn’t let her finish. His gaze, dark and fathomless, held hers captive. Then, with a sudden, decisive motion that sent water splashing over the broken glass, HE PULLS HER CLOSER.
Then, with a sudden, decisive motion that sent water splashing over the broken glass, HE PULLS HER CLOSER. Not gently. He hauled her off the wall entirely, his arms – one slick with blood and water, the other corded with scarred muscle – locking around her wet back, crushing her torn hoodie and exposed skin against the bare heat of his chest. The impact knocked the air from her lungs. Shards crunched under his boots. Steam choked them.
Water plastered her cheek against his collarbone, right beside the deep, ragged crescent she’d bitten. Blood welled, hot and insistent against her skin. The coppery scent flooded her senses, sharp beneath the bourbon fumes and damp. Her hands, still trembling, found the hard plane of his back, scar tissue ridged beneath her fingertips.
"Look," he growled, the word vibrating against her temple. His grip tightened, fingers digging into the wet fabric covering her spine. "Look what you did, little moth."
He didn't mean the bite. He meant the mirror. Reflected in the cleared streaks amidst the fog and drying blood, tangled together, water sheeting off them, they looked like something dredged from a violent sea. Her face was pale, eyes huge and dark-ringed, lips stained crimson. His expression was carved granite, eyes burning into their reflection, water running pink from his shoulder down his chest, mingling with the diluted streaks from her nicks. Proof of the breaking. Tangled. Real.
A shudder ripped through Kate, half cold, half something else entirely. Fear, yes. But also a terrifying surge of power, sharp as the glass underfoot. She’d marked him. Left a scar. She’d finally been seen, even if it was through the lens of shared violence. Her gaze dropped from the reflection to the wound pulsing inches from her eyes.
His hand slid up her spine, rough knuckles scraping her damp neck, tangling in her wet hair again. Not pulling. Anchoring. Forcing her focus. "Taste it," he commanded, his voice low and guttural against her ear. "Taste what you took."
The water streamed, relentless. The candle flame guttered wildly, sending shadows leaping across the blood-smeared tiles. The scent of iron was overwhelming now, mixed with his leather-and-ozone smell, the cheap perfume, the ghost of whiskey. Her heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped against a stone wall.
She turned her head, just slightly, her nose brushing the hot, wet skin near the bite. She felt the faint tremor in his muscles, the tension coiling tighter. The ragged edges of the wound glistened darkly. Steam curled. Without thought, driven by the raw, thrumming energy between them, by the defiance still sparking beneath the terror, she pressed her lips to the torn flesh.
Not a kiss. An exploration. A claiming of her own violence. Her tongue touched the hot, slick surface. Salt. Sweat. And underneath, rich, metallic, unmistakable: blood. HIS blood. SHE TASTES HIM. The coppery warmth flooded her mouth, thick and vital and shockingly intimate. It wasn't cheap bourbon. It was life, violently shared. Primal. Real. The taste exploded on her tongue, a dark counterpoint to the sting of her own wounds, the ache in her ribs where he held her. A low, visceral sound escaped her throat, muffled against his skin. This was the drowning. Deep. Hot. Unforgiving. And she was gulping it down.