Chapter 3: Shopping for Humiliation
The car ride home was a blur of wet asphalt and streetlights smeared across the windshield. Jade sat exactly as he'd told her—thighs spread wide on the passenger seat, the cold leather a constant reminder of what he'd just done to her in that parking lot. The plug shifted with every bump, a small, insistent pressure that kept her breath shallow and her hands clenched in her lap.
Marcus didn't speak. He didn't need to.
Every few minutes, his hand would leave the gear shift and find her knee. A squeeze. A stroke. A reminder that he was there, that he was watching, that she was still his to command. And every time, Jade felt her face burn hotter, felt the wetness between her legs spread a little more.
When they finally pulled into the underground garage of his building, she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The security gate rolled down behind them with a mechanical whir, sealing them into the dim, concrete quiet.
"Home," Marcus said. Simple. Final.
He helped her out of the car—a gentleman now, hand at her elbow, guiding her toward the elevator. His palm found the small of her back as they walked, and Jade felt the warmth of it through the thin cotton of her dress. The dress he'd hiked up in front of strangers. The dress he'd left bunched at her waist while he fucked her with his fingers against a car.
The elevator ride was silent. Marcus stood behind her, his body a wall of heat at her back. His hands rested on her shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots that had formed there.
"You're tense," he observed.
"Wonder why."
He laughed. Low and warm, the sound rumbling through her chest. "You did good tonight. I want you to know that."
"Did I?"
"You took everything I gave you. The spanking. The audience. The—" His thumb traced the base of her neck. "—addition."
The reminder made her clench, and the plug shifted inside her, a small, insistent pressure. Jade bit her lip to keep from making a sound.
"Does it hurt?" he asked.
"No."
"Good."
The elevator dinged. The doors slid open onto a dark, hushed hallway, and he walked her to his door with the easy confidence of a man who had never once doubted where he was going.
His apartment was like him—dark wood, clean lines, everything in its place. The lights came on automatically when they entered, soft and warm and golden, and the floor-to-ceiling windows showed the city glittering below like a spilled jewelry box.
"Shower," he said. "Then bed."
She nodded. Started toward the bathroom. His hand caught her wrist.
"I didn't say alone."
The shower was steam and heat and his hands on her body, washing away the night. He was gentle now—gentler than she'd expected—and the contrast made her eyes sting with something that wasn't quite tears. He worked the soap into her skin with slow, methodical strokes, his fingers tracing every mark he'd left on her ass, every red welt that had risen in the hours since the parking lot.
"You bruise beautifully," he said.
Jade closed her eyes. Let the water run over her face. Let him wash her clean.
He dried her off with a towel that smelled like cedar and something else—something that was just him. Then he led her to the bedroom, and she saw it for the first time: a wide, low bed with dark sheets, a single lamp glowing on the nightstand, and a greyhound curled on a cushion in the corner.
The dog lifted its head. Watched them with patient brown eyes. Its tail gave a lazy wag.
"That's Bishop," Marcus said.
"He's been here the whole time?"
"He sleeps through everything." He gestured toward the bed. "Lie down."
She did. The sheets were cool against her still-warm skin, and she stretched out on her stomach, her cheek pressed to the pillow. The plug shifted with the movement, and she gasped.
Marcus didn't join her. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on her lower back. His fingers traced idle patterns on her skin—circles, figure eights, lines that followed the curve of her spine.
"The plug," he said. "How does it feel?"
"Strange."
"Good strange or bad strange?"
She thought about it. "Both."
"That's the best kind." He leaned down, pressed a kiss to her shoulder blade. "You're going to sleep with it in."
Her eyes flew open. "What?"
"You heard me." His voice was calm, almost casual. "It stays in until morning. Consider it a lesson in obedience."
Jade's heart hammered against her ribs. The plug was already a constant presence, a reminder of everything he'd done to her. The thought of sleeping with it—of feeling it shift every time she moved, of waking up with it inside her—made her stomach twist with something between dread and anticipation.
"Marcus—"
"Sleep," he said. "We'll talk in the morning."
He turned off the lamp. The room went dark, the city lights painting faint patterns on the ceiling. Jade heard Marcus settle beside her, felt his arm drape over her waist, pulling her close.
His breath was warm on her neck. His body was a solid, reassuring weight against her back.
She didn't think she'd sleep. Couldn't imagine closing her eyes while the plug pressed against places that made her shiver. But the exhaustion of the night was a tide that pulled her under, and before she knew it, she was dreaming.
---
Morning came in soft gray slices through the curtains. Jade woke slowly, her body heavy with sleep, and for a moment she forgot where she was. Then she shifted—and felt the plug still inside her, a hard, insistent pressure that made her gasp.
"Morning."
Marcus's voice was warm and rough with sleep. He was propped on one elbow beside her, watching her with those dark, unreadable eyes.
"You slept well," he said.
"Did I?"
"You snored."
"I don't snore."
He smiled. "You do. It's cute."
Jade pressed her face into the pillow. Her ass still ached from the night before, and the plug had settled into a strange, constant pressure that was equal parts discomfort and arousal. She could feel every breath move through her, every shift against the sheets a reminder of what he'd put inside her.
"Breakfast first," he said, as if reading her mind. "Then I have somewhere to take you."
She lifted her head. "Where?"
"That's a surprise."
She should have known better than to ask. But the words slipped out anyway, a reflex born of habit and hope and the lingering foolishness of being twenty-four.
"Another lesson?"
He traced the strap of her camisole, thoughtful. "Yes."
"Can you at least tell me what kind?"
Marcus considered the question. His fingers tapped a soft rhythm against her skin as he decided how much to give her and how much to withhold. The morning light caught the edge of his jaw, the sharp line of his nose, the small scar above his eyebrow she'd never asked about.
"After breakfast," he said finally. "And after you've done the dishes."
She sat up. The plug shifted with the movement and she winced.
"Dishes?"
"I cooked last week." He said this as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. As if he hadn't put his fingers inside her in a parking lot the night before or left bruises on her ass that were only now fading to yellow. As if he hadn't made her come three times before midnight and then told her to sleep with something inside her.
He was already out of bed, gone from the room like a man without a care in the world, leaving her to follow the sound of his bare feet on hardwood.
The kitchen smelled like coffee. Marcus had set out two mugs, cream, a bowl of fruit, and a stack of something that might have been toast. He poured coffee without asking, adding cream the way she liked it, and slid the mug across the island.
"Drink," he said. "You'll need the energy."
Jade nursed her coffee in silence, watching him move around the kitchen. He was so easy in his own space—lounging against the counter, eating with his fingers, occasionally glancing at his phone with the same cool assessment he'd turn on anyone who crossed him. She wanted to ask what the surprise was. She wanted to ask if it was somewhere public. She wanted to ask if he'd already decided how to humiliate her this time. But the words felt thick in her throat, and she knew he wouldn't tell her anyway.
So she finished her coffee the way he wanted her to.
She washed the dishes with her back to him—the cotton of her dress riding high, the plug pressing low, a silent audience that couldn't clap. When the last plate was in the rack, she turned to find him holding up something new: a small box, white with a ribbon.
"Hold out your hands," he said.
She did.
He laid the box in her palms. It was soft—plush, even—and when she opened it, her breath caught.
Inside were two neat pieces of fabric: an ivory lace bralette so sheer she could see her own fingers through it, and a matching thong no wider than a ribbon. The lace was intricate, floral, obscene in its delicacy. Nothing was left to the imagination except the shape of what it held.
"Put it on," Marcus said. "We're going out."
"Where?"
"The boutique. I want to see how it looks under that dress."
"But I'm already—"
"Dressed for the walk," he finished. "Not for me."
Her throat tightened. She could feel her pulse beating in the hollow between her collarbones. The plug was a small, constant pressure inside her, a secret only the two of them shared. And the thought of wearing that lace, of walking into a boutique with his marks still fresh on her ass and his plug still inside her, made her knees feel weak.
Marcus tipped her chin up with one finger. "You said you trusted me."
"I do."
"Then trust me now."
She took the box. Went to the bathroom. Changed.
The lace was cool and smooth against her skin, the bralette barely there, the thong a whisper of sensation. When she looked in the mirror, she barely recognized herself. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright, her hair still tangled from sleep. She looked like someone who had spent the night being thoroughly used and had liked it.
When she came back to the bedroom, Marcus was dressed in dark slacks and a light gray sweater, nothing too formal but still the kind of polished that made people look twice. He held out a simple black dress—the one she'd worn the night before, but clean now, pressed, hanging from his fingers like an offering.
"Let's go," he said.
And Jade followed.
---
The boutique was worse than she remembered.
It was the same one from before, the one where this whole thing had started. Same velvet curtains swaying like heavy eyelids. Same mirrored walls that turned every angle into a portrait. Same dim, golden lighting that made everything look forbidden before it even touched your skin.
But this time, Jade noticed things she hadn't before. The way the mirrors positioned you so you couldn't look away from yourself. The way the fitting rooms opened toward the main floor, their curtains thin enough that every sound was shared. The way the saleswoman's eyes flicked over Marcus with recognition and Jade with something like pity.
"Welcome back," the woman said.
"Miriam." Marcus inclined his head. "Do you have anything new in?"
Miriam smiled with teeth. "We always have something new."
She led them to a rack Jade hadn't seen before—a small, curated collection of pieces so delicate they looked fragile enough to break. Marcus ignored the rack entirely. He walked past it, fingers drifting over hangers like he was reading a private menu, and began pulling things at random.
A black mesh slip that would cover nothing.
A satin babydoll the color of a bruise.
A sheer white chemise with lace so fine it looked like frost.
The saleswoman stayed close—too close—watching Marcus's selections with the practiced ease of someone who'd seen it all before and had opinions about most of it. Jade stood near the fitting room entrance, arms crossed over her chest, face burning as he added piece after piece to the pile without asking her opinion once.
"This one first," he said, handing her a black mesh slip that felt like air in her hands. "Then the blue. Then the white."
"Marcus—"
"Go."
The fitting rooms had thin curtains that swayed when she closed them. Jade stripped out of her dress and stood in the tiny cubicle in nothing but the new lace, staring at the mesh slip in her hands.
It was less a garment than a suggestion. Sheer black fabric that would leave nothing to the imagination. She pulled it over her head and looked in the mirror and almost laughed. Almost cried. Her nipples showed through the mesh like stains on glass. The faint marks on her ass peeked out beneath the hem like a confession.
"Come out," Marcus said from beyond the curtain.
"I—"
"Come out."
She stepped out.
Marcus was leaning against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, gray sweater pushed up to his elbows. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—those dark, hungry eyes—swept her once and settled on her face.
"Turn," he said.
She turned for him.
"Slowly."
She slowed down, her whole body burning under his gaze. In the mirror, she caught a glimpse of herself. Caught a glimpse of him watching her. Caught a glimpse of the saleswoman pretending not to look while she folded something at the counter. The plug shifted with each step, a small, impossible pressure that made her thighs press together.
Marcus pushed off the wall and walked toward her. When he was close enough to touch, he stopped. His fingers hooked into the neckline of the mesh slip and pulled it down, just slightly, baring one breast.
"Not this one," he said. "The color washes you out."
He pushed her back into the fitting room.
The blue satin came next. It was softer than anything she'd ever worn, slick and cool, and it made a swish when she moved. But it barely covered the top of her thighs, and the straps were thin enough to snap with a single tug.
"Come out."
She came out.
He barely looked at her. Just reached down and snapped the strap on her left shoulder, letting it fall. Then his hand found her ass and squeezed, hard, and Jade yelped.
"Too loose," he said. "Next."
The white lace chemise was the worst. Worse than the mesh, worse than the satin, worse than anything she'd ever put on her body. It was so sheer the whole world showed through—every curve, every mark, every shadow. As Jade stared at herself in the mirror, she saw a girl she didn't recognize: hollow-eyed, trembling, slowly falling forward into something she couldn't name.
"Come out."
She came out.
Marcus didn't critique this one. He just looked at her for a long, slow moment. Then he crooked a finger, and she walked to him like a moth to lamplight.
"Turn around," he said.
She turned. In the mirror, she saw her own back. Saw him standing behind her, hands resting on her shoulders, his reflection taller than hers. The white lace clung to every inch of her. A ghost could have seen more.
"Stay there," he said.
His fingers found the hem of the chemise. Found it, and slid under it.
Jade's breath caught.
"Hold still," he murmured.
His hands slid up her thighs. Over the swell of her hips. Around to the front, where the lace gapped open. His fingers traced the edge of the fabric, then slipped beneath it, finding skin.
"Ah," he said. "You're wet."
"You can tell?"
"You're always wet when I touch you."
His hands moved lower. Found her ass. Squeezed. Hard.
Then the spank landed.
It cracked through the boutique like a gunshot. Jade heard it echo off the mirrored walls, off the ceiling, off the marble floors. She heard the saleswoman clear her throat. Heard a muffled laugh from somewhere near the entrance.
"Marcus—"
Another spank. Harder than the first.
"Keep still."
His hand fell again and again and again, each blow landing on the same exact spot, and Jade felt the heat building under the lace—the skin was blooming pink, then red, then raw. She was up on her toes. Her mouth was open. She was making sounds she'd never heard herself make before.
In the mirror, she watched herself.
She watched her body react to every slap.
She watched the way her mouth went slack and her spine curved and her hips rolled forward, chasing something she couldn't name.
Two more spanks. Harder. Jade cried out, a high, sharp sound that escaped the fitting room and spilled across the boutique floor.
The saleswoman didn't approach. She just watched. Solemn. Unimpressed.
"That's enough," Marcus said.
His hands withdrew. He pressed once more—hard and flat—against the lace, then let go.
"Take it off," he said. "Put the blue one back on."
Jade stumbled into the fitting room. Closed the curtain. Pressed her forehead against the wall and tried to catch her breath. Her ass was on fire. The plug was still there, still shifting, still making her feel like something had crawled inside her and wouldn't leave.
She dressed again in the blue satin—the tiny pieces that barely covered anything—and stepped out.
Marcus was waiting by the counter with the saleswoman. They were discussing something—price, she realized—and neither of them looked at her when she approached.
"Here," Marcus said, holding out her black dress. "Put it on."
She did.
The dress slid over the satin and covered the marks and hid the lace and hid everything that mattered. Jade felt herself disappear. Felt herself become someone else. Someone who hadn't just been spanked in public. Someone who wasn't wearing a plug under her dress. Someone who hadn't spent the night with a stranger's hands all over her body.
Marcus paid in cash. The saleswoman wrapped the mesh slip and the white chemise in tissue paper and slid them into a bag. Then she slid the bag toward Marcus, not Jade.
"Enjoy," she said.
Marcus took the bag. Took Jade's elbow. Led her out of the boutique and into the bright, ordinary afternoon.
They were halfway down the block when he finally spoke.
"How do you feel?"
Jade looked at him. The city moved around them—cars, people, noise. But they were in a little bubble of quiet, suspended in the moment.
"Like I can't breathe," she said.
He smiled. "That's the point."
They walked in silence to the car. He opened the passenger door. Before Jade could climb in, he reached around her waist and pulled her close.
"Tonight," he said, "I'm going to take that plug out. And then I'm going to replace it with something better."
Her heart tripped. "Better?"
"Wider."
Jade swallowed.
"Get in," he said.
She got in.
He closed the door. Walked around the car. Slid into the driver's seat like nothing was wrong and nothing had changed and nothing would ever be the same again.
As the engine turned over, Jade felt the plug shift inside her—a small, insistent pressure that was already something else. Already the promise of what was coming.
"Where are you taking me now?" she asked.
Marcus pulled onto the street. The city slid past. He didn't answer for a long, long time.
"Home," he said finally. "We're not done yet."
And Jade, staring out the window at the passing buildings, let the words sit in the air between them.
They were not done.
She was not done.
And she was beginning to realize she never would be.
The car's heater hummed against the silence, pushing warm air through the vents while the city slid past in smears of gray and gold. Jade kept her knees together on the leather seat, the plug a dull, relentless pressure that made every bump in the road feel like a deliberate provocation. Marcus drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her thigh, thumb tracing small circles just above her knee.
"You're quiet," he said.
"I'm thinking."
"About?"
She watched a woman cross the street with a stroller, a bag of groceries swinging from her wrist. Normal. Ordinary. A life Jade couldn't remember ever having.
"About what you said. About tonight."
Marcus's thumb stilled. Then resumed its slow, maddening rhythm.
"Are you scared?"
"No." The word came out too fast, and she felt him smile without looking at her. "Maybe. A little."
"Good."
She turned in her seat, the seatbelt cutting across her chest. "Good?"
"Fear means you're paying attention." He guided the car onto the ramp for the underground garage, the security gate rolling up to swallow them whole. "Fear means you know something's about to change."
The garage swallowed the car in concrete and shadow. Marcus parked in his usual spot, killed the engine, and sat for a moment in the dark. Then he turned to her, and in the dim light his eyes looked almost black.
"Get out."
Her hand found the door handle. The garage smelled like cold stone and engine oil, and their footsteps echoed off the low ceiling as Marcus walked her toward the elevator. His hand rested on the back of her neck, a warm, possessive weight that guided her forward without words.
The elevator ride was silent. Jade stared at their reflections in the brushed steel doors—his tall, dark shape behind her smaller one, the bag from the boutique dangling from his fingers. She looked different than she had this morning. Something in her face had shifted, softened, opened.
When they stepped into the apartment, Bishop lifted his head from the dog bed but didn't get up. Marcus dropped the boutique bag on the kitchen counter and turned to face her.
"Bedroom," he said. "Clothes off. Wait for me."
"And then?"
"And then I finish what I started."
Jade walked to the bedroom on legs that felt borrowed from someone else. The bedroom was dark, the blinds still drawn, the sheets still rumpled from the morning. She stood beside the bed, fingers finding the hem of her dress, and pulled it over her head in one motion.
The blue satin followed. Then the lace. When she was naked, she folded everything neatly—a habit her mother had drilled into her, one that felt absurd in this context—and laid the pile on the chair in the corner. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and waited.
The minutes stretched. She heard Marcus in the kitchen, opening cabinets, running water. She heard Bishop sigh. She heard the soft thump of his paws as he resettled in his bed.
Then footsteps.
Marcus filled the doorway with his shoulders and that slow, considering gaze. His sweater was still on. His hands were empty. Jade's heart hammered against her ribs as he crossed the room and stopped in front of her.
"Stand up," he said.
She stood.
"Turn around."
She turned.
His hands found her hips, steadying her. Then one slid up her back, between her shoulder blades, over the nape of her neck. He gathered her hair and lifted it, exposing the pale curve of her neck.
"Bend over the bed," he said.
She bent.
The sheets were cool against her cheek. Her ass was still tender from the boutique, the skin tight and warm, and when Marcus's palm landed on it she cried out—a sharp, broken sound that filled the quiet room.
"Count," he said.
"One."
His hand fell again. The crack echoed off the walls, and Jade felt tears prick her eyes.
"Two."
Three. Four. Five. Each one harder than the last, each one landing on a different spot—right cheek, left cheek, the crease where her thigh met her ass. Jade's fingers twisted in the sheets. Her breath came in ragged gasps.
"Six."
The plug shifted with every blow, and she was wet—soaking, dripping, her thighs slick with it. She could feel herself clenching around the plug, her body betraying everything she thought she knew about herself.
"Seven. Eight."
She was sobbing now. Real tears, hot and wet, sliding down her cheeks and staining the dark sheets darker. She didn't know why she was crying. It wasn't just the pain. It was everything—the tension, the release, the way he made her feel like the only person in the world who mattered and the most humiliated creature on earth.
Nine. Ten. Eleven.
"More," she heard herself say. "Please, Daddy, more."
The word hung in the air like smoke. She'd never called him that before. Not out loud. Not when it wasn't a joke or a tease. But it had slipped out, and now it was out there, and she couldn't take it back.
Marcus paused. His hand rested on her burning skin. Then he leaned down, his mouth brushing her ear.
"Say it again."
"Daddy."
His hand came down harder than before. Crack. Crack. Crack. Three rapid blows that made her scream.
"Count," he said.
"Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen."
Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Jade lost track of where she ended and the pain began. She moaned, low and long and shameless, pushing her hips back to meet his hand.
"Twenty," she sobbed. "Twenty-one. More, Daddy, harder—"
He gave her harder. His palm cracked against her ass with a force that made her whole body jolt forward, and she felt the plug shift deeper, felt her orgasm building in her core like a wave that had been gathering for hours.
"Please," she gasped. "Please, I'm going to—"
"Not yet."
His hand stopped.
Jade lay there, trembling, her ass on fire, her cunt clenching around the plug with an ache that bordered on agony.
"Please," she whispered. "Daddy, please."
"Not yet," he repeated. "Not until I say."
She heard the rustle of fabric—his sweater hitting the floor, then the clink of his belt buckle. Her heart stuttered in her chest.
"Don't move," he said.
The bed dipped behind her. She felt his warmth against her legs, his hands on her hips, and then—slowly, gently—the plug sliding out. The relief was almost as intense as the ache it left behind.
"You did so well," he murmured. His fingers replaced the plug, two of them curling inside her. "So beautiful. So perfect."
Jade's hips bucked. "Please—"
"I said not yet."
He worked her slowly, methodically, his fingers curling and stroking while his other hand rested on her burning ass. She was close—so close—and he knew it. He kept her there, right at the edge, pulling back whenever she started to tip over.
"Daddy," she whined. "Please let me come."
"Do you deserve it?"
"Yes. Please."
"Why?"
"Because—" She struggled for words. "Because I did everything you asked. Because I took everything. Because I'm yours."
"Say it again."
"I'm yours."
His fingers curled harder, faster. "Again."
"I'm yours, Daddy, please—"
The orgasm hit her like a truck. Jade screamed into the mattress, her whole body seizing, clenching around his fingers while the pain and pleasure and everything else melted together into one white-hot moment. Marcus didn't stop. He kept working her through it, curling his fingers, drawing it out until she was boneless and sobbing and couldn't remember her own name.
When she finally stilled, when the last tremor left her body, he withdrew his fingers gently. She heard him bring them to his mouth, heard the soft, satisfied sound he made.
"Now," he said. "On your knees."
Jade slid off the bed, legs shaking, and knelt on the floor. Her ass throbbed. Her cunt still pulsed with the aftershocks. The tears on her face had dried to tight, salt tracks.
Marcus stood in front of her. His belt was undone. His cock was already hard, straining against his underwear, and when he pulled it out Jade felt her mouth go dry.
"You know what to do," he said.
She did.
She leaned forward and took him in her mouth—slow at first, then faster, letting him guide her with a hand in her hair. He groaned above her, low and rough, his fingers tightening in her hair, his hips moving in a rhythm.
"Look at me," he said.
She looked up. His sharp jaw was clenched. His eyes were fixed on hers, dark and burning, and she felt something crack open in her chest—something raw and real and terrifying.
"Faster," he said.
She went faster.
It didn't take long. Not after everything that had come before. When he came, it was with a sharp, guttural sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest, and Jade swallowed everything he gave her.
He pulled out. Tucked himself back in. Then he reached down and pulled her to her feet.
"Shower," he said.
She nodded. Wobbled toward the bathroom. He followed her in, watching as she stepped under the water, as she stood there and let it wash over her.
"So," he said after a while. "Daddy."
Jade's face burned. She stared at the tile, the water running over her head, plastering her hair to her shoulders.
"It slipped out."
"It didn't slip anywhere." His voice was calm, almost amused. "You've been holding that in for a while, haven't you?"
She didn't answer.
"You can say it." He stepped closer. His hand found her chin and tipped her head up, forcing her to meet his eyes. "In fact, I want you to say it. Every time. From now on."
Jade's throat tightened. "Every time?"
"Every time." He let her go. Stepped out of the shower. Grabbed a towel. "Get clean. Then come to bed."
He left.
Jade stood under the water long after he was gone. Her ass was a constellation of pain. Her knees were bruised. Her jaw ached in a way she'd remember every time she yawned tomorrow.
But she'd never felt more alive.
More owned.
More wanted.
When she finally stepped out and dried off and slipped into one of his t-shirts, she found him already in bed. Bishop was curled at the foot, tail twitching in his sleep. Marcus was propped on his side, watching the bathroom door.
"Come here," he said.
She went.
She slid into bed next to him, and he pulled her close, her back to his chest, his arm heavy over her waist. His breath was warm on her neck. His hand slid down her stomach and rested just above her mound.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we'll talk about what happens when you call me that in public."
Her heart stuttered. "In public?"
"Like I said." His lips brushed her ear. "You're mine. And I want everyone to know it."
Jade closed her eyes.
The city hummed below. Bishop snored softly. And somewhere in the quiet of the dark room, she realized that this—this surrender, this surrender, this slow unraveling of everything she thought she knew—was only the beginning.
She didn't know where he'd take her next.
But she knew she'd follow.
And when she finally drifted off to sleep, the word still lingered on her tongue, a secret she couldn't wait to say again.
Daddy.