[Content Warning: This chapter contains scenes of psychological dominance, intense sexual tension, and physical coercion. Reader discretion is strongly advised.]
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Min-soo's hand moved again—slow, deliberate. His thumb traced the corner of her mouth, smearing away a tear that clung like a crystal shard. Then he leaned in. His lips brushed hers—not tender, not hungry, but precise. The soft bite that followed was too controlled to be impulsive.
Ji-hyun gasped, sharp and soundless. Her back stiffened, her bound wrist twitching faintly above her head.
He pulled back just enough to let her feel the heat of his breath. It fanned over her mouth, steady and warm.
"Rule number one," he said, voice smooth as lacquer over steel. "You speak when I permit it. You scream… only when I make you."
His words slipped beneath her skin like smoke through cloth—no visible mark, only the burn of something invasive and unseen.
Ji-hyun's head tilted down. Her chin dropped. Shoulders curled inward. Her chest rose and fell too fast. Lips parted—not to speak, just to breathe, as if the air had turned scarce.
His hand moved lower, fingers ghosting down her neck—barely pressing, yet unmistakably there. He stopped at the zipper.
A sound broke the stillness: a slow, metallic rasp. Tooth by tooth, the dress opened, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet, like skin being peeled.
The neckline slackened.
The dress slipped from her shoulders with a whisper, folding briefly against her chest before sliding lower. Light from the windows poured in, gilding her exposed skin in raw, unflinching gold. Her collarbones, her throat, the upper swell of her chest—lit, defenseless.
Tears fell again. Not sobs. Just steady drops, spilling without sound, as if her body was draining what her mind could no longer hold.
Min-soo tilted his head. Studied her. "Beautiful," he said—not praise. A verdict. His tone was flat, stripped of wonder. He wasn't admiring. He was confirming what he already believed.
She turned her face to the headboard, silk brushing her cheek. Her cuffed wrist trembled; the chain rattled faintly. Her free hand twisted the sheets, knuckles white, tension coiled in every line of her frame. She didn't move. Not with surrender—only restraint. Like an animal poised to flee but held back by something invisible.
She didn't scream.
Not yet.
The dress slipped further—over ribs, over stomach—until it pooled at her hips, a crumpled banner of silk. Her skin glowed pale in the noon light, touched with sweat. Her shoulders curled, thighs pressed together, every limb taut with instinct. Her body braced, waiting.
He watched. Silent.
Then placed his hands at her waist—large, steady, possessive. Fingers spread wide over the fragile tension of her body. He drew her forward an inch. No more. Just enough to eliminate space.
She froze, breath caught mid-inhale.
He leaned in.
His face hovered at her neck, then dipped lower. Lips brushed her collarbone. The contact was fleeting. Intentional. Like a ritual, not a craving.
She flinched. Subtle. A single shiver, spine arching. He moved with her. Expected it. His calm was unnerving—the patience of someone who never needed to ask.
"Min-soo…" she whispered.
Not resistance. Not surrender.
A voice overwhelmed. Breathless. Breaking.
Her eyes filled again. The tears came without force now—just an endless, unstopping stream.
He paused. Then reached down.
The fabric at her hips slid downward in a single, unbroken motion. Past her thighs. Her knees. Her ankles. It landed silently at the foot of the bed.
What remained was almost nothing—thin lace and thread, drawn tight like a final whisper. Her arms folded across her chest, shoulders curving forward, legs pulled in. Skin shivering. Breath short and uncertain.
She folded inward—not in defeat, but in defense. Like if she made herself small enough, she could disappear.
Min-soo's eyes didn't leave her.
He stood motionless—shirtless, the lines of his torso sharp in the light. He breathed slowly, deliberately. Not with restraint—because he didn't need any.
Then, he brought his hands to his belt.
The buckle came loose with a soft metallic snap.
Ji-hyun flinched.
She didn't look. She couldn't.
Her face pressed to the headboard, lashes wet, mouth parted. One arm clutched her chest. The chain pulled taut. Her knees tucked in, feet curling beneath her, as if shrinking could shield her.
Fabric slid behind her.
She felt it before she saw it—the dip of the mattress. One knee, then the other. His weight shifted closer. His shadow swallowed the light warming her spine.
Hands came down on either side of her. Framing her.
They didn't touch—but the air changed. Heat radiated from him. Power saturated the space.
His breath ghosted behind her ear. Patient. Not eager.
She shut her eyes.
Then—his hand moved. Slow. Certain. It slid up her thigh, palm flat, rising to her hip and resting at her waist. The grip was firm. Not rough. Not cruel. Just absolute.
"Still trembling?" he asked, softly, more to himself than her.
Her breath hitched. Her stomach twitched, foot flexed. Her muscles tightened beneath his touch.
He leaned closer. His chest brushed her back. Bare skin against bare skin. Warm. Controlled. Dangerous.
He didn't press his weight. Just hovered—held in place by the strength of his restraint.
"You're learning," he murmured near her ear, voice low and unreadable. "But not fast enough."
One hand slid higher. Past her shoulder. Along her jaw.
His touch was careful—not out of kindness, but calculation.
He turned her face to him.
Ji-hyun didn't resist. Couldn't. The motion was too slow, too sure, to interrupt. Her eyes opened, glassy and wide. Her lips parted, breath shallow.
Min-soo looked at her—fully. Not with desire. Not even cruelty.
With certainty.
Like she was a page in a book he'd memorized. Not something to conquer. Something already his.
"I told you once," he said, brushing a drying tear from her cheek, "you don't get to hide from me."
Her chin trembled.
"I wasn't trying to—" she began, barely a whisper.
He didn't tighten his grip.
But the air shifted.
A slow smile touched his lips. Cold. "That was rule number one, wasn't it?"
Her breath caught.
He leaned in—foreheads nearly touching. His whisper scorched the air between them.
"You speak," he said, "when I say you can."
Then, he let go of her jaw. Not violently. But the loss of his touch felt like a mark.
He looked down at her again—half-curled, pale, luminous. Lace caught the sunlight like frost. Her skin flushed beneath his shadow, but she felt cold. Her arms clutched tighter, though they shielded nothing.
He was going to take everything.
She knew it.
But not yet.
Not until he decided she was ready.
His fingers traced the length of her spine—slow, precise, from the nape of her neck to the small of her back. The touch was featherlight. Her body arched despite itself. A shiver raced through her.
She clenched the sheets.
He said nothing.
Silence pressed in.
Then his breath touched her shoulder.
"You're going to break."
A pause.
"I'll make sure you don't forget who did it."
The mattress shifted again. He moved forward, his body aligning with hers, heat sliding against skin. She felt him—real, solid, inescapable—every breath he drew matching her own, too close to separate.
He lowered himself over her, not heavy, but present. Like gravity. Like consequence.
His hand found hers—fingers wrapping over her wrist where the chain lay slack against the headboard.
Then, slowly, he entered her.
Her breath caught—sharp, voiceless. Her body tightened, then opened. Heat flared low in her belly, her muscles clenching around him as her forehead pressed to the silk. She didn't speak. Didn't resist.
Her body answered for her.
His movements were unhurried. Deep. Intentional. A rhythm measured in dominance, not lust. He claimed her not with hunger, but with certainty—no need to rush what was already his.
She gasped—a soft, trembling sound, more breath than voice. Her eyes squeezed shut. Her fingers curled. Her body folded into the sensation, overwhelmed, consumed.
He leaned closer. His lips brushed the side of her neck, breath warm, voice nearly a whisper.
"Now you understand," he groaned.
Her legs shifted, adjusting. Accepting. Her back arched into him. Not out of desire. Out of inevitability.
He moved deeper.
She exhaled—a sound raw and low. Then again, and again, each breath unraveling her. Her world narrowed to skin and silence, heat and the slow, relentless rhythm of him inside her.
The chain rattled faintly above her head.
Her tears had stopped.
There was no room left for them now.
Only the slow burn of surrender.
Only the weight of him, the feel of his body joined with hers, the quiet devastation of being taken completely.
And when she broke—softly, soundlessly—it wasn't from fear.
It was because she knew she would never be the same...