Page 90 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

“And where should your attention be?”

“On you, Alpha,” she whispers.

His gaze hardens, but not unkindly. “Eyes closed. Mind on me. Nothing else exists.”

Her hands tighten behind her back, her shoulders roll back. “Yes, Alpha.”

He raises his hand once more, and the air crackles with what he hasn’t said. This isn’t just about correcting her behavior—it’s about disciplining her mind, honing her focus. He’s perfecting her submission.

His hand comes down, and her legs tremble. She doesn’t breathe for almost a full minute—I know, because I’m counting the seconds—then she bursts into another round of sobs. I can’t help but examine our bond. She’s trying so hard to limit what I can feel, but we’re fully bonded now, and the connection is irrevocable.

I exhale slowly, forcing the tension from my shoulders. My phone sits silent now, forgotten. There’s nothing left to distract me.

Only her sobs, his unwavering patience, and the certainty that sometimes, breaking apart is the only way to become whole again.

The sixteenth strike lands, sharp and precise, a punctuation mark in the heavy silence of the room. Sunday’s body jolts, her breath coming out in a broken gasp. Her body trembles, fine tremors running through her limbs like a live current.

Tomas pauses, the edge of his control slipping just enough to let a glimpse of tenderness seep through. His hands come down gently, rubbing slow, soothing circles over her scorching flesh.

He leans in, his voice a low murmur. “Breathe, sweetheart. Slow and deep.”

She inhales shakily, her breath catching as his hands continue their path. His fingers brush over the marks—a silent check-in, cataloging color and heat, offering reassurance. They slide down to her wrist, thumb pressing lightly over her pulse. I can hear it, feel it like it’s my own. Steady. Strong.

His wolf is in his gaze, watchful and patient. “Are you cold?”

Her head shakes, she whispers, “No, Alpha.”

“Your color?”

She swallows, the tremors stilling just enough to speak. “Green, Alpha.”

Tomas straightens, authority sliding back into place like a mantle. He raises his hand, his eyes flicking over her one last time.

The seventeenth strike falls.

Her voice quivers but rises clear. “Seventeen, thank you, Alpha.”

The final three strikes fall, the sound cracking through the room like a whip. No pause, no space for words. Each lands with force—not cruel, but far from gentle. He targets the untouched parts of her skin, his control precise.

As the twentieth strike lands, the tension inside me snaps like an overstretched wire finally breaking.

Before the echo fades, Tomas is lifting her. She melts into his arms, trembling—boneless and spent, an exhausted but trusting rag-doll.

He settles her across his lap, his hands gliding over her back, his lips brushing her hairline. The room hums with the fragile rhythm of her breath, her pulse fluttering beneath delicate mottled skin.

I want to reach for her. To spirit her away into the dark, to pull the pain out of her, to erase the throbbing still lingering on her flesh.

Then his eyes meet mine. “Grayson, come here.”

I stumble forward, my gaze fixed on the brutal bloom of red across her skin, edges already darkening with bruise-deep hues. My monster is desperate to heal her, to pour myself into her and erase the evidence.

“Can I heal her?” My voice is tight, ragged, my monster warping my vocal cords.

Tomas nods, his jaw clenched. But before I can bite into my wrist, a small, fragile sound escapes her—a whimper of disagreement.

“No,” she breathes, barely audible. “I’m okay. I want to heal naturally.”

I freeze, fangs at my wrist. The instinct to protect burns through me, the urge to coat her in my blood and erase every mark screaming for release.

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