The room was dimly lit—black and gold hues dancing across satin sheets, the scent of his cologne heavy in the air. You were curled against his chest, his inked fingers idly brushing your bare back, tracing nonsense patterns. For once, everything was quiet. No gunfire. No screams. Just him. Just you.
But then you felt it.
Warm. Wet. Unwelcome.
Your heart dropped as realization settled in like a storm cloud. You shifted slightly, hoping—praying—it wasn't what you thought. But the dampness between your thighs said otherwise.
"Oh gosh..." you whispered, panic setting in.
You started to sit up, careful not to let the sheets fall, but his hand caught your wrist lazily.
"And where do you think you're slinking off to, doll?" His voice was low, teasing, but there was that ever-present danger laced in it. A game. Always a game.
"I just—I need to clean something up, daddy. I'm fine, really."
He watched you, curious. Icy blue eyes narrowed, teeth flashing behind a slow grin. You were trying to be subtle, folding the sheet under you, clutching it like a lifeline.
But then he saw it.
The stain. Crimson blooming like a wicked flower on his pale sheets.
For a beat, there was silence.
Your cheeks flamed. "I didn't mean to daddy. I'm so sorry—"
He moved faster than you could react, flipping you onto your back with a gentle but firm grip, pinning you in place. His face hovered just above yours, expression unreadable.
"That's what all the fuss is about?" he murmured, eyes flicking down to the sheet, then back up to you. His grin widened. "You bled for me, baby."
You blinked. "h-huh?"
He leaned in, brushing your hair back from your forehead, his voice mockingly soft.
"Don't you know how beautiful red looks on white?" His fingers trailed the side of your face. "On you?"
Your breath hitched.
Most men would be disgusted. He looked delighted. Intrigued.
"You don't have to be embarrassed," he cooed, pressing a kiss just below your jaw. "I like blood, baby. Doesn't matter where it comes from."
You shivered.
He shifted lower, tracing his tongue down your collarbone, letting his fingers tease at your hips.
"Let me show you how much I appreciate your little... accident."
"Daddy, I don't think—"
But he silenced you with a kiss—slow, deep, reverent. When he pulled back, his lipstick smeared across your lips like war paint, he whispered:
"Let me worship the mess. My mess."
And suddenly, the shame melted under the weight of his obsession.
You were no longer embarrassed.
You were claimed.
