PROLOGUE —HIS TO RUIN

The first time he touched me, I forgot my own name,

I hated him.

I hated the way he looked at me—like I was a thing. A puzzle, a possession, a problem that amused him. I hated the calm in his voice, the chill in his touch, the way he never raised his tone because he didn’t need to. Everything about him was silence and control and hunger.

But I hated myself more for wanting him.

“I should leave,” I whispered, but my voice broke on the last word. There was no conviction in it. Only heat.

He didn’t answer. He never answered questions that didn’t matter. Only moved — slow, deliberate — until I felt the air shift behind me. His breath was a whisper at my neck before his fingers found my hip.

“You won’t,” he murmured,

I should have slapped him. Should have screamed. Should have begged him to let me leave.

Instead, I leaned back.

Even now—back against the wall, breath ragged, wrists pinned above my head—I couldn’t lie about the heat in my stomach, the ache between my thighs. I hated him. God, I did. And still, my body betrayed me.

He pressed against me, one hand on my wrists, the other skimming the inside of my thigh.

“You don’t get to look at me like that and still shake when I touch you,” he murmured. His voice was low, dark, precise. “Little Thorn.”

I flinched at the nickname.

He always said it like a secret. Like he already knew how I’d bloom under his hands—bloody and beautiful.

“I hate you,” I spat, but my voice cracked. Weak. Exposed.

His lips twitched, not quite a smile. “You say that every time you’re about to let me ruin you.”

“I won’t,” I whispered.

“You already are.”

Then he kissed me—if you could call it that. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. His mouth crushed mine, stealing air, stealing thought. His tongue pushed in, claiming. I fought back at first. Bit him.

He laughed against my lips.

“There she is,” he growled. “My Little Thorn.”

Then he let go of my wrists—and I didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not because I was afraid. But because I wanted to see what he’d do next. What I’d let him do next.

He knew. Of course he did.

His fingers slipped beneath my shirt. Slow. Teasing. Possessive.

“You wear this like you’re hiding something from me,” he said, tugging the fabric up over my head.

I gasped as the cold air kissed my bare skin. My nipples pebbled beneath his gaze, and he drank in the sight like a man starved.

He kissed down my throat, down my chest, sucking one nipple into his mouth while his hand gripped my ass like he was claiming territory. I whimpered before I could stop it.

“Louder,” he ordered.

I shook my head.

He bit.

“Ah—fuck!” I choked, and he smiled against my skin.

“I want to hear every sound I pull out of you,” he said. “Don’t you dare hold them back.”

I moaned then—not from pain, but from the way he looked at me. Like he knew. Like he owned the part of me I hadn’t even wanted to admit existed.

He dropped to his knees in front of me, pulling my shorts down my thighs. His fingers trailed over my slick heat—slow, stroking

“You’re wet,” he said softly. “You hate me, but this little cunt’s begging for me.”

My cheeks flushed with shame. With hunger.

He looked up, his eyes locking on mine as he slid two fingers into me.

“Say it,” he said.

“No.”

He curled them. Hit the spot that made me cry out.

“Say it, Little Thorn.”

I whimpered. “I want you.”

He didn’t stop.

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I want you,” I gasped, louder this time. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Good girl.”

Then he rose, unzipping his pants with one hand, the other still fucking me open. I watched, breathless, as he freed himself. Thick. Hard. Beautiful. Terrifying.

He lined himself up, rubbing the head of his cock through my folds, teasing my clit, pressing against my entrance but not pushing in.

“You’re going to take every inch,” he said, his voice low, cruel, reverent. “You’re going to remember the shape of me for the rest of your life.”

I tried to speak, but I couldn’t. The words dissolved. The heat was too much. The tension was unbearable.

He didn’t ease in.

He took me.

One deep thrust, and I cried out as my back slammed against the wall, my legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. I was stretched, filled, He gripped my hips, pulled out halfway, Then slammed back in again.

Over. And over.

I clung to him like a lifeline. He fucked me like he hated me. Like he needed to break me. His lips bruised mine. His hands left prints on my skin. Every stroke was a claim. A war.

“Look at me,” he growled when I tried to close my eyes. “Look at the man who owns your body now.”

“I don’t belong to you,” I moaned.

“You will.”

He thrust harder. Deeper. I shattered on a gasp, body convulsing around him. He kept going, dragging every ripple of pleasure from me like he had all the time in the world.

“Say it,” he demanded again. “Say you’re mine.”

I didn’t want to.

“You’ll never hate me enough,” he said. “And I’ll never stop wanting to destroy you.”

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This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, organizations, and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental.

This story contains mature themes, including dark romance, emotional manipulation, and supernatural elements, intended for an 18+ audience. It may include scenes that explore complex or intense dynamics strictly for entertainment purposes.

The author does not condone or promote violence, abuse, non-consensual acts, or any form of sexual assault. All interactions depicted are fictional and not meant to reflect healthy real-world relationships or behaviors.

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