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"Did you really think I wouldn't find out?" Konig's voice crackled through the phone, low and rough, the way it always got when he was trying not to yell.
You stared at the cracked screen of your burner, thumb hovering over the end call button. The bar around you was loud, some shitty dive in Belgrade where no one asked questions, but his voice cut through the noise like a knife. "Find out what?" you muttered, swirling the dregs of your vodka.
"Don't." A sharp inhale. "Don’t fucking play dumb with me." There was a pause, the kind that meant he was running a hand through his hair, the way he did when he was pissed. "You were in Lisbon last week."
The glass slipped a little in your grip. You hadn’t told him that. You hadn’t told anyone. Your job didn’t exactly come with a travel itinerary. "So?"
"So you were following me." The vodka turned sour in your mouth. The bar's neon sign flickered, casting jagged red light across your knuckles where they whitened around the glass.
Konig's laugh was humorless. "You left your favorite knife in that hotel. The one I gave you." His voice dropped, something raw creeping in under the anger. "You never leave that behind."
Your breath hitched. The knife. Fuck. You'd told yourself you'd ditched it on purpose, some half-assed attempt at moving on. The lie tasted pathetic now. The bar stool creaked as you leaned forward, elbow slipping in a puddle of condensation. "What do you want, Konig?"
The silence on the line stretched too long, thick enough to choke on. You pressed the phone harder against your ear, as if you could physically crush the tension between you. "We're done," you said, and the words came out dull, rehearsed. Like you'd been practicing them in hotel mirrors for weeks. "You're no good for me."
Konig made a sound, not quite a laugh, more like the scrape of a boot heel against gravel.
"Funny," he said, voice dropping into that dangerous register that always made your pulse stutter. "Because I remember you saying the exact opposite last month. When you were screaming my name into a pillow in Bucharest."
Your fingers twitched around the glass. The memory hit you like a poorly aimed punch, his teeth on your shoulder, the way he'd pinned your wrists to the mattress like he was trying to fuse your bones together.
You swallowed hard. "That was before I found out you took a contract in Kiev without telling me."
"And you took one in Lisbon without telling me," he shot back. The line crackled with static, or maybe it was just the way his breath hitched. "We're even."
"We're not/." You slammed the glass down hard enough that the bartender glanced over, then quickly looked away. "This isn't about keeping score, Konig. This is about you-" Your throat closed around the rest. This is about you making me feel like I'm losing my mind.
The silence stretched, taut as a tripwire. Then, so quiet you almost missed it: "Come home."
"Home?" You barked a laugh that tasted like broken glass. "You mean your shitty safehouse in Vienna? Or the one in Prague? Or was it the-"
"Stop." His voice was a blade sliding between your ribs. You could picture him perfectly, broad shoulders hunched over some cheap motel desk, gloved fingers gripping the phone too tight. "Just tell me you're coming."
You swallowed the rest of your vodka in one go, letting it burn all the way down. "I’ve moved on," you lied. The words came out smooth, practiced. You'd rehearsed them in enough bathroom mirrors to sound convincing. "Found someone else. A Dom who doesn't disappear for weeks without a fucking word."
The line went so quiet you could hear the static of his suppressed breath.
Then, softly: "Liar."
Your fingers twitched toward the knife strapped to your thigh, the new one, bought in a hurry after Lisbon, its grip all wrong in your palm. "He’s good," you pressed, digging in deeper. "Better than you. Don't leave marks where clients can see."
Konig made a sound low in his throat, something between a growl and a laugh. "Bullshit. You'd never let some amateur tie you up."
The barstool creaked as you shifted, suddenly too aware of the phantom weight of his hands on your hips, the way he'd always known exactly how much pressure to use before you'd even asked. "He’s not an amateur," you muttered, but the words tasted thin.
"Then tell me his name," Konig challenged, voice dropping into that fucking tone, the one that used to make your knees weak. "Tell me what he calls you when he fucks you."
Your teeth sank into your lower lip. The Dom you'd picked up in Madrid had tried to give you a name, some saccharine bullshit that made your skin crawl, but you'd kneed him in the ribs before he could finish the sentence. "None of your business," you snapped, but the crack in your voice betrayed you.
A sharp inhale on the other end of the line. "You’re shaking," he murmured, and damn him, damn him for knowing, for always knowing…
You clenched your free hand into a fist, nails biting into your palm. "Maybe I’m cold."
The laugh that crackled through the phone wasn’t amused, it was the sound of a wolf catching scent. "Cold?" Konig’s voice dipped lower, rougher, the way it did when he was circling closer to something he wanted. "Or lying through your fucking teeth." A pause, deliberate. The line hummed with the weight of words unspoken.
Then, quietly: "Look to your left."
Your grip on the glass tightened. A stupid part of you wanted to obey instantly, like a dog hearing its leash rattle. Instead, you forced your gaze to stay fixed on the bartender’s chipped nails as he wiped down the counter. "Not falling for that again," you muttered, thinking of Budapest, of him whispering look behind you just to watch you jump.
A slow exhale. "Fine." The word was a challenge. "Keep pretending you don’t feel me watching you."
Your pulse kicked hard against your ribs. The bar’s neon sign buzzed overhead, painting the vodka in your glass an unnatural red. You counted three heartbeats, long and stubborn. Before your eyes flicked left.
There, in the smudged reflection of the bar’s foggy mirror, stood Konig.
He was leaning against the doorframe, one shoulder propped against the chipped paint, gloved fingers tapping a slow rhythm against his thigh. The way he held himself… too casual, too still, was a predator’s patience. His hood was up, casting his face in shadow, but you knew that smirk. Knew the way his teeth would catch his lower lip right before he pounced.
The glass slipped from your fingers, hitting the bar with a dull thud. You didn’t remember standing, but suddenly you were on your feet, the stool screeching behind you. The bartender flinched.
Konig’s chuckle rasped through the phone and the air simultaneously, a stereo effect that made your skin prickle. "Told you," he murmured.
You swallowed hard, the words about your new Dom crumbling in your throat like ash. The bar’s neon glow painted his gloves a garish red, the same shade as the knife he’d given you, the one you’d left in Lisbon like some lovesick idiot leaving a handkerchief behind.
The line went dead before you could respond, Konig’s silhouette in the mirror already moving toward you. You didn’t turn, no…couldn’t, your fingers clenched around the now-empty glass as the bar’s stale air thickened with the scent of his cologne, something dark and gunpowder-sharp. The stool beside you groaned under his weight, and you caught the bartender’s nervous glance before he pretended to busy himself with a dirty rag.
"You look like shit," Konig said, voice low enough that the words were just for you. His knee brushed yours, deliberate.
You forced a smirk, swirling the ice in your glass. "Miss me that much?"
He didn’t laugh. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him tug off his gloves, one finger at a time, the way he always did before a fight or before he put his hands on you. "This new Dom," he started, voice too casual. "Tell me about him."
Isaac was shorter than König. By a good four inches, not that you'd ever admit to measuring, and he touched you all wrong. His fingers were too soft, his grip too hesitant, like he was afraid you'd break. As if you hadn't spent years taking hits that would have shattered his pretty, manicured hands. You'd met him in Madrid, in some dimly lit club where the air smelled like sweat and expensive cologne. He'd bought you a drink with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, and you'd let him take you home because his voice had the right kind of command to it, the kind that almost, almost masked how badly he wanted your approval.
The first time he'd tried to pin you down, you'd rolled him without thinking, your body moving on muscle memory before your brain caught up. His shocked gasp had been satisfying for exactly two seconds before the disappointment settled in your gut like a stone. He hadn't even tried to fight back, just stared up at you with wide, wounded eyes like you'd kicked his puppy instead of flipped him onto his back.
"You're supposed to take it," you'd snapped, but the words tasted hollow even as you said them. Isaac didn't know how to take anything. Not like him.
König's fingers twitched on the bar top now, his knuckles brushing yours in a mockery of casual contact. "Well?" he prompted after a few seconds of silence, voice deceptively light. "Tell me about this Dom of yours." The way he said the word, curled around it like a sneer. It made your teeth ache.
You shrugged, swirling the dregs of your vodka. "He's got dark hair," you said, just to watch König's jaw tighten. "Nice hands. Knows his way around a knot."
The stool beside you creaked under König's sudden shift in weight. His thigh pressed against yours, warm through the fabric of your pants, deliberate. Calculating. You'd seen him do this exact move before a kill, closing the distance just before the blade went in. "Does he," he murmured, voice dripping with false interest. "Tell me, maus, does he make you beg like I did?"
Isaac had been forceful, but not in the right way. He'd pushed you against the wall of his Madrid apartment, his fingers digging into your hips like he was trying to carve himself a place there. His mouth had been hot and insistent, but it lacked the precision Konig had, the way he could map your pulse points like a sniper finding his range. Isaac hadn’t bitten your lip hard enough to draw blood, mistaking pain for control, thinking brutality was the same as dominance.
You'd let him, because the touch was something, at least better than the hollow ache Konig's absence left behind. But when he'd whispered "good boy" in your ear, his voice slick with condescension, you'd recoiled so fast your elbow shattered the mirror behind you.
Konig's laugh now was low, knowing, as he watched you struggle to fabricate details about Isaac. "Dark hair?" he echoed, drumming his fingers against the bar. The rhythm was deliberately two slow beats, one sharp, the same cadence he'd used that night in Bucharest when he'd had you spread over his lap, counting out each strike. "You always did have a type."
You swallowed the rest of your vodka, letting it sear your throat. "He's competent," you lied. Competent was the last word you'd use for Isaac, who'd fumbled with the ropes like a child tying his first shoelaces, who'd paused mid-fuck to ask if you were "comfortable."
As if comfort had ever been the point.
Konig's glove hit the bar with a soft thud. "Competent," he repeated, rolling the word around like a grenade with the pin half-pulled. "Funny. The way you're grinding your teeth, I'd think you were describing a tax auditor, not a lover."
Your grip on the glass tightened. Isaac had been more accountant than Dom, all hesitant touches and murmured apologies. You'd let him tie you up once, just once, and the memory still made your skin crawl. The knots had been loose enough to slip free, the rope rough where it should've been taut. When he'd finally worked up the nerve to flip you onto your stomach, his hands had shaken so badly you'd almost pitied him. Almost.
"Tell me," Konig murmured, leaning in close enough that his breath warmed your ear. "Did he fuck you like he was afraid you'd break?"
The glass slipped in your suddenly slick grip. .Afraid of your scars, afraid of the way your breath hitched when he touched the wrong spot, afraid of the way you'd glared at him when he'd dared to call you "baby." You'd seen the hesitation in his eyes every time he reached for you, the way his fingers would hover over your skin like you were some fragile thing he might shatter.
Konig's knee pressed harder against yours, his thigh a solid line of heat through your pants. "Or did he fuck you like he was trying to prove something?"
Isaac had. Oh, he'd tried. That first night in Madrid, he'd pinned you to his bed with all the finesse of a teenager sneaking his first feel. You'd let him, because the weight of someone was better than the weight of no one, but when he'd leaned down to kiss you, his lips had been soft, uncertain. No teeth. No bite. Nothing like the way Konig would crowd you against a wall, his gloved hand fisted in your hair, his mouth hot and demanding against yours until you couldn't remember your own name.
Konig's fingers traced the rim of your empty glass, his touch feather-light. "Did he choke you?" he asked, voice low. "Or was he too scared to mark you up?"
Your breath hitched. He had been scared. The first and last time he'd wrapped his hand around your throat, his grip had been tentative, trembling. You'd arched into it instinctively, craving the pressure, but he'd jerked back like you'd burned him.
"Too much?" he had gasped, his eyes wide with alarm. As if you hadn't spent years letting Konig press his forearm across your windpipe until your vision went black at the edges, until the only thing keeping you grounded was the feel of him inside you, splitting you open.
Konig's laugh was a dark, knowing thing. He didn't need you to answer, he could read the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers twitched toward the knife at your thigh. "Thought so," he murmured, his thumb brushing the pulse point at your wrist. "Did he even make you come?"
The vodka glass shattered on the bar top before you realized you’d thrown it. Konig didn’t flinch, just watched the shards skitter across the wood with that infuriating, unreadable calm. "Answer the question," he said, like he was asking about the weather instead of whether some faceless Dom had made you come. His thumb pressed harder into your wrist, right over the pulse rabbiting beneath your skin.
You bared your teeth. "Fuck you."
His laugh was a dark, pleased sound. "That’s not an answer, maus." His fingers slid up your arm, deliberate, tracing the scars he knew by touch. "But we both know it, don’t we?" His voice dropped, roughened. "No one else gets you there."
You lunged for the knife at your thigh. Habit. Reflex. but Konig moved faster. His hand closed around your wrist, yanking you off the stool with enough force to send it clattering to the floor. The bartender ducked behind the counter like he’d seen this dance before. Maybe he had.
The knife barely cleared its sheath before König twisted your wrist hard enough to make your bones creak. "Still slow," he murmured, his breath hot against your temple as he wrenched the blade from your grip and tossed it onto the bar with a clatter.
"You're still an asshole," you spat, bucking against his hold, but he just tightened his grip, his fingers digging into the tender flesh of your inner wrist, right over the scar from Prague, the one he'd stitched up himself while you'd bitten down on his glove to keep from screaming.
König chuckled, low and dark, and before you could knee him in the groin, he bent at the waist and hauled you over his shoulder like a sack of flour. The world tilted violently, the bar's neon lights blurring into streaks of red and blue as your stomach slammed into the solid wall of his shoulder. "Put me down-"
"Nein," he said simply, adjusting his grip so his forearm pinned the backs of your thighs. His glove was rough against your skin, the material catching on the fabric of your pants as he strode toward the exit. "You'll run. Like you always do."
The bar door swung shut behind you with a hollow thud, muffling the bartender’s relieved sigh as König carried you into the Belgrade night.
The cold air bit at your exposed skin, but his body was furnace-hot against yours, his grip unrelenting as you twisted in his hold. "You goddamn- put me down!" You drove an elbow into his back, but he only grunted, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your ribs.
"Still fight dirty," he observed, as if commenting on the weather. His boots crunched over broken glass as he turned down an alley, the stench of rotting garbage thick in the air. "And still lying through your teeth about that Dom."
You kicked harder, your boot connecting with his hip, but he just adjusted his grip, his fingers digging into the meat of your thigh. "Fuck you," you snarled, fingers scrabbling at the back of his jacket for purchase. "I have moved on-"
König barked a laugh, the sound echoing off the alley walls. "Bullshit." He shifted you higher on his shoulder, your stomach pressing harder against the rigid muscle beneath. "You couldn’t move on if I paid you." His voice dropped, roughened. "You’re mine."
The hotel door hit the wall with a crack as König kicked it open, the cheap wood splintering under his boot. You'd barely registered the blur of the lobby, the clerk's startled yelp, the elevator ride that felt like a fever dream, his palm splayed possessively over your ass the entire time, fingers digging in whenever you squirmed. Now, dangling upside down over his shoulder, you caught flashes of the room: rumpled sheets, your half-packed duffel by the bed, the pistol you'd stupidly left on the nightstand.
König dropped you onto the mattress with a precision that suggested he'd done the math, just enough force to knock the wind out of you without actually hurting. You bounced once, hair in your mouth, just as his knee planted between your thighs.
"Still keeping your gun loaded, I see," he mused, plucking it from the nightstand with his free hand. The slide racked with a familiar snick as he cleared the chamber. "Tsk. Safety off."
You lunged for his wrist, but he caught your chin instead, gloved fingers forcing your gaze up. His pupils were blown wide, the dim lamplight turning his irises the color of wet pavement. "Let's try this again," he said, voice dangerously calm. "Tell me about this Dom who's so much better than me."
The mattress springs groaned under your weight as König leaned down, his gloved hand still gripping your chin hard enough to bruise. The scent of gunpowder and leather clung to him, thick and intoxicating, mingling with the cheap hotel soap smell that always followed him out of showers in these shitty rented rooms. His thumb pressed into the hinge of your jaw, forcing your mouth open slightly, just enough to remind you how easily he could slip his fingers past your teeth if he wanted to. "Tell me," He repeated, voice dropping into that gravel-dark register that made your stomach tighten. "Or do I need to persuade you?"
You jerked your head away, but his grip only tightened, fingers digging into the tender flesh beneath your ears. "Fuck off," you spat, but the words lacked bite, your pulse rabbiting under his touch betrayed you.
König's smirk was slow, predatory. "Ah," he murmured, dragging his thumb across your lower lip. "There it is." His knee pressed harder between your thighs, the rough fabric of his pants catching on yours. "That pretty little lie crumbling." He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "You never could lie to me, maus. Not when your body sings the truth so beautifully."
You bucked against him, but he shifted his weight effortlessly, pinning you with the practiced ease of a man who'd spent years learning exactly how to keep you under him. His free hand found your throat, not squeezing, just resting, his fingers spanning the column of your neck like a collar. "Isaac," you ground out, the name tasting like ash on your tongue. "His name was-"
König's fingers twitched against your throat, just once, before his grip tightened. "Isaac," he echoed, rolling the name around in his mouth like it was something foul. His knee pressed harder between your thighs, the pressure deliberate, calculated. "Did Isaac know how to do this?”
His gloved hand slid from your throat to the collar of your shirt, yanking it aside to expose the scar beneath, jagged and pale, where the knife had slipped. His mouth followed, teeth scraping the raised tissue in a way that made your back arch off the mattress.
You hissed, fingers clawing at the sheets, but König didn’t let up. His tongue dragged over the scar, slow and wet, before his teeth bit down just hard enough to make you gasp.
"No," you admitted, the word ripped from you like a confession. Isaac had avoided your scars, his touches skittering away from the marks like they might burn him. As if your body was something to be careful with, something breakable.
König laughed, a dark, satisfied sound, and let go of your collar to drag his glove down your chest, the rough material catching on your nipples through the fabric. "Did he know how you like it?" His fingers twisted, just shy of cruel, and you choked on a moan. "How you need it?"
Your fingers twisted into the sheets as König's teeth found the sensitive spot beneath your jaw, the one only he knew about, the one that made your vision blur at the edges when he bit just right.
"Did he know," he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with mock curiosity, "How you whimper when I mark you here?" His teeth sank in, sharp and deliberate, and your hips jerked against his knee before you could stop them.
The sound that escaped you was pathetic, half a moan, half a snarl, and König drank it in like a man starved. His free hand slid down your side, fingers mapping the ridges of your ribs with the familiarity of someone who'd memorized every fracture, every scar. "Or how you shake," he continued, his thumb brushing the old bullet graze above your hip, "when I touch you here." His touch lingered, pressing just hard enough to make you hiss.
You bucked against him, but he didn't budge. Just clicked his tongue in that infuriating way that made you want to strangle him. Or kiss him. Or both.
"Isaac didn't-"
"Didn't what?" König interrupted, his voice dropping into that fucking tone again. the one that slithered under your skin and coiled low in your gut. "Didn't make you beg?" His knee shifted higher, the pressure against your groin now unbearable. "Didn't make you bleed?" His glove caught on your zipper as he tugged it down, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room.
The zipper gave way with a metallic snarl, and König's gloved fingers slid beneath your waistband before you could bite back the groan clawing up your throat. His touch was clinical, deliberate, the same way he'd dismantle a rifle, methodical and unhurried.
"Isaac didn't what?" he repeated, his breath hot against your ear as his fingers traced the jagged scar along your hipbone, the one from Norway, where you'd taken a ricochet and König had stitched you up in the back of a moving truck, his hands steady even as his voice shook with something you'd dared not name.
You arched off the mattress, your nails biting into his wrist. "Didn't, fuck, didn't know how to handle me," you gasped, the admission ripped from you like a bullet wound. Isaac had been all hesitation, his touches skimming your skin like he was afraid you'd dissolve beneath his fingers. König's grip tightened, his fingers digging into the tender flesh of your inner thigh.
"Handle you?" König's laugh was a dark, derisive thing. He hooked a finger under the elastic of your briefs, tugging just enough to make your breath hitch. "You don't need to be handled, maus. You need to be ruined." His teeth grazed your earlobe, sharp and punishing. "And only I know how to do that properly."
The fabric tore under his grip, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. You didn't remember him removing his other glove, but suddenly his bare fingers were dragging down your stomach, calluses catching on your skin in a way that made your muscles twitch.
"Isaac didn't…ah...didn't choke me right," you spat, your voice cracking as König's thumb pressed against your windpipe, not quite cutting off your air but promising to.
König’s thumb pressed harder, his grip just shy of suffocating, and your vision blurred at the edges, not from lack of air, but from the sheer recognition of it. The way he always knew exactly how much pressure to apply, how to ride the line between pain and pleasure until you couldn’t tell which was which.
"Did he fuck you like this?" he growled, his free hand yanking your pants down your thighs in one rough motion. The cool air hit your bare skin, but his body was a furnace above you, his knee grinding against your erection with deliberate cruelty. "Or did he ask permission first?"
You choked on a laugh, or maybe a sob. Isaac had always asked, his voice trembling with uncertainty as he’d hovered above you, his cock half-hard like he was afraid you’d change your mind.
König didn’t ask. He took. His fingers dug into your hipbones now, dragging you closer as his mouth crashed into yours, all teeth and desperation. You bit back, tasting blood, his or yours, it didn’t matter.
The bedframe slammed against the wall as König flipped you onto your stomach, his weight pinning you down before you could even think to resist. His knee forced your legs apart, the rough fabric of his pants scraping against your inner thighs. "Tell me," he demanded, his voice ragged against the nape of your neck as his hand fisted in your hair. "Did he make you feel anything?" His other hand smoothed down your spine, possessive, before landing a sharp slap against your ass that made your back arch involuntarily.
You hissed into the sheets, the sting blooming into heat. Isaac had spanked you once; twice, his palm landing with the hesitant force of a man swatting a fly. König’s strikes were measured, earned, each one a reminder of how well he knew your body’s limits.
"No," you admitted, the word muffled against the mattress.
König exhaled sharply through his nose, his bare fingers tracing the welt forming on your skin with something perilously close to reverence. "No," he echoed, his voice thick from its usual mocking lilt into something darker, hungrier. His glove creaked as he tightened his grip in your hair, forcing your face harder into the mattress. "Because he didn't know what you are." His knee pressed harder between yours, spreading you wider as his other hand slid down your spine to grip the base of your neck, his favorite hold, the one that made your pulse scream under his palm.
The first press of his cock against your bare ass was searing, even through the fabric of his pants. You could feel the outline of him, fuck, he was already hard and your hips jerked back instinctively, seeking friction. König's laugh was a low, mean thing against the shell of your ear.
"Greedy," he chided, landing another slap to your ass that made your thighs tremble. "Always so greedy for it." His zipper rasped open behind you, the sound sending a jolt of anticipation down your spine.
The bedframe groaned as König shifted his weight, his bare cock dragging against your ass, hot and heavy, the blunt head catching on your rim before sliding away. He chuckled at your involuntary shudder, his grip tightening in your hair. "Isaac ever fuck you raw?" he murmured, pressing forward just enough to tease, to make you feel the slickness of his precome smearing across your skin. "Or was he too scared to risk it?"
You clenched your teeth, refusing to answer, but your hips rocked back against him, betraying you.
König exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers flexing against your neck. "That's what I thought," he muttered, dragging his cock along your crack with deliberate slowness. "Too soft to take what you need."
His spit landed warm and wet between your cheeks before his thumb pressed in, rough and unrelenting. You hissed into the sheets, muscles tensing, but he didn't stop, just worked you open with brutal efficiency, his other hand still fisted in your hair. "Tell me," he growled, the pad of his thumb circling your rim, pressing just shy of breaching. "Did he even try to stretch you properly? Or did he whimper at the first sign of resistance?”
You swallowed hard, the memory of Isaac's hesitant fingers, slick with too much lube, trembling as they brushed your hole flashing behind your eyelids.
König's laugh was a dark, knowing thing. "Pathetic," he sneered, his thumb finally pushing into the first knuckle, making you arch off the mattress. "You let that boy touch you? Let him pretend he could own you? When you know who you belong to."
Two digits pressing in without preamble, the calluses on his knuckles dragging deliciously against your walls.
You bit down on the pillow to stifle a groan, but he yanked your head back by the hair, exposing your throat to his teeth.
"No," he growled. "I want to hear it." His fingers crooked sharply, and the sound that ripped from you was obscene, half-snarl, half-sob, as he found that spot inside you that made your vision white out.
Isaac had never even found it.
König’s laugh was a dark, satisfied thing against your shoulder as he scissored his fingers, stretching you with the same ruthless efficiency he’d use to field-strip a gun. "Still so tight," he mused, twisting his wrist to make you jerk. "Like you’ve been waiting for me." His teeth sank into your trapezius, the pain bright and sharp, and you arched back into it instinctively, craving the burn.
The bed creaked as he shifted, his cock dragging through the mess of spit and precome he’d left on your ass. His breath hitched when the head caught on your rim, and for the first time since he’d thrown you onto the mattress, you felt the faint tremor in his hands. "Look at you," he murmured, almost to himself, his grip on your hipbone tightening to bruising. "Still mine."
The first thrust was brutal, splitting you open with the same precision König used to gut his targets, sharp, practiced, inevitable.
You choked on air, your spine arching involuntarily as he buried himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. There was no hesitation, no gentle press, just the unforgiving stretch of him filling you, the burn of it singing through your nerves like a lit fuse.
"Fuck," you hissed, nails tearing into the sheets, but König didn't pause, just pulled out halfway before driving back in, the slap of skin echoing off the cheap hotel walls. His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat to his teeth. "Still, ah...still fit you," he growled against your pulse, the words vibrating through your skin. His hips snapped forward again, harder this time, and you felt the mattress shift beneath you as the bedframe slammed into the wall.
Isaac had fucked you like he was afraid you'd shatter, slow, shallow thrusts that left you clawing at the sheets in frustration. König ruined you. Every drag of his cock was calculated, every angle designed to wring sounds from you that you didn't even recognize as your own. His free hand smoothed down your spine, possessive, before landing another sharp slap to your ass.
The sting bloomed into heat, and you pushed back into it, into him, craving the bruise his fingers would leave behind.
"That's it," König praised, his voice ragged at the edges as he tightened his grip in your hair. "Take it like you mean it." His hips pistoned harder, faster, the rhythm ruthless, the way you'd both trained yourselves to shoot, breath steady even as your heart threatened to riot. You could feel the sweat gathering between your shoulder blades, the slide of his chest against your back as he bent over you, his breath hot against your ear. "Tell me," he demanded, punctuating each word with a thrust that punched the air from your lungs. "Tell me he never fucked you like this."
"Never," you gasped, the word mangled between clenched teeth as König's cock dragged over that spot inside you that made your vision splinter. Your knuckles whitened around the sheets, the fabric tearing under your nails. "He never-”
König's chuckle was a dark, satisfied sound against the nape of your neck. His gloved hand slid from your hair to your throat, fingers pressing just shy of crushing as his thrusts turned jagged, uneven. "Say it again," he demanded, his voice rough with something you hadn't heard in weeks, hunger.
The headboard cracked against the wall with each snap of his hips, the rhythm brutal, claiming. You choked on a moan as his teeth sank into your shoulder, the pain sharp and bright, a brand you'd wear for days. "He never fucked me like this," you whine, the admission ripped from you like a gunshot.
"Good," König growled, his grip tightening on your throat just enough to make your pulse flutter under his palm. His other hand slid down your sweat-slick spine to grip your hip, fingers digging into the bruise he'd left there earlier. "Because no one else gets to."
The bedframe shuddered again as König drove into you with the precision of a blade sliding between ribs, sharp, practiced, inevitable. His breath hitched against the sweat-damp skin of your back, a rare break in his control that you cataloged like a victory. His cock dragged over that spot inside you with merciless accuracy, the sensation radiating outward like shrapnel until your fingers twisted into the sheets hard enough to tear the fabric.
"Look at you," König snarled, his hand releasing your throat to grab your chin, forcing your head to turn so you could see the wreckage in the mirrored closet door, your flushed face, his grip bruising your jaw, the obscene way your body yielded to his. "See what you are when you’re honest?" His thrusts turned erratic, the bedsprings screaming under you. "See how you fall apart for me?"
Isaac had never made you look. Had never dared.
You bared your teeth at your reflection, at him, but your hips rocked back onto his cock anyway, betraying you.
König’s laugh was a dark, breathless thing against your shoulder. "Greedy thing," he murmured, biting the shell of your ear hard enough to make you jerk. His free hand slid down to your spent cock, his touch clinical even as his voice frayed at the edges. "Still hard for it. Still mine."
König’s fingers tightened around your throat again, his grip just shy of crushing as his hips stuttered against yours. The wet slap of skin filled the room, punctuated by the ragged sounds of your breathing, each exhale a punched-out noise he wrung from you with every thrust. His teeth found the tendon in your neck, biting down hard enough to make your back arch, your body instinctively seeking more of the pain, more of him.
"Say it," he demanded against your sweat-slick skin, his voice rough with something dangerously close to desperation. His cock dragged over that spot inside you again, and you choked on a moan, your fingers scrabbling at the sheets. "Say you’re mine."
You hissed through clenched teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction, but your body betrayed you, hips rocking back to meet his, muscles clenching around him like you were trying to keep him there.
König’s laugh was a dark, breathless thing, his gloved hand sliding from your throat to your jaw, forcing your head to the side so he could see your face. "You can lie to me," he murmured, his thumb smearing the sweat from your temple. "But your body knows."
His thrusts turned jagged, uneven, the rhythm of a man losing control. You felt it in the way his breath hitched against your shoulder, in the way his fingers trembled where they gripped your hip. König never trembled. The realization sent a thrill down your spine, sharp and electric, and you clenched around him deliberately, wringing a groan from his throat.
The crack of the headboard against the wall matched the stutter of König’s hips, a rhythm breaking apart, his control unraveling thread by thread. His clenched where he gripped your thigh, yanking you back onto him with a snarl that was more animal than man. "Fuck- fuck," he hissed, his voice ragged at the edges, the way it only got when he was close, when the veneer of detachment finally fissured.
You could feel the tension coiled in his abdomen, the way his muscles trembled against your back like a live wire.
His teeth found your shoulder again, biting down hard enough to bruise, and you arched into it instinctively, craving the sting. "You feel that?" he growled, his breath hot against your skin. His thrusts lost their precision, turning rough, needy. "Feel how fucking ruined you are for anyone else?" His hand slid from your hip to your throat again, squeezing just enough to make your pulse hammer against his palm.
The pressure blurred your vision at the edges, the lack of air heightening every sensation, the drag of his cock inside you, the sweat-slick slide of his chest against your back, the way his breath hitched in time with yours.
Isaac had never dared to mark you. Never left bruises that lasted longer than an hour.
But König…König carved himself into your skin like a brand, his fingerprints blooming purple across your hips, his teeth leaving crescents along your shoulders. You’d wear him for days, and the thought sent a shudder through you that had nothing to do with the cold.
His rhythm stuttered again, his hips jerking forward in short, aborted thrusts. "Look at me," he demanded, his voice fraying at the edges as he wrenched your head to the side, forcing your eyes to the mirror. Your reflection was a mess, lips swollen, pupils blown wide, sweat-dark hair stuck to your forehead. And behind you, König, his face a mask of something raw and hungry, his gaze locked onto yours in the glass.
"Look at what you do to me," he gritted out, his hips snapping forward once, twice, then stilling deep inside you as his grip on your throat tightened.
König's groan was muffled against your shoulder, his teeth digging in harder as his hips jerked erratically, spilling into you with a shudder that traveled through both your bodies. The hand on your throat loosened just enough for you to drag in a ragged breath, your vision swimming as his weight pressed you deeper into the mattress.
You could feel his pulse hammering where his bare chest met your back, rabbit-quick and uneven, a rare crack in his armor that made your own breathing stutter.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds were the creak of the cheap bedframe and König's slowing breaths against your nape. Then. deliberate, calculated, his hand smoothed up your spine, fingers tracing the knobs of your vertebrae with something perilously close to tenderness.
"Still breathing, maus?" he murmured, his voice rough but softer now, the mocking edge dulled to something warmer.
You swallowed hard, your throat working against his palm. "Barely," you croaked, and felt the curve of his smirk against your shoulder.
König's gloved fingers lingered at the base of your spine, tracing idle circles that contrasted sharply with the bruising grip he'd had there minutes earlier. The warmth of him pressed against your back began to recede as he rolled away, the sudden absence of his weight making the hotel sheets feel unnaturally cold against your sweat-slick skin. You didn't turn to watch him dress, you didn't need to. The familiar sounds of his tactical belt buckling, the quiet click of his knife sheath snapping into place, all played out behind you with military precision.
The mattress dipped as he sat on the edge of the bed to pull on his boots. You heard the rasp of laces being tightened with quick, efficient tugs, then the soft thud of his gloves being smoothed over his knuckles. When he spoke, his voice was closer than you expected, right by your ear, his breath stirring the damp hair at your temple.
"Don't bother locking the door," he murmured, his teeth grazing your earlobe in a mockery of tenderness. "I have a key."
You huffed a laugh into the pillow, the fabric muffling your reply. "Stalker.”
König's chuckle was dark as he stood, his shadow falling across the bed as he adjusted the straps of his gear with practiced motions. Moonlight from the half-drawn curtains caught the edge of his knife as he slid it into its sheath, a quick flash of silver, there and gone.
"You say that like it's a bad thing," he mused, tilting his head as his gaze traveled over the marks he'd left on your skin. His gloved thumb brushed a particularly dark bite on your shoulder, pressing just enough to make you twitch. "Like you wouldn't notice if I stopped watching."
Silence stretched between you, too long, too telling.
König's smirk widened as he straightened, his boots scraping against the cheap carpet as he turned toward the door. His hand paused on the doorknob, fingers flexing against the metal before he glanced back at you over his shoulder. "Don't bother with Isaac," he said casually, as if commenting on the weather rather than issuing a threat. "He won't be answering your texts anymore."
You stiffened, the sheets twisting in your fists as you lifted your head to glare at him. "What the fuck did you-"
"Relax," König interrupted with a lazy wave of his hand. His teeth flashed in the dim light—not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. "Just a reassignment. Far away." His fingers drummed against the doorframe, a staccato rhythm like gunfire. "Very far away."
The silence that followed was thicker this time, weighted with everything you wouldn't, couldn't, say. König exhaled sharply through his nose, his shoulders tensing briefly before he rolled them with deliberate casualness. "You'll see me again," he said finally, matter-of-fact, as though stating a simple truth rather than a warning. His gaze flicked to the bruises blooming across your hips, then back to your face. "You always do."
The door clicked shut behind him, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness of the room. You didn't move, didn't breathe, until the echo of his boots faded down the hallway. The sheets smelled like him, gun oil and salt and something indefinably König; and you pressed your face into them despite yourself, inhaling deeply until your lungs burned.
Outside, an engine roared to life, tires screeching against wet pavement as he drove away. You knew without looking that it was his blacked-out SUV, the one with the dented bumper from that job in Minsk. Knew the exact cadence of its exhaust note as it disappeared around the corner.
The knowledge settled in your chest like a bullet. heavy, undeniable.
You'll never escape.