The Devil’s Bride

Chapter 15: Weakness

Moore’s POV

My bleeding feet left faint, crimson smears on the pristine white stone as I forced myself to follow Ethan down the seemingly endless hallway. Every single step burned like liquid fire, but the suffocating dread building in my chest hurt entirely worse. He walked several paces ahead of me in a heavy silence, his broad, tailored shoulders tense, his terrifying presence completely swallowing up the air around us.

He abruptly stopped in front of a heavy door I had never seen opened before—one of the isolated guest suites located far down the private wing. He pushed the door open and stepped to the side, gesturing coldly for me to enter first.

“I have a surprise waiting for you,” his calm voice echoed relentlessly in my head.

The exact moment I crossed the threshold, my stomach dropped into a bottomless void.

A strange man was already inside the room, methodically setting up a station right in the center—sterile stainless steel equipment, a harsh, bright lamp, rows of dark ink bottles, and an adjustable padded table. The man was large, heavily muscular, with a completely shaved head. He looked up from organizing his tools, his expression entirely blank as if this were just another mundane job.

“No…” The desperate word slipped past my lips before I could think to suppress it.

Ethan closed the heavy door behind us with a soft, definitive click that sounded exactly like a maximum-security prison cell locking from the outside.

“Sit on the padded table,” he ordered, his voice flat and unyielding.

I immediately backed away until my spine hit the cold wall, my un-bandaged, torn feet throbbing painfully against the floor. “Ethan, please… whatever this is, I beg you, don’t do it. I am so incredibly sorry about the dancing. I’m sorry about talking to Connor. I won’t ever speak to him again. I swear it. I won’t even look in his direction. Please—”

He crossed the room in two long strides and gripped my jaw with a bruising, iron force, brutally forcing my head back so I had no choice but to look up into his face. His dark eyes were cold, intensely possessive, and completely devoid of human mercy.

“You honestly think this is about an apology?” he whispered softly, his tone deceptively gentle. “No, my little ballerina. This isn’t a punishment for a mistake. This is about establishing permanent ownership.”

He roughly dragged my frame toward the center table despite my frantic resistance. I stumbled blindly, blinding agony shooting up my torn arches, but he didn’t care about my injuries. The tattoo artist remained dead silent, calmly calibrating his machine as if he couldn’t see my tears.

“I’ve been watching your little performances,” Ethan continued, his voice low and venomous as he easily lifted my weight onto the padded table. “You smile so sweetly at that worthless security guard. Like he’s some kind of white knight. Like he could actually protect your body from my reach. And did you honestly think I wouldn’t find out about you visiting my father behind my back? Playing the perfect, innocent daughter-in-law. Holding his hand. Telling him your little stage stories. Acting as though you possess a pure, untouched soul.”

Heavy tears spilled down my cheeks, blurring his handsome, cruel face. “I was just trying to be comforting—”

“Comforting?” He let out a low, mocking laugh that sent chills down my spine. “You don’t get to be comforting to anyone on this earth but me. You don’t get to smile at my staff. You don’t get to manipulate my dying father into liking you. Your body, your smiles, your f*****g soul—they belong strictly to me.”

He forcefully pushed me flat onto my back, pinning my shoulders down with his forearms as the artist waited for his explicit instructions.

“I’m going to brand you permanently,” Ethan said, his long fingers tracing the sensitive skin of my lower abdomen, right along my hip bone. “Right here. Something indelible. Something that will remind you every single time you look at your naked reflection exactly who owns your breath. My initials. Large. Bold. Impossible to ever hide from me.”

“No!” I screamed out, thrashing violently against his suffocating grip. “Please, Ethan! Please don't do this! I’ll do anything you want. I won’t talk to Connor. I won’t smile at anyone. I will stay locked in the bedroom forever. I’ll be whatever perfect asset you want. Please don’t take my skin from me. Please—”

“Keep your mouth shut,” he snapped, immediately pressing his large hand firmly over my mouth to stifle my cries. “Stop struggling like a pathetic, trapped animal. Don’t forget you signed the contract, Moore. You willingly spread your legs for me. Now this entire body is mine to mark exactly how I see fit.”

I sobbed heavily against his palm, my tears completely soaking his fingers. The tattoo artist shifted his weight, looking slightly uncomfortable, but he said absolutely nothing. He clearly knew better than to ever interfere with the desires of Ethan Vance.

Ethan leaned down incredibly close to my ear, his hot breath brushing against my skin.

“Did you honestly think you were very special because you were a virgin when I took you? Because you move gracefully on a marble floor? You are nothing but a high-priced commodity I purchased . A temporary toy. And toys need to be properly labeled so no one else makes the mistake of playing with them.”

My chest heaved with broken, agonizing sobs. The pure humiliation was suffocating. The sheer terror of being permanently altered—of carrying his permanent mark on my skin for the rest of my existence—made me feel like I was drowning.

“Please…” I begged the second he briefly removed his hand from my lips. “I’ll be good. I promise you. Just don’t brand me. Don’t take this away from me, too…”

Ethan’s dark eyes flashed with a deep, satisfaction. He didn't look at my tears; he looked at his prize. He turned his head and nodded to the silent artist.

“Start with my initials. Large. Right across the left side of her lower abdomen, tracing into her hip. So every single time I strip her bare, I see exactly who she belongs to.”

The artist hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded and flipped the switch on his machine. The high-pitched, metallic buzzing sound immediately filled the small suite like a living nightmare.

I thrashed wildly on the table as Ethan pinned my torso down harder, his full body weight completely crushing me against the padding to keep me entirely still.

“Stop fighting it,” he growled directly into my face. “You’re only going to make the alignment uneven. This is happening whether you cry or scream. The hard way or the easy way—you will be marked as mine tonight.”

The very first touch of the needle against my sensitive lower abdomen felt like raw, white-hot fire slicing into my flesh.

I screamed, a raw, primal sound of agony echoing off the walls.

The pain was incredibly sharp, burning, and completely relentless as the needle vibrated across my pale skin. Tears poured down the sides of my face into my hair. My body jerked involuntarily from the shock, but Ethan held me down with terrifying, strength, his face mere inches from mine.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his eyes boring into my soul. “Look at your owner while he marks his property.”

I forced my eyes open through the blinding tears, staring directly into his cold, flawlessly beautiful face as the ink was permanently driven into my flesh.

“You exist entirely for me,” Ethan whispered, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly intimate, dark purr. “Every tear you shed. Every single drop of blood. Every moan. Every mark on this skin. All of it is mine. Say it, Moore.”

“I… I’m yours,” I choked out between ragged sobs, the needle burning deeper into my hip line.

“Louder.”

“I’m yours! I’m yours, Ethan!”

The buzzing continued endlessly. The localized pain intensified, making my entire abdomen feel like it was on fire. Every single second stretched out into an eternity of torment. Ethan watched my facial expressions the entire time, drinking in my suffering as if it fed something deeply twisted inside his ego. His hand even stroked through my hair almost gently—a horrific, psychotic contrast to the agony below.

When the artist finally clicked the machine off, my entire body was shaking uncontrollably, drenched in a mixture of cold sweat and tears.

Ethan leaned over, inspecting the fresh, angry red ink—his initials boldly and permanently etched into my skin. A dark, triumphant smile touched his lips.

“Flawless,” he murmured against my skin. “Now, anyone who ever sees you naked will know exactly who owns this asset.”

He leaned down further and pressed a deliberate, heavy kiss right against the raw, freshly tattooed skin, making me whimper and arch away from the agonizing sting.

I lay there completely broken, shivering, and entirely shattered as the weight of my new existence fully sank in. There was no escape from his fortress. And I hated Ethan Vance with every single ounce of my remaining soul.