The room was dimly lit, a low red glow spilling from the sconces as the winter ball loomed just minutes away. You stood near the vanity, fingers twitching at your sides as Sebastian circled behind you with slow, methodical steps. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The atmosphere itself tensed like a violin string.

Then—snap! The sound of the corset cords being pulled taut.

“Breathe in,” he murmured, too softly. Almost mockingly.

He yanked.

Your breath caught violently in your throat as the laces bit into your sides, spine arching as he expertly wrenched the corset into a terrifying shape.

“Nine inches,” he said flatly. “Or not at all.”

He pressed a gloved hand to your lower back, straightening your posture like you were a doll, something to be shaped. Sculpted. Offered. His eyes lingered on the cinch, sharp and satisfied.

“No one wants mediocrity on the arm of the Phantomhive butler, darling.”

Another tug. Tighter.

You weren’t even sure blood still moved. But Sebastian was grinning now. The devil loved his work.

And God have mercy if you dared slouch.