You’d said it once, half-teasing, half-warning: if he ever pulled that move again—cocky, smug, challenging—you’d leave more marks on him than his past ever did.

He’d only raised an eyebrow at the time, lips curved in that arrogant smirk that always got him in trouble.

Well. Trouble found him.

Now, with the Duke sprawled beneath you, breaths uneven, shirt long discarded and his skin flushed, he looked far less composed than usual. And you? You were just getting started.

Your nails dragged down his back—not hard enough to bleed, but just enough for him to feel it for days after. A gasp tore from his throat, though he tried to muffle it, gripping the sheets like restraint might save him. It wouldn’t.

You meant every word of your promise. Each scratch was a reminder: he could push, but you’d push back. Harder.

The way his muscles tensed, the low sound he made—almost a growl—it only made you press deeper. Slow. Unforgiving.

He’d bruised your ego once with that move, turned the tables too easily, left you breathless and too aware of how much power he held when he wanted to. But tonight, the power was yours, and you wielded it without mercy.

By the time it was over, his back was a map of your claim—evidence of every gasp, every challenge, every moment he dared to test you.

Wriothesley lay there after, chest rising and falling, eyes half-lidded but unmistakably satisfied, even if he winced when he moved. Your fingers traced one of the fresh lines slowly, and his breath caught again.

“You said you’d leave scars,” he finally murmured, voice wrecked with amusement and something else, darker.

And oh, you had.