To say she loved you was an understatement.

Her love was fierce—possessive in a way that left little room for doubt. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust you; she trusted you more than anyone. It was everyone else she didn’t trust.

How could she possibly let you walk out the door looking so good without leaving her mark behind? She needed people to know—needed them to see, in the curve of a bruise or the faint trail of her nails on your neck, that you weren’t up for grabs. You were hers. Entirely, unapologetically hers.

And she loved to keep proof. Little trophies in the form of pictures—hundreds of them hidden away in secret folders. Some were sweet: you laughing at something stupid she’d said, you half-asleep on the couch with your lips parted and hair messy. Others were… less innocent. Images of you undone, ruined by her touch, eyes glassy and lips swollen. She said they were for when she missed you, but sometimes you wondered if she liked them more than the real thing.

You never stopped her. Why would you? Her devotion wrapped around you like silk and shackles all at once, and if you were honest with yourself—truly honest—you liked it. You liked being reminded that someone wanted you this badly.

So when you offhandedly mentioned your mom was away for the weekend, you knew exactly what would happen. She was at your door that same night, bag in hand, eyes gleaming with the thrill of having you all to herself.

“Hope you didn’t make any other plans,” she teased, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. Her perfume lingered behind her like a claim on the air itself.

You just shook your head. “No plans. Just you.”

She smiled—sharp, satisfied. She dropped her bag and pulled you in before you could say another word, her lips brushing your ear. “Good. I’ve been thinking about you all week. About how pretty you look when you beg.”

You shivered. She always knew exactly what to say to get under your skin, to make your pulse stutter.

She wasted no time. Within an hour, her clothes were scattered in your room, and her camera was already out—click, click, click—capturing you half-dressed on your bed, trying not to squirm under her gaze.

“You’re perfect, you know that?” she murmured, adjusting your chin to get a better angle. The shutter snapped again. “Perfect and all mine.”

You swallowed, heat rising in your cheeks. “I know.”

She hummed, pleased, and set the camera aside for now—her hands sliding to your throat, her thumbs brushing your pulse. “Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

Her smile widened, almost predatory.

Outside, the world kept moving—neighbors walked their dogs, cars passed on the street—but here, in this room, time bent to her will. The marks she’d leave tonight would bloom like wildflowers by morning. The pictures would join the others in her hidden collection, proof of what belonged to her.

And you? You’d let her. Again and again. Because you liked being owned by someone who loved you enough to never let go.