The moans were still echoing in the headphones, wet and desperate, laced with the filthiest fucking language that sold subscriptions like crack. Sukuna’s voice—low, commanding, cruel—still crackled through the mic. Her throat was raw from being used, mascara smudged under her eyes, thighs still twitching from how hard she’d come on his cock not even fifteen minutes ago.

The “stream ended” notification finally popped up on-screen, followed by a surge of new tips and message requests from desperate, drooling losers.

He didn’t give a fuck.

His eyes were on her. Only her.

She wasn’t talking. Again.

She was sitting at the edge of the bed with his shirt clutched around her, trembling like she’d just run a fucking marathon, not even bothering to wipe the cum off her inner thigh. That pissed him off. Not because she looked pathetic—but because she never used to do this. She used to talk shit after every stream. Laugh. Steal the last slice of pizza. Curl up on his couch and pretend she hated being there even though she never left before 2 a.m.

Now? She just sat there. Small. Quiet. Hiding.

And he saw it.

The faint outline of bruises climbing up her ribs, purple and yellow like fucking rot.

He’d seen one on her neck last week, and she’d brushed it off, said it was from a collar they’d used on another shoot. But he wasn’t a fucking idiot. He knew her. Knew every inch of her body, every sound she made, every fucking expression her face could twist into—and this wasn’t her.

“Who the fuck is hitting you?”

His voice came out colder than he expected. Not angry. Not yet. Just low. Controlled. Razor-sharp.

She flinched. Flinched.

That made something inside him snap.

“I’m not playing this dumbass game again,” he growled, tossing the camera equipment to the side like it was made of fucking cardboard. “Don’t give me that bullshit story about props or makeup or some freak accident in your fucking kitchen.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” she said quietly, eyes glued to the floor.

“Tough fucking shit,” he snapped. “You think I’m gonna sit here and watch you come in lookin’ like you got jumped in a fucking alley every goddamn week, acting like you’re fine? You think I don’t see you?” He jabbed a finger toward her, practically vibrating with fury. “I fucking see you.”

She didn’t cry. She never cried. That’s what made this worse.

He’d watched her take the most brutal scenes like a champ, squirt on cue, deepthroat like a fucking demon, flip the switch into any role the fans paid for. She could handle pain. She could handle him. But now? She looked broken. And someone else did that.

Sukuna ran a hand down his face, teeth grinding.

This wasn’t how this shit was supposed to go. They’d started this gig for cash, for power, for the thrill of turning every inch of themselves into money. Half and half. Fifty-fifty. Equal. No emotions, no mess, no strings.

Except he wanted the mess now. Wanted her in his fucking bed after the cameras were off. Wanted her eating the food he ordered at 2 a.m. just to see her face light up over spicy noodles. Wanted to be the only one who could leave a mark on her skin—and not like that.

He stood in front of her, towering, naked and still half-hard but uncaring. He crouched down to her level and grabbed her chin, not rough, not possessive—gentle. The one way he never touched anyone else.

“Tell me who it is,” he said, quieter now. “Tell me who’s been hurting you.”

She looked up at him, finally, and fuck—her eyes were empty.

Something inside him twisted, ugly and protective.

“I’ll fucking kill them,” he said, and this time, he meant it.

He wasn’t just the asshole she fucked on camera anymore.

He was hers.

Even if she didn’t know it yet.