Dom was thrashing now, fighting it so hard you could almost believe he was tied to the bed by anything but his own will, and the sense of power was dreamlike. Silas could take something that Dominic hated and make him need and want and plead for it. His Tory, every inch of him, belonging to Silas. He wanted to dig the comb in, to break the skin and leave a mark that wouldn’t fade. Mine. Mine.
