"Mine," Tseng repeats, coasting his fingers over the lotus he's carved over Rufus's ribs. The shaping of it was purely incidental; two cuts and the rest had resolved itself purely because the initial cuts matched. But now, it seems so apt, so perfectly suited to what has transpired here tonight.

He grasps Rufus's wrist, disentangles his fingers. He wraps his own hand around Rufus's cock instead, stroking him in time with his brutal thrusts.

"You're mine," he says again, breath and voice clipping as he goes faster, faster. The scent of blood is so thick, permeating every last one of his senses. All he can see is red. "Come for me."