Blood salts his split lip. Lucien winces, but does not pull away, as Rhys presses the pad of his thumb to that raw sore spot, circles, and pushes . Dying skin rips, widening the wound. Fresh blood oozes out, seeping between both their flesh.

Rhys gazes at what he has done, plying the gash with a detached kind of curiosity, before he takes his crimson-coated thumb and slicks it down across his prisoner's tongue, smearing blood all the way to the back of his throat.

Like a dog, Lucien takes it. Licks his new 'master's thumb. Sucks away the salt, the heat, ignoring how it sickens him. His mind, which has not been silent since he watched her - still he cannot think her name without being overwhelmed with rage - finally quiets and focuses solely on his silent task. On obeying. On fighting back. On submitting. On becoming something more than himself.

Sensing that Lucien is enjoying it too much, Rhys catches his jaw. He squeezes it hard, contorting his skin to burst his bust lip further. He forces his gaze up to meet his. "This isn't about love, Red." Lucien did not for a moment think it was. But then perhaps Rhys is not saying these words for him. He leans in closer, clenches him tighter, grinds the wound deeper. "It's about power ."