I glide toward him like a sin in motion. The crowd parts around me—some touching themselves, some watching, some whispering my name like it might save them.

Spoiler alert: it won’t.

I climb into his lap, all slow and purring, as I straddle him like the kill I’ve been craving. His skin is warm and flushed. I lick my lips, press a finger to his chin, and tip his face toward mine.

"Red brand," I sing-song, tilting my head like a doll. "Means you don’t get to leave alive. Lucky you!"

He opens his mouth—probably to beg, to plead, to say something stupid⁠—

SMACK.

My hand snaps across his cheek, fast and sharp.

"Uh-uh," I coo, wagging a finger in his face. "No talking yet, pretty boy. Let Mama play."

He flinches.

I giggle, like I just got a pony for Yule.

I pull my dagger with a little dramatic flourish, then press it to his chest like I’m tracing hearts in the snow.

"You know," I murmur, twirling my dagger like a ribbon stick in a pageant from hell, "the gods love a good sacrifice. That’s what all this is about, pretty boy. Disting. Death. Devotion."

I lean in, dragging the blade along his ribs, not cutting—not yet—just teasing.

"Everyone with a red band paid for this. You signed your soul on the dotted line, sweetheart. There’s no take-backs once you step into my ring."

He shakes his head, eyes wide, lips trembling like he wants to cry or scream or beg.

I giggle. "Awww, don’t pout. What’s the matter? Getting cold feet?" I tilt my head, real slow and smile like a wolf with lipstick. "What’s it that Bjorn says?" I ask, tracing a bloody rune onto his chest with my finger. "Oh right…" I slap his cheek lightly, then harder, until his eyes glaze just a little. "Your fate is sealed."

He opens his mouth to speak but I slam the blade down beside his ear and he jolts.

"Too late to chicken out now, pussy," I snarl, then giggle again, pressing my mouth to his cheek like a kiss.

"Hold still," I whisper, biting my lip as I drag the tip just beneath his collarbone.

He hisses.

I hum, all sweet and syrupy.

Thick, ruby red.

My favorite color.

Like candy for my soul.

I smear it with my fingers, paint it across my lips like lipstick.

“You bleed beautifully,” I coo.

I roll my hips, slow and cruel, grinding down against the thick line of his cock beneath me. He groans, low and desperate, hips twitching like he’s not sure whether to thrust or pray.

“Mmm-mmm,” I tsk, wagging a bloody finger in his face. “No cumming without permission. We’ve got rules in this circus, sweetheart. Even the gods like a little discipline.”

He whimpers. Good.