|Broken Ink by Jack L. Pyke|
Carrying a tattoo on your skin no longer just comes with a risk of infection. Get the composition right, you have the latest mind-control drug on the market. It’s the sex-traders’ dream, or worst nightmare, depending on the concentrated dose of the ink—and just who’s wearing it.
For Kiyen, the ink means he’s able to strip raw the minds of the best and worst of society. He’s one of MI7’s top killers and never more driven to select and take down a target. For Falen, the ink has ensured he’s spent his early years as a willing sex slave and low-grade empath. Hiding out in a small town and trying to bury the needs running through his body, Fal’s hoping to stay under the radar of MI7 and their specialist killers. But the ink itself has a mind of its own, wanting to ignite the natural dynamics driving a Dom and sub, so when Kiyen is forced into Fal’s small world, prejudice battles a pure need to touch. Only problem is: Kiyen’s on the run, and in a world where thought can be the worst crime of all, Fal’s in for a fight for his sanity to find out just what it is that’s making a young killer run for his life.
There were no short-term memories, nothing to tell him how he’d gotten here, why he was facing a mirror when he should be kicking the shit out of the door to get free like most Normals. Smoke filled his lungs and, closing his eyes, he forced his head and hands against the cool surface of the mirror. Hips came in next, a press of hard cock against cold glass to stop a build-up of pressure that left him shaking.
The feel of the mirror niggled at the back of his mind, how the glass shouldn’t be cold but lukewarm under his touch. As he stretched his hands out, ice played like wet silk under his fingers. Broken fingernails made small, slow circles and crystals followed in the wake of his touch, adding a light winter sound of ice splintering in the darkness. He let a slight smile touch his lips as he tilted his head to see the ice trails chase playfully after him. Part of him wanted to bolt, to push away as the need to run purified his insides, but then there was that deeper need, that darker instinct to—
“Stay and burn for me, Yen.”
Cold fingers drifted across his abdomen, and Kiyen pushed harder against the mirror, loving how the worst part of him heated from his cock upwards. Yeah, he’d stay for this bastard. Damn his soul. He’d burn.
“What the hell are you doing to me, Connor?” he managed to whisper, his cold breath frosting the mirror. This wasn’t how First Inks played together, this wasn’t how he and Connor played together; Connor spread his legs to be fucked. Simple. Or at least that’s how he remembered this shit going down. “Get out of my head; come find me. See how well you fucking play then, cunt.”
A chuckle gave a sadistic twist to the screams going on outside. “Hmmm. Come.” A cold touch ran down the back of Kiyen’s neck, resting there for a moment before moving around to the curve of his throat, down over his collarbone. “Sounds so good, Yen.”
Kiyen groaned. The cold touch slipped around his lower abs. Connor wasn’t even locked in the room with him, but he didn’t need to be. Not with the ink.
In the mirror, the black vine-like tattoo marking the distance between his navel and pubic hairline, it stirred slightly, the centre of the vines almost arching up like a cat and purring into Connor’s invisible touch, reacting to Connor’s touch. Kiyen groaned, but the tattoo seemed to chuckle a screw you, lover up at him before shifting and slithering black coldness down and round his hips, chasing the finger impressions digging into his skin. Connor slipped a touch down his own body, stirring Kiyen’s—playing with Kiyen’s in the process, now brushing at the thin pyjama material covering Kiyen’s cock. The black ink shifted with him, disappearing beneath Kiyen’s PJs and forcing Kiyen to cry out as he felt vines clamber over his cock, twisting, teasing—playing.
“It’s only rape if you tell me no, Kiyen. Tell me no. Tell Sir that you don’t need fucking and I’ll go away.”
Fingers digging into the mirror, scratching at the ice to force crystals to fall to the floor, Kiyen screwed his eyes shut. He didn’t want fucking. He fucked; he didn’t spread his legs for anyone. “Please.” He groaned hearing that escape. “I need fucking, Sir.” The ink slurred his voice and sent life blurring for a moment. Differing shades of red filtered under his touch on the mirror, vibrating softly up and into his body. Connor’s life signature was always red, either in the mood to fuck about with him and Erin in one sense or another, or he was pissed off. This time the edges of the mist were tinged with white, hiding turmoil, or just hiding… something, missing… something. Kiyen frowned. Connor had never been good at hiding his feelings, saying exactly what was on his mind, regardless of the clumsy fallout. “What’s wrong, Connor?” he mumbled quietly. “How have I pissed you off now?” Tell me. He made that command low, a command that Connor should have obeyed.
“You’re no longer Jule’s favourite ghoster, Kiyen. Control isn’t yours.”