Page 17 of Beast in the Badlands
One hand wraps around my shaft—all that Reaper hunger hardening in my fist. The other presses the scarf to my face. Visions ambush me: that sharp mouth of hers twisted in defiance as I pin her against the wall. Her legs kicking uselessly while I split her open on my length. Squeezing that bruised peach of an ass until her curses turn to gasps.
“Fuck,” I grind out, thumb spread wide over my leaking head.
The rhythm of my own hand is relentless, each stroke a lash against my sanity. It's as if every tug, every twist of my wrist, is a blade carving into my flesh, a sweet agony that borders on the exquisite. I tilt my head back, my eyes closing against the onslaught of visions that flood my mind's eye. A snarl rips from my throat, raw and feral.
She should be here, Emry, with her defiant gaze and her spirit that refuses to bow. Kneeling between my thighs, her lips would be a slick, crimson ring around my girth, her breath hot and desperate against my skin.
My hips betray me, bucking up into my fist with a mind of their own. Precome streaks silver down my knuckles, a testament to the fervor of my fantasy. I am not gentle, have never been gentle. Such tenderness is for dead men and poets, not for a Reaper like me.
I yank at myself with brutal force, imagining Emry's throat constricting around me, the way her eyes would water with the effort to accommodate my girth. I can almost hear the wet rasp of her breath, feel the sting of her nails as she scrapes blood into my wrists in a silent vow of her own defiance.
The air in the abandoned med bay grows thick with the scent of my arousal, mingling with the ever-present aroma of decay and antiseptic. It's a primal symphony, a testament to the life that still thrums through my veins despite the desolation that surrounds us. I am a creature of war and ruin, yet in this moment, I am undone by the phantom touch of a human who has seen the darkness of the universe and yet refuses to surrender to it.
My breath comes in ragged gasps, each one a battle cry against the emptiness that threatens to consume me. The chair beneath me creaks and groans, protesting the violence of my release.
“Insolent,” I mutter, arching. The chair’s legs screech against the floor.Her blood’s iron on my tongue. Her scream a hymn.Faster. Filthier. Light fractures across the cracked ceiling.
When it hits, my roar shakes dust from the walls. I shake through it—back bowed like a snapped spine, tendons raw wire. Her scarf still smothering my mouth.
Breaths jagged. Body a wreck.
"Fuck…"
I slump sideways, gaze fixed on the door.She’ll smell this,some primal part of me hisses.Take it as a gift. A threat.I ache to drag her in here and prove whose scent will linger.
But for now, I wipe my hand clean on the scarf and wait.
CHAPTER 14
EMRY
Ikneel over Fry, my fingers digging into his mainframe, feeling the wires that buzz and spark beneath my touch. He’s taken a beating lately, and I can’t let him down. Not when I rely on him to keep me company during the long nights, to help me scavenge, and to distract me from the creeping dread of this war-ravaged hell.
I recall the night Renn broke him—how startled I was when I jolted awake to see him smashing Fry against the wall, metal crunching under his force. My heart raced, a wild drum in my chest as fear turned into rage. I'd never meant to fall asleep; I should have been alert, vigilant against whatever threat lurked outside those cracked walls. But here? In this med zone? The chaos becomes white noise after a while, lulling me into brief moments of respite.
At least Renn was too wounded to stand after the crash. He couldn't hurt me then.
Shaking that thought away, I focus on Fry's circuitry. A soft beep finally breaks through the silence as his systems whir back to life.
“Fry?”
He beeps again—a low sound that settles in my chest like reassurance.
“Good boy.” I adjust a few connections and tighten screws with steady hands. His flight abilities still need work, but his mainframe is intact. That's what matters.
Before I can breathe easy, chaos erupts outside the tent—a commotion followed by urgent voices carrying through the air like smoke signals. I straighten up just in time for someone to burst through the flaps of the med tent.
A young woman stumbles in, blood soaking her clothes like dark paint across canvas. She gasps for breath, eyes wide with panic as she collapses at my feet.
“Help! Please!” Her voice cracks like dry earth beneathfoot.
My heart drops as I spot her wounds—deep lacerations etched across her arms and shoulders—blood spills from her mouth like a horror show painting splashed across an easel.
“What happened?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
“North sector,” she wheezes, shaking her head as if denying reality will somehow change it. “It fell… no survivors…”
The words hang heavy in the air around us—a death knell echoing through what little remains of hope in this godforsaken place.
