Page 54 of The Monster You Made
His hand slides under my jacket, under my shirt, his calloused fingers rough against my skin. I gasp, my nipples tightening as he finds them, pinching hard enough to make me hiss. I spin, shoving at his chest, but he catches my wrists, pinning them to the railing, his body trapping mine. His eyes are dark, feral, and I see the anger there, the need, the same storm that’s raging in me.
“I don't miss your cock,” I suddenly say, my voice sharp, but my cunt’s already wet, aching for him.
He doesn’t answer, just kisses me, hard and possessive, his tongue claiming mine. I bite him, drawing blood, and he groans, his grip tightening. He yanks my jacket off, tossing it to the floor, and rips my shirt open, exposing me to the cold night air. My breasts ache, my nipples hard, and he takes one in his mouth, sucking hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak.
I moan, my hands fighting his grip, but he’s stronger, always stronger. His free hand unbuckles my pants, shoving them down, and I kick them off, desperate despite myself. He lifts me, setting me on the railing, the wood digging into my ass, the drop below a thrill that makes my heart pound. His fingers find my cunt, spreading me, and he growls at how wet I am, his thumb circling my clit with brutal precision.
“Fucking mine,” he says, and I shake my head, defiant, even as my hips buck against his hand. He frees his cock, thick and throbbing, and I want it, need it, despite the fight in me. He doesn’t ask, just thrusts, filling me with one deep stroke. I cry out, the sound lost in the wind, my cunt clenching around him. He fucks me hard, the railing creaking under my weight, each thrust pushing me closer to the edge, literal and not.
“Beg for it,” he snarls, his hand gripping my throat, not choking, just holding, a reminder of his control. I shake my head, but my body’s screaming, my orgasm building. He slows, torturing me, his cock barely moving, and I whimper, hating myself for it. “Beg,” he repeats, and I break, the words spilling out.
“Please,” I gasp, and he thrusts hard, his fingers working my clit until I’m screaming, my orgasm shattering me, my cunt pulsing around him. He comes with a roar, his cum filling me, claiming me. He holds me there, still inside me, his breath hot against my neck. For a moment, his lips brush my jaw, soft, almost tender, and my chest aches.
Then he pulls out, setting me down, and the cold rushes in. “Stay sharp,” he says, his voice flat, but his hand brushes my arm, steadying me. I fix my clothes, my body still trembling, andgrip my hatchet. He’s gone, down the ladder, but I feel him still, his touch a brand on my skin.
***
The night before we march, the camp is quiet. Fires burn low, voices hushed. I sit with Abigail, brushing her hair, braiding it back from her face. She looks up at me with eyes too wise for her years. “Will you come back?” she asks.
The question breaks me. I cannot promise what may not be true. I press my forehead to hers, whispering, “I’ll fight to.”
Lucian watches us from the shadows, his face unreadable. When Abigail sleeps, he comes to me, his voice low. “If I fall, you carry the satchel. You carry the truth. Do you understand?”
I seize his hand, fierce. “Then don’t fall.”
For the first time in days, his lips almost shape a smile. Almost.
***
We march at dawn. The forest swallows us, shadows deep, breath quiet. Elira leads, her breaching axe across her back, her presence steady as stone. Rourke mutters curses, though his eyes gleam with the thrill of the hunt. Lucian moves like shadow itself, blades ready, steps sure. I keep the satchel close, every page inside a heartbeat. Behind us, the camp waits, breath held, fate balanced on our blades.
By dusk, we see it: Declan’s camp sprawled at the forest’s edge, rows of tents, fires burning, banners snapping. Soldiersmove in ordered lines, rifles gleaming. And at the center, a great pavilion marked with the Crown’s sigil. Declan’s lair.
My breath catches. Here he is. The man who bent kingdoms, who forged chains, who twisted truth into shackles. The man whose voice still haunts my nights. To see his banners fluttering in the dusk is to feel the weight of a mountain pressing down. Yet beneath it, something else stirs, fury. Fire.
Elira signals, her hand sharp. “Tonight, we strike.”
***
The plan is simple, as all desperate plans must be. Strike swift. Cut deep. Shatter before they can gather. Half the rebels will ignite the supply tents, their fire sowing chaos. The other half, us, will carve to the pavilion, to Declan himself. It is madness. It is hope.
Darkness falls. The signal flares red against the sky. Fire leaps, smoke churns, soldiers shout. Rifles crack, blades clash, chaos erupts. We plunge into it, shadows in the storm. Rourke fires beside me, curses louder than thunder. Elira’s breaching axe cleaves men like kindling. Lucian carves through them, merciless, his eyes fixed only forward. I swing my hatchet, my arms burning, Marta’s name on my lips with every strike.
The pavilion rises before us, its banners writhing in smoke. Soldiers swarm, rifles flashing, bayonets stabbing. Lucian cuts them down, his fury a storm. Elira roars, her breaching axe painting the ground red. I fight at their side, every breath a prayer, every strike a plea. We tear through, closer, closer,
Then the pavilion splits open, and he steps out.
Declan.
Tall, cloaked in gray, his eyes gleaming like a wolf’s in the firelight. His voice cuts the chaos like a blade. “Children playing with fire.” His smile is cold, cruel. “Do you not know? Fire always consumes its bearer first.”
The battlefield stills for a heartbeat. His presence alone bends it, commands it. My breath catches, my knees nearly buckle. The weight of his lies presses on me, familiar, suffocating. But Lucian stands unbroken, blades crossed, his voice low. “Then come choke on ours.”
The world erupts again. Steel meets steel. Fire meets shadow. Declan steps forward, and the storm begins.
Chapter 23 - Lucian
Smoke rolls thick across the battlefield, choking, blinding. Fire devours tents, powder barrels burst like thunder, and men scream as steel and flame carve them down. Yet through it all, one figure stands untouched—Declan. Cloaked in gray, his presence bends the chaos into silence wherever he steps. Soldiers rally to him as if the weight of his gaze alone commands their breath.
