Page 15 of True Bastard
Morpheus grinned. “Lucky bastard. You never said your kitten was beautiful.”
“Didn’t I?” I smiled.
Morpheus’ grin widened, a predatory flash that sent a shiver down my spine. He clearly enjoyed the notion of my “kitten” being a spirited captive. Cerberus, ever the pragmatist, just grunted, likely already calculating the most efficient way to leverage her defiance for our advantage.
“So, she’s a handful,” Morpheus mused, leaning back, the picture of relaxed authority. “Good. Weak ones are boring. And easy to break.” He paused, his eyes locking with mine, a challenge and a dare all in one. “Just remember, Firestride, she’s collateral until the debt is paid. Her old man owes this club, andright now, she’s the only bargaining chip you have. Don’t get sentimental.”
His unspoken warning hung heavy in the air. Sentimental was the last thing I could afford to be. Kyllian Ward was a means to an end, a tool to leverage against Jessup. Yet, the thought of her, trapped in my luxurious room, her spirit burning bright despite the circumstances, gnawed at me. She was a paradox—a broken woman with an unyielding core, a survivor masquerading as a victim. And in my brutal world, survival often meant embracing my inner beast. I’d seen it in her eyes, that same fire that burned in mine. It was a dangerous kinship, one I couldn’t afford to acknowledge, but one I couldn’t entirely ignore either.
“She’s not going to break easily,” I said, my voice rougher than intended. My unspoken thought,she’s going to fight, hung between us.
Morpheus chuckled, a low, knowing sound. “I never expected anything less from a man who found a kitten with claws.” He raised his glass in a mock toast. “Just make sure you’re the one holding the leash, Firestride. Or she might just bite the hand that feeds her.”
His implication was clear.
?My control was being tested, and failure was not an option.
The weight of the day pressed down on me, a physical ache settling deep in my bones. All I craved was the oblivion of a hot shower and the familiar embrace of my bed. But the universe, in its infinite and twisted wisdom, had other plans. The moment I turned the key, the click of the lock offering a promise of solace,that beautiful hellion, that miniature banshee with scissors, launched herself at me. Her shriek, a raw, jagged sound, scraped against my frayed nerves.
Why do they do that?The thought, sharp and involuntary, surfaced unbidden.Why believe a primal scream makes them a warrior? It only telegraphs the attack, a pathetic, desperate warning.
A wave of weariness, so profound and bone-deep, washed over me, a stark contrast to the adrenaline that should have been pumping. I was too damn tired to engage her, too drained to play her game. When she closed the distance, the glint of steel inches from my face, a flicker of something unexpected—a pang of remorse, maybe even excitement—shot through me.
It was quickly suppressed.
No, I couldn’t afford any complications right now.
My hands moved with practiced efficiency, a grim dance I knew too well. I caught her wrist, the one brandishing the scissors, and with a jarring twist, I wrenched the weapon from her grasp. Spinning her around, I pinned her against me and felt the frantic thrum of her heart against my own. A morbid fascination, an unwelcome flicker of desire, tried to worm its way in.
She’s trouble. You don’t have time for trouble.
But the rational part of me—the part that knew the stakes, the part that had been pushed aside too far for too long—slammed that thought shut. The scissors flew, a silver arc against the dim light, embedding themselves with a sickening thud in the ceiling.
A smile, tight and unpleasant, stretched my lips. I leaned down, my breath warm against her ear, the words tasting like ash. “I warned you, Kitten. Now it’s time for the rules. And after I whip your ass raw for trying to kill me, we’ll discuss your options.”
The thought of what I planned to do next sat heavy in my gut, a leaden weight that threatened to suffocate me.It’s the only way,I told myself, a desperate chant against the rising tide of terror. The only way to instill the brutal discipline, the unwavering focus. The only way to ensure her survival. But a cold dread pooled in my stomach, a premonition of the line I was about to cross, a line etched into my soul with the bitter ink of past failures—a line I promised myself, on bended knee and with every fiber of my being, I would never cross again.
To keep her alive, I was going to have to become the one person I swore I’d never be again. Not just a shade, but the full, unvarnished embodiment of that monster. To do that, I would need to pry open a door I had bolted shut, boarded up, and buried under years of carefully constructed denial. It meant embracing the truth of who I truly was, a truth that clawed at my throat, whispering accusations, threatening to consume me from the inside out.
Each breath felt like a betrayal, each flicker of resolve a fragile thing against the encroaching darkness. This wasn’t just about her survival anymore; it was about my own damnation, a trade I never wanted to make, a bargain with a devil I thought I had long since banished. And the worst part? I knew with chilling certainty that even if I succeeded, a piece of me would shatter irrevocably, leaving behind only the hollow echo of the man I used to be.
“You whip my ass and I will cut off your dick!” she screamed, trying to break free from my hold, and a knot of something akin to satisfaction tightened in my gut.
I should have been angry, disgusted even. My mind flashed with the ingrained lessons of right and wrong, a lifetime of preached civility clashing violently with this surge of primal dominance. Yet, all I could do was smile, a cold, hard thing that felt alien on my own face.
Without thinking, I yanked her toward the bench at the end of my bed and sat, before pulling her across my lap, face down. Like I knew she would, she fought, kicking and screaming as I firmly held her, prohibiting her from moving.
A flicker of guilt, sharp and unwelcome, pricked at me.
Is this truly me?This brute force, this disregard for her pleas?I was supposed to be the one who protected, not the one who inflicted this terror. But the more she struggled, the more my resolve seemed to harden, and a dangerous conviction settled in.
With my free hand, I reached for my switchblade at my hip and flicked it open before deftly slicing through the back of her jeans, just enough to bare her cotton-pink covered ass. Each rip of the fabric was a small victory, a silencing of her defiance, but with it came a fresh wave of self-recrimination. This was a path I never wanted to tread, a line I swore I’d never cross. Yet, here I was, the thrill of control warring with the gnawing certainty that I was becoming the very thing I despised. Placing the knife on my bed, I reached for the elastic of her panties and ripped as she screamed bloody murder, her fight-or-flight instinct kicking into high gear.
I would have told her that fighting me was useless. I was bigger, stronger, and more determined than she was, but I knew my words would fall on deaf ears. The instinct to reassure, to de-escalate, was there, a faint whisper against the roar of my own darker desires. But the thought of soothing her, of letting her win this silent battle of wills, felt like a betrayal of this new, terrifying power that was re-emerging deep within myself, almost as if it were waking from a deep slumber.
No, this bratty kitty needed to learn who was in charge.
And the worst part? I was eager to show her who her new master was.
