Page 12 of Prey Tell
She pouts. “Yes, sir.”
I watch her as she climbs out of bed and pulls her dress and underwear on. I’d already given her basic aftercare last night, and she’d fallen asleep, so I let her stay the night. I’m not a total monster, after all. I just didn’t have anything more to give. It was all or nothing with me and being with these women meant nothing beyond satisfying a sexual urge. Still, I don’t do anything by halves. She expected a Dom, so I would give her a Dom until the second she walked out of my door.
I am happy to play according to the rules of my contract—it’s when they decided they wantedmorethat pissed me off.
I had rules.
Rules I didn’t intend to break.
She snatches her purse up and looks at me with a stormy expression. “Can I ask why? Why only one night? Didn’t you have fun?”
I cast her a quick glance before turning to the window. “I don’t have time for romance. If that’s what you wanted from me, I’m sorry to disappoint you. My contract is clear,” I add, dismissing her.
She leaves in a huff without saying anything.
It was always one night. Not enough for any of them to get attached. And it provided variety. Still, most of the women I fucked didn’t understand it. Despite making my intentions very clear via a contract, NDA, and a rigorous vetting process, they still expected sweet, morning romps and romance outside of the bedroom—two things I never did.
It’s a simple agreement, beneficial to both parties: they get a Dom who won’t take advantage of them, and I get a sub who will provide a distraction for the night.
And yet, I somehow end up feeling wholly unsatisfied every time.
I run my hand over my face as the sun climbs over the horizon. Despite the tainted memories of growing up here, Downtown Crestwood can be beautiful in the mornings. The coral-colored sunrise reflects off the dark-blue water of the ocean in the distance, and the bright greenery of Hemford Park appears almost neon in the late spring light. It’s a charming city, nestled right between Orange County and Los Angeles County. Being the third largest in California, it’s a major tourist attraction, especially because of the large, picturesque bay.
And, of course, Ravage Castle—where I grew up.
My great-grandfather, Walter Ravage, started building the estate on five hundred acres of land overlooking Crestwood in 1912 when he was seventeen years old. It was completed in 1914—and then he was drafted into the first world war. By 1917, my great-grandmother had commissioned a massive upgrade, turning it into an actual castle with twin towers, three luxurious guesthouses, and over two hundred and fifty acres of gardens, pools, fountains, and mazes—not including the three thousand acres of forest behind the castle. When my great-grandfather returned from Europe, he’d brought with him an entire Spanish ceiling dating from the 1400s.
“A little history for the modern age,”I recall him telling me when I was very young. He was 103 when he died, and I still remember the size of the funeral. It felt like the whole world turned up to see Walter Ravage off.
I grew up in Ravage Castle. My four brothers and I spent most of our childhood getting up to no good—parading around the stone columns, chasing swans and peacocks, tormenting the household staff. But there was also an undercurrent of darkness that surrounded my childhood. My father, Charles Ravage, was a cruel man. Unloving. A workaholic and unethical in every way. He took what my great-grandfather built and nearly drove it into the ground—similar to what his father did. Every generation since Walter was worse, like the grounds of the castle somehow tainted each heir a little bit more.
My brothers and I were still dealing with the aftershocks of our father’s decisions, trying to right the wrongs of the three generations before us.
Miles, my older brother, and I had worked tirelessly over the last decade trying to improve our reputation.
Still, the Ravage name was corrupted—probably forever.
And it didn’t help that my father had been a recluse for the last twelve years, incriminating him and ensuring the general public distrusted our family.
Most people viewed us as snobs. And as the saying goes, you’d never find a Ravage holding a knife at the scene of a crime, but their fingerprints would be all over the handle. My father delighted in his power behind the throne, happy for others to do the hard work in order to capitalize on their successes—and their vulnerabilities. He influenced elections, bought major media conglomerates—most of which were sold after his major fuck ups—and treated people like they were less than.
We were all independently wealthy thanks to my great-grandfather and his luxury passenger ship business. None of us needed to work, but Miles and I decided to start Ravage Consulting Firm right out of college. People sometimes declined to work with us thinking we were spoiled heirs. However, we had money and power behind our name, despite our reputation. People knew that, and we did well for ourselves.
I am determined to bring the Ravage name into the goodwill of the general public. I have hope that one day, our name will stand out in a positive way.
Once I hear the front door slam closed, I walk out of my bedroom and pad down the glass stairs to my kitchen. My penthouse is large—two stories, four bedrooms, five bathrooms, and more living rooms than one person should have a need for. But the views of Crestwood are unbeatable. One day, I’d buy a place that felt cozier and less modern.
Jackson is making coffee when I walk into the kitchen. He turns to face me with bloodshot eyes, sporting his normal dark circles and shabby pajamas.
“Dude, you could’ve warned me. One second I was grinding my beans, and the next, a woman was storming out looking like she was going to raze your place to the ground.”
I grab a mug and scowl. “Sorry. I think she misunderstood the terms and expected a morning romp.”
Jax laughs. “Ah, so she’s dicknotized.”
“What?” I ask incredulously.
“Hypnotized, but dick—”
