Page 10 of Possession

They call him the Beast like he’s not even a person. I mean, I get where the name comes from. I haven’t forgotten how he fought in the cage. He was terrifying. He was so powerful and so fucking aggressive. And despite being drugged, which Briggs all but confirmed, he won against an even bigger opponent.

But right now, he looks very little like a predator and a lot like a prisoner. There are scars on his wrists. There are scars all over his body. Even in the locker room, I noticed the gnarly one on his chest, but there are more. Slashes. Stab wounds. Burns. I can’t see his back right now, but I haven’t forgotten the scars that can only be from whipping.

Bandages cover new wounds on his muscled abdomen and powerful arms. I look lower. From the corner of my eye, I see a white bandage high on his right thigh, but that’s not where my eyes settle.

I’ve glimpsed other men’s cocks in locker rooms and bathrooms, but I’ve never really looked at one other than my own.

His lies long and thick across his hip, and his balls hang low and full. He doesn’t have as much body hair as I would expect under his circumstances, but it still shadows his groin and makes a trail up his lower abdomen.

For some reason, I can’t stop staring. For some reason, heat starts moving through my body.

Embarrassment, no doubt. You’re not supposed to stare at someone’s cock, even if there’s no one to see you do it. It’s weird.

I make myself look away.

My gaze travels down to his ankles, which are also scarred. Jesus. This is so wrong. He’s scary as fuck, but it’s still wrong. He fought like he loved it, but it was still something he clearly had no choice about. He’s a prisoner, and not in any legal sense. He’s a captive.

Like me.

Fucking Frank. I should never have trusted him. Why am I so dumb?

My throat tightens up. My eyes prickle and tears drip to the concrete. I swipe at my face with my sweatshirt sleeve.

I don’t want to think about Frank, so I look at the fighter again. I refuse to think of him as the Beast. It’s not right. He’s not an animal, and even an animal shouldn’t be treated like this.

I’ve certainly never been treated like this. Beaten. Whipped. Drugged. It seems really pathetic, in light of that, to be feeling sorry for myself. Maybe my mom was right. Maybe I was lucky.

I’m cold in my jeans and hoodie, so the fighter probably shouldn’t be lying there uncovered. I can’t exactly pull the blanket out from under him though.

At the head of the mattress, wadded up by the IV pole, I find another blanket. I shake it out and lay it over him, watching closely to see if he stirs. He doesn’t.

I go back to my spot and settle and try not to think.

***

I must fall asleep because I find myself with my eyes closed and a vague sense of something being wrong.

I open my eyes.

“Ahhh!” I shriek at the sight of a huge figure crouched in front of me. I jolt to the right then to the left, but there’s nowhere to go. I put my hands up.

He just looks at me. The light is behind him, so I can’t see his face very well, but I can see that he’s scowling. He’s dragged the IV pole along with him and is holding onto it with one hand. His other is curled over his knee. He’s in something like a catcher’s stance. His cock hangs between his legs.

I gasp for breath, heart still pounding, but as the seconds pass and he doesn’t do anything, I start to calm down.

“You, um, you shouldn’t be up,” I say.

He huffs but doesn’t move.

I swallow hard, unsure what to do. “I’m … I’m Lucas.”

He doesn’t say anything. He still doesn’t move.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

At that, he reaches out. His huge, powerful hand grips my throat. There’s no point in fighting him, so I don’t. Besides, I’m the one intruding on his space. Not by my own choice, but still.

I swallow against the constriction.

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