Page 18 of True Bastard
The faint scent of sandalwood and mint, a perfume I now associated with danger and control, filled my nostrils. His arm tightened around me, pulling me even closer, as if to further emphasize his ownership. I closed my eyes, willing myself to disappear, to become invisible, but the reality of his presence was undeniable—a suffocating weight that anchored me to this gilded cage. The sun, barely cresting the horizon, offered no warmth, only a stark illumination of my predicament. My captor was waking, and with him, a new day of his twisted dominion.
“That pencil dick gets anywhere near my pussy, I will rip it from your body and shove it down your throat,” I sneered, refusing to be his victim, to just sit idly by and allow him to control every vestige of my life. I might be his captive until he found Jessup, but I wasn’t going to make it easy for him. I wasn’t anyone’s collateral, and the faster he realized that, the better.
His laughter, a deep, throaty sound that rolled through my core, was a chilling counterpoint to my defiant threat. It was a sound that promised not just amusement, but raw, untamed power. He found my defiance entertaining, a dangerous spark in the eyes of his captive. His arm tightened around me, apossessive embrace that left no room for escape. And that musky, sweet scent, once a strange perfume, now felt like a suffocating shroud, a constant reminder of his ownership.
“That’s the spirit, Kitten,” he rasped, his voice still thick from sleep. “A little fight makes the game more interesting.” He pulled me even closer, my bare skin flush against his, the hard ridge of his cock a constant, agonizing reminder of my vulnerability. He enjoyed my fear, my rage, my defiance. He reveled in the power he held over me, a power that had been so brutally imposed.
“But understand this,” he continued, his breath warm against my ear, sending a fresh wave of dread through me. “You’re mine until Jessup pays his debt. And if you think you can escape, or if you think I’ll let you go without making you earn your keep, you’re more foolish than you look.”
His words were a brutal truth, a cold confirmation of my capture.
I was his pawn, his bargaining chip, and his game was just beginning.
I was going to fucking kill him. I didn’t know when or how, but one day I would make him pay for this humiliation. If he thought he could get away with this and not suffer any repercussions, he was sorely mistaken. The second he got up from his bed this morning, the fucker wasted no time barking orders, and when I flat out refused, well... that was when I realized my first mistake. Because in the next instant, he grabbed my hand and forcefully pulled me from the room, naked.
If that wasn’t bad enough, the second he stopped in the common room, several Bastards whistled, catcalled, and grinnedas they all leered at my unclothed state. Which I thought odd, considering the fucker next to me was just as naked. But oh no... these motherfuckers didn’t give two shits about their naked brother, especially when one of them threw a very fucking familiar article of clothing at the son of a bitch.
His gaze, sparkling with a playful glint, bore into me, igniting a molten rage within. “You wouldn’t fucking dare!” My words clawed their way out of my throat, raw and burning.
A chilling smile stretched across his lips, his eyes, chips of obsidian, narrowed but dancing with a dangerous, intoxicating spark. “Rule number one, my little kitten,” he purred, his voice a silken caress laced with menace. “I always dare.”
His hand, calloused and possessive, snatched the black velvet costume from where it lay. He flung it at me—a gaudy taunt, the fabric a whisper against my skin. “Put it on. Now.”
His command vibrated with unyielding authority.
“No.” My word was a strangled breath, a desperate plea against the encroaching tide.
“Your choice, Kitten,” he countered, the words dropping like stones into a silent well. “Don the costume or remain exposed. Stripped bare.”
My throat constricted, a desperate, involuntary gulp. With trembling fingers, I snatched the offensive garment. The black velvet, slick and cool beneath my touch, felt like a second skin of humiliation. As I wrestled with the familiar, suffocating embrace of the Prancing Pussycat costume—the same silken chains I’d worn days before—my eyes darted around the shadowed room, a desperate search. “Where are the panties?” The question was a tremor in the air.
A chorus of rough chuckles erupted in a guttural symphony of amusement. His leering smile widened, a predator savoring its prey. “Ah, it seems Wanderer’s oversight has left you wanting,Kitten,” he drawled, his words dripping with mock sympathy. “You’ll have to go without.”
My breath hitched, a ragged gasp tearing through me. My eyes, wide with a dawning horror, met his. “My pussy... my ass... they’ll be on full display!”
“And what a magnificent display they’ll make, Kitten,” another voice rasped, a thick, hungry sound. Lips parted in a wet, suggestive lick, a hand instinctively stroking his own crotch, his eyes devouring me, promising a violation far more potent than mere exposure. The air grew thick with unspoken lust, a suffocating blanket of anticipation.
He watched me, his eyes dark and assessing, as I struggled with the flimsy costume. The rough velvet clung to my skin, a tangible reminder of the humiliation I was forced to endure. The cat ears perched absurdly on my head now felt like a crown of thorns. My exposed ass, a stark contrast to the bulky denim of the other men in the room, felt like a raw nerve. A primal scream built in my chest, a desperate urge to lash out, to tear myself free from this suffocating reality. But I knew with a sickening certainty that any resistance would only be met with further punishment.
“You think this is a joke?” I spat, my voice hoarse with a mixture of rage and fear. My eyes burned into his, searching for any sign of weakness, any crack in his formidable façade. He found my gaze, that same slow, unnerving smile spreading across his lips. The glint in his eyes was a predatory spark, a promise of a game where I was the unwilling prize. He was enjoying this—the power he wielded, the sheer terror he inspired. And I, a humiliated but defiant captive, was the center of his perverse amusement.
“Oh, it’s no joke, Kitten,” he rumbled, his voice a low, dangerous caress that sent a shiver down my spine. “It’s a lesson. And you’ve got a lot to learn.” He took a step closer,his presence overwhelming, the scent of sandalwood and mint a suffocating shroud. He reached out, his large hand hovering near my exposed backside, and I flinched, bracing myself for whatever fresh indignity he had planned. But he only traced the curve of my hip, his touch sending a jolt of unwanted sensation through me. “Consider this your initiation into the Brotherhood of Bastards. And trust me, Kitten, you’re going to learn to earn your keep.”
Chapter Twelve
Firestride
“How long are you planning to punish the girl?” Cerberus asked as I watched Kyllian move about the common room, serving drinks, food, or whatever my brothers wanted. I could see the trepidation in her eyes, the defiant fury she kept tightly concealed, waiting for the right moment to strike. She was a stunning woman, that was for sure, and the costume she wore highlighted every fucking delicious curve of her banging body. But it didn’t matter how much I wanted to sink my dick into her cunt; she wasn’t mine. She belonged to the club until I found Jessup, and he paid his debt, even if it aggravated every nerve in my body.
“Wanderer sent me a text last night. He found a lead on Jessup. If it pans out, the bitch is free to go. If not, she will continue to work off her old man’s debt.”
“Nano looked into her, brother. She’s not who she says she is.”
“And what exactly did Nano find?” I asked, my gaze still fixed on Kyllian. A part of me was already dreading the answer. Nano was our intel guy, and anything he dug up usually meant trouble.
“She’s got a history, brother,” Cerberus said, his voice grave. “Nothing major, and certainly nothing that screams ‘wanted criminal.’ But she’s got secrets. Things she’s running from. Makes you wonder what else she’s not telling us, doesn’t it?” He took a long swig of his whiskey, his eyes narrowed in thought.“Especially considering how Jessup, a known dirtbag and dealer for the Death Dogs, managed to snag her.”
“So, what? She’s just some poor, helpless victim caught in the crossfire?” I scoffed; the very idea rankled me. “She’s got claws, Cerberus. I saw them. She’s not as innocent as she plays.” My own words were a confession, a reluctant admission of the unsettling respect I was beginning to feel for her. She was a survivor, like me, and that was a dangerous thing in this world. It meant she knew how to fight, how to endure. It meant she wouldn’t break easily.
