Page 37 of True Bastard
I looked up at him, my mind a tempest of fury and a sickeningly nascent curiosity. My words, sharp and venomous, coiled in my throat, ready to unleash a torrent of defiance.
Go fuck yourself,I wanted to scream, to purge the violation that had already begun. But even as the thought formed, a strange paralysis seized me. A flicker of something I dared not name—a desperate, abhorrent urge to yield, to not fight this overwhelming force.
Then, his stiff cock speared my mouth, a brutal intrusion that silenced any rebellion before it could even begin. It plunged fast, sliding with horrifying swiftness past my gag reflex. I tried to swallow, an involuntary reaction, but my throat clenched, a desperate spasm of self-preservation that only amplified the violation. A shallow breath through my nose was all I could manage, and even that offered no solace. His scent—an overwhelming, cloying musk—flooded my senses, a terrifying counterpoint to the disgust warring within me.
He cupped my head, his grip firm, a possessive claim that sent a shiver, not entirely of revulsion, down my spine. A second stretched into an eternity, a suspended moment wherethe battle raged within me. To fight, to resist, to maintain the shattered remnants of my dignity, or to let go, to succumb to his overwhelming power. The choice felt agonizingly, impossibly mine, yet entirely out of my control. He pulled me away, granting a fleeting, gasping freedom, a taste of air that only highlighted the suffocating intimacy of what had just occurred. And then, before I could even process the horror, before I could solidify my resolve, he speared me again, deeply, relentlessly. Each thrust was a brutal affirmation of his dominance, causing a fresh wave of self-loathing to wash over me.
Looking into his eyes, I saw not just conquest, but a sobering reflection of my own brokenness, my own terrifying capacity to endure, to not break, even as every fiber of my being screamed for an escape that I knew, with a sinking certainty, I would never truly find.
His gaze, sharp and probing, seemed to pierce through me, a relentless evaluation that bordered on the overwhelming. It felt as though he was not merely observing me but divining the very essence of my being. My eyelids fluttered reflexively, my gaze dropping to the floor in a desperate attempt to escape his penetrating focus. My attention then drifted to his cock, my mind racing, desperate for clarity on the surge of unspoken inquiries my agitated heart now presented. A subtle, almost imperceptible adjustment in his grip on my head registered, an intimation of a significant, yet undefined, connection that had just been forged between us. The precise nature of this profound exchange, however, remained frustratingly beyond my grasp.
The overwhelming physical sensations consumed my mind, rendering coherent thought impossible. The persistent friction of his engorged dick, its impressive girth and length, filled my mouth with each forceful downward motion. I rapidly mastered the rhythm, drawing in sharp, quick breaths as he withdrew, expelling air only sparingly to ensure I wouldn’t suffocate. Mygag reflex subsided, and the muscles in my mouth and throat loosened their rigid tension. My jaw, no longer straining, relaxed into a natural, albeit wide, aperture. A potent surge of desire coursed through me, lubricating the tender, swollen folds of my pussy. Then, a stark realization pierced my haze: he had imposed this reality upon me, this intimacy I had not willingly embraced, this act he had forced.
His fingers, calloused and possessive, dug into the roots of my hair, yanking my head back with a fierce urgency that stole my breath. Again, those strong hands clenched, a primal grip that threatened to tear. He didn’t just push; he slammed me down onto him, a brutal rhythm that echoed the desperate thrumming in my chest. Each thrust was a shockwave, each release a gasp.
I fought the instinct to snap my teeth, a surging rebellion quickly stifled by the searing memory of his palm striking my flesh, the sharp sting that had left me aching and vulnerable. A subtle shift, a tremor deep within me, and the friction, the heat, ignited something far more potent.
A gasp escaped my lips, unbidden, as my body betrayed me, a sudden, insistent clenching of my core. Then, like a phantom touch, his fingers returned, not on my skin, but searing through my thoughts, a vivid, desperate replay of his invasion, clouding my mind with a desire that clawed at my throat.
A strangled cry tore from my throat, a raw sound I couldn’t contain, and the shift was immediate, a jolt that sent my senses reeling. Firestride’s rhythm escalated, a furious tempo against my unwilling mouth, each thrust a desperate plea and a command. My grip tightened, knuckles white against his skin, a desperate anchor in the rising storm.
I choked back the urgency, swallowing when his relentless pace allowed. Then, the bite—a brutal tug at my hair, his hands twisting, a searing pain that drew a gasp, followed by a bone-shaking impact that vibrated through me. His body tensed, a coiled spring, the hard press of his balls against my chin and lower lip a stark, undeniable promise.
I knew he was about to come.
The onslaught hit me with brutal finality, a one-two punch that left me reeling. His guttural roar, a sound ripped from the very depths of his being, punctuated the violent thrust that shoved me back, his release a searing, viscous wave cascading across my face, my hair, blinding me with its burning heat. But the true horror, the seismic shift that fractured reality itself, arrived with the chorus of his brothers. Their agonized grunts, their desperate groans, their masculine roars echoed around me, a symphony of shared climax as they too unleashed their come, washing me, drenching me in their seed.
Through the haze of it all, Morpheus’ grin stretched, a predatory curve of his lips, before the deafening crack of a gunshot split the air, severing Jessup’s head from his shoulders. The splatter was a final, grotesque baptism, coating me in the steaming, cloying essence of his demise.
Kneeling there, with the acrid tang of gunpowder and the reek of blood stinging my nostrils, my lungs burning for air, I was a monument to their depravity, a canvas drenched in their seed, their violence, their very essence. Morpheus, his silhouette stark against the chaos, finally offered a chilling smile, a slow unfurling of pure malevolence. “Welcome to the Brotherhood, Kitten.”
A storm of righteous fury, a tempest unlike any I had ever known, built within me. It burned hotter than the lingering slick on my skin, sharper than the fragments of Jessup’s skull that had found purchase in my hair. I pushed myself to my feet, each movement a testament to the sheer, unadulterated rage coiling in my gut. My gaze, a burning ember, fixed on the figure beforeme. For the first time since I’d known Firestride, that arrogant bastard son of a bitch refused to meet my eyes.
?Then he flinched.
He fucking flinched, a subtle tremor that rippled through his imposing frame, a fleeting crack in the mask of icy control he wore like a second skin. But it was enough. That flicker, that almost imperceptible shift, was all the opening I needed. My voice, when it came, was a raw, ragged whisper, laced with a fury that had been simmering for days, a tempest that had finally found its vent.
“You... you let them,” I choked out, the words catching in my throat, each syllable a desperate accusation. The acrid taste of gunpowder and blood still coated my tongue, a visceral reminder of the horror I’d just endured, the unspeakable act that had been thrust upon me. My gaze, burning with righteous indignation, locked onto his averted eyes, searching for any sign of remorse, any echo of the man I’d glimpsed beneath the layers of brutality. But there was nothing, only the cold, hard glint of a conqueror who had just claimed his prize.
The realization crashed down on me then, a suffocating wave of despair. He hadn’t just forced me to participate; he had orchestrated my degradation, using me as a tool, a spectacle to break Jessup, to assert his dominance, and to solidify his own twisted brand of power. The betrayal wasn’t just his; it was mine too. My own body, a traitorous instrument of pleasure and survival, had succumbed, had offered a sickening response to the torment he’d inflicted. That small, involuntary tremor, that fleeting wave of pleasure, was a brand more potent than any of the physical marks he’d left on my skin. It was a stain on my soul, evidence of the darkness that had begun to bloom within me, a darkness I could no longer deny.
I stood there, drenched in the aftermath of their depravity, the stench of their climax and Jessup’s spilled blood clinging tome like a shroud. The Brotherhood of Bastards had claimed me, not as a member, but as a trophy, a living monument to their savagery.
My muscles coiled, an ancient, primal instinct overriding thought. The world narrowed to the infuriating glint in Firestride’s eyes, the sneering curve of his lips. Then, pure, unadulterated fury surged. My arm, a whip, snapped back, a blur of raw power that connected with his jaw in a sickening thud that resonated in my own bones. The impact sent a jolt up my arm, a fierce, satisfying bite of pain. Before he could even register the first blow, before the taste of his betrayal could fully leave my tongue, my leg lashed out, a lightning-fast arc aimed with lethal precision. The sharp, exquisite agony that followed, the strangled gasp, the sudden, violent recoil—it was a symphony of righteous retribution.
“You sick, twisted bastard!” The words ripped from my throat, raw and ragged, a lifetime of suppressed rage finally released. The force of my assault sent him falling to his knees as he cupped his dick and balls, his arrogant sneer replaced by a flicker of surprise that quickly morphed into pure rage. As he lay on the floor, gasping for breath, my leg, a blur of motion, connected with his gut. Another strangled gasp escaped him, and for a fleeting moment, I saw not the all-powerful Firestride, but a man caught off guard, a predator momentarily disoriented. The satisfying crunch of my blow against his flesh was a balm to my ravaged soul—a small, but potent, victory in the face of overwhelming defeat.
The stench of stale sweat and something reminiscent of regret clawed at my nostrils as I loomed over him. Every pulse thrumming in my veins was a furious drumbeat against his stillness. My voice, when it finally ripped from my throat, was a raw rasp, laced with the venom of a lifetime’s worth of violence. “Your debt,” I spat, my words tasting like grit on my tongue, “ispaid. You dare cross my path again, you sadistic bastard, and I won’t think before I put a bullet in your fucking sick, twisted head.”
Standing to my full height and with my head held high, I turned away from him and his brothers, walked up the stairs and out the front door of the Brotherhood’s clubhouse.
Not once looking back.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kyllian
It was late by the time I unlocked my front door, never thinking I’d ever see my house again. Not that it was much to write home about, but it worked for me. Entering my house, I flipped the light switch on the wall and groaned, remembering I needed to pay the light bill.
