Page 76 of True Bastard
But when I saw Silkie run her fucking claws down Firestride’s chest, I growled.
My growl was low and guttural, a warning shot fired from the depths of my gut. Silkie’s claws, sharp and deliberate, raked down Firestride’s chest, but instead of eliciting the reaction she craved, she received only a cold, impassive stare. My eyes, previously filled with a dangerous flicker of something akin to desire, now hardened, narrowing into chips of flint. The casual brutality of the club, the ingrained habit of treating women as disposable playthings, was a constant irritant, a festering wound that never seemed to heal. But Silkie’s actions, her blatant disregard for the unspoken rules of possession, crossed a line I couldn’t, wouldn’t, tolerate.
“Get your fucking hands off him, whore,” I spat, my voice a venomous hiss that cut through the raucous noise of the surrounding brothers. My words, raw and laced with a fury Ihadn’t felt since the night Firestride had claimed me, ripped from my throat. My body, still sore and tender from his brutal attentions, coiled with a primal rage. Silkie, startled by the unexpected ferocity of my attack, recoiled, her practiced smile faltering as her eyes, wide with surprise, darted between me and Firestride. He, for his part, remained impassive, his gaze fixed on me, a silent acknowledgment of the storm brewing between us.
Then, a slow, dangerous smile spread across Firestride’s lips, a stark contrast to the grim set of his jaw. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t intervened; his silence was a chilling testament to his calculated amusement. He knew I could handle myself, that my claws were sharp enough. But this... this was different. This was about ownership, about dominance, and in that moment, a dawning realization descended. I was his, and he would not tolerate any challenge to his claim, not from a club brother, and certainly not from anyone else.
Now it was my turn to stake my claim.
Chapter Forty-Three
Kyllian
“I said, get your fucking hands off him.”
Silkie froze, her hand suspended in midair, as the room fell silent around us. The anticipation was palpable, every brother watching to see who would back down first. I refused to flinch, letting my fury radiate from every muscle, daring anyone to challenge my claim. Firestride’s gaze never left mine, the corners of his mouth twitching with something dangerous—pride, approval, maybe even hunger. In that charged moment, the hierarchy of my world was being rewritten, not with words but through the raw, primal assertion of power and belonging.
With a deliberate step forward, I closed the distance between us until Silkie could feel the heat of my glare. The air crackled with tension, the weight of my challenge heavy and undeniable. Around us, the brothers looked on, their faces masks of curiosity and caution, but none dared interfere. This was more than a petty squabble—it was a battle line drawn, a reminder that I was no longer content to lurk in the shadows of Firestride’s world. I was ready to take up space, to demand my place at his side, no matter the cost. But when the cunt smiled and leaned forward to kiss my man, nothing, not even death, would stop me from killing this bitch.
“Yo, bitch!” someone yelled, just as a blade was hurled into the air toward me. Catching it, I palmed the knife with my left hand, while my right connected with the cunt’s face. The impactsent Silkie stumbling back, her hand flying to her throbbing jaw, her practiced smile replaced by a sneer of pure disbelief. The knife, now held firm in my hand, glinted in the dim light, a silent promise of further retribution. Firestride, who had remained a silent observer, his eyes locked onto mine, finally moved. A low growl emanated from his chest, and he stepped forward, not to intervene, but to watch, a predator observing a kill.
A wave of adrenaline, hot and potent, surged through me. This wasn’t just about Silkie’s audacity; it was about staking my claim, about showing these men, this club, that I was not just some possession to be fought over, but a force to be reckoned with. The years of enduring humiliation, of swallowing my pride, had finally erupted, a volcano of fury seeking an outlet. I didn’t care about the rules, the politics, or the unspoken laws of the Brotherhood. I cared about the truth, the raw, undeniable truth that I belonged to no one but myself. And right now, I belonged to no one more than I belonged to the fire that burned within me, a fire that Silkie had foolishly tried to extinguish.
My gaze met Firestride’s, and in his obsidian eyes, I saw a flicker of something I’d never witnessed before—a grudging respect. He knew I was a fighter, a survivor. He had seen it in me from the beginning, and he had tried to tame it, to cage it. But he had failed.
As Silkie scrambled back to her feet, her face contorted with rage, I knew that the real battle had just begun. This wasn’t just about Firestride anymore. It was about me, Kyllian, and the firestorm she had inadvertently ignited.
“You fucking cunt!” Silkie snapped as she righted her see-through top. “Who the fuck do you think you are? His dick was inside me long before you arrived and will be again when he tires of your ass. So back the fuck off, bitch, and know your fucking place.”
My blood boiled.
Her words, laced with venom and entitlement, were a direct challenge, a gauntlet thrown at my feet. The raw fury that had simmered beneath the surface for days erupted, a primal roar tearing from my throat. Silkie’s words, meant to demean and dismiss, only fueled the inferno within me. I saw Firestride watching, a grim satisfaction playing on his lips, and in that moment, I knew this was my battle to win or lose.
I took a step forward, my gaze never leaving Silkie’s. The knife, still in my hand, felt like an extension of my will, a promise of retribution.
“His dick,” I began, my voice a malevolent hiss that resonated with newfound power, “has been inside me since the moment he decided I was his property. And unlike you, whore, I didn’t have to beg for it. He claimed me. He owns me. And you,” I spat my words like venom, “are just a cheap imitation, a worn-out toy he discards when he’s done. So back the fuck off before you get hurt.”
Silkie scoffed, but her bravado was cracking, her eyes darting nervously towards Firestride, who remained an impassive observer. He knew—they all knew—that my words, however crude, were the truth. He had claimed me, and in his twisted way, he had protected me from the likes of her.
This fight wasn’t just for my pride anymore; it was for my right to exist, to be seen as more than just another piece of club property. And if that meant drawing blood, if that meant showing them all that this “old lady” had teeth, then so be it.
The air exploded with Silkie’s raw shriek, a sound that clawed at my eardrums as she launched herself, a blur of predatory fury. My left hand, a phantom limb driven by an instinct sharper than any steel, twisted. At the precipice of impact, I spun, the blade a silver whisper against the sudden, sickening bloom of scarlet across her gut. Then, a visceral clench as my fingers found purchase in a thick hank of her hair, and I yanked her head back.Before the stunned silence could even register, the cold kiss of metal slid across her throat, a final, ragged exhalation, and then the guttural shove that sent her tumbling.
A tableau of frozen horror. The room held its breath, a collective, suffocating stillness. My gaze, a predatory sweep, snagged on each cowering face, each pair of wide, terrified eyes. I let out a low growl, a viper’s hiss that ripped through the unnatural quiet. “Any more fucking questions, you worthless bitches?”
Silence.
A vast, echoing void where answers should have been. My attention—a laser-like focus—swung to Firestride. He stood, a monument to dangerous amusement, his chest swelling with savage pride, the blood-slicked blade still an extension of my will, now aimed like a gauntlet thrown at his feet. “Do you fucking understand?”
A wolfish grin stretched across his face, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “Oh, yeah, baby. I fucking understand,” he purred, the sound vibrating with a dark promise. He strode forward, the leather of his boots a soft thud on the floor, his presence a tangible heat against the lingering chill of death. Then, with an ease that belied his brute strength, he picked me up, and my legs instantly wrapped around his waist. His voice, a low rumble that vibrated against my ribs, was laced with a playful malice as he slapped my ass hard and roared, “BASTARDS BY BLOOD!”
But before any of the brothers could respond, I shouted, “SISTER BY CHOICE!”
He growled as he carried me upstairs.
The crack of the door slamming shut was a prelude, a punctuation mark before the storm. In the blink of an eye, his raw power pinned me, a vise of need against the unyielding wall. His mouth wasn’t just kissing; it was a desperate, consuming force, tearing at my lips, his nails a frantic, primal scrabbleagainst the fabric that dared to separate us. Every touch was a wildfire licking at my skin, igniting a response that was less a choice and more an inevitable surrender. My body, a taut string pulled to its breaking point, sang with a desperate, instinctual yes.
When his tongue, audacious and unhesitating, plunged into the wet heat of my mouth, the sudden absence of air left me gasping, clinging to him like a drowning soul. He tasted of desperation, of a hunger honed by years of barren waiting, a predator finally claiming its long-denied prey. And in that intoxicating, dizzying onslaught, the icy grip of my fury shattered, replaced by a scorching, insatiable blaze that mirrored his own. I met his ravenous assault with a need that burned, a desperate, echo of his own profound, terrifying desire.
