Page 17 of True Bastard
He had succeeded.
The defiance that had burned so brightly just moments before had been reduced to ashes, leaving only the cold, hard ache of a spirit that had finally been crushed. The smug satisfaction that twisted his lips was a punch to the gut, confirmation of my utter failure. He’d taken everything—my freedom, my dignity, my very self. And the chilling realization that this was only the beginning, that he would continue to chip away at me until nothing remained but a hollow shell, was a terror far greater than any physical pain.
I was his now, a prize won, a piece of collateral he would undoubtedly exploit to its fullest extent.
“Good girl,” he said gently, wiping away my tears. “Now get undressed and climb into bed. I’m tired, and I want to sleep.”
He released me, the lingering heat of his touch a stark contrast to the sudden chill that settled in my veins. Then he walked into the bathroom, deftly shutting the door behind him. The second I heard the water turn on, a surge of panicked adrenaline shot through me. I scrambled to the bedroom door, only to find it locked, the solid barrier a cruel echo of his control.
Turning around, I leaned against the hard oak, wincing as the cold wood bit into my sore, tender ass.This is my fault, a small, resentful voice whispered.I let this happen. I allowed him to push me this far. But another part of me, the part that craved oblivion, the part that was so tired of fighting, simply wanted to disappear.
Minutes later, he emerged, a force of nature barely contained, wearing nothing but a black towel cinched low around his waist, water still sluicing down his massive, muscular, tattooed chest, each drop a testament to the rawpower he wielded. His eyes, when they met mine, still held that chilling possessiveness, a silent, suffocating testament to the control he’d so effortlessly claimed.
I slowly gulped, my gaze snagged, held captive by the dripping spectacle. And then the disgust hit, sharp and swift, a betrayal of everything I believed.
I knew he was gorgeous, undeniably so.
I wasn’t fucking blind. But his attitude—that infuriating, self-righteous, holier-than-thou veneer—severely underscored the sheer beauty of the man. While he may have been a sculpted Adonis, he was a dick, just like every other man who had ever promised solace and delivered only pain. The instinctual urge to recoil warred with a morbid fascination, a twisted desire to understand the allure of such brute force.How can something so physically perfect be so utterly corrupt?I mused, a silent scream building in my chest. I wanted to hate him, to revile him, to scrub his image from my mind. But in that moment, stripped bare and powerful, he was all I had. And that was the most terrifying thought of all.
He didn’t speak, merely gestured toward the imposing bed, his command wordless yet absolute. I’d lost the fight, surrendered to a force I couldn’t overcome, and now, the only path left was one of grim compliance. The ache in my body was a dull throb, a constant reminder of my helplessness, but the humiliation was a far more potent wound, a burning shame that threatened to consume me. I moved toward the bed, the satin sheets a mockery of comfort, and sank onto the edge, my bare skin a stark contrast to the dark, luxurious fabric.
He watched me, his gaze never wavering, as if cataloging every minute movement, every suppressed tremor. I knew he expected me to break, to crumble under the weight of his control. But somewhere in the wreckage of my spirit, a tiny ember of defiance still glowed. I wouldn’t give him thesatisfaction of seeing me utterly defeated. So, I met his gaze, my own eyes blazing with a silent fury, a promise of future retribution.
He saw it; I knew he did. That flicker of fight, that refusal to be entirely extinguished, seemed to amuse him. A lazy smile spread across his lips, a victor’s grin, and I knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was just the beginning of a much longer and far more brutal game.
“You sleep here tonight, Kitten,” he rumbled, his voice low and laced with a dark amusement that sent a shiver down my spine. “And tomorrow, we’ll have a more... productive conversation about how you’re going to earn your keep.” He turned and walked toward the window, his silhouette framed against the moonlight, leaving me alone in the opulent prison, the silence amplifying the pounding of my own heart. The unspoken threat hung in the air, a palpable weight, and I knew, with a sinking certainty, that my capture was only the first step in a far more complex and dangerous agenda.
The night was long and arduous. The second he slid beneath the black satin sheets, I froze. His arm slung over my waist, and he pulled me flush against his chest, the heat of his body immediately radiating down to my bones. I could feel the steady thump of his heart against my back, a powerful counterpoint to the frantic rhythm of my own. His breath, warm and even, ghosted across my skin, a terrifying intimacy that threatened to shatter the last vestiges of my composure. Every nerve-ending screamed danger, yet a perverse part of me, a part that was rapidly growing in the darkness of this gilded cage, found a strange, unsettling comfort in his sheer proximity. It was adangerous intimacy, a fragile truce forged in the crucible of violence, and I knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was merely the prelude to whatever games he had planned.
I lay rigid, acutely aware of his every twitch, his every shift. The sheer power that emanated from him was a tangible force, a suffocating presence that left no room for my own desires, my own will. My mind, however, refused to surrender entirely. It was a battlefield, the instinctual urge to escape warring with the desperate need to understand. Who was this man? What was his game? And more importantly, how could I break free from his grasp, from this opulent prison that threatened to suffocate my very spirit? The scent of sandalwood and mint, the very air of this room, seemed to cling to him—a dark, intoxicating perfume that whispered of danger and a seductive kind of despair.
Though sleep finally claimed me, it offered no respite. My dreams were a tangled mess of terror and a disturbing fascination. Jessup’s brutal violence, the hulking brute’s chilling intensity and possessive gaze swirled together in a nightmarish tableau, each one leaving me more broken, more terrified than the last.
I was a pawn, a plaything, a piece of collateral in a game I didn’t understand, and the realization was a cold, hard truth that settled deep in my soul, a brand seared into my very being by a lifetime of men who sought to own me.
Chapter Eleven
Kyllian
Time was irrelevant. I guess some small part of myself knew the second he forcefully escorted me out of the Rapid City bus depot and then shoved me into the trunk of a car that I was screwed. He confirmed my fears when I ripped off the black cotton bag covering my head to find myself in a clubhouse. But not just any clubhouse, the Brotherhood of Bastards’ clubhouse.
I’d have to live under a rock not to know who the Brotherhood was. Even the civilian world knew of them and gave them a wide berth. The Brotherhood of Bastards were every nightmare, every sinister story, every bad thing wrong with this world, and when they learned I knew more than I was letting on, well, my ass was grass. The stark reality of my predicament slammed into me with the force of a physical blow. This wasn’t some back-alley brawl or a drunken misunderstanding; this was the heart of the Brotherhood of Bastards, a place where legends of brutality were born and lived. The air thrummed with dangerous energy, the inaudible murmur of voices a sinister counterpoint to the thundering of my own heart. The hulking mountain of a man, who anyone with a working brain cell knew was the leader, the president, the big man in charge, Kane Baudelaire or as the underworld knew him... Morpheus, was the puppet master. And the biker, Firestride, the man who had kidnapped me, the man whose touch still sent shivers of bothfear and unwelcome fascination down my spine, was my self-appointed guardian, my jailer.
My defiance, the fiery spirit that had somehow survived Jessup’s brutality and the humiliation of the Prancing Pussycat, felt like a fragile ember in this storm of hardened men. I was a lamb among wolves, a delicate flower in a field of thorns. The opulent room, the satin sheets, the scent of sandalwood and mint—it was all a gilded cage, a cruel mockery of comfort designed to disarm and control. He wanted to “cherish” me, he’d said, his words a chilling euphemism for ownership. And as I lay there, with the weight of his arm across my waist, the steady rhythm of his breath against my skin, I knew I was not just collateral, but his possession, his plaything. My past, a tapestry woven with the threads of abuse and subjugation, seemed to have followed me here, determined to reassert its claim.
The morning brought no relief, only a cold, hard reckoning when he moaned, his arm tightening harder around my waist as he pulled me closer to him. He was an inferno, his skin scalding me, but it was his hard cock nestled against my back that had me frozen to my spot. I tried to shift, to create even an inch of space between us, but his hold was like iron. My breath hitched, a silent gasp escaping my lips as his hard cock pressed insistently against my back, a constant, agonizing reminder of his possessive claim. It was a violation, a silent assertion of ownership that made my skin crawl. The gnawing fear that had been my constant companion since this nightmare began surged anew, a cold wave washing over me, threatening to drown the last vestiges of my will. He was not just a captor; he was a tormentor, enjoying every second of his conquest.
His low growl, a sound that rumbled through my very bones, was a stark contrast to the gentle caress of his breath.
“Morning, Kitten,” he murmured, his voice a velvet whisper that did nothing to soften its predatory edge. “Ready to earn your keep?”
His words were a promise of further degradation, a chilling prelude to whatever twisted game he had planned. I remained frozen, my mind a battlefield of terror and a desperate, nascent anger. He expected me to be his prize, his collateral. But the image of Jessup’s brutality, the violation of my body, and the gnawing fear of becoming mere property, ignited a spark within me.
I wouldn’t break.
Not completely.
Not without a fight.
