by Elaina Jadin
I think about my other favorite pastime and it causes my pants to tighten, my member thickening as blood rushes to it. A brutal fight is best followed by an equally brutal fuck. It’s the perfect after-event entertainment. And what better time to let my beast enjoy the woman who’s given herself to us?
“Speaking of appearances, your mother has informed me she doesn’t appreciate the absence of your visits, Draven.” Bishop stares at Draven over his glasses, as if admonishing a small child. “She’s taking it as a lack of respect.”
Draven grunts dismissively. “Of course she is. My mother is never pleased with me,” he says dryly. “I’m surprised that’s her only complaint this time.”
“We’re bringing Jemma,” I announce, interrupting their conversation. I’d feel guilty about changing the topic, except I know the long-standing tension between Draven and his mother and that he’ll welcome any diversion from it.
“Our little fawn?” Draven muses, contemplating the idea. “We’ll see. I’m not sure I want to share her with the rest of the world yet. She’s defied me once already.”
“I can ensure she’s fully… cooperative,” Bishop drawls, a smug look on his face. “She might even be eager to attend when I’m done.”
“You can’t kill her.” The anger in my voice surprises everyone, even myself.
Bishop’s the most fucked up one of us when it comes to carnality. I’d trust the man with my life, but we share the bond of a brotherhood forged in the depths of hell. He has no such ties to Jemma.
He scoffs, rolling his eyes, and stands with lupine grace. “Of course not,” he assures me. “But I can help her discover a taste for blood. And what’s more bloody than a wolf fight?”
I eye him suspiciously as he strolls closer and pauses two feet away, grinning at me, his sharp canines giving him a sinister look.
“You can’t tell me you’d pass up the chance to fuck her after the fight?” He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Imagine it, Kade—you covered in your opponent’s blood as you take her, her screams lost in the roar of the crowd? Hell, I’m getting turned on just thinking about it myself.”
Gritting my teeth, I stare at him. We may be equals, but I refuse to give ground to him. I won’t admit he’s right—the idea has me straining against my jeans once more, but agreeing with him would give him another ounce of power. That’s all he needs to spread chaos and destruction, a single ounce. And Bishop loves fucking with me.
“Fine,” Draven interrupts our posturing, deciding for all of us. “She will come with us to the fights later this week. We might as well make good use of her during the time she’s here. In fact, I think she’ll bear a message for us, one that will be especially meaningful for Terrion...” he trails off, a devilish look on his face.
“Oh, yes—the pelt. Excellent,” Bishop says, a cruel smile on his lips at the idea of psychological warfare with the Latians.
Draven turns to the lean wolf. “Since you are so curious about our new guest, why don’t you treat her to breakfast tomorrow? She’s thin, as though she’s not had a proper meal in weeks. She’ll need her strength if she’s going to remain with us.”
“And if she does not wish to eat?” Bishop asks.
It sounds like a simple question, but it’s laden with hidden meaning. He’s seeking permission to engage in his favorite pastime with our new guest. I can see his mind whirling with devious ideas already. A meal is never simple for Bishop. Nothing is simple with him.
Draven lifts one eyebrow. “Then you’re welcome to punish her until she does.”
11
Jemma
The moment consciousness pushes its way into my mind, it brings acute awareness, and the first realization that grips me is that someone’s watching me.
The second is that I fell asleep and didn’t dream. No memories, nothing. Just the comfort of darkness. It’s been a long time since that’s happened.
The third thing is how damn beautiful the man standing over me is. I’m startled by his presence at my bedside, but not scared.
In fact, I’m strangely calm as he looks at me curiously. This must be what the angels meant when they said, ‘be not afraid’. Part of me thinks I should be recoiling in fear as he quietly studies me, but the other part of me can’t stop staring at him.
His jaw is sharp, his lips soft and supple, his eyebrows are elegant arches above pale blue eyes, his soft blond hair brushed casually over his forehead. And he’s tall; tall enough, I suspect I’ll only come up to his shoulder.
“Interesting.” His voice is like warm chocolate, which is ridiculous for me to think, but it’s smooth and rich, and I already want more.
With my hands clutching my robe shut to cloak myself with as much modesty as possible, I dig my elbows and heels into the mattress, wiggling into an upright position. My hair is a mess, having fallen asleep with it unbrushed and damp, but I meet this man’s eyes as bravely as I can muster.
I begin to say something, but pause. What did he mean by interesting? And how the hell do you greet someone when you could very well belong to them? Am I supposed to wait until he allows me to speak?
He must see the conflict on my face because he reaches a hand out to help me off the bed.
“Come, Jemma.” He speaks the words with unyielding efficiency, and I’m placing my hand in his before I realize it. It’s warmer than I expected—from his clinical stare to his clipped tone he gives the impression that his touch should be as cold as his icy blue eyes. “My name is Bishop.”
He guides me toward the door, but I stop, my feet planted to the floor as if they’re surrounded by concrete. My heart begins to race and the tranquility I awoke with is slipping away.
“I—” My throat is too dry to do more than croak. He looks at me, his eyes piercing me like icicles. I try again. “Is there a dog outside?”
He stares at me so attentively it’s as though he’s cataloging every syllable as it falls from my lips, but he doesn’t answer immediately. He drinks in the fear twisting on my face.
“Do you not care for the creatures?” he asks, and I get the idea he’s almost amused.
A shudder rolls through me and I shake my head. “No. I... If I’m not warned, they send me into panic attacks.”
“Curiouser and curiouser.” He tucks my arm through his, patting my hand before opening the door. “No one stands guard on this level, though there are many... dogs in this building.”
I swallow hard. I wonder if I would have agreed to Draven’s offer had I known I’d be surrounded by my nightmares. “Please, don’t make me get close to any of them.” I hate how weak I sound, and I know I’m in no position to demand anything, but I can’t help the plea as it slips out of my mouth.
“What makes you think you aren’t already close to one?” It’s not a teasing question—he sounds genuinely interested to know my thoughts—but the way he asks it sets me on edge.
A bolt of panic hits me and my eyes dart around the room, wondering if one of the creatures came in with him while I was asleep. The rest of the room is empty, thank fuck.
“But it’s just the two of us,” I point out, not understanding what he means.
“That’s true,” he says simply, in the same efficient tone.
His response isn’t reassuring. It’s as though his question is somehow still valid, even though he’s agreed with me. Lead fills my stomach as worrisome thoughts swim through my mind.
Growing up, I heard tall tales and twisted myths about the strange creatures that live among us, half person, half animal. And later, rumors from a few of the superstitious dancers at the club. Stories of humans who can turn into beasts.
Chrissy claims her best customer can turn into a fox at will. But Chrissy also likes to get high as a damn kite before she starts a shift and at least once a week she swears some random guy in the crowd is a celebrity in disguise—as if anyone would bother going to the trouble of sneaking into that shithole.
I get the sense that he’s still expecting an answer,
but I’m not sure what to say, so I remain silent. After a moment, he tugs my arm and we step out into the hallway. As Bishop promised, there are no animals in sight, and my shoulders relax a fraction.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To eat.” His answer is succinct, his pace unwavering as he leads up several flights of steps, past the floor with Draven’s office to the one above it.
My stomach takes the opportunity to remind me that I’m very hungry. With no clocks or windows in my room, I’ve lost sense of time, but given how rested I feel, I wonder if I’ve slept through the night. If so, it means it’s been a long time since I’ve eaten. The last thing I had was a sandwich before I started cleaning the apartment. Wow… was that yesterday? It already feels like a lifetime ago.
And I’m thirsty, so damn thirsty.
We emerge from the stairwell into a hallway, very similar to the one on my floor, and he guides me through a doorway. As I step into the dining room, I realize that I did, indeed, sleep all night. A faint glow of sunlight comes through the curtains on the big picture window along the far wall. Judging by its intensity, I’m guessing it’s early morning.
The room itself is surprisingly charming. It’s not smothered in pretension like the lobby downstairs, nor does it exude masculinity, like Draven’s office.
It’s decorated and furnished in a way that puts me in mind of the humble simplicity of rooms in an old stone cottage in the English countryside. There’s a table that dominates the room, long and thick, the polished wood so dark it’s nearly black. The walls are a warm, rich hue of ochre, but there are very little embellishments in sight. Even the chairs that line the table are basic in design, wooden with tall, straight backs.
There’s an older, matronly looking woman laying food out at the end of the table. She gives me a smile, but I look away, shame flooding me. What must she think of me, wearing only silk lingerie in such a nice dining room? Does she know that I am merely Bishop’s property?
“We will not require you to serve us today, Miri,” Bishop tells the woman, ignoring my discomfort.
“Of course,” she says, immediately excusing herself through a door on the other side of the room.
When we’re alone again, I look at the table. There are twelve seats, but the woman placed all the food at the end closest to us. It almost looks romantic, with a trio of lit candles gracing the table and a thick book, as if ready to be read aloud to one another.
Before I sit though, a different bodily demand rears its head.
“Where is…” my face flushes as Bishop slows and looks at me, “the restroom?” Being caught in Bishop’s gaze is like being a mouse in the sight of a lion when it’s determining if it’s hungry or not.
“This way.” He guides me back into the hall and down another corridor to a room at the end. When he opens the door, I step in but before I can close it, he follows me.
I freeze for a moment, staring at him in surprise. My bladder presses me to hurry up and get on with it, but I can’t with Bishop watching. A fleeting fear races through my mind. Is this... something he wants? Is this like something he’s into? I know there are people who like things like this, I’ve had customers ask if I’d be willing to during lap dances. I’ve never agreed though.
“Am I not able to have some privacy?” I manage to muster up a confident tone, a little indignation in fact.
Bishop doesn’t hesitate a moment in answering me. “No.”
That single syllable deflates me, and I eye the toilet, hesitating even as my body is screaming for relief. I swallow and press my thighs together, wishing I’d woken up before he came into my room. At least I would have been able to pee alone.
“But I shall turn my back if you wish.” Without waiting for a response, he turns away, his arms crossed, standing sentry as he stares at the door.
“Thank you,” I murmur, taking the offer with gratitude, even if it’s a small measure.
I’m still embarrassed as I lower myself to the toilet, but the relief I feel in emptying my bladder far outweighs the awkwardness of sharing a bathroom with a stranger. I finish quickly and when I’m washing my hands, he’s back to watching me with his all-encompassing gaze. His eyes meet mine in the mirror as I’m trying to wrangle my hair into order.
“Is something the matter?” I look down at myself, but the robe is in place. He can’t be objecting to my outfit, this was all that there was for me to wear.
“I’m simply trying to understand you.”
The tone he uses makes me pause as I’m drying my hands, and I regard him warily. Something about him understanding me makes me nervous. As if he’s searching for the right pressure points, the ones that will hit me the hardest. Where all it will take is a touch to send me reeling.
“You could… just ask?” I suggest.
His eyes narrow at that, but I don’t get the sense that I’ve annoyed him. “I will. But I prefer to make my initial observations this way.”
He opens the door, and we make our way back to the dining room. The food is still there and my stomach growls at the sight. I usually skip breakfast. Waking up with nausea from my nightmares tends to kill my appetite. Plus, there’s rarely anything to eat besides toast or cheap, flavorless cereal. Nothing like this spread on the table—fresh fruit, crispy bacon, sausage links, poached eggs, even fluffy pancakes and different kinds of syrup.
My mouth’s watering as I take the seat Bishop indicates.
That’s when I notice there’s only one plate, and it’s in front of him. Suddenly, I remember the times when Bryan would hound me during meals, claiming that I was going to be as fat as a pig if I kept eating, heckling me that I needed to lose weight. He’d keep it up until I lost my appetite completely and I’d shove my dishes in the sink.
I wonder if these men are of the same mind, and they intend to restrict my meals. My worry must show on my face because Bishop touches my wrist, and the warmth of his hand draws me out of my memories.
“This is how I will learn about you,” he explains, even though I have no idea what that means.
He pulls his hand away and begins filling his plate with everything I’ve been drooling over. I watch him, my stomach rumbling. He even pours maple syrup over the pancakes before heaping the sliced strawberries and blueberries on top and dusting them with powdered sugar.
When he’s finished, he turns his gaze back to me. “You wanted me to ask questions, and now is the time.”
Bishop takes a bite of the pancakes and chews slowly, my eyes trained on him the entire time, just as he keeps his gaze focused on me. He studies me as I watch him eat, as though he’s gauging my reaction, testing my hunger and perhaps my willingness to comply with the questions he’s planning to ask, but otherwise his expression is unreadable.
It’s unsettling and intriguing at the same time.
“Tell me,” he says after pouring a cup of aromatic coffee and taking a sip. “Do you know what a sociopath is?”
I gawk at him, thrown off by the unexpected question. A tingle runs up my spine, as though his words carry a warning. I swallow and draw in a breath. “It’s when someone doesn’t feel anything, like emotions, right?”
He takes another bite of food, considering my answer as he chews. “Sociopaths can feel emotions, but there are limits. You see, I am a sociopath.”
The way he says it so calmly, so bluntly, as though there’s no doubt that it’s true—it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. And his tone tells me he’s fully embraced it. He continues to eat as I feel myself growing ill from nerves.
He gestures toward me with his fork. “I don’t say this to scare you, though you would be rightfully justified,” he says after swallowing another bite. “I say this so that you know how futile it would be to seek mercy from me.”
My body is perfectly silent and still, but my mind is going a million directions at once as I try to process this. I stare at him quietly as he pierces another bite of food onto the fork, wondering exactly how terrified I
should be right now.
An unsettled energy is dancing through me, and my nerves are a bit frayed, but I’m not afraid. At least, not yet.
“Open.”
I blink, the sudden command startling me, but he’s already raising the fork to my mouth, a tempting piece of pancake there. The moment my lips part, he feeds me, and my eyes fall closed with the taste of the sweet syrup and the soft texture of the pancake. He hums with satisfaction, and like with Draven, a small thrill of excitement runs up my spine at the sound of his pleasure.
“Tell me something you like to do.” He watches me observantly as he takes another long sip of coffee, waiting patiently as I think.
“Art. I like to draw,” I answer, immediately thinking of the sketchbook I left at Lucky Devils. And the sketch of Draven I stashed in my tampon box, along with the money. “Will I be able to get any of my things from my apartment while I’m here?”
Bishop’s hand freezes midair as he lifts the second bite of food to my lips. He clicks his tongue with a tsk sound, and instead of feeding me, he turns the fork to his mouth and eats it himself.
“You are not asking the questions,” he reminds me when he’s done chewing.
I watch while he continues to eat, growing hungrier and thirstier by the second. I think about apologizing for speaking out of turn, but an apology would also be talking without permission, and I don’t want to say anything that will make him prolong my next bite.
Somewhere deep inside me, I marvel at how this should be wrong, that I should demand to eat, to feed myself. But I don’t feel anger or frustration. It’s strangely comforting to sit here with Bishop, letting him feed me, giving him control over such a basic thing.
It’s as though he’s training me to understand my role for the next thirty days, while indulging in his curiosity about me at the same time. And for some reason, I really want to earn his approval.