“I think we should hear all arguments for his pussy being whipped,” Pretty Boy continued, “and all arguments against his pussy being whipped.” Anteros narrowed his eyes. If anyone else spoke to him the way Pretty Boy did, they would be dead, but Pretty Boy was not anyone else. The Wolves were not anyone else.
Crazy A, Big O, Little O, and Pretty Boy had been just like Anteros, slaves with the rank of a soldier. All of that changed the day Anteros lied about a De Luca councilman. It would have meant Anteros’s death, but they owed Anteros and he cashed in that day. All four of them backed up Anteros’s lie.
If it had just been Anteros’s story, or even if only one of them backed him up, it wouldn’t have mattered, but since it was five against one, the De Luca councilman was sent to his death. That paved the way for Anteros to continue to advance.
He gave them an option that day: have their debt wiped clean and stay a slave, or follow him and keep advancing. They followed. The way the four of them constantly backed Anteros up was unprecedented. In the Family, it had always been every man for himself, but together they became more powerful than anyone could have foreseen.
“I think I should kick your ass.” Anteros exhaled, setting the paperweight down. “Do you have any new information for me or have you all been too busy fucking each other?”
“Hmm…” Pretty Boy said, drawing his hand to his chin. “Your defiance is definitely an argument for it. More arguments for? Little O, start us off.”
“He did not let us see her pussy,” Little O pointed out.
“It would have been the polite thing to do,” Big O added.
Pretty Boy nodded, rubbing his chin. “Mmmhmm, yep, all good points. Beast, what say you in your defense?”
“I say this relationship has run its course.” Anteros leaned back in his chair, interlocking his fingers above his head in a restful position. “It’s been fun. We had some good times, but you all are just too goddamn annoying.” Anteros looked over to Crazy A, who hadn’t joined in on the conversation. It wasn’t unusual for Crazy A to stay silent when it came to jokes or ribbing, but usually he had something to say about business. That day he sat silently in the corner, observing.
“Ha!” Little O laughed, drawing Anteros’s attention back. “You wouldn’t get rid of us.”
“Nobody else can stomach your taste in music,” Big O said, a look of distaste on his face. “You wouldn’t kill us.”
“Exactly,” Little O turned to Big O. “Can you imagine if word got out that the big bad Beast liked The Backstreet Boys?” Little O leaned back into the couch, laughing. Anteros unlocked his fingers, reaching behind him to try to grasp the stereo. When that didn’t work, he spun around and started fiddling.
“I didn’t choose this song,” he said. “It came on randomly. This is Big O’s stereo anyway.”
“Sure it did,” Little O said, glancing to Big O.
Big O threw up his hands. “Don’t blame me for your Nick Carter fetish.”
“I do so declare,” Pretty Boy said, standing up, finger raised in the air, “Beast is pussywhipped.”
When the stereo wouldn’t shut off, Anteros knocked it over and stood up. “Assholes,” he said. Big O, Little O, and Pretty Boy all bust out laughing. Anteros walked to the door, stepping over Big O, who’d slid off the couch in his fit of laughter. Just as he reached the door, Crazy A grasped his arm, stopping him.
“Emilio should be in place by Christmas, right on schedule,” Crazy A said. “But…” Crazy A’s narrow face contracted in a way that Anteros knew meant something serious, something bad, was bothering him.
“But?” Anteros asked, feeling his own face contract.
“They’re just joking about her,” Crazy A’s gaze drifted to where the three were doubled over. Pretty Boy’s hand was on Big O’s back, looking for support as laughter rolled through him. Slowly his gaze came back to Anteros and they locked eyes. “But you gotta get a handle on this thing between you and her, feel me?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Anteros replied stiffly.
“I think I know better than anyone,” Crazy A replied, stare intense. “And you know that.” He dropped his grip instantly. Anteros shook his shoulders out then continued on his way.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Little O called out after him.
Anteros turned around. “What?”
“We’re connected to your account,” Little O said. “The music won’t stop playing.”
Anteros spun around with a glare and kept walking.
“Don’t leave us here without disconnecting!” Big O yelled. “You can’t torture us this way!”
Anteros shook his head. He was down the stairs when he heard Little O yell, “It’s inhumane!” A ghost of a smile came to his lips but disappeared just as quickly when Crazy A’s words echoed back in his head.
When he returned home, Frankie wasn’t in his room. For a moment he thought she’d tried to escape, but then he remembered he’d permitted the use of the library. He took off his pea coat, undid his tie, loosened the buttons of his suit, and changed into something more comfortable. Then he joined her.
Frankie’s golden legs were crossed and up on a footrest. Part of her bottom lip was pulled between her teeth and her hair was tied up. She was clearly engrossed and didn’t even hear him enter the room. It was unfair, like a lion approaching a sleeping gazelle.
He walked behind the chair. She’d clearly picked out the most unattractive items of clothing she could find: a thick, cotton t-shirt and long black leggings. The way the big, ill-fitting shirt fell from her shoulder, revealing the slightest stretch of skin, had the opposite effect she’d intended, though. Lightly, he touched her.
“Oh, Jesus.” She jumped.
“Quite the opposite,” Anteros mused. “Interesting choice.” He plucked Paradise Lost out of her hands.
“I didn’t expect you to have it.” She leaned her head back against the chair so that she could look up at him. In that position, her eyes looked like saucers. “But you have so many books.”
“Some of these books aren’t mine.” Out of the thousands, there were probably less than ten that didn’t belong to him. Anteros had learned long ago it was the wise man who plays the fool.
She put her hands on her lap and scooted to turn to face him. “What does that mean?”
“Some were given to me. Some I inherited. Enough talk.” Anteros pulled her up by the arm, dragging her from the seat. He pushed her against the shelf that lined the wall, a few books falling out. Her eyes widened. He put her arms above her head and lifted the baggy clothes up, immediately unimpressed by the thick, gray bra she wore, one intended for working out.
“I think I need to make some rules regarding your clothing choices.” He snapped the strap. “Do I even want to know what you have on here?” He pressed his palm between her thighs. To his satisfaction, she gasped, though she quickly regained composure.
“Probably not. It’s very ugly. Lots of material. Saggy. Unwashed even. So you can go away now.” She flitted her hand as if to show him going away.
“I think not.” Anteros bent down and pulled down the elastic pants. She was wearing a pair of white underwear, nothing spectacular. He paused between her thighs, enjoying how her confidence wavered when he stalled.
“I’m wearing what you put in the closet.” Frankie glared down at him. “Do you expect me to wear lingerie every hour of every day?” Contrary to what Frankie thought, Anteros had very little to do with picking her clothing; he’d hired a professional for that. He had guidelines, though. She must have a look befitting his station. Her dresses and clothing could not be found anywhere else, and she must have lingerie. The best lingerie. If there was such a thing as American royalty, Frankie was to look it.
Money was not an object.
“Yes,” he replied, staring back up at her. God, she had undeniable self-control, and that was an incredible turn on to him. She had iron will, a steel backbone, and Anteros relished being th
e fire to make her melt and bend. “Let’s get this clear right now Frankie, you are mine. When you are mine, there are rules you will follow.”
“Fan-fucking-tastic,” she spat.
“Like no cursing,” he said evenly. “A slave is submissive in all ways.” Her eyes flared. “I think you already know not to go somewhere unless I expressly give you permission.” Her chest rose heavily with anger, but the way her tongue darted out to lick her lips betrayed her. “And no alcohol.”
“Where the hell am I going to get alcohol?” she hissed.
He gripped her thighs. “What did I say about cursing?”
“Anything else master?” She asked with mock sweetness. He thought back to the chess match, to the face of iron she wore during the entire game.
“Do you remember when you asked if there would be a rematch?” Anteros asked, sliding his hand beneath the white cotton of her panties. His palm met her hot, naked skin.
“Now?” she asked. A small smile came to his face as she sucked in a jagged breath.
“Now.” He wanted her to feel every single bit of what he was doing, feel the anticipation more than the actual event. Frankie shivered, but it was so slight he almost didn’t notice. “Do you like this, Frankie?” he whispered against the skin of her thigh. His hand slid from her pussy, down around her ass, rounding slowly over the curve.
“About as much as I like my period,” she replied. “The bad ones. The really bloody ones.” Her voice was shaky, and he knew that she’d said all of those disgusting things to turn him off and get him to leave.
But this game he wasn’t going to lose.
He pulled back abruptly and, standing up, pulled her pants back up. He had to give them credit—they showed off her legs well. She looked relieved until he narrowed his eyes. “Soon you will realize giving in to me isn’t the worst thing that can happen to you.” Anteros gripped her hand, dragging her from the library.
When they reached his bedroom door, he stopped. Anteros was about to open the door but paused. That look on her face, not of dread but complete stoicism, had returned. He knew she was tunneling inside herself, becoming unmoving. He thrust her up against the door and her eyes widened.
Anteros kept his hands on the wall the entire time, pressed to either side of her. He didn’t even press his body against hers. He started by kissing her neck, just lightly tasting her. Still, one hot, slow lick just above her shoulder was all it took to have his cock punching against his pants. She tasted sweet yet somehow spicy, and it made him fucking insane. His fingers curled into fists on either side of her, trying to stay in control.
Anteros waited until he heard Frankie sigh, then he brought his mouth up to her ear. He took the lobe between his teeth, biting softly. Against her skin he whispered, “You taste fucking incredible.” Releasing her ear, he turned his attention to her face.
Frankie waited, eyes wide, but they were wide with anticipation now. Leaning his head back down, he traced his tongue along the seam of her mouth and gently pulled at her plump lips with his own. They parted and she released a small, musical-sounding moan. Her chin was tilted up when he pulled back and she leaned toward him, but she still didn’t close the distance. His gaze flicked to her chest, the breaths heavy, as evidenced by the rising and falling.
He deepened his assault, crushing his lips against her. Though it killed him, his tongue didn’t penetrate her; he was still waiting for Frankie to beg his entrance. He just kissed her, sucked her. Pants escaped her mouth like a heated, steamy spring on a winter night. Biting her lower lip, Anteros dragged it out with a groan of his own.
When that small, hot thing finally pressed against him, he couldn’t hold it back anymore. Anteros plundered her. Frankie closed the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his neck. He pushed her back against the door, chest to chest, legs intertwined and she rubbed against him, body undulating, grooving and grinding.
For a moment Anteros forgot what he was doing, that the reason was to get her to submit. He bent his head to her neck to draw a long, fast lick. Then he sucked fiercely on her chin, her lips, her cheek—anything. She returned his fervor, taking his hot, wet lips to her mouth. Frankie bit at him, sucked his tongue into her mouth, and her fingers gripped so tightly against his back he was sure there would be marks.
He separated their mouths for a brief instant and she made a whimpering noise.
She’d caved.
He took two steps back. He’d gotten what he’d wanted but somewhere in that kiss it stopped being about her submission and just about kissing her. Running a hand through his hair, he exhaled jaggedly. Eyes wide, she looked stupefied. Her cheeks were red and she panted. It was like waiting for the lights to come on at the end of a movie. Frankie stared at Anteros, trying to work out what had just happened. When it clicked, the flush on her face deepened.
“I hate you,” she seethed.
“That’s okay.” Anteros closed the distance once more, gripped her face, and plunged his tongue into her mouth. “It’s not your love I want.”
Seven
I couldn’t sleep at all. The night’s events played over and over in my brain like a gunshot wound on rewind and then fast forward.
I’d almost liked it.
Maybe I did.
Fuck.
He was an addiction. I’d never craved or hated something so much as his touch and attention.
I touched my lips, staring at my reflection in the en-suite bathroom’s mirror. You know how when you look at yourself long enough, you sometimes question who you are? Like, who is that person staring back at you? Well, I stared into my eyes and it went beyond that. I knew who was staring back at me—I just didn’t like her.
He’d given me rules. Fucking rules—like not saying “fuck.” Yeah, well, fuck him. Fuck fuck fuck him.
“Ahh!” I screamed, thrusting my fist into the reflective glass. It shattered on impact. There was a moment, right before the pieces fell to the floor, when I could see my reflection. I saw my face disintegrate, my cheekbone falling away from my eye, my eyes splitting in two, my lips falling from my face. I shattered away.
The glass fell, revealing the gray glue beneath the mirror. I stared down at the floor, blood dripping from my fist. My reflection refracted, even more distorted from that angle. Blood dripped onto the fragments, splattering. I stared at myself for maybe a half a second longer then shook my head.
My anger dissipated with each drop of blood, replaced instead with the pain radiating from the side of my hand. Without the fury to blind me, fear was creeping in. How is any of this possible? I never imagined when I traded my life that this was going to happen. It’s barely been a week and I feel myself irrevocably changing.
I shook my head.
I wasn’t ready to deal with that. I stepped over the fragments, grabbed some toilet paper, and wrapped my hand.
I walked over to my window and pushed it open. A fresh gust of New York winter wind whipped my cheek. In the winter, the city smelled different. The smells froze. The aroma of bus and subway shivered. Up so high, I almost didn’t smell it. It was almost clear, like in the country.
Almost.
Blood poured through my shoddy wrapping job and dripped onto the sill. I don’t know if it was being confronted with my own lifeblood or the fact that I was leaning so far out, but I contemplated jumping. The longer I stayed with the Beast, the less I cared about Papa.
I obviously didn’t want him to die, but that feeling had become an archetype. I had no feelings attached to it anymore because all I could feel was hurt and want and shame and need. Papa was my old life, a life where a girl could feel love and duty and selflessness. Now…
Now I was looking down at the pavement, at the small ant-like people, and wondering. I scooted up to the lip of the sill, putting one foot out. It was freezing, but the bitter air was awakening. I would let fate decide. If the wind pulled me out, so be it. That wasn’t technically suicide. So what if I was leaning a little to the right? So what if
I was letting my right leg dip toward the ground? So what if—
Something skittered across my foot.
“Oh, Jesus.” I jumped back. I gripped the sill and looked around. What the fuck was that? I gripped the sill, looking at my foot, and gasped.
A tail.
Had I just seen a tail? Either that or I’d officially cracked and was inventing things in my brain so I didn’t go insane. I looked down again. Some people think suicide is a sin, was my god a rat?
Oh my God.
I’ve lost it.
“There’s no rat,” I said to myself. “Just fucking do it.” The sill was starting to get slippery with my blood. I took a deep breath, sucked in the gelid winter air, and prepared to fall. As I let my fingers loosen, something jumped onto my foot. Startled, I fell backward into the room.
Holy shit.
It was a fucking rat. White and fluffy with a cute little nose. It quickly jumped off me, obviously just as freaked out as I was. It dashed back to the sill with such speed I nearly missed it. Then it paused, small pink paws up as if studying me. Nose twitching.
“What are you doing here?” I reached over to touch it.
I know what you’re thinking—plague, motherfucker, have you heard of it? Yes, I have.
It was scared, though. The world had done bad things to it, most definitely. It was missing an eye and its pretty white fur was all messed up. I reached my hand out but it balked, quirked its head and moved to jump out the window. It hopped up, paws trying to find purchase on the ledge.
“No…Please,” I begged. “I don’t have any friends either.” I put my head down, defeated. This was what I’d become: begging a stray rat to be my friend. I looked back up but its tail had disappeared around the corner.
I fell down to the ground and cried. I put my head in my hands, not caring that I was getting my face all bloody. At least with my head smothered in my palms, I could pretend I was somewhere else. I don’t know why I was crying over a rat. It was filled with disease, probably, but that was Russian roulette, and maybe I’d win. Maybe I’d get the plague and die.
Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning Page 12