by Angel Lawson
I only make it to the soft, tender kisses up her neck before she springs up, spine straight, shoulders tense.
“Um,” she mutters, yanking one of her dress straps back up her shoulder. “We should…”
Motherfucker. So close.
“Yeah,” I sigh, willing my cock to stand down. We don’t have time for this, anyway. Standing, I clear my throat, hoping it comes off more like I’m gathering myself than growling into my fist. “Killian wants to see you downstairs, so yes. We should.”
“Do you know what my punishment is going to be?” she asks, voice shaking, either out of fear or from how closed we’d just been.
“No.” I tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear. “But it won’t be pretty. Or easy. And there’s nothing Rath or I can do about it, understand?”
She nods and looks at the ground. “I understand.”
I lift her chin with a finger. “Regardless, you’re our Lady now and you’ll be our Lady after.”
That’s the truth, I think, leading her out of the room. What I’m unsure about is how broken she’ll be when Killian is done with her, and if it’ll even be possible to pick up the pieces.
23
Story
* * *
I’ve never seen the whole frat before.
There must be forty of them—possibly more. The room Tristian brought me to is in the basement, but it doesn’t look like a basement. It’s windowless, but lines of sconces illuminate the room in a warm, if eerie glow. It’s furnished with rows of upholstered chairs, which are currently being occupied by a group of boisterous men. In the back, near where we enter, there are a dozen of them standing, shifting restlessly from foot to foot, even though there are still a few empty chairs left.
Tristian leans down to whisper, “Those are the pledges.”
I catch the eye of the guy who was mean to Ms. Crane that day in the kitchen, and then the two jerks from the party the same night—Tucker and Beckwith. All of them are grinning in a disturbing way. The vibe in the air, curious and full of anticipation, is a stark contrast to what’s currently roiling in my gut.
Tristian’s got his hand on my lower back, guiding me up the room from the back, whispering at me the whole time. “You can’t talk back. If you do, he’ll make it worse. He’ll have to, do you understand? He can’t seem weak to these guys. Don’t provoke him any more than he already is. You know how he gets.”
I give a tiny nod, but my eyes are on Dimitri now, waiting stoically up front. He catches and holds my stare, and I can’t help the shiver that wracks through me at the blankness in his gaze. It’s only now I realize how much he’s let me see while living here. The boy I used to know—his discomfiting, cold presence—has at some point shifted to that of a man who’s quiet and sullen, but also sharp and sly.
That’s all gone from his face now.
My heart sinks at the possibility he believes what Killian’s been saying. I’m not entirely sure why it should.
Killian is at the center of it all, and if I thought he looked like a gangster on that first day I walked into this brownstone, then I was wrong. This is the gangster. He doesn’t even look at me, but I can tell the malice in his eyes from earlier is gone, replaced with something hard and shuttered.
Until now, it’s always been pretty easy to reconcile this new version of Killian with the one I remember from high school. He might have all those tattoos and look broader, a little harsher, but he acts exactly the same. Only now I’m wondering if I might be wrong, because he commands the room with nothing more than a nod.
A nod.
The room instantly goes silent.
This is a version of Killian with power. A version who commands respect and gets it, without question.
Before he even opens his mouth, I feel the alarm of being powerless here. Briefly, I consider that I should have followed through upstairs, with Tristian. It all feels silly now, the way I’d felt when he kissed me so gently, chest aching from the tenderness he’d shown. I’d had this moment—this flash of clarity—that it’s possible I don’t hate him anymore. I’d thought about Ted, who no doubt knows about the three of them now, and I’d felt worried. For him.
The realization was startling and confusing, and I’d balked. Tristian has hurt me and humiliated me, and has never taken any of the blame. He’s the same selfish, entitled monster as ever. A few kind moments of comfort—a few sweet kisses—shouldn’t be enough to change that. It was a weak, frightening moment that made it clear just how ready I’m not. It’d be too easy to fall into the lie, to let my heart grasp onto something it wants so badly, that it stops listening to my head.
Still, if he’d taken my virginity, Killian might have two people to divvy all this hatred between. This? The way his cold eyes take me in? It’s too intense, too undiluted.
“One of you is a traitor,” Killian says, finally breaking the silence. The way the light hits his face from the sides digs two pools of shadow where his eyes should be. He looks out over the antsy crowd, jaw sharp and tense. “Someone is trying to take a run at our Lady, which is unfortunate, because it’s not even going to work. We have every inch of her ass locked the fuck down. Now we have to spend our week finding out which one of you is a disloyal, disrespectful piece of shit. That’s time better spent actually enjoying our Lady.”
He laces his hands behind his back, pacing the front of the room, projecting his voice. “I figure some of you are new here and haven’t had the opportunity to appreciate what it means to be in the presence of a Lord. Our Lady,” he sneers, eyes narrowing on me, “doesn’t seem to, either. Every single person in this fucking room needs a lesson in keeping their hands off of what belongs to me—her included.”
He stops, and even though he turns to face the room, I know he’s addressing me when he says, “Come here.” The words, low and dangerous, send my stomach churning.
I’d already decided upstairs with Tristian that I wasn’t going to take this ‘punishment’ the way Killian wants me to; cowed, scared, trembling and weak. I lift my chin and march myself right to him, schooling my features into something hard and blank. In another time, I might have cowered or run.
Those days are over.
If Killian wants to see me shrunken and hurt and begging for his mercy, then he’s about to be wholly disappointed.
He looks bigger when I’m standing in front of him, waiting, face growing stony when his eyes lock on mine. It’s a useless thought, but for a second, I wonder when Killian became this hard. Was he born this selfish and insecure, or did something happen to make him this way? Are monsters born, or are they made?
It doesn’t matter. This is the only version of him I’ll ever know, and it’s etched into my bones. This thought is solidified with five harshly whispered words.
“Get on your fucking knees.”
My stomach drops, eyes falling closed in dread. I think I’d known the second I walked into the basement what he planned to do. Maybe even the second he found the panties. This is how Killian works. He finds the deepest wound and works it open until it’s a gaping, ugly thing. And this is a wound he’s always known about. He helped make it, after all.
He’d hurt me less if he took that knife out of his pocket and buried it into my gut.
A week ago, I might have begged. I would have said ‘please’ and tried to reason with him. I would have cried and lashed out.
Now, I lower myself to my knees in front of him.
There’s a long moment of silence, the sounds of guys shifting in their seats behind me, impatient and expectant. I wonder if they know what he’s about to say—what he’s about to make me do.
“Take it out,” he says, voice deceptively even. “Make it hard.”
The room erupts into whispers and impressed laughter, like they just realized what kind of show they’re in for. Like they all think this is some fun game. The three of them really found their tribe here.
I stare forward at Killian’s crotch, but it takes me a moment to push my a
rms into motion. Robotically, I reach up to raise the hem of his shirt, revealing his button and zipper. Without bidding, I think about those times with Dimitri, up in his warm, comfortable room. Down here, it’s cold and hard and too quiet, and the sound of this zipper lowering just makes my blood run cold in anticipation.
He’s already half-hard when I ease his pants down the tops of his thighs, his cock jutting out. I try to shut out the sounds of the men behind me, but I can’t help but wonder if they like it. Will they pleasure themselves? Will they get off to this? Will Tristian? Dimitri?
He’s warm in my hand when I wrap it around him and it can’t be too appealing, the way I mechanically squeeze and work my fist. He still grows harder, though, thickening in my hand faster than I’m expecting.
There’s something black and breakable swelling in my chest, but I shove it down, watching the way he looks in my hand, sickly fascinated by how fast his cock fills.
Then come the words I’ve been expecting. They’re spoken quietly enough that most of the guys behind me probably don’t hear, but the hiss is caustic and cutting.
“Now suck it.”
I think I hear Tristian say something—a floating, distant whisper—but I can’t hear it over the crowd behind me. They’re laughing. Some of it has an edge of nervousness, like they’re surprised and not sure how to take it. Some of it just sounds jubilant and jeering.
If I’m ashamed of anything, it’s the way their laughter makes me feel: alone. Like I’m trash. Like I’m nothing, no one. Just a toy. Something to be used and thrown away. A punchline instead of a living, breathing human being.
Sitting back on my heels, I let him slip from my hand, resting my palms on top of my thighs. Killian’s staring down at me when I look up, meeting his gaze. Any argument would be futile. I know that, even without seeing the steel in his eyes. I could run away, but it never works. I understand that now. I don’t want to run for the rest of my life. I just want to look back on this and know that I have nothing to regret.
“You’re wrong about all of this,” I tell him. It’s not a plea. It’s just a bare fact. “I haven’t done anything with anyone else.”
“Now, Story,” he orders, eyes flashing.
Undaunted by the angry flare of his nostrils, I quietly confess, “I actually used to like you, you know. In the beginning, when things were…better. I wanted you to like me back. I wanted you to see me. I thought maybe we could…” It’s so old and flimsy a notion that I can barely grasp the substance of it. It doesn’t matter. He’s watching me with this look on his face, which has suddenly gone slack, eyebrows puckered. “I never wanted to admit it to myself, but even after everything you’ve done to me, I think it’s still been there. Just a little, like this residue I could never get rid of, even though it hurt so much to have it.” I hope my smile is as watery and cruel as it feels. “This won’t be a punishment, Killian. It’ll be the only kind thing you’ve ever done for me. Because after this, there’s no part of me—no fucking cell in my body—that’ll feel anything but disgust for you.” I look into his startled eyes and tell him, from the bottom of my heart, “Thank you.”
I pitch forward, sinking my mouth onto him.
The room erupts into a scandalized cheer behind me, but I block them out. It’s nothing like it was with Dimitri, and I’m grateful. Those moments with him in his room were like a balm to an old, smarting burn.
It’s also not like it was with Tristian, though. That had been all hurt and fear and shame. All of that’s still present now, but there’s also resolve and something unshakable—something that’s being created within me with every rise and fall of my head. I don’t really understand it—not yet—but I think it might be armor.
I think it might protect me.
24
Killian
* * *
…Thank you…
Her words keep ricocheting around in my head, so I shut them out, focusing on nothing but the feel of her hot, wet mouth around me. I watch her instead of all the guys in the room, the way a lock of her hair catches on her lips, the fan of her eyelashes as she works, eyes closed. It’s all at once the best and worst.
It’s the best because it feels even better than I imagined. The sight of my dick disappearing between those lips is the culmination of years of fantasizing. And fuck, she’s actually good at what she’s doing. Even if every motion is stiff and detached, it’s still the perfect tempo, the right amount of suction, never any teeth. Her tongue works against me as she bobs her head. For years, I’ve been thinking back on that night with the others, feeling envious of Tristian for having the balls to actually go through with it. Wondering how good it felt. Wishing I’d been the one in front of her, feeding her my come. Now I don’t have to wonder, and more than that, I know for a fact I’m getting it better than he did—better skills, more drive, harder purpose. It’s a battle to remain stony and aloof when all I want to do is grab her hair and throw my head back, basking in this victory.
…Because after this …
It’s the worst because it doesn’t feel like a victory at all. It feels more like defeat than anything else. The head is good, but she’s only got skills because she’s been sucking Rath’s dick and liking it. She doesn’t like this. She looks bored and rigid, like she just wants to get it over with. There’s no heat there. No desire. Nothing. And the whole time, all I can think about is what she said about liking me. About maybe wanting…something. With me. Back then.
I can tell myself over and over that it’s probably a lie and it wouldn’t matter. The confession still catches on something inside of me—this sick sense of satisfaction I thought I’d given up on chasing years ago.
Carter, this dickwad Philosophy major who’d pledged with the three of us freshman year, belts out a crude, “Make her choke on it, Payne!” and the others rally behind it with gleeful taunts. He’s too close to Rath to be saying shit like that, and Rath makes sure he knows it. The sound of his slap against Carter’s head reverberates through the room with a sharp crack.
“Show some fucking respect,” he snaps.
…there’s no part of me…
Even though I’m not planning on it—this isn’t a fucking porn show for them—she pushes down until I hit the back of her throat and hangs there, breathing roughly. The whole move is spiteful and insolent, like it’s a fucking challenge.
I can’t help myself then, biting back a groan as I reach down to grab a handful of her shiny dark hair. I have to pull her back, and the sound she makes—this long, raspy inhale—shoots straight to my balls.
…no fucking cell in my body…
I’m used to everyone watching me, cheering me on the second I step onto the field. I’ve always thrived on having an audience. But while the frat is watching Story, my friends aren’t. I can feel Tristian and Rath’s eyes on me instead as I fuck her mouth, using my grip on her hair to set a punishing rhythm. Story might have been sucking Rath off for a few days now, but I can tell this is her first time taking it hard and deep. The awareness makes my stomach tighten, knowing I’m the only one who’s fucked her mouth like this. I clutch onto it like a man possessed, and why the fuck shouldn’t I? It’s clear now that nothing else of hers can be mine. Nothing.
…that’ll feel anything…
This is it, right here. This is all I’ll ever have of her. A forced blow job in a dimly-lit basement in front of forty-five other men.
It hits me like a boulder, right in the chest.
Curling my fingers into a fist in her hair, I grab the base of my dick and yank her off, jacking it fast and hard. She gasps in a breath before clamping her mouth closed, but I roughly demand, “Open your mouth.”
She fixes her eyes to my stomach and obeys.
…but disgust for you…
The orgasm hits me like a punch, seizing my balls tight. I tip her head up, shooting my thick ribbons of come onto her outstretched tongue. It fogs me up so entirely that I can hardly keep focus on it—this fantasy I’ve been so
goddamn desperate for.
The reality is such a fucking disappointment.
I don’t even want to watch her swallow me down. Catching my breath, I hike up my pants and thrust my chin toward the door. “Go.”
Even now, she doesn’t run. She rises to her feet, smoothes down the skirt of that pretty peach dress, spins on her heel, and strides silently away.
Tucker, who’s sitting near the back, cups his hands around his mouth to bellow, “Make another deposit!”
“Shut your fucking mouth,” Tristian barks, springing forward to grab a thick handful of his shirt. “Say one more word to her and I’ll cut your goddamn tongue out.”
I stare in shock for so long that I miss her exit. Tristian is always composed and there’s good reason for it. It’s taken him years to perfect a façade. He’s got skin that flushes up at the smallest bit of anger, and he’s always hated it. I haven’t actually seen it in years, but there it is now. Glowing fucking red.
Tucker raises his hands defensively. “Sorry, just chasing the vibe.”
I dismiss them before this can turn any worse than it already is. Tristian and Rath follow them all out, probably to make sure everyone actually leaves. If I’m right—if one of them is using access to the house—then we’ll need to be more careful about who comes and goes.
When the room is empty, I stand there, trying to get my bearings. I let the quiet sink into me, but it doesn’t stay—not with her words bouncing around in my head, unwanted but incessant. That boulder in my chest is still heavy, driving me fucking insane. Only one thing could fix that.