Lords of Wrath: Chapter 24

They look like animals. They sound like animals. They feel like animals.

I know my chest should hurt where they carved their initials, but I can’t even feel it beyond the background throb of a shout that never escaped. No one is coming to save me, and even if they were, would I want them to? Would I want anyone to see me like this? To know what I am?

No, this is just for the four of us.

This punishment was as written in the stars as the rising tides, and who knows? Maybe I’m a fool. Maybe I was arrogant to think I could get one over on them. To think I could take control and keep it for more than the space between one moment and another. To think I could change it.

Maybe I’m naïve to believe they no longer have the power to hurt me.

Maybe I don’t care anymore.

The shame is easy to push away as I watch their fists strip their cocks. I know them well enough to understand how different they are in this. Killian doesn’t allow himself anything approaching gentleness. He’s who the term ‘self-abuse’ was meant for, beating his dick like it’s both the transgressor and the weapon.

Tristian, on the other hand, barely seems to pay attention to the motions of his hand at all. His eyes—that icy, laser-sharp focus—see nothing but me. He’s the hardest to look at like this, on my knees for him with my blood-stained cheeks, feeling the creep of something black and gnarled twisting in the pit of my throat. But I always knew the day would come I’d meet this side of him again, ugly and cruel, unable to drive it back with my quick tongue and empty promises of devotion. I’m ready to face it.

Rath, though.

Rath is stunning.

He looks like malevolence personified—true royalty—and perhaps the worst part is that he wears it so well. The veins in his forearm bulge as he fists himself, and he’s not like the others. This isn’t a means to an end for him. Rath wants to savor it, collecting the moisture building on the tip of his cock and using it to slick the way as his black eyes burn into mine.

I know then that these men were built for this. There was never anything that made them this way—it was nature, not nurture. I’m convinced they sprang from the universe fully formed into the nightmares looming above me.

The more I think about it, the less I can imagine them any other way.

Beneath it all is an old friend. I’ve known it for so long that I don’t even bother shrinking away from it anymore. It’s my hatred, burning hot and bitter, and turned so far inward that it stings worse than the letters cut into my flesh.

Because despite it all—the debasement and humiliation and hurt—I look at them standing there like vengeful sentries, and I still feel something.

Killian was right before, that night in the hallway weeks ago.

I really am broken.

It’s the only way to explain how my belly clenches with want. It’s the only reason my pussy could ache like this, gone slick at the sight of their hooded gazes and rigid cocks. Something within me is defective. It must be, else I’d never want to tip forward and take the taste of them on my tongue, or crave the sound they make when they erupt, knowing that I’m the reason for it. And here, in the dark, surrounded by mirrors and heat and panted breaths I can’t escape from, I allow myself to admit that it’s not just about the power it gives me.

Maybe I’m just as fucked up as they are.

It’s impossible to know who to watch as they surround me, cocks hard and erect, taut abs flexing with need. Rath’s eyes are zeroed in on my tits, while Killian stares straight at my mouth. My eyes meet Tristian’s in the mirror just as he drags his attention away from his own reflection. The blue of his eyes is as cold as ice, but the hint of pleasure streaking through them is unmistakable. They act like it’s the end of the world, but they love this. He fondles his balls like he’s loading a gun, his chest heaving with every tug. Killian thumbs the soft flesh of his head, pulling and pushing against the ridge. Rath rocks in a steady rhythm, and I know them all. I know these slacked jaws and pinched noses. I know that when they’re like this, Rath’s shoulders curl lazily inward, but Tristian’s go rigid.

I know that when Killian approaches me, grabbing roughly at my chin, he’s seconds from exploding.

“Open your fucking mouth,” he commands, his voice a barely unrecognizable rumble when he rubs his thumb over my bottom lip.

I don’t make it easy, clamping my lips shut. He stabs his thumb between them, laughing darkly. “You open up, Sweet Cherry, or you’re going to be cleaning spunk out of crevices you didn’t even know you had.” He squeezes the back of my jaw and I relent. “That’s right. Know your fucking place.” He rocks back on his heels, cheeks red, hand fumbling as he reaches his peak. The growl from his chest lets me know it’s coming, that he’s coming, but I still flinch at the first burst of his release, surging warm and thick over my lips and tongue.

“Jesus,” Tristian grunts, standing just to my side. “Jesus Christ.” Killian’s cock continues to spurt, while Tristian erupts, painting the side of my face and hair with his ribbons of come. It’s less thick than Killian’s, clinging to my ear and dripping messily down my shoulder.

It’s no surprise that Rath takes his precious time, edging himself closer and closer, but making us all wait for him. The sound of hot, ragged breath fills the room, and Tristian’s voice rings out.

“Get her, Rath. Mark that pretty little body up.”

“Yeah, Rath,” I taunt, raising my face to him, “Mark me up.”

He stands before me, cock as red and angry as his own face. “Shut your fucking mouth,” he growls, in such a complete opposition to Killian’s previous order that it pulls a crazed, mangled laugh from my chest.

Sneering, I reply, “Whatever pleases you, my Lord.”

The flash of deranged wretchedness in his eyes does give me pause. I wouldn’t call what I feel guilt—he doesn’t deserve that. But there is a weight to what I’ve done. A mark just as permanent as their initials sliced into my flesh. I fucked with Killian and messed with Tristian’s head. But Rath?

It was my finest work, spun out of a viperous hurt. A wound that was meant to scar. If it hadn’t been him on the receiving end of it, I’m betting he would have appreciated it for the art it clearly was. Instead, his hand hooks roughly under my chin, jerking my gaze upward.

“You look at me when I come on you.” he spits, voice rusty and harsh. “Watch me the way you watched me up on that stage.”

Looking up, I recall the tittering laughter of the crowd, the humiliation on his face, the rigid slant of his spine as he played for them all. The instant my gaze meets his black eyes, he lurches forward, jerking his cock up and down. He coats me in his spunk with this look on his face, like maybe he wishes he had more. He doesn’t need it—I can feel him all over me. In my hair, clinging heavily to my eyelashes, slashed across my cheek, and yes. Inside, too. The vestiges of those sleepy, safe mornings in his bed. The way his hair would curl so softly against the pillow. The weight of his arm around me. How gentle and content he’d look after his orgasm, as if he’d felt the same way I did.

If I’d never felt that warmth, maybe the cold wouldn’t have seemed so devastating.

So when I fall forward to take the tip of his cock into my mouth, it’s not to bring him pleasure. I hold his stare while I do it, knowing he can see the rebellion in the way I suck him clean.

“What the fuck?” he chokes, face screwed up in outrage. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I told you she was a whore,” Killian says, tucking himself into his jeans. His stormy face watches as Rath shoves me back, sending me sprawling on my backside. “Even after all that, she’s probably wet for it.”

“Fuck you,” I spit.

If saying those words to Tristian yesterday had been my first mistake, then this is my second. It’s a flash of weakness—the knowledge that something can bother me.

I can see Rath’s expression shift when he hears it, adjusting the knife he’s still clutching in a hand. My eyes follow as he raises the hilt to my face, the leather and metal smooth against my skin as he runs it over the globs of semen, pressing so hard I can feel it in my teeth. “You want to know what I think, Cherry?” he asks me, eyes empty and hard. “I think he’s right.”

I catch the look he shares with Tristian a second too late. He’s behind me, holding me tightly to his chest before I realize what they’re planning to do. I still kick out with my leg, though, catching Rath in the ankle.

Beyond the tightening of his jaw, it doesn’t faze him. He crouches to his knees, wrenching my knees apart, and says to Killian, “Hold her open.”

I fight against Tristian’s hold, and then Killian’s powerful arms, splaying my thighs wide. “I’ll scream!”

Rath sends me a cold smirk. “Promise?”

Then he lifts my skirt, grabs the crotch of my panties, and cuts them away in one swift yank across the blade. The air hits my overheated center in a sudden burst of exposure. I know when Rath and Killian realize how turned on I am because they each send Tristian this look.

Before I can translate it, Rath is wrapping my discarded shirt around the blade of the knife, and then turning it in his palm.

The spunk-covered hilt of the knife enters me in a hard, unforgiving thrust.

I cry out, less from the shock and pain than the relief. I didn’t realize just how badly I needed to be touched until I finally am. Killian’s fingers dig into the soft flesh of my thigh as he spreads me farther, chewing out an order to Rath.

“Fuck her with it.”

Rath watches as he slides the hilt back, only to shove it back inside of me. I twist against Tristian, trying to scramble away, but it’s like meeting a brick wall.

“Wait,” I gasp, digging my fingernails into Tristian’s arm. “Wait, hold on. I can’t—”

Rath looks me in the eye as he gives the knife another thrust. “What’s wrong, Cherry? We all know how much you like it.” The corded muscles in his shoulder jump as he pushes it back inside, the cold metal of the blade guard meeting my slick lips. My hips flex up instinctively—involuntarily—and his mouth tips up into a mean grin. “Yeah, your cunt’s hungry, isn’t it? Because you’re a fucking freak. Look at you, bleeding and covered in our come, and all you want is to get off.”

“No!” But it’s a pointless protest. They’ve all seen it now. They know how to touch me—how to hurt me—and Rath isn’t about to let it go.

He drives the handle of the knife into me as if it were his own dick, hard and fast. “That’s why you keep coming back,” he says, voice low and full of venom. “It’s because you’re broken inside. You wouldn’t last a week with someone else. You need a man who’d hold you down and own you, because you’re just like your whore of a mother. You’re defective, Story.”

I shake my head, but a tear is already rolling down my cheek. “I don’t—I’m not.” But even as I say the words, my hips are bucking into it, chasing the tight promise that’s coiling deep within my belly.

Rath gives a breathless laugh, and then Tristian grunts, “Show her what else she wants. Remember yesterday morning?”

I don’t know what he’s talking about. Not at first. But Killian gets this dark gleam in his eye, and suddenly Tristian shifts behind me, flattening his arm across my chest while his other hand disappears. His palm slides over my ass and he spreads my cheeks. Then, he pushes a finger in—

I suck in a shocked inhale. “Tristian!”

With a wiggle and a push, his finger slots right into my ass, causing me to seize in alarm. Tristian wrestles me closer, breath hot and fast in my ear.

“Relax, or it’ll just hurt more.” It’s almost like the version of Tristian I’ve come to know. The soft cadence, the sweet words. But it’s completely void of the caring warmth, mechanical and aloof.

The thrust of the knife slows while Rath watches Tristian pushes his finger inside of me, but he blinks and starts again, giving the knife a couple slow, shallow thrusts. The dual pleasure ripples through me, and I bite down on a cry of desire. Tristian slides in another finger, increasing the sensation.

“Your pussy is gushing for this.” Rath says it matter-of-factly, gaze fixed to mine. “That’s how wrong you are, Cherry. You could never be a normal girl. You know that, right?”

I thrash against Tristian and Killian’s hold, but deep inside, I know he’s right. It’s not even long before my hips begin following the rhythm, the sting and stretch so far gone that now nothing is left but the fiery building need.

I don’t even realize I’m speaking, the voice coming from my throat foreign and garbled with desperation. “Please, please, please…”

“Please what?” Rath’s voice is practically disembodied as he slowly removes the knife. Tristian continues to finger my ass, slowly pumping them in and out. It still feels good, but now that I know what I’m missing, I can’t help but want more. “You want me to stop? I will, you know. All you need to do is ask.” Tilting his head, he presses the end of the knife against my clit, applying sweet, delicious pressure. Just as fast, he pulls it away. He wonders, “Or do you want me to make you come?”

I writhe, seeking a friction that doesn’t exist. “Please!”

His eyes narrow. “Please what? Use your fucking words!”

“Let me come!” The words escape unwelcome, like a demon clawing its way up my throat. I lean my head back and meet Tristian’s eyes. “Please, Tristian.”

If anyone will give me what I want—what I need—it’s this man. The one who dotes on and babies me. But that man isn’t here right now. His eyes are cold, and he yanks his fingers away, leaving me sore and stretched and crying out with the loss. But then Rath shoves the handle back into my pussy, hard and jarring. He builds a glorious rhythm, and my body chases the thrusts.

“You think you deserve to come?” Rath asks, and even though he’s looking at me, I know he’s speaking to the others.

It’s Killian who answers. “No.”

The hard finality of his voice is like a second knife, this one sunk right into my aching center, blade-side first.

Rath pulls the handle out and leaves me there, bucking into thin air. “Seems like a waste of a nice begging cunt, but fair is fair,” he says, using my shirt to clean the slick from the hilt. He looks down at me, at the way I’m writhing and aching. He’s sweating, too, wayward locks of hair plastered to his pale forehead. “I prefer you like this, anyway.”

Killian lets my thighs go, and when he stands up, I can see he’s already hard again, bulge pressing against his zipper. “You remember this,” he says, throwing my soiled top at me, “the next time you think you can win.”

Tristian is the last to slide away, not bothering to unbind my wrists as he carelessly dumps me on the ground, ignoring the fraught way I’m rubbing my thighs together. At this moment, I think I’d probably sacrifice anything—including the last shreds of my dignity and pride—in order to relieve the pressure and finally fall over that precipice.

“Someone will come for you,” Killian says, and they’re leaving. My eyes track their casual retreat from the room, and I want to call them back, to tell them they can’t just leave me here, all used up and bloodied. But I don’t.

When I open my mouth, the only thing that escapes is a sob.

I don’t know how long I wait. Maybe it’s an hour. Maybe it’s ten minutes. But I spend it staring at myself in the mirror, a plethora of reflections beaming back at me, broken and eerily motionless. I don’t look pretty like this. I don’t look like a Lady. I don’t look like anyone. I look like a lump of flesh and fluid, and I spend too long thinking that this is in some way profound.

Aren’t we all?

Not for the first time in the last month, I wonder where Ted is. My ace in the hole. My win condition. My perfect, twisted weapon.

I once thought this man was the worst of the worst. Someone so terrifying that it made being here worth it. But now?

Now I doubt myself, remembering Rath’s words.

“That’s why you keep coming back. It’s because you’re broken inside. You wouldn’t last a week with someone else. You need a man who’d hold you down and own you, because you’re just like your whore of a mother. You’re defective, Story.”

Oh, and it’s bad then. Because suddenly I’m wondering how right he is. I’m wondering who Ted even is, and if I built him up inside my mind as this ominous, unconquerable boogey man for nothing more than the convenience of having a reason.

Was Ted just my excuse to come back to them?

The more I think about it, the more it begins making a horrific sort of sense. Jack was murdered, but as nice as he was to me, he was a hustler. He had enemies. My roommates had access to my mail. Someone could have seen the letters, the photos, and riffed off them for the sake of misdirection. It would have been fucking brilliant. The ‘whore’ smeared over the wall in Jack’s blood. The way I left, so panicked and harried and afraid.

Now, I can’t even think of Ted ever mentioning Jack being killed, and that doesn’t seem right. He should have bragged about it. He should have sent me proof to scare me. He should have been all over me about it.

It’s as if everything I’ve known to be true—the very foundations of my being—begins crumbling around me, brick by brick. Maybe the problem isn’t Ted, or the Royals, or the daddies, or Daniel. Maybe the problem is me.

I’m the only common denominator.

I’m spiraling down this black hole of uncertainty—curled on the floor, slumped and silent, sticky and soiled—when I hear distant footsteps approaching from the entrance. It should scare me, the thought of someone coming in and seeing me like this.

I just can’t seem to care anymore.

Let them see the flesh and fluid. If I can’t be a person, then I can at least be that.

Seeing Tristian appear in the doorway doesn’t bring much comfort. I can’t help but wonder if he has more abuse in mind, and somewhere in the back of my brain, I wonder if I’d care if he did.

Rationally, I know it could get worse.

But right now, I just can’t see it.

“What do you want?” I ask, knowing the question comes out bland and emotionless. I don’t have an ounce of feeling left in me, let alone generosity.

Apparently, to my shock, he does. “Here,” he says, pulling his sweater over his head. He doesn’t hand it to me, though, instead stepping aside to reveal another person.

Another Lady.

Charlene’s blonde hair reflects in the mirrors, an expression of stunned pity frozen on her face. He gives her the sweater and softly says, “Don’t let anyone see. Clean her up and get her back to the house.”

She dips her chin in a solemn nod. “I will.”

Tristian’s eyes fall on me again, probably gaining some satisfaction from the fact I haven’t moved an inch since he dumped me here like discarded trash. “Don’t,” he says, turning to the doorway. “You did this, Cherry. Don’t forget that.”

Charlene doesn’t move until he leaves, the door clicking shut down the hall. Even then, it’s only a long, deep sigh. “Oh, girl, you look like hell.”

Oh, no.

Hell would be an upgrade from this.

Hell only has one devil.

“You can untie me and go,” I tell her, rolling to my back and pushing myself into a sitting position.

“A Lord gave me an order, so I don’t really have a choice. Neither do you.” She reaches into her large square purse and pulls out a package of wipes. “But I’m happy to help. Trust me, Story, no one understands what you’re going through more than me.”

I’m not prepared for her kind words—or any kindness at all, actually. The last time I saw this woman, she was telling me to fight back, probably while knowing the consequences I’d be facing. She’d been cold and unsympathetic. An ally to the Lords alone.

Now she approaches me slowly, crouching down to gently unfasten the wrist cuff. Once it’s gone, she doesn’t move away, even though she should. I’m disgusting. Sweaty and covered with body fluids. Broken.

She just looks sad. “Here, take these.” The wipes are wet and cold between my fingertips, and she watches as I stare at the flimsy cloth, wondering what it’s supposed to do. Wipe it away? How can you wipe away something that’s embedded into the fabric of your being? I don’t know what my expression is reflecting, but it makes her explain, “We just need to be able to walk you out of here without people asking questions.”

Robotically, I lift the wad of wipes to my cheek and begin rubbing the skin.

“There you go,” she says, her smile looking more like a tight grimace. It falls completely when her eyes drop to my chest. “That’s a really brutal punishment.”

It should be uncomfortable having her help me like this—like I’m a child or invalid—but I can’t seem to feel anything. “Did your Lords do this to you?”

She shakes her head, making her earrings clink. “God, no. My Lords picked me because I’m docile and hate real confrontation.” She plucks out a strand of hair, wrinkling her nose as she tries to strip the semen out of it with another wipe. “Last year, when I submitted to your Lords, mine were mad. But it wasn’t…” Sighing, she pushes my hair over my shoulder, starting on the skin there. “They cared more about losing their dumb inside game than about losing me. But they also respected it. Killian, Tristian, and Rath had a lot of guts taking a run at me last year. Plus, let’s face it.” She gives me a weighty look. “Those three were Royals the second they set foot on this campus. I think maybe it was easier for my Lords to step aside than to butt heads with real sons of South Side.”

“Yeah,” I answer, voice rusty. “I bet it was.”

We spend a lot of time cleaning my face and hair, the length of my arms, the curves of my shoulders, but when Charlene’s gaze falls to my chest, she locks up, shifting back. I just give it an apathetic look and scrub a wipe over the wounds.

She sucks in a sympathetic hiss. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

I meet her gaze, my voice strangely curious. “You’d think it would.” It just doesn’t penetrate. It’s like that shield I pulled around myself got stuck and nothing can get through. But nothing can get out, either. I can feel it all roiling around inside me, this knowledge that I’m not quite right and never will be. This certainty that I’m broken. What’s the word Rath had used?

Defective.

We both stare at the bloodied wipe for a suspended moment, the air thick with tension around us. Charlene starts, “Look, Story…” I know the instant she meets my gaze what she’s going to say. It’s not just the pity that’s been shining in her eyes since she stepped foot in here. It’s the brief flash of fear that joins it. “I’m loyal to LDZ, and I know this probably isn’t my place. But this isn’t right. Couldn’t you…I don’t know? Go to someone? The police?”

It’s nice of her, really. Until this moment, I wouldn’t have thought it possible for me to laugh again. When I do, it’s nothing like it should be. It’s a dark and sad and hopeless thing, and I can tell from her wince that it’s a touch too caustic. “Could I?”

It’s a genuine question.

Charlene’s face screws up, and the way she averts her gaze is a better answer to my question than words. “Okay, maybe not.”

Yeah, maybe not.

Daniel Payne probably has them in his pocket, just like everyone else.

But I was raised on a prostitute’s ethos, anyway. My mom used to tell me who to reach out for if she ever had a bad trick, and the list was long—at least ten names. The police didn’t even make that cut. Because she knew then, like I know now, that people like them don’t save people like us. They’re just another foot on our backs. And the cleaner I get, Charlene eventually helping me to stand, pulling Tristian’s sweater over me, I feel the truth of it in my bones.

No one is going to save me. Not the police. Not family or friends.

Not Ted.

There’s no one to run to and beg for mercy, and there’s no such thing as heroes. There’s only me, walking out into the misty night, with a better Lady at my side. She cups my elbow to lead me away, but I look out over the lot at all the dwindling carnival goers and freeze at the sight. The lights that had seemed so bright and fun before. The sounds of laughter and music. The scents of warm, sugary food. The unavoidable presence of vibrant life.

Now it all feels dull and fake. Everything is less shiny, flimsy looking. I’m exhausted just looking at it, thinking of all the energy I’d need to prop myself up as someone who’s not withered inside, because I’m tired.

I’m so fucking tired of fighting.

I know they’re in the house when I arrive, trudging mechanically up the steps toward my room. I don’t see them or hear them, but I don’t need to. I can feel them like a weight of awareness, settled heavy on my shoulders, as if they’re psychically pushing me to my knees. It’s so palpable that my knees nearly buckle when I reach the landing, knowing that Killian will be right across the hall.

My bedroom is untouched from earlier in the morning, and it’s such a bizarre thing to see. How can something so close to me remain so unchanged when I feel this?

I enter the bathroom because it’s expected of me, and that’s why I undress, too. It’d make sense to clean myself up, hide all of this away and plaster on an unaffected smile. That’s what I should do—make them think I’m unbothered. It would drive them fucking crazy. But I just can’t muster the strength. I feel hollowed out and empty, my organs replaced with cold and sharp things, and the second I turn to the mirror, I shrivel at the sight of myself.

I don’t realize what I’m doing until there’s glass everywhere. One second I’m thinking no more—no more mirrors, please, just no more—and the next, I’m hurling something hard and heavy into the glass.

It barely takes any force to send it shattering to the counter and the floor in a cascade of silver. Stunned, I look at it all, reaching down to pluck a shard from the sink. A slice of my reflection stares back at me, her eyes wide and full of dead things, and suddenly it all makes sense.

I can escape everything. There’s relief here, deep within the knowledge that I hold the strings tethering me to this world. It’d be so easy. I flip the shard curiously between my fingers, inspecting the sharp edges. The light reflects off the glass and throws a beam of light against my skin, shimmering and brash. It’ll hurt for a little while, but then it’ll never hurt again. I’ll just be another cautionary tale, like that Lady their freshman year. A few years down the line, some future Lord is going to tell their Lady about me. He’s going to say, “Story Austin. She was weak and pathetic. Slit her wrists upstairs in the bathroom because she couldn’t hack it. They drove her too far. So be a good girl, and maybe you can get out of this unscathed.” The Lady will be sad for me, even as she disparages me in her own thoughts. Foolishly, she’ll think herself stronger.

“Put it down.” The voice comes so quietly that I’m certain I’m imagining it. I’m too entranced by the sight of the shard against my wrist to bother glancing up to make sure. I’m thinking that it’ll only take a few seconds if I do it right, and I allow myself to feel a moment of guilt for old Ms. Crane, thinking of her on her hands and knees in here, mopping up my blood. I hope she can forgive me for causing one last mess.

When the blood bubbles up around the glass, dark and wet, everything seems very clear.

This is how I free myself.

Once and for all.