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Her head lolls back and a small noise escapes her, a tiny little grunt as she grimaces in pain. “Please… Mercy.”
Yes. That’s more like it. “Beg. Beg your lord for mercy!”
“Mercy, my lord” she squeaks.
My eyes lose their glow as my anger subsides and my lust grows. She’s getting there. “You don’t deserve my mercy. Scream for it, speck! Beg!”
She grimaces, her arms and legs flex but find no reprieve from the constraints. “Please.” Once again, it’s a meek request, not the scream I should be getting from her.
This isn’t any fun! If she’s not screaming in terror, what’s the point? Maybe I should lighten the strain on her limbs—
No! I should show absolutely no mercy. She deserves this, needs this. She needs to know who her master is. But… Damn it! I roar in my mind.
I want to crank the handle, but I can’t. King Asmodeus would have my head if she was overly damaged, regardless of how loyal I’ve been in the past. Even if all I wanted was a shoulder to pop out of place, there’s no guarantee that it wouldn’t rip her arm from her body. Mistakes can always happen. Ah! And what a delicious bloody mess of an accident it would be, but a damn ugly political mess that I’d have no way of righting. The king granted her to me and I have to take care of her.
The thought of taking care of something disgusts me, making my stomach uneasy. The things I take care of are my rage and lust, often at the same time. Hurting and killing things and easily sate my lust just as much as wetting my cock can subdue my lust. The best is when I’m able to do both at the same time. I thought the Blackwell woman would give me that. Scream her fear and terror while splitting her on my cock. How dare she deny me of my greatest prize, of the king’s gift?
Anastasia gazes at me with a pleading hope that would ruin lesser demons, and certainly everyone living down on that pathetic rock beneath us. Those hazel eyes are worth starting wars over, and the body she has is most certainly as well. The dark elf kingdoms would likely keep her as a royal whore, or even more ridiculous, one of them would likely fall in love with her. I’ve heard they’ve been letting their little dicks tell them the human women are worth more than breeders and playthings. Fools. How could they let something so weak take over them?
I won’t give in to her. I won’t let her weaken me… But I am weakened nonetheless, by the king of all people. I pace back and forth, torn inside between my true self, and the king’s faithful and obedient pet. I’m strong, but not Asmodeus strong. He could crush me if I defied him. And that strength is part of the exact reason I follow him so fiercely. He’s earned my respect time and time again, and I’ve finally earned enough of his to be granted a breeder. If only she would scream! Why does she deny me? The question rolls around in my mind over and over.
I round on her and roar my frustrations in her face. The deep, entropic sound shakes the walls but she weathers the storm, closing her eyes and clenching her jaw. When I finish, she opens her eyes and meets my blazing eyes like a foe on the battlefield that knows she’s finished, knows she has no chance of defeating me, knows the grizzly end that awaits, but even so, she doesn’t let fear take over, even in her last moments.
Part of me appreciates that in her, recognizes it as a trait I own. Fearlessness. Still, it’s not a trait I want in my plaything.
She… Wins. I don’t know what else to do. And if I can’t torture the screams from her how else am I to enjoy myself?
I huff through my nose and punch the rack’s table into splinters on my way out of the chamber.
I don’t care that she’s still there, held taut by the chains and straps. She can suffer a little. Suffer for what she’s done to me, the frustration she’s put me through when all she needed to do was scream!
I head up the stairs into the manor, going straight to my chambers before I let my rage loose. I grab a crystal glass of something alcoholic. It doesn’t matter what it is. All I want is the fire in my stomach. I tilt it back as I climb the stairs to the living quarters. I would enjoy the burn of the amber liquid so much more if only she screamed for me.
I still can’t understand her. She laughs at me and then begs for mercy, all while knowing I can’t hurt her too much. How did she know that? Did she overhear the order at some point? Did she guess? Can she read minds? No. If she could, she would have screamed. She would have read my mind and known of the great pleasure I would have given her with my cock had all she done was scream her lungs out.
I enter my antechamber and shut the door. After downing the last of the amber, letting it ignite in my belly, I grab the nearest thing, which happens to be a chair, and toss it across the room. It shatters on the wall, but I’m already onto the next breakable thing. A desk, my hunting trophies, chalices, empty bottles of alcohol after I’ve downed their contents. If it’s not part of the manor, it gets its turn to fly. Not even the couches or heavy dining table are immune to my wrath. They’re tossed as easily as anything else.
I was built for war, not this domesticated lifestyle. If Asmodeus truly wants me to breed, he should have sent the woman to me on the battlefield so I could fuck her on the dead bodies of my slain foes. She could have marveled at my martial prowess while also marveling at my sexual prowess. Death and blood and sex. As it should be. Not call me home to lay with the woman in a bed, surrounded by fine linens, soft pillows and warm fires. It’s a sham! It’s not me…
But I’m meant to be more than that, aren’t I? I’m not meant to only be the terror on the field that comes so naturally. I’m not meant to always revel in its purity. I’m meant for more. Damn the Seven for putting us in this predicament! If only we had more matrons And damn Asmodeus for putting me in it. Breeding should be simple. I pick a female out, ravage her, and either she lives or dies. If she lives, I find another and do the same. If she dies, I find another and do the same. It’s not hard. I shouldn’t have to… take care of her. That’s ridiculous! It’s degrading.
I level the rest of the room before my blood finally cools and I slump against a mound of fabric and cushion that used to be my couch. Damn everyone. The humans for figuring out their worth, the dark elves for teaching it to them, and damn Anastasia. I told you to scream, woman. You should have just done it, even if you knew.
The pitter patter of bare feet on cold stone echoes through the hall. Who the fuck dares to enter my abode? And why barefoot? Assassins have shoes. What kind of killer runs around without shoes? A dead one, that’s who. If I can’t get Anastasia to scream, I’ll have this assassin giving me what I want.
I glance up at the door creaking open. Anastasia peers in, poking her head through the small opening. She steps inside, the chains and locks still attached to her limbs lay in her arms. How did you get free?
96
ANASTASIA
I was a little relieved when he stormed away. Obviously, I’d prefer not to be stuck in a dank dungeon at all. But if I’m going to be here, I’d take a little peace and quiet over his angry threats.
It doesn’t take long for my enjoyment to fade, however. Within seconds, I recognize the pain coursing through my body. He may be gone, but he’s left me here tied to this horrible apparatus. It’s stretching me so tight that I feel I might pull apart at any moment.
My muscles and joints are taxed to their utmost limit. It leaves a burning sensation that spreads across every inch of me, my body protesting this cruel abuse. It only takes minutes before I feel as though I can take no more. How long does he intend to leave me here?
I bite my lip, trying to blink away the tears of pain. The Mother never sends us more grief than we can bear. Obviously, this is a test of some kind, and she knows that I can pass it. It would be a sin to question The Mother’s judgment.
