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It kills me to leave her to deal with the effects of her sub drop by herself, unsure whether she ate or drank as instructed. She needs to be looked after, cared for; someone should hold her when her feelings get too overwhelming. Which they will.
Today might have gone exactly how a consensual scene prepared or discussed in advance might unfolded, but Sarah and I weren't playing. I was genuinely trying to push her past her limits to get answers. It was intense. For both of us. I need to know she's fine, and she likely needs reassurance too.But given the circumstances, I’m confident she wouldn't let me do it. For all that, the only thing that made me drive away was the fact that I had something—someone—to deal with.
Brandon. The dick who made her eyes shine with fear. We need to locate him, and make sure he never bothers any of us again.
It isn’t even about stopping him from blackmailing us, or posting more videos. I want to make him pay. I want him to suffer before burying him in a shallow grave, all because of the look in Sarah's eyes when she said his name. I don’t know what he’s done to her, and I don’t care. He just needs to suffer for it.
I didn't know I even had these proclivities. The dark desire to inflict an overbearing amount of pain on someone and watch them beg for mercy. Sure, I get off from impact play, but the point is pleasing a person with it, not harming them—certainly not killing them. I thought the psycho genes had skipped me, only taking root in my brothers. But I'm apparently as much a Goltz as any of them.
After dropping Sarah off at the dorm, I drive past it, turning onto the long cobblestone driveway that leads to the private houses of Rothford University. Well, at least six of them. The Raventhorns, dramatic as they are, have their own entrance across the road.
I drive past all the houses until the second to last, the house of the wyverns—somewhere I would typically not be caught dead. Firstly, because those guys are actually insane, but also because that's where my younger brother lives.
Markus was courted by half of the houses his freshman year. The serpents admired his brutality, the vespers recognized in him the potential of a ruthless leader. Even the sharks wanted him, though I put my foot down on that.
To me, it makes sense that he ended up with the wyverns.They're the investors, the risk takers, the "all or nothing" types. What they want, they usually find a way to buy, or steal. The word is, they actually purchase students as their entertainment, and use them full time over the school year. Not even the Raventhorns go that far.
Those psychos are perfect for Markus.
The keycard that let me past the main entrance into the private drive is useless here at their tall, gilded gate.
An intercom buzzes.
“Welcome to the den,” some kid whose voice I don’t recognize calls. “State your business.”
“Marius, to see Markus,” I say, irritated at the very thought of having to ask my brother for information.
Everything is a fucking mind game at the Goltzes; he’s going to have a price for this, as well as for his silence.
After a short silence, the metal barrier slides open and I drive in.
“Den” is as appropriate a word as cottage would be for the White House. There’s nothing warm, comfortable or friendly about the imposing stone mansion housing the wyverns. And they like it that way.
I park in front rather than circling the house to find their underground garage; I’m not staying long.
Inside, the entry hall—and the entire ground floor—is a fucking orgy.
There are only about fifteen actual wyverns in Rothford—three per year, and a few post-grads still hanging around—but there must be a good fifty people on the ground floor.
Close to the door, some blonde chick with fake tits on display in her cupless bra attempts to balance a tray with three champagne glasses in her hands while a guy eats her out.
“W—welcome,” she grits. “A drink?”
I think to decline, but if I know anything about these insane people, she won’t be free until all her drinks have been claimed, so I take a flute. I’m not much of a drinker, but it wouldn’t hurt to take the edge off.
“Where’s Markus?” I ask her.
Her eyes widen, and she bites her lip, no doubt wondering if she’s allowed to say anything.
The guy on his knees lifts his head, long enough for me to identify him as a fellow Heritage member, Timothy Cross. He’s a senior, if I’m not mistaken. “I think he was outside with Dez.”
Then he gets back to work, and the poor chick shakes so hard I almost expect the glasses to fall. She holds on somehow.
As I draw farther into the house, I have to admit “den” isn’t as inaccurate as I first thought: the dim lighting, dark green leather, and warm wood accents do give the impression of a luxurious man cave.
I walk past a poker table where five players check their cards, brows furrowed in concentration. Under the table, I spot five students—two women and three guys—busy sucking cocks and licking pussies.
Through an open arch, I see an area even darker, where low, sensual music is blasting. A bunch of bodies writhe on a huge circular bed, all tongues and teeth and cocks and pussies, fucking each other’s brains out indiscriminately, like nothing could be more natural on a Thursday evening.
