Page 26 of Vicious Luna
Maybe I’m just fucking weak. That’s what my father would say if he knew how soft I’ve been with our prisoner thus far. He’d tell me to bleed her out until she gave up her secrets, but that’s never been my style. Physical pain is so temporary. There are countless ways to impose torture, and mental anguish cuts so much deeper than a blade. Though I’m beginning to wonder who’s torturing who in this scenario.
I can’t keep letting her get in my head. I’ve been trying to slow-play this, to let her think I’m lowering my guard as we develop a rapport. The more comfortable she gets, the more she’ll let things slip; seemingly benign scraps of information that I can patch together and use to rain down hell on the filthy pack of beasts she came from. She doesn’t even realize that by building her confidence and allowing her to win the battles, I’m silently winning the war.
It's not without sacrifice. I’m putting myself through mental torture each time I set eyes on her, fighting an internal struggle over why the hell I’m so attracted to the thing I hate the most. I’ve spent nearly half my life hunting werewolves, yet here I am, filling my mental spank-bank with images of the whiskey-eyed, sharp-tongued Luna, jacking off to thoughts of wrapping that long blonde hair around my fist and coloring the petals of that floral tattoo on her hip with bruises from my grip. I’ll bet she wouldn’t shy away from being handled roughly. She wouldn’t whine that I was going too hard like the prissy bitches I’ve occasionally picked up in bars for a quick fuck. For once in my miserable life, I wouldn’t have to hold myself back.
I shudder a ragged breath as hot cum spills over my knuckles, a rush of euphoria washing over me with my release. Like always, it’s tragically short lived- by the time I catch my breath and clean up, the rapture of climax is replaced with theheavy cloak of shame. It was necessary to get the poison out of me before going downstairs, though. Luna’s due for another shower, and the sight of her naked and dripping would only spell disaster if I went in there with a loaded gun.
I’ll probably still jack off again later to the image and fucking hate myself for it.
Gathering up the clean towel and stack of clothing from my desk chair, I leave my room and head for the basement. In yet another example of how I’m getting too fucking soft, I had Matty launder my beastie’s clothes for her since her last shower. The ones I gave her are ill-fitting and I’m sick and tired of watching her struggle with constantly re-tying the baggy t-shirt around her tits for her little workouts. Sure, I’m taking care of her like a pet rather than a prisoner, but it still fits in with my master plan. Bet she’ll get stars in her eyes when I hand over those clothes.
My caged bird is pacing her cell when I step off the last stair into the basement, like she’s anxious for my return. Her nervous expression shifts to something that looks like relief when our eyes meet, and I have to fight back a smug grin as I stride over to dump the clothing and towel on the folding chair. I knew it’d pay to stay away for a while and let her stew over whether I was coming back after that stunt she pulled with the toilet.
Pivoting to face her, I dig a hand into my pocket for the keys as I advance toward the bars of her cell, and I swear I see her flinch back. She’s more skittish than normal, and the realization as to what’s got her spooked stops me in my tracks.
The first thing I notice is the dark line of dried blood creasing her pouty lower lip where the skin has split. I immediately drop my gaze, giving her a once-over to catalog any other signs of injury, and that’s when I clock the deep purple bruising on her left wrist in a distinctive fingerprint pattern. I know for a fact I didn’t leave those marks- for one, I wrapped my hand around her throat earlier, not her wrist; andfor two, I don’t make a habit of roughing up women unless it’s for our mutual enjoyment in the bedroom.
My gaze pings back up to meet hers, eyes narrowing as I growl, “Who did this?”
Luna makes a scoffing sound in her throat, rolling her eyes. “As if you don’t know,” she rasps bitterly.
My hands clench into fists at my sides and I slowly draw a deep breath, trying my best to remain calm. The keys to the cell dig into my palm and the pain in my head intensifies under the effort to keep my anger contained. Holding her stare, I ask again, “Who did this?”
From my low, menacing tone, she must realize I’m not messing around. Her lips part in surprise, a little puff of air escaping. Then she quickly schools her expression, carding her fingers through her tangled blonde strands with a scowl. “One of your fucking buddies came down here and threatened me.”
White-hot fury sears through my veins at her revelation. It’s one thing for me to put my hands on her, but the thought of someone else doing it makes me blind with rage. She’smineto torture.Mineto bend to my will.MINE.
“What did he look like?” I demand, squeezing the keys tighter in my fist until I feel the bite of the metal breaking the skin.
Her blonde hair swishes around her face as she shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she mutters. “My height, stocky. Scar on his lip.”
KylefuckingGriffin.
I abruptly spin around, storming to the stairs and taking them two at a time in my ascent. I’m so worked up that I key in the wrong code on the lock panel at the top the first time around, a red light blinking at me in response to my error. Taking a steadying breath, I punch in the numeric sequence again and the lock disengages with a beep, allowing me to shove open the door and emerge into the hall, hellbent on finding the man who dared to touch what’s mine.
The first place I check is the living room, and sure enough, that piece of shit Griff is lounging on one of the leather sofas, chumming it up with Adams. As soon as I lay eyes on the guy, the beast in my mind starts rattling his cage harder, all my carefully contained rage threatening to spill over. I storm into the room like a thundercloud, my skin tingling, vision tunneling.
“You piece of shit,” I snarl as I stomp up to Griff, grabbing him by the front of his shitty black t-shirt and hauling him up from the couch. In the same move, I twist at the waist and slam his back down onto the coffee table, the glass top shattering from the force of his landing.
“What the fuck?!” Griff tries to protest as his body collapses awkwardly through the metal frame, but the time for talking is long over. I tried to warn him about stepping out of line this morning, but the asshole clearly didn’t take it on board. Instead, he chose to retaliate, and this is the consequence.
“Did I give you permission to engage with the prisoner?” I shout, raining blows down on him from above. He tries to respond, but my fist connects with his mouth before he can get a word out. “You think you can just do whatever the fuck you want? Disobey direct orders?”
All of my questions are rhetorical. He can’t answer while I’m punching him in the face over and over again, my blind fury bleeding out through my fists. Blood sprays from his nose as one connects with a sickening crack, his wails of pain barely registering through the loud buzz of my pulse pounding in my ears. It’s not enough, though. I want him tohurt, because he hurther.
“Whoa, what’s going on in here?!” Dad’s commanding voice cuts through the white noise in my head and I freeze, whipping around toward the sound. My grip on the front of Griff’s shirt loosens, the fabric sliding from my fingers as he collapses, his body folding through the frame of the coffeetable. He rolls out from beneath it with a pained groan, curling up into the fetal position on the floor.
Shit. The room slowly comes back into focus, a handful of other soldiers up on their feet and staring at me, wide-eyed. My father’s glaring daggers at me, his shoulders bunched and his jaw clenched.
“Outside, now!” he barks, jerking his chin in command and leaving me no choice but to follow as he starts for the patio doors.
I send one last hard kick to Griff’s ribs before stepping over him, the other soldiers in the room granting me a wide berth to pass by on my way out. The door to the patio is standing open, my stone-faced father waiting for me on the other side, and I already know I’m going to get an earful.
“What the hell was that about?” he demands as soon as I step outside and close the door behind me.
I fold my arms over my chest, meeting his judgmental stare. “He roughed up the prisoner.”
“So?” Dad challenges.