Lycidas' POV
The desert heat clung to my suit like a second skin, the Bentley's leather seats hissing as I shifted my weight. I'd chosen this human contraption precisely because it reeked of their fragility - polished steel and squeaking hydraulics, a coffin on wheels waiting to crumple under a werewolf's fist. My boots dented the steering wheel as I stared at the prison's rusted gates. Pathetic. They built their cages above ground here, as if shame needed sunlight to thrive.
A lizard skittered across the asphalt, its panicked heartbeat thrumming through the haze. It froze when my shadow fell across its path, beady eyes widening before it bolted toward the prison walls. Even vermin recognized true predation. I smiled, fangs pressing against my lower lip, as the gates groaned open.
The figure that emerged made my blood hum.
He moved like fractured glass - all sharp edges and dangerous fragility. The prison shirt hung loose on his frame, but I saw the muscle memory in his stride, the way his shoulders tensed when gravel crunched beneath his worn boots. Human eyes would've missed it. Mine didn't. That gait had once commanded battalions, though the man himself seemed determined to forget it.
There you are, I thought, counting the scars on his arms as he neared. Interesting. He got scars that couldn't heal.
He didn't look at me. Not truly. His gaze slid over the Bentley's chrome finish, the convoy of black sedans idling behind me, the desert stretching endless in every direction. Prey instincts. I'd seen it in deer before the kill - that split-second calculation of escape routes they'd never live to use.
"Welcome back to freedom," I said, spreading my arms. The words tasted foul. Human pleasantries always did.
He walked past as if I were roadkill.
I let him get twenty paces before gunning the engine. The Bentley purred, swallowing the distance between us as he trudged down the interstate. All the black sedans were trailing behind us. His knuckles whitened around the bag strap, but he didn't turn. That's something that I can recognize. Stubborness. Just like his brother.
At that moment, motorcycles appeared as a swarm of gnats on the horizon. Eight engines snarling, eight meat-sacks astride them with weapons glinting. I watched through the rearview mirror as the lead rider - a slab-faced brute with a machete - circled the man. The human's voice carried on the wind, tinny and shrill -
"...rich boyfriend? After three years of brotherly love and now you just can't survive without a man, huh?"
I drummed my claws against the steering wheel. Let them prod. Let them push. I needed to see how far he'd bend before breaking.
He didn't bend at all. "What do you want?"
Scarface said, "Three years ago, my boss was paralyzed by you. He's still bed ridden and on a liquid diet. Now I want to rip off both of your legs to square the debt. Does that sound fair, pretty boy?"
Darren said, "I'm standing right here. Get my arms if you can."
The fight was a beautiful ruin. The man's fist cracked against Scarface's temple with precision. His movements were clipped, sluggish, like a dancer working through old injuries. When the others dogpiled him, I leaned forward and started at him.
Beg, I willed silently. Show me how you do it.
He didn't. Even bound and bleeding, his glare burned hotter than the desert sun. I met those eyes - definitely his mother's eyes - and felt the old rage simmer. He'd rather die defiant than owe me a debt. The same attitude problem like his brother.
As the punk raised his knife to strike, Scarface suddenly yelled, "Stop!"
Then, he struggled to his feet, looked at the man with bloodshot eyes, and snarled, "Don't let him off easy. I want to take my time with him. I want him to suffer. Tie him up and take him to the bike!"
Without hesitation, several thugs bound the man with chains and ropes, securing him to the motorcycle like a piece of cargo.
Then, Scarface got a bit carried away and made the worst decision in his life.
He approached my Bently and his grubby fingers grazed the hood.
"Nice car," he said.
Well, let's just say something primal snapped.
One moment, Scarface was leering. The next, his skull met asphalt under my boot.
The wail that tore from his throat was music to my ears - a discordant symphony of fear. Help! Pathetic. My polished Oxfords halted mid-stride as his gaggle of street rats surged forward, their greasy hands twitching toward weapons they'd never dare draw. The bodyguards emerged from the cars and handled the rest, their gunfire popping like champagne corks.
I let my gaze crawl over them—these cockroaches who'd dared scratch my paintwork with their petty shakedown.
"Kneel." The word left my lips like a guillotine blade dropping. They collapsed as one, eyes wide with animal terror.
Scarface squirmed beneath my foot, his puckered scar flushing crimson against ashen skin. "M-mercy, Sir..." I increased pressure gradually, savoring the way his skull yielded like a ripe watermelon under a farmer's boot. His gang's synchronized gasp was almost comical - children witnessing their first slaughterhouse.
"You mistake me for a man who tolerates… accidents," I murmured, tilting my head to study the grey matter now clinging to my hand-stitched leather.
I stared at his gang and said, "Now, what are you waiting for? Come lick it clean."
They scrambled on bellies, tongues lapping at my shoes with the desperation of parched dogs at a sewer grate. I watched dispassionately as saliva mixed with gore, their whimpers harmonizing with the wet slap-slap of obedience.
A cruel smile twisted my lips as I kicked aside the writhing thugs, their groans fading into background noise. The bound man before me was a fascinating sight - muscles taut against ropes, defiance simmering beneath controlled breaths. A living sculpture of suppressed rage. Such a mess, I thought, savoring the way his posture screamed resistance even in captivity.
"Who are you? What do you want?" he demanded, voice grating like gravel. I leaned in until our breaths collided, my chains clinking a metallic counterpoint to his ragged inhales.
"Let's set some ground rules," I purred. "I ask. You answer. Clear?"
His lips sealed shut, a stubborn fortress. I chuckled. We'll work on that attitude problem later. We'll break that soon enough.
With one hand, I hauled him up by the chains, his body slung over my shoulder like a hunter's prize. The jangle of metal and his futile thrashing amused me - a rabbit kicking against a wolf's jaws. His bag lay abandoned on the ground. Tsk. Careless. I scooped it up effortlessly, its weight trivial compared to the burden of his pride.
Dumping him into the passenger seat, I lingered close, feigning intimacy as I snapped his seatbelt. His pulse hammered against my knuckles. Fear or fury? Both, perhaps.
The engine roared to life. His breath hitched. "What… are you going to do to them?"
Behind us, gunfire cracked the air - three precise shots.
I drummed fingers on the steering wheel, grinning at the road ahead. "What did you just say?"
His silence was sweeter than any reply.