Lycidas' POV
"Get up," I said, jerking my head toward the headboard. Finn scrambled to his feet, awkward and unsteady, and I watched him climb onto the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, and I followed, letting the chain drag behind me like a hound on a leash. I grabbed his wrist, hard enough to bruise, and looped the cold metal around it. The clank of it locking into place sent a shiver through him, and I felt it under my fingers. Good. Let him shake.
"You think you're sorry?" I asked, leaning close so my breath grazed his ear. "You think that little apology downstairs means anything?" I yanked the chain tight, pinning his arm above his head, and he gasped, his lips parting in a way that made my blood hum. "You don't get to decide when you're forgiven, you fucking slut."
"I'm sorry, Sir," he whispered, his voice small, broken. His eyes stayed on me, pleading, but I didn't care for pleas. I cared for power, and he gave it to me every time he bent.
I sat back, straddling his hips, and let my gaze rake over him. His skin was flushed, marked with the faint red lines where my hands had been earlier. The sight of it stirred me, like a wolf catching scent of blood. I reached for the whiskey I'd left on the nightstand, the glass cool against my palm, and took a slow sip. The burn of it steadied me, sharpened my focus. Finn watched, his breath hitching as I set the glass down and let my fingers trail along the chain.
"Spread your legs," I said, my tone flat, commanding. He obeyed, slow and deliberate, and I tilted my head. "Wider." His thighs trembled as he stretched them further, the effort plain on his face. I took another sip of whiskey, savoring the way he squirmed under my stare. "Touch yourself."
His hand hesitated, hovering above his skin, and I raised an eyebrow. That was enough. He moved quick then, fingers shaking as they found their mark. I leaned forward, resting my weight on one arm, and watched him. His eyes never left mine, locked in that silent battle he always lost. His breath grew ragged, his body tensing, and I could see it building in him—the edge he was chasing, the one I'd forbidden him to cross without my word.
"Please, Sir... I want to..." he rasped, his voice cracking. His hips lifted, his free hand clawing at the sheets, and his toes curled against the mattress. He was a bow drawn tight, ready to snap, and I relished it. All that shame he'd carried downstairs, gone now, stripped bare under my gaze.
I set the glass down with a sharp clink, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and pulled his head back. My palm cracked across his cheek, the sound loud in the quiet room. "You've forgotten the rules," I said, my voice a growl. "You can only cum when I say."
"Yes, Sir," he gasped, his face twisting with pain and something else—something I fed on. "I'm sorry."
"Did I tell you to stop?" I snapped, releasing his hair. His hand fumbled back to work, desperate to please me, and I settled back to watch. The sweat beaded on his forehead, his chest heaving, and I felt that dark satisfaction coil tight in my gut. He was mine, every shudder, every plea.
The window rattled as a gust blew through, and I glanced at it, the empty night beyond. Darren was out there somewhere, running to his precious officer, thinking he'd won. Let him run. I'd find him again. For now, Finn was here, and the chain in my hand was heavy with promise. I tightened my grip, leaned down, and whispered, "Keep going."
-
Three months later, I walked into a dingy garage.
The fucking shithole was filled with the pungent smell of gasoline and the dull hum of machinery. I leaned against my Bentley, my eyes fixed on the man who had just emerged from that battered Mazda. Even in his tattered clothes, there was an air of nobility about Darren Swanson that I couldn't ignore.
I watched as the auto - repair boss scurried over to him, his face red with anger as he scolded the man. The man stood there, head down, expressionless.
As Darren walked towards my car, I took in the sight of his well-defined biceps as he opened the front cover. The way he moved reminded me of his brother. He was still elegant, just like his brother used to be. I remembered how he would dance at those banquets, his every step calculated and graceful.
"You haven't told me your name." I asked, trying to start a conversation.
He didn't even look up, his voice cold. "What does my name have to do with the gas tank in your car?"
I was taken aback by his rudeness. The Swansons I knew was always polite, always ready with a charming smile. Something about him was wrong, and I was determined to find out what.
"How have you been these days?" I asked, a smile playing on my lips.
He threw the towel aside, his eyes blazing with anger. "It's none of your fucking business."
I looked at the veins on his neck, the tension in his body. I raised my hand in a placating gesture. "Wow, I just want to chat, nothing else. It looks like you could use a hug."
But he turned around and started to leave. The boss came running over, apologizing profusely. I watched as the boss grabbed him, scolding him for his behavior.
"You can't leave! What's wrong with his car?!"
"His car is fine."
"What the fuck is wrong with you?!"
"I'm quitting," he said coldly, shaking off the boss's hand while walking towards his Mazda.
I chased after him, my heart pounding in my chest. He ignored me as he walked towards his car, but I pushed the door shut before he could open it.
He stared at the dent on the door, then looked up at me, his eyes filled with a mix of surprise and confusion.
"You really don't know who I am, huh?" I said, still smiling.