Finn's POV
Lycidas flung the car door open, tossed me into the back seat, and slammed it shut, locking it with a click. He climbed in, pressing himself over me, his voice a low growl. "I'm gonna tie you with a chain to me like you're a fucking dog. Torture you bit by bit, make you wish you were dead."
Just as he moved to take me, I felt a jolt - sudden lightness. I twisted around and saw the slave, that dumb bastard, yanking Lycidas by the shoulder. He ripped him out of the car, hurling him to the ground, and the whole damn door came off in his hands. I blinked, shocked - he hadn't left.
A slave had actually attacked the fucking Lycan Prince. Just when I thought I'd seen everything.
The slave stood over Lycidas, chest heaving. "Stay away from my master."
Lycidas didn't wait until he finished his speech. He roared, his body shifting in a blur of fur and claws, transforming into a massive wolf. He lunged, pinning the slave to the dirt, jaws snapping for his throat. But I moved faster - my arm shifted into claws and shot out, catching his bite, chrome metal screeching against teeth. I pulled the slave free, shoving him back.
He stared at me, dazed, then stepped forward like he'd try to cover the wound on my ripped arm. To his surprise, I slapped him hard across the face, the sound cracking through the air. Lycidas shifted back, human again, fury radiating off him, but I grabbed his arm, holding him steady.
"What the fuck are you?" I spat at the slave, voice icy. "How dare you push His Highness?"
Then, without his answer, I turned to the soldiers swarming in. "Lock him in the dungeon. No one gets near him without my permission."
Lycidas glared at me, cold and unreadable. My driver pulled up in my Rolls, and I walked to it, pausing to look back at Lycidas - eyes soft, pleading, desperate. He was still pissed, but that look, fuck, it got him. He stepped forward, opened the door for me, and I slid in. He took the passenger seat.
"Your Highness," I murmured, "I'll get your car fixed and sent back to you as soon as possible."
He started the engine, scoffing. "Are you fucking kidding me? It's just a fucking Bentley. It's yours now."
I blinked, flattered. "You're giving me a gift?"
He didn't look at me and kept pressing on the gas. "Don't pretend to be surprised. Isn't today your birthday?"
I swallowed the joy, keeping my face steady. "Thank you, Your Highness. No one's ever known my birthday. No one's ever given me shit."
"Don't be over-dramatic," he muttered. "It's a fucking car missing a door." Then, he stared at me and asked in a sharper voice, "Why didn't you let me kill that slave?"
"For a nobody like him, death's a relief. Besides, you're gonna be king someday. You shouldn't waste your anger on a fucking slave."
He slammed the brakes, pulling over, and grabbed my collar, eyes boring into mine. "What the fuck did you say?!"
I unbuckled, climbed onto his lap, and kissed his chest, slow and deliberate, all the way down. "Your Highness, you don't think I dragged you out of the human shithole just because I'm one of your movie fans, do you?"
He groaned, head tipping back as I took him in, my throat working him deep. His hands gripped me tight, as I was his life line.
"Told you so," I said to the voice of Sak in my mind.
For the first time, Sak didn't reply.
Lycidas' POV
Finn flinched, but his eyes - those damned calculating eyes - met mine for a fleeting second before dropping in submission. Good. He knew his place.
"Strip," I snarled, my voice a whipcrack in the silence. "Now."
"Yes, Your Highness," he murmured, his tone dripping with deference as his trembling hands obeyed. The fabric tore under his haste, and I didn't care. I wanted him bare, vulnerable, mine to break. When he was naked, I grabbed his throat, shoving him down onto the leather seat. His breath hitched, but he didn't resist -wouldn't dare.
"You think you can defy me?" I hissed, my claws pricking his skin, drawing tiny beads of blood. "You're nothing. You're a fuck toy. My fuck toy." I released his throat only to seize his hips, flipping him onto his stomach with brutal force. He gasped, hands scrabbling for purchase, but I pinned him, my weight crushing any hope of escape.
"Your Highness, I..." he started, voice quaking.
"Shut up," I roared, slamming his head into the seat. "You speak when I allow it." My rage boiled over, a primal need to punish, to dominate. I tore my trousers open, freeing myself, and without pause or preparation, I thrust into him - hard, deep, unrelenting. His scream shattered the air, raw and jagged, his body seizing beneath me. Perfect. I wanted him to hurt, to feel every inch of my anger carved into his flesh.
I pounded into him, each thrust a deliberate assault, maximizing his pain. His hands flailed, one fist bashing the door with a dull thud, the other clawing at the window, leaving jagged scratches in the glass. The sounds - his sobs, the creak of the car, the wet slap of skin—fueled me. This wasn't about him; it was about me, my pleasure, my control. I gripped his hair, yanking his head back, reveling in his choked cries.
"You're mine," I growled, my voice a guttural snarl. "Say it."
"I'm yours, Your Highness," he gasped, tears streaming down his face. But there—beneath the pain, beneath the submission - was something else. His hips shifted, a subtle roll that tightened him around me, sending a jolt of pleasure up my spine. I faltered, just for a heartbeat, my rhythm disrupted. What the hell was he doing?
I thrust harder, punishing him for that flicker of defiance, but he did it again - meeting me, accommodating me, his body molding to mine despite the agony. "Fuck," I spat, claws digging into his hips, drawing blood. "You don't get to enjoy this, you fucking slut!" But he wasn't enjoying it - not fully. His cries were real, his pain undeniable, yet he was playing me, turning my punishment into something more. His submission was a weapon, and I hated how it worked. I wanted him shattered, but he was giving me what I craved in a way that made me crave him more.
My climax hit like a storm, a roar tearing from my throat as I spilled into him, marking him as mine. I didn't touch him, didn't care if he finished - his pleasure was irrelevant. But as I pulled out, leaving him slumped and trembling, I saw it: his cock, hard against his stomach, untouched. He'd taken my brutality and turned it into his own twisted victory.
I sat back, chest heaving, staring at the claw marks on the window, the dents in the door—testaments to his suffering. He curled into himself, panting, but then he spoke, voice soft yet piercing. "Thank you, Your Highness, for reminding me of my place."
I froze. Gratitude? After that? My eyes narrowed, searching his face. Pain etched every line, but those eyes - still defiant, still scheming - held mine. He was subordinate, yes, groveling at my feet, but that single sentence twisted something in me. Satisfaction mingled with unease. He'd taken my punishment and made it a gift, a bond, a leash I hadn't meant to tighten around my own neck.
"Clean yourself up," I snapped, climbing back into the driver's seat. The engine roared to life, but my thoughts churned louder. Finn was mine - my toy, my sub - but as the claw marks glinted in the moonlight, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was becoming his just as much. And that, more than anything, stoked my rage anew.