12-09-2018, 05:42 PM
You ever touch anyone like you touched her—especially her—ever again and you will have me to answer to, you understand? I don’t give two shits that you think you’re a changed man. If I catch wind of you laying a finger on someone, that finger is coming straight off.
Something dark and wicked flickered to life in silver eyes, lips spreading into a sick, twisted grin. Part of him wanted to answer that threat with a laugh steeped in shadows and blood, wanted to croon at Woolf to try, egg him on, push him to make good on that sexy, snarly little promise. Woolf all but dared the monster in him to shake off iron chains, to break his leash and take what was his. Something delicate and lovely and still unfinished, there was so much canvas left, so much lovely, lickable brown skin that still ached for his attention and hated itself for the aching.
He could take her so much higher. And drag her so much deeper. Oh, not today. Let things marinate a little longer, let them stew in their own delicious juices all they wanted. She had long since developed a taste for his particular brand of wickedness. And they’d barely scratched the surface.
Kerberos jolted awake, heart racing, breath coming fast as silver eyes searched the darkness surrounding him. Sleeping, he’d been sleeping. It was just a dream. Just a weird little dream, and maybe if he told himself as much enough times, it would fade back into the dark where it belonged. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, felt out the edges of his mind and worked his way inward, fingers brushing along shiny metal surfaces, walls and doors so thick they drowned out the screams locked away behind strict, precise little labels iron nameplates that hid the truth of who he was even from him.
Syrine.
Wallace.
Kerberos.
He had tortured her, broken her, his sweet baby sister with sad doe eyes, made her believe the world rained on her forever because she was bad, because she made the clouds cry. He'd taunted and tormented her for the sick thrill of it, not just for their daddy’s approval. No matter what he told himself so he could sleep better at night. Not a product of his twisted raising, but a sick little monster at heart, written in his blood, in the marrow of his iron bones.
He could still hear her sobbing when it rained. And it fed something in him, fed the beast locked away behind that third door. So easy to hide behind shining armor painted bright colors on his skin, but anyone with the right kind of power could see through his disguise. Even if it had been good enough to fool even him for a while.
How could he have forgotten? Hadn’t wanted to remember, he guessed, wanted to lock it all away like he could start anew. So fucking naive.
But baby sister was hardly his only victim. He could still see the way Lacey’d crumpled in on herself the second he showed up, even if it was just a dream. Could still hear the way she’d accidentally bared her soul for him, calling herself worthless, reminding him just who’d fucking taught her that. Him. He’d taken the brash, bold, sassy child she’d been and crushed her beneath iron hooves, taken over her body and twisted her mind until she was his. And then he’d come right back and played her body like the glorious instrument it was, showed her how it should have been the first time.
Until all she wanted was to be his.
He traced the letters of her name, with the same quiet affection and appreciation he used to trace the lace that adorned her hips, her hindquarters. His glorious work of art. He still craved that delicate loveliness, still ached for the need in her perfect brown eyes, and he had no fucking right to touch her. No fucking right to need her jagged perfection pressed against him, prickling the iron of his hide, but he’d shaped her to fit just right against him, hadn’t he? Never expected the thought of her cradled in someone else’s arms to pierce his goddamn chest like knives from all sides, shining gleaming metal aiming straight for his stupid heart.
What the fuck was wrong with him? He hadn’t so much as wanted anyone but her since they’d made Kali, hadn’t touched anyone but her. Hadn’t even fucking realized it either, and that was the weirdest part. Oh, he’d mouthed off and flirted some but only as a default setting of his personality, never in an attempt to actually fucking get anywhere with anyone.
Was he fucking broken?
And now, with that goddamn dream, furious claws scratched at the shining metal surface of that third cage, iron claws screaming as they carved gouges into the door, iron chains shaking and rattling as a piece of him fought to break free, buried so deeply he’d almost forgotten it existed.
He stood outside that last door, tracing the letters of his name and drowning in memories. The iron beast with three heads, all bound in metal and locked away tight, but no matter how many layers of iron muffled the snarls he could still hear it. All it had taken was one little reminder, one snarled warning to wake up the sleeping monster and make him desperate to come out and play. Slip the leash and take what was his, taste, bite, fuck, it barely mattered, carve and mangle and mark so savagely, so beautifully, an elegance to the sharp and jagged nature of his craft. And he didn’t want just anyone.
He wanted her.
Maybe Kirby should throw himself into the depths of the ocean. Wasn’t like he’d drown, wasn’t like he could, but he could lose himself in a trench so deep it took him years to crawl back out and make his way back to land. Maybe by then she’d have moved on, without his constant presence to remind her of what he was, what he’d made himself forget.
He ruined everything for her. And if he let himself, he’d just keep ruining any chance she managed to find at happiness. Even in a goddamn dream, he still managed to fuck everything up for her, and she deserved so goddamn much better. He wasn’t safe for her. And he sure as fuck wasn’t good for her.
What if the monster inside him managed to slip its chains while she was near enough to catch her scent? Or worse still, what if one of the kids was around. Gods, he’d hurt his sister, what if he hurt his kids? Were they safe? Was Kali? Would it drift back to sleep, or would he hear it whispering sick little demands deep in his head, starved for chaos after years of behaving? Touch her, taste her, hurt her, twist her until she was just as broken as her mother? Or would it just focus on Lacey, on ruining anything good in her life he’d left untouched thus far, until the only thing she had left to turn to was the iron monster hiding beneath his shining skin?
He should leave. They’d be safer without him.Bite my shiny metal ass.
Something dark and wicked flickered to life in silver eyes, lips spreading into a sick, twisted grin. Part of him wanted to answer that threat with a laugh steeped in shadows and blood, wanted to croon at Woolf to try, egg him on, push him to make good on that sexy, snarly little promise. Woolf all but dared the monster in him to shake off iron chains, to break his leash and take what was his. Something delicate and lovely and still unfinished, there was so much canvas left, so much lovely, lickable brown skin that still ached for his attention and hated itself for the aching.
He could take her so much higher. And drag her so much deeper. Oh, not today. Let things marinate a little longer, let them stew in their own delicious juices all they wanted. She had long since developed a taste for his particular brand of wickedness. And they’d barely scratched the surface.
Kerberos jolted awake, heart racing, breath coming fast as silver eyes searched the darkness surrounding him. Sleeping, he’d been sleeping. It was just a dream. Just a weird little dream, and maybe if he told himself as much enough times, it would fade back into the dark where it belonged. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, felt out the edges of his mind and worked his way inward, fingers brushing along shiny metal surfaces, walls and doors so thick they drowned out the screams locked away behind strict, precise little labels iron nameplates that hid the truth of who he was even from him.
Syrine.
Wallace.
Kerberos.
He had tortured her, broken her, his sweet baby sister with sad doe eyes, made her believe the world rained on her forever because she was bad, because she made the clouds cry. He'd taunted and tormented her for the sick thrill of it, not just for their daddy’s approval. No matter what he told himself so he could sleep better at night. Not a product of his twisted raising, but a sick little monster at heart, written in his blood, in the marrow of his iron bones.
He could still hear her sobbing when it rained. And it fed something in him, fed the beast locked away behind that third door. So easy to hide behind shining armor painted bright colors on his skin, but anyone with the right kind of power could see through his disguise. Even if it had been good enough to fool even him for a while.
How could he have forgotten? Hadn’t wanted to remember, he guessed, wanted to lock it all away like he could start anew. So fucking naive.
But baby sister was hardly his only victim. He could still see the way Lacey’d crumpled in on herself the second he showed up, even if it was just a dream. Could still hear the way she’d accidentally bared her soul for him, calling herself worthless, reminding him just who’d fucking taught her that. Him. He’d taken the brash, bold, sassy child she’d been and crushed her beneath iron hooves, taken over her body and twisted her mind until she was his. And then he’d come right back and played her body like the glorious instrument it was, showed her how it should have been the first time.
Until all she wanted was to be his.
He traced the letters of her name, with the same quiet affection and appreciation he used to trace the lace that adorned her hips, her hindquarters. His glorious work of art. He still craved that delicate loveliness, still ached for the need in her perfect brown eyes, and he had no fucking right to touch her. No fucking right to need her jagged perfection pressed against him, prickling the iron of his hide, but he’d shaped her to fit just right against him, hadn’t he? Never expected the thought of her cradled in someone else’s arms to pierce his goddamn chest like knives from all sides, shining gleaming metal aiming straight for his stupid heart.
What the fuck was wrong with him? He hadn’t so much as wanted anyone but her since they’d made Kali, hadn’t touched anyone but her. Hadn’t even fucking realized it either, and that was the weirdest part. Oh, he’d mouthed off and flirted some but only as a default setting of his personality, never in an attempt to actually fucking get anywhere with anyone.
Was he fucking broken?
And now, with that goddamn dream, furious claws scratched at the shining metal surface of that third cage, iron claws screaming as they carved gouges into the door, iron chains shaking and rattling as a piece of him fought to break free, buried so deeply he’d almost forgotten it existed.
He stood outside that last door, tracing the letters of his name and drowning in memories. The iron beast with three heads, all bound in metal and locked away tight, but no matter how many layers of iron muffled the snarls he could still hear it. All it had taken was one little reminder, one snarled warning to wake up the sleeping monster and make him desperate to come out and play. Slip the leash and take what was his, taste, bite, fuck, it barely mattered, carve and mangle and mark so savagely, so beautifully, an elegance to the sharp and jagged nature of his craft. And he didn’t want just anyone.
He wanted her.
Maybe Kirby should throw himself into the depths of the ocean. Wasn’t like he’d drown, wasn’t like he could, but he could lose himself in a trench so deep it took him years to crawl back out and make his way back to land. Maybe by then she’d have moved on, without his constant presence to remind her of what he was, what he’d made himself forget.
He ruined everything for her. And if he let himself, he’d just keep ruining any chance she managed to find at happiness. Even in a goddamn dream, he still managed to fuck everything up for her, and she deserved so goddamn much better. He wasn’t safe for her. And he sure as fuck wasn’t good for her.
What if the monster inside him managed to slip its chains while she was near enough to catch her scent? Or worse still, what if one of the kids was around. Gods, he’d hurt his sister, what if he hurt his kids? Were they safe? Was Kali? Would it drift back to sleep, or would he hear it whispering sick little demands deep in his head, starved for chaos after years of behaving? Touch her, taste her, hurt her, twist her until she was just as broken as her mother? Or would it just focus on Lacey, on ruining anything good in her life he’d left untouched thus far, until the only thing she had left to turn to was the iron monster hiding beneath his shining skin?
He should leave. They’d be safer without him.
