Page 38 of Bottoms Up (Mythic Beast #4)

“He prefers something texted or written,” Gavin said. “That doesn’t preclude oral communication, but I text the brick wall emoji to him, followed by orders of which room to go to and what he should do upon arrival, or whom he should see and then obey, when I lend him to others.”

Gavin looked to Atlas. “Marco is Master Vampire and your employer. Cora creates rules for the shifters at Homewood — when you can change and run, hunting rules, etc. Since the Lion King lives on-site, you’ll have three bosses, plus your two Masters sitting before you.

I have confidence you’ll maneuver the politics, but should you find yourself stuck between bosses, speak to Marco about it and ask for assistance. ”

“Thank you for giving me a home, Master Gavin, and for understanding why this arrangement will work better for me, the consistency of the same people hurting me, people who understand what I need.”

Gavin looked to us with a wry smile. “He truly can’t handle intimacy or emotions, and yet he craves the connection he’ll get by…” He shrugged. “Let’s not analyze it too much, but I believe it will do him good, belonging to the two of you.”

Gavin stood and straightened the cuffs of his dress shirt, telling Atlas, “I’ll have the contracts drawn up and sent to Marco for final review. The employment terms are solid, and I’ll pass on the relevant operational data before your onboarding conversation with him.”

Atlas gave a short nod. Nothing else.

“You’ll have that call with Marco within the next thirty-six hours,” Gavin continued, “and I’ll remain in the loop as your advisor until everything is formalized.”

Gavin looked at us, cool, clinical. Like a man taking stock of a weapon before passing it off to its next wielder.

“This arrangement isn’t just legal. It’s structural.

Foundational. The start of something neither of you should enter lightly.

Before you leave Vegas, I’d recommend you mark the moment. ”

Julian raised an eyebrow. “How?”

Gavin turned toward Atlas. “Strip. Stand at the edge of the coffee table.”

There was no hesitation. Atlas rose and undressed without comment, folding each article of clothing with military precision and placing it beside his chair with economy of movement. No stalling. He stepped forward, bare and silent, and took his position.

He didn’t kneel. Didn’t bow. But the act of standing before us — exposed, motionless, waiting — was its own kind of offering.

“I suggest this,” Gavin said, voice calm. “One ball each — a symbolic claiming. A prolonged squeeze from each of you. Simultaneously. Full weight. Sixty seconds. A passing of the guard, from my property to yours.”

Julian stood with me, settled me on my feet, hand steady on my hip. His expression was unreadable, but his body was coiled. Ritual had always been where he thrived — clear purpose, clean lines, absolute control.

We moved in front of Atlas.

Julian reached first, cupping one side of him in his massive hand, fingers curling with calm inevitability.

I took the other in my smaller hand, the rough texture of old trauma harsh against my palm — scars that said he’d been claimed by pain long before this.

But not like this. He’d survived something terrible, but this was the promise of controlled pain within a meaningful life. A structure he could live within. Rules. Boundaries. People who care for him, even if he doesn’t think he can return the caring.

Two people holding his balls, and he didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Stood with his feet apart, planted wide, arms behind him, grasping his elbows.

My cock twitched. My cunt clenched.

I couldn’t explain it — how much I loved this. The heavy feel of a man’s balls in my hand. The delicate meat of them, the absolute power of holding pain at my fingertips.

Had Gavin pulled this from my thoughts? Had he known ?

Maybe it didn’t matter. The weight of it in my hand was already making me wet.

Atlas’s chest rose fast — once, twice — and then he held it.

Gavin spoke from our left. Calm as ever. “I’ll start the countdown timer. Three… two… one…”

We squeezed.

Not lightly. Not symbolically. A brutal, full-handed crush. Full weight. No mercy. Flesh flattened between our palms, muscle shifting, blood pushed back into the body.

Atlas inhaled sharply — not a cry, but close. A raw drag of air, like his body was begging for oxygen.

I felt the tremor in his scrotum — the tight flex of everything trying to retreat, trying to protect itself, trying to survive.

His knees wobbled at the fifteen-second mark. He didn’t fall.

He shook at thirty.

By forty-five, he hadn’t moved, his feet were still planted, arms still behind his back, but he was clearly fighting to stay in place and accept this. Take it.

My pulse pounded. My cock throbbed. I squeezed harder, when I thought I’d been at my full potential before. This was what it meant to own something that could take pain — and need more.

His jaw was clenched so tight I half expected a molar to crack.

His eyes were glassy. Distant. Beautiful.

The timer chirped.

Julian and I released at the same time, and Atlas let out a shaky breath — not quite a sob, but not far from it. Air moving through a body that hadn’t been allowed to move.

And then Gavin floated upward, smooth and silent, until he was eye level with the man still standing naked in the center of the room.

“What do I require, after I’ve hurt you?”

Atlas looked to us and leaned over a tiny amount, a little ceremonial bow. “Sirs, thank you for the exquisite pain. Thank you for claiming me. I look forward to signing the paperwork that will make me legally yours.”

Before we could respond, Gavin nodded to Atlas and told him, “You’ll swear a blood oath before you board the plane. You’ll offer your loyalty to Julian and Silver. Your life, if necessary. And in return, they’ll see to your needs.”

Atlas’s voice was rough, but steady. “Yes, Master Gavin.”

Gavin turned back to us. Floated back to the ground.

“The moment is yours. The paperwork is mine. Congratulations. You have a weapon now.” A tilt of his head. “Weapons must be properly cared for.”

* * * *

Julian

We needed away from the property after that meeting, back into the chaos of Vegas, and I wasn’t terribly concerned about security in that moment. I didn’t want Atlas with us, or anyone else, though I figured someone would follow when we left.

There’s a mall within the building, and I led us to it, and then out a different door than we’d ever used.

“I want to get off the strip,” Silver said. “Like one or two blocks away, parallel to it.”

I was amazed at the difference. Lots of stores open since it was shortly after seven in the evening, and a whole lot of people, but less. Less crowds, less lights, less glitz.

Less bedlam.

She saw a pawn shop and practically dragged me into it, and a small oil painting caught my eye. A bearded man in what was almost a Roman toga, reclining with a wine goblet in one hand and a rifle in the other. A sticker on the wooden frame said $25.

I couldn’t stop looking at it. He looked… proud. Ridiculous. Alone. Like Bacchus gone to Texas.

“Absolutely not,” Silver said, immediately.

It hit me wrong. I have my own money. She isn’t the boss of me. Anymore .

I lifted it and kept looking.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she said. “It’s hideous.”

And then I saw it. A blanket. No, a quilt. And this actually was hideous, and yet, it called to me.

Someone had printed old opera posters — in Italian, faded and misregistered — onto cotton fabric and stitched them together with thread the color of dried blood. Il Trovatore , Aida , Otello , Tosca .

“What the fuck?” she asked. “Not just no, but fuck no. It’s probably infested with bedbugs or something.”

I sighed. “Maybe, but someone tried to remember something beautiful.”

She looked at it a few moments, held her phone up close to one of the squares to get more information about it, and I scented defeat from her.

“ Fuck , Julian. I’m sorry. It’s opera stuff.

If you want it, we’ll get it. Maybe we can let a dry cleaner have at it before we take it home, but we can buy it and hang it on a wall, or something. ”

I wasn’t sure what to say, but she wasn’t finished. “Is there something I missed about the painting?”

I sighed and looked at it. She hadn’t been wrong. “No. You’re right. The toga and the rifle, Italy and America, with the not-quite-right man, mostly because the artist wasn’t that good with faces, but still…” I shrugged. “It spoke to me, but you’re right. It’s hideous.”

“No, I wasn’t right to say it. I discounted something you liked. I’m not in charge of you anymore. You can spend your money on whatever you want. We might need a conversation about what goes on the walls of our house, but…” She met my gaze. “I’m sorry.”

I put the painting back and pulled her to me, hugged her. “Apology accepted.”

I’d seen Marco and Cora disagree, seen Kirsten argue with her men, so I took a page out of their books and said, “You were right, but you hurt my feelings.”

“I’m sorry. Do you have a favorite artist?

Michelangelo, or maybe da Vinci? Someone I can hang next to our horror quilt?

” A wry smile. “Seriously, I’d love to hang something on our walls that’s meaningful to you.

If I can find something for sale, I’ll buy an original, but we may have to make do with a very good copy, if nothing’s on the market. ”

I kissed the top of her head. “A topic for another day. You need salt, so we need to find a restaurant. Do you have a taste for anything in particular?”

“I saw an Italian place across the street. I’ll get something with tons of cheese, and then add more salt. That should do it.”