Page 53 of Degradation (The Brethren Lords #3)

Devin

O ur dear Chapter Lord is going away, going on a trip. Rumour between the guards is he’s been summoned to a meeting by the Grand Master but no one can actually confirm that. And the fact he seems so buoyant suggest he’s off on some jolly rather than heading for a bollocking.

Most of my friends get to go with him, get to provide protection but not me. No, I get to stay here, play babysitter to the whore again. My teeth grind as that sinks in. That I’m essentially grounded while they’re jetting off to Italy for some actual fun.

I don’t mean to, but my eyes find hers as soon as I enter their suite. She’s stood in the corner, as far out the way as she possibly can be, as if she’s trying to blend into the pretty wallpaper.

Gunther is droning on, giving some lecture that nobody cares to hear, and yet, no one is telling him to shut up.

I draw a low, deep breath, hoping to smell her, and it’s hard not to be disappointed when all I can detect is the stench of our dear Chapter Lord’s body odour.

“…and you will behave.” Gunther barks, waving his hand for me to step closer.

Summoning me the way one would a dog. “Blake here is going to be watching you the entire time I’m away.

He’s going to be on guard the entire time…

” He punctuates that point by poking his chubby index finger in her direction like she can see it.

“…you so much as blink the wrong way and he has orders to beat you, do you understand?”

She nods just enough for us both to register the movement.

“I said…” Gunther storms over, grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her face up to look at him, “do you understand?”

“Yes.” She whispers so quietly.

He tilts his head, dragging his nose across the delicate skin of her cheek. “I chose him especially.” He murmurs. “I know how much this particular guard petrifies you…”

She whimpers and it takes all I have to fight to urge to smirk.

He pushes her back, shoving her hard enough that she trips and lands on her arse on the floor. She doesn’t try to get up. She just stays there, like she’s waiting for something to happen.

Gunther continues packing, grabbing things, shoving them into a suitcase, even though the servants have already seen to everything necessary.

When he’s done, he pulls me aside and tells me not to cut out anymore pieces of her, as if he imagines I’ll what, take her nose? Take her ears?

“You wanna mutilate some bitches, get your brother to bring some slaves over from Oblivion, you can cut them up, cut their cunts out, do whatever the fuck you want to them, but I don’t want you to make my wife ugly.

The only thing going for her beyond her cunt is her face.

Ruin that and I’ll have to get rid, and the hassle of that…

” He screws his face up, like he’s not imagining already marrying a dozen other virgins, like he’s not salivating at the prospect. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Chapter Lord.” I reply.

I don’t need to cut her more. I don’t need to do anything. My malktā is perfect as she is now.

He grunts, bellows for someone to carry all the extra bags and leaves without another glance at her.

She hasn’t moved from that spot. She’s just stayed there, like her legs don’t work.

I turn to walk away and leave her to it but as I do I hear the sound of something swooshing.

She slams into me, her entire body smashing into mine. Her fist finds my face and she gets a good enough hit to make my eyes actually water.

I fling her off the way one does a fly, sneering. “That the best you’ve got?”

She really is feisty today. Is it the thought of being all alone with me that’s got her blood up?

“You absolute piece of shit.” She snarls before grabbing my arm, turning me back to fully face her.

God, the way she loses it, the way that final grip on reality slips, it’s delicious. It’s more than that. It’s addictive, it’s incredible.

She throws herself at me again, not caring that I’m three times her size, not caring that she doesn’t stand a chance in this fight.

My hand wraps around her throat. It’s instinctive. It’s exhilarating too, to feel the way her heartrate spikes, the way she goes from that fierce bravery to abject fear.

Her hands slap, her fists pound and somehow in the carnage, her fingers wrap around something cold, something hard, something I know will only heighten this little tete-a-tete.

She yanks the dagger free with her face morphing into something akin to triumph. Clearly, she thinks she’s beaten me. I guess it’s too much for her little brain to comprehend that I would let her take it, that I would willingly walk this path and see how far she’s willing to actually go.

She shoves it against my throat, pushing enough that I can feel my skin bulging against the sharpness of the blade.

God, the feeling, the euphoria. Does she realise what she’s doing? Does she understand that to a man like me, acts like this are greater than foreplay?

“Go on.” I murmur. “Slit my throat. Drag the blade and do it.”

She draws in a ragged breath, her hand flickering just enough to catch, just enough to draw a little blood, and I swear that action goes straight to my cock.

“You know you want to.” I say. Like I care if I live or die.

But the tone of my voice, the way I’m speaking, I can see the effect it’s having on her, the way even now, it seems I have control over her.

I reach up, wrap my hand so tightly around hers, and I can see the ways her expression changes, the way she thinks she might be done for. Only, instead of pulling the blade away from my throat, I move it, I shift it so it’s no longer against my jugular, now it’s against my cheek.

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t even breathe. She stills, going as rigid as a statue.

And slowly, deliberately, I force her hand to move, force her hand to do it.

My skin slices open to easily. My blood bubbles up.

She whimpers, and for one second, for one beautiful moment, I think she’s as turned on as I am.

Only, she stumbles back. Of course, it’s me allowing her to, it’s me releasing her.

The dagger is still in her hand, and a voice in my head is screaming at her to do it, to bury it in my gut, to slice and to hack and to leave me a butchered mess.

Go on, Paitlyn, take the step. Cross the line. Prove you’re as fucked in the head as I know you are.

Blood is now streaming from the cut on my cheek. I lift a finger, smearing it, before bringing the digit to her mouth.

And as if that’s the final catalyst, she turns and flees. She races to the bathroom, slamming the door shut.