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Chapter Ten

Ren

“ S ince you ate all your food, I’ll be a good host. Let’s get you cleaned up, and then we can have some fun.”

I step closer despite the stench of rot and sweat thick in the air. The vulgar smell coats the back of my throat, but I don’t grimace. I don’t react. I remain in control—because between us, this is the only place I still have it.

“Continue to behave and I might let you have some fun.”

I extend my hand, knowing he won’t take it. He never does. Not yet .

Byron shifts, his body slow, sluggish—the kind of exhaustion that sits in the bones. His hands twitch at his sides, fingers flexing like he wants to hit me but knows he doesn’t have the strength. Good. He’s still fighting, but he’s losing.

Then, he moves—brushing past me with a weak but deliberate arm check. A flicker of defiance. A final, fleeting ember refusing to go out.

I smile.

Such a zesty man.

I’ll enjoy breaking him to nothing.

Let’s see if, once I’m done with him, he still has the will to fight— that small, flickering light that refuses to die. Some things aren’t meant to be fixed. Some things are meant to be destroyed. Byron makes it to the bottom of the stairs like a good boy waiting for his master.

“Ladies first.”

I tilt my head toward the stairs. There’s nowhere else to go. The woods around here all circle back to the same place. If he were to run, I’d enjoy the chase—the thrill of the hunt, the satisfaction of dragging him back. But all my comment earns me is a scowl and a grunt. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t resist, but he does move.

Progress.

He’s learning.

For now.

We step into the daylight, and I look at Byron as he uses his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. He flinches, blinking rapidly, as if the light itself is foreign to him, like he’s forgotten what it feels like.

“This way,” I say as I begin to walk towards the cabin. We make it inside with no incident... no words... only the weight of something unspoken pressing between us.

“Shower first.”

Grabbing the back of his neck, I guide him towards the bathroom, careful he doesn’t get a glimpse of my… no, our project.

My first lesson.

He hesitates at first, his body locking up, stiff with resistance. But it’s nothing a little pressure on his neck and a low, “Walk,” can’t fix.

Just a gentle push, a reminder of who’s truly in charge here. I only release the back of his neck when we make it to the bathroom, and I close the door behind us. I move towards the shower, but Byron stops in front of the mirror, I watch him curiously as he stares at himself.. His reflection is still. Too still. Like he’s trying to decide if it’s really him staring back or a stranger.

“What you looking at?” he snaps as our eyes lock in the mirror, cupping his dick in his hands, a weak attempt at hiding from me. But there’s no hiding from the void.

“Nothing, wondering what you’re thinking.”

I answer honestly because I can be who I am with him. There’s something between us, camaraderie… maybe. But definitely something deeper, something I don’t even recognize. Something that makes me want to be truthful—to an extent, of course—but for the most part, I don’t mind sharing my thoughts with him.

“Why do you care?”

“Didn’t say I cared, curious. That’s it. Curiosity. ”

Turning on the water, my eyes move to the running water, fixating on the white tiles, sharp and blinding under the fluorescent light.

Then, the sound.

A shift in the air. A presence.

The sound of heels moving closer pushes into my brain like a needle threading through my thoughts. I shake my head, my hand fisting under the water. I’m here. This is real. The water is scalding but it’s not enough. Not enough to burn her away.

“Such a good boy.”

The ghostly touch of my mother moves up my back, phantom nails trailing cold over my spine, sinking into me like rot. I stumble back—a rare slip, a crack in the surface.

Meeting with something solid.

Byron.

“The fuck was that about?”

“Nothing.” I push away from him, returning to my task of getting him cleaned up for his lesson. He’s now fed. Clean. And then— obedience.

Complete. Utter. Surrender.

That’s the goal.

I need… No, I want him obedient. Desperate. I want him to be the best boy. So taking a page from her handbook—

“In.”

Byron stumbles forward, his body resisting even as it obeys. His back tenses, muscles locking up as I step in behind him.

“Ren,” he starts, but I silence him.

My hand grabs the clean washcloth I had set aside for him, lathering it with Castile soap before wrapping my fingers around his cock.

“R—“

He stops.

The shame chokes the words in his throat, kills them before they can live. His cock hardens in my grip, and that betrays him more than anything ever could. It’s hard to sell a lie when your body speaks the truth. My own cock hardens, pressing against his back. “How was it, being out there? Pretending you didn’t enjoy the things I did?” My hand moves slow, cruel in its patience, deliberate in its intent. Soap bubbles slide down his thick, veiny girth, the warm slickness making each stroke more unbearable.

Byron bites back a small moan.

But I see him shudder. Feel it. His body doesn’t lie.

“Words are empty when your actions speak so loudly, Byron,” I whisper into his ear.

His breath stutters, his whole body coiled like a wire pulled too tight.

“You don’t know shit.” He sneers as his hand moves over mine, stopping me mid-stroke. “I want to put you down, Ren.” His honesty doesn’t catch me off guard. It excites me.

A slow smile pulls at my lips, sharp and knowing. I tighten my grip, feeling the betrayal in his pulse, in the way his body fights him harder than he fights me. “Oh, Byron.”

I lean in, close enough that I know he can feel the heat of my breath against his skin.

“I’d love to see you try.”

And I mean that.

But I know there will be none of that in his future. By the time I’m done with him, Byron will be nothing but a shell for me to fill.

Then—cold, sharp, inescapable nails claw down my back.

Too real. Too deep. Too much.

My grip falters around him… a crack in my control. A slip I can’t allow.

My body freezes, tension locking my limbs like rusted chains.

I focus on the sensation of her. The presence that shouldn’t be here.

It’s not real.

Not Real.

My grip tightens around him, forcing myself back into the present. Back into this. My nails dig into his skin, hard enough to leave marks, to feel his pulse pound against my fingertips.

A sharp inhale.

A shudder .

He moves.

He strokes into my touch—mindless, instinctual—a twitch of surrender he doesn’t recognize,but I do. Byron doesn’t know, doesn’t realize how that single movement throws me a safety net, so I don’t drown in her. Pressing harder against him, seeking, grounding, controlling, owning, as my cock slides up between his ass.

“Show me how much you like it, Byron.” The words spill from my lips before I can stop them.

Foreign. Unbidden. Not fully mine.

Byron stills.

Refusing. Even now, even like this.

Not without a fight, no doubt. It doesn’t matter how much his body wants it when his heart… his brain… his very essence fights it.

Fights me.

The nails dig in deeper.

A force beneath my skin, inside my bones. A whisper, a laugh, a shadow that doesn’t leave. I rest my head on his shoulder, the wet heat of his skin beneath me, the scent of water and something deeper—something breaking.

“Such a good boy,” I whisper, but it’s not just me. My voice twists, morphs, warps—pulling hers into mine. My nose drags along the length of his neck, slow, deliberate, tasting the sweat, the heat, the battle inside him. I continue to stroke him, matching the thrusts of his body against my hand.

“St-”

A lie.

Another refusal to admit the truth.

I bite him.

Not softly. Not gently.

Teeth sinking deep into the tender spot of his neck while my hand moves more frantically, as if trying to wring something from him, from myself, from whatever the fuck is clawing its way out of me.

“Stop lying.” I groan into his skin before I rip my hand away, and slam him into the tile. The water pours down his face, slipping past parted lips that gasp for something unspoken. The look on his face is feral. Devastating.

Something shattered. Something ruined.

“Hold our cocks, Byron.” I groan as I slowly stroke my own cock. “Make us come.” My voice comes out needy, too fucking desperate, and I fucking hate it. The moment the words leave my lips, I feel the weight of them, the weakness, the raw need slipping through the cracks of my control. The lack of control I’ve had in my life since he walked into it. Since he unsettled everything inside me. Since he made me want things I don’t understand.

Viciously, I grab his cock, yanking him forward, forcing him closer, and forcing his body to acknowledge what his mind won’t. They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but I’ll prove this theory wrong. There is no choice. There is only surrender. Byron will learn that when I say jump, his only response will be how high.

I look up at Byron, the water cascading over us as I place our cocks in my hand while my other moves to his neck, forcing him to look into my eyes. Forcing him to face himself. Bringing him into the void, he won’t escape this moment... his truth or how I’m about to make him cum.

“Look at us, Byron.”

I dig my nails into his neck, forcing him to look at us as our cocks slide out of my hand in sync. The friction is slow, measured, and meant to break him in degrees, not all at once. Our skin rubs against each other, and I see the little movement in his brows, his own mask cracking slightly as his truth comes to light. A flicker. A moment of weakness. The exact thing I was waiting for. His cock slides into my hand as mine slides out. In and out. Slow and deliberate...

Dragging it out. Savoring it.

Making me desperate for more friction... harder... but I need this. I need to see how far I can push him before he collapses. We need this. After all, control is the goal here.

Forcing his neck up, I lock eyes with Byron as I continue my torturous pace. His struggle is beautiful, infuriating. His eyebrows knit together as he sucks in his lower lip, causing the scar on his top lip to protrude. That scar. A mark of past battles, but this is the one he’s losing. His body willingly moves into my hand, and the moment is too much... almost unbearable.

My body feels like it’s floating, drifting away from her presence... I can’t feel her right now. Not in this moment. She isn’t here.

All I see is the feral need in front of me as his cock thrusts into my waiting hand. A rhythm neither of us can stop anymore.

Moving my hand and body, I press our cocks together, side by side, skin on skin, heat against heat. The final step in making him see.

“Give in, Byron.”

My voice breaks from the need... a confession I didn’t mean to make.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You.” His voice is rough, guttural resentment laced with surrender.

And just like that, we cum together as one.

The moment should be final, but it isn’t. I won’t let it be. Carefully, I take my hand away from the water so our essence doesn’t wash off. Proof. He needs to see it. Feel it. Understand it.

“Taste, Byron. Taste your truth...”

I smile as I wait for him to open his mouth, but he doesn’t, as expected. Stubborn, even now. Even when the truth is right there, clinging to his skin. With a smile, I rub it on his lips, tracing the scar over his Cupid’s bow. Dragging it across him, letting him wear it like a brand.

“How did you get that?”

“Fight,” he replies, his voice tense. But of course he did. Of course he fought. That’s what he does. That’s why he’s here.

“Come, let’s get the show going.” I say as I grab the soap and finish the job. Cleansing him. Resetting him. But we both know—he’s already ruined.