On the immense table, there’s a single place setting; a bowl and a glass full of fresh juice set on it.
“What is it?” she asks, and her rich voice makes my balls ache, along with the center of my chest.
“Handmade granola, coconut yogurt, and local honey. Plus freshly squeezed orange juice. Full of vitamins, and I’ve added some seeds and nuts to the granola for some protein. Gotta keep your strength up,” Jude tells her, pulling her chair out and pushing it in just like a perfect gentleman.Fucking schmoozer.
“Strength for what?” she asks warily, picking up the glass of juice and taking a large gulp. The ice tinkles in the glass, and I watch as she licks her lips after setting the glass down. Twitch goes my clearly insatiable cock again.
“For playtime, silly,” Jude chides, taking the seat next to her and grabbing the spoon before she can. He dips it into the bowl, collecting yogurt, granola, and honey, then brings it to her lips. “Open up, buttercup.”
She holds his intense stare as she obeys, and fucking hell, I can feel pre-cum leaking out of my tip at her compliance.
“Yuuummmm,” she mumbles around her mouthful, Jude chuckling as he fills the spoon once more. I watch captivated as he feeds her until the bowl and glass are completely empty. She sits back with a contented sigh; her stomach a little rounded with fullness. “That was delicious, thank you,” she says, and I see a moment of hesitation on her face before she darts forward and places a light kiss on his cheek. He freezes.
“What was that for?” he asks, looking as dumbstruck as I felt earlier when he licked my lips. I get why. Affection is not something that we’ve experienced much of around here.
“No one has made food for me in a long time,” she answers, tucking a strand of deep mahogany hair behind her ear. “Well, not since Mom…” she trails off, and I can't help the tightness I feel at my center.
She means not since the Tailors murdered her mom. God, if she ever discovered exactly who pulled the trigger…
“You are most welcome, Nightingale,” Jude replies, taking her hand in his and kissing it. “Time to go downstairs.”
“Will it hurt?” she asks him, biting her lower lip in a way that has a growl sounding in my chest. Her wide eyes swing to find mine, and I’m not surprised to see heat mixed in with trepidation, her lids lowered slightly.
“A little,” I tell her, rising from my seat and stalking towards her. “But you like pain, don’t you, Little Bird?”
“Yes, Daddy.” No hesitation, her words just come out as she tells me her secret desires. My cock is rock-solid in my jeans, and I see her eyes dart down, her pink tongue flicking out to lick her lower lip.
“Let’s get started before Aeron comes back and rips us a new one,” I say, locking down my desire to fuck her senseless again, losing myself in her sweet cunt, and maybe Jude’s hot mouth. The comment about our group leader is more for Jude, although I’m looking at our bird, holding my hand for her to take.
“He’s gonna be so mad that you fucked her again.” Jude cackles, his smile infectious. A grin splits my face at the thought of Aeron losing his shit.
Our Little Bird doesn’t protest as I lead her back to the basement, and I have to wonder if she’s coming to accept her place here. Her fate with us. Because no matter what Aeron or his father, our true boss, says, I’m not letting her go. She’s tied to us now, and after today, our ownership will be even more clear.
She takes a deep inhale when we cross the threshold into the room we’ve been using this whole time. Our torture room. Though I notice Aeron has made sure it’s clean for her, not something we usually bother with until the job is done. Her coffin is still against the wall, as is the St Andrew's Cross. Sitting in the middle of the room is a black leather tattoo chair, laid flat so it’s like a bed.
“What is that for?” she asks, inquisitive eyes tracking Jude as he walks over to the chair. He opens one drawer on the black metal set that is next to it, taking out a pair of black latex gloves.
“It’s time to make sure everyone knows who you belong to, Nightingale,” he tells her, picking up his wireless tattoo pen. A low hum sounds in the room when he switches it on before he settles down in the leather stool and pats the chair.
I tug her hand, and she follows with only brief resistance.
“Not gonna put up a fight, princess?” I question, wrapping my hands around her waist and hoisting her up onto the chair. She hisses when the cool leather hits her bare ass, but soon swings her legs up and lies down.
“No,” she answers, her brow furrowing. “Although, I don’t understand how this will make me talk?”
I look to Jude, who just shrugs, switching the pen off and picking up a Sharpie. He likes to work freehand, drawing the design in pen, and then going over it with ink. All of us have his artwork decorating our bodies. We’re his breathing canvases.
“It’s not,” he says, and she turns that beautiful gaze onto him. My mouth pinches and my throat constricts at me not having her attention anymore. “Although you’d be surprised at what people say when you’re tattooing their bodies.”
I’m always impressed with how his chaotic mind settles when he’s drawing and when he’s inking designs on another person’s skin. His attention to detail is mind-blowing. I watch as he covers her entire torso in a series of delicate chains. He starts by circling her neck with ropes of them, dripping with jewel-like shapes that dip down between her beautiful breasts and morph into a stunningly intricate mandala, more chains following the curve of her underbust. A chain drops down the center of her stomach, splitting and spreading out over her hips with more swooping over her upper thighs. She gasps when his pen draws a series of complex mandalas over her pelvic bone; the design coming down to just above her delicious cunt.
She tries to tilt her head down, to see what he’s drawn, but he snaps his head up and tsks at her.
“No peeping until it’s finished, Nightingale,” he chides, adding a finishing flourish to one of the intricate designs. Smirking, I pull out a red, silk blindfold that I stashed in my back pocket earlier, holding it out in front of her eyes.
“Spoilsports,” she grumbles, allowing me to wrap the cloth around her head and cutting off her vision. She settles back down again without complaint once I’ve tied it securely. I chuckle as I take in her disgruntled pout.
“If you’re a good girl and lie still for him, I’ll help take the pain away when it gets too much,” I tell her, smoothing my hand over her messy hair. It’s a riot of reds; from the brightest orange of sunset to the darkest red of maple leaves in the fall and soft as silk. She nods, her lips parting when the hum of the gun starts up. I watch as her body tenses up, waiting for that first swipe of the needle. I can see when it happens in the way that her jaw clenches and the skin around her mouth tightens. “Such a beautiful bird,” I whisper, stroking her damp hair again as she takes the pain and makes no noise. I guess this is small compared to what the others did to her. Her nails are still missing, and a flash of anger burns through me whenever I catch sight of the red tips of her fingers or the raw destruction of her back.
