I reach down, pinching her clit, massaging it. “I’m going to fuck your daughter.” I whisper into her ear. “I’m going to buy her and break her in, right here, for everyone to watch.”
She whimpers, she jerks, trying to get her body away from mine, but I won’t let her escape me. Not now.
“Want me to ask Magnus if he’ll arrange for you to have the night off, give you a front row seat for all the action?”
The moan she makes, the sound, I’m certain she’s begging me. Didn’t she learn from the last time she tried that?
I pick up my pace, focusing on her clit while simultaneously driving into her cunt at an angle I know will hit the right spot. Her face grows flusher; her eyes turn more panicked.
“I’m going to turn your daughter into my own personal whore Elaine, and there’s fuck all you can do to stop me…”
A choked sob escapes her, quickly morphing into a raw desperate cry behind the gag. Her body starts to shake violently beneath me as her inner muscles clench and release in rapid, spasmodic waves. She arches up off the bed, her back hitting the mattress with a soft thud, her head thrown back, hair splayed beneath her.
Her eyes roll back in her head, pupils blown wide. For a moment she’s completely lost in the storm, a beautiful, broken thing beneath me.
I pull out, holding my still hard cock, using my hand to pleasure myself.
“She’s going to learn every angle of this.” I taunt. “She’s going to drink down my come like it’s a chocolate sundae. Your daughter will be desperate for every bit of pleasure I give her, every bit of pain too…”
She shakes her head, murmuring so loud I can practically hear the words. The outrage.
“Her entire world will start and end with cock.”
I pump harder, shutting my eyes for a moment as I imagine it not as her. Not the mother but the daughter here, with all those delicious curves on display and her cunt battered and weeping.
“Get up.” I order. “Get on your knees and finish me off.”
She can’t refuse me, she knows the consequences of saying no to me. Finally, finally this bitch has learned who has the real power here.
She scrambles up, undoes the gag and flings it. Then she’s gobbling me down, swallowing my cock, worshipping it while my fingers tangle in her hair and my mind inextricably drifts off, starting to mull over a notion that I know is impossible.
1 year and 9 months until auction
Home. It feels like a long time since I have been here.
The stillness, the silence, just the sound of the waves crashing far below on the cliff face. No matter where I go, no matter what grand palaces and opulent hotels I stay in, none of them compare to the feeling of being in this space.
After months of chasing phantoms through the rain-slicked streets of Paris, the damp, oppressive alleyways of London and the silent, watchful forests of Bavaria, this is the only flavour that can cleanse my palate. This is the only truth that remains: the cliff-top fortress of my ancestors, hewn from granite and grief, standing sentinel against the relentless Atlantic.
The sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs three hundred feet below is a constant, rhythmic roar, the heartbeat of this place. It is a sound that drowns out the whispers, that silences the screams that have been echoing in the back of my skull since I found Ines.
The castle itself is a brooding, gothic masterpiece of crenelated towers and arched windows, stained dark by centuries of sea spray and sun. It is not a gentle place. It was never meant to be. It was built as a bastion, a final redoubt for the Templars when their world collapsed in fire and betrayal. These very stones sheltered the first Grand Masters of what would become the Brethren, men who traded the white mantles of martyrs for the darker shadows of real power.
My mother’s bloodline is in every cold draught, every echoing footfall in the long hallways.
Their legacy is my inheritance. It is a weight I carry without complaint, a mantle I wear with pride.
A deep, settling peace washes over me, more profound than any silence. The hunt is not over, it will never be over until the people who ordered Ines’s death are bleeding at my feet, but it is paused. For this moment, I am home.
I leave my luggage for the staff to see to and enter through the great oak door, its iron studs worn smooth by time. The interior is cool, dim, a welcome respite. The air smells of beeswax, old parchment, and the faint, sweet scent of the sea. My footsteps are swallowed by the thick, ancient rugs that line the flagstone floors. Portraits of severe men and elegant women, my forebearers, watch my progress from the walls. Their eyes seem to follow me, not with judgment, but with a grim acknowledgement. The work continues. The bloodline endures.
My first duty, my primary purpose in this lull, is upstairs.
I take the grand staircase, my hand gliding over the polished mahogany banister and move down the west wing corridor toward the nursery suite. The door is slightly ajar. I stop at the threshold, becoming a shadow in the doorway, unseen.
Inside, sunlight streams through a tall window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. And in the centre of that golden pool sits Ezra, cross-legged on a large Persian rug, surrounded by wooden blocks. He is smaller than he should be for six years, a little bird of a boy with his mother’s dark, serious eyes and a shock of his father’s unruly black hair.
And he is silent.
