Chapter 6 Caius
She’s wearing the white like a virgin out for slaughter. The fabric’s starched so hard that her nipples could cut a throat, and she keeps her chin tipped just high enough to dare anyone to stare.
But I do.
Directly at the little piercing poking out of either side of her left nip.
Fucking hell.
Today, I sit across the way from her, at a table that gives me line of sight.
From here, I can see the little tremor in her hand as she traces the pen across the chart.
Westpoint bloodlines mapped in tidy rows, name after name after name, until she gets to me.
And her. She’s meticulous, I’ll give her that.
Each line straight, each annotation crisp.
She has no business doing clerical work—her brain is built for sabotage, not compliance—but they want me to give her duties.
Duties befitting of a wife.
I’d say knowing your heritage is necessary, but the truth was, I didn’t want to do anything but watch her. Any other task required a more hands on effort in her training, but not this.
Her hair’s up today, pinned so tight I can see the fine white line of a scar behind her ear. Her shoes are new, white, but she’s already scuffed them raw at the toes, as if to remind the world she was never meant for polish.
I count her breaths. I count the times she flexes her thigh, fighting the urge to stand, to run. She’s a fighter, but she’s biding her time. I’m hard, watching her resist.
She looks up. Finds me. Holds the stare for three full seconds before her eyes drop to the page.
The edge of my mouth twitches.
There’s a shuffle behind me. I clock it as Colton before he’s even in my peripheral. He never tries to surprise me, just slides into the space beside me, the chair creaking under the shift.
“Long game with your little slave project?” he chuckles, leaning back, his hands drumming on the table obnoxiously. He keeps his eyes on her, clicking his tongue.
I don’t look away. “The Board can fuck themselves with their rules.”
He grins. “You say that, but you always follow them. How many hours has she been at that table? Did you even let her piss yet?”
“Lunch break was at noon. She skipped it.” I clench my jaw, watching the way she tucks the pen behind her ear and kneads the tendon in her hand, trying to work out the cramp. “She’s stubborn. Makes it more fun.”
Colton’s reflection smirks. “You could make her do anything. Anything. And you pick paperwork?”
“I’m savoring it,” I say, the word thick on my tongue. “She thinks if she waits long enough, I’ll lose interest.”
“And will you?”
I bare my teeth. “No.”
We watch together, the two of us. There’s a rhythm to this, one that the Board likes to pretend they invented, but I know better.
The only rules that matter are the ones you can enforce.
Every flick of her wrist, every bite of her lip, every second she refuses to wilt is another ounce of leverage for me.
The longer she resists, the sweeter she’ll taste when I finally take her.
Colton leans back, folding his arms. “You going to break her before the Hunt, or let the old men see you play by their script?”
“She’s mine already,” I say. “The rest is theater.”
He hums, satisfied, then stands. “You should get some air before you bust a seam, boss. She’ll be here for a while.”
He slips away, presumably to go piss off one of the others.
I fix my gaze back on her. She’s re-inking the pen, holding the bottle like it might bite.
A drop splatters on her sleeve, and she curses under her breath, then scrubs it away with the edge of her palm.
The little things—the defiance, the failure to be perfect, the refusal to look small—are why I can’t get her out of my fucking head.
The other students come and go. They orbit her like she’s radioactive. Even the staff avoid the center aisle. She notices, of course. She watches it all, the way the world shrinks when she enters it. She’s learning her value in negative space.
I let the hour drag, watching every tic and tremor. When she finally stands, the chair shrieks, and every eye in the room flinches her way. She stacks her pages, squares the corners, then turns and looks straight up at me.
She knows I’ve been watching. She wants me to see her not-broken.
I tilt my head, slow, and smile. Not the practiced one, but the one that says: Run, if you want. I’ll enjoy it.
She flinches, barely, and walks out.
I stay a full ten minutes longer, replaying her every movement before pulling out my phone and telling the cooks to prep dinner for her and take it to her room.
She’s thinning out and I realize that I prefer her full. Chunky.
I want to grab onto her and slide her up and down my cock, her soft skin rubbing against me.
So… she needs to eat.
And I’ll know if she does because while she was here, I had Bam install some cameras in her room. Can’t have my future wife making terrible decisions when it comes to her care, now can I?
With a smile, I head to my wing and settle on a quick shower before I enact the next part of making her mine.
The security feed stutters once, then stabilizes. I have a direct line into her room: low-res, grainy, but good enough to see the sweat at her hairline and the fine tremor in her hand as she keys open the lock. I watch her through four angles. It’s almost too much power; but I want to see her.
She enters, glancing over her shoulder, almost like she feels herself being watched. The room is as empty as I left it—the bed, desk with a single lamp, closet still ajar from her morning rush. But she stops cold in the doorway, keys frozen mid-spin.
She knows. Even before her eyes land on it.
There’s a white rose on the pillow. Nothing else. The petals are open, obscene, and the stem has been shorn of every thorn except the last one, right near the bloom.
She doesn’t move for a full minute.
Then she sets her bag down, soft, careful, like she thinks the air might break, and approaches the bed. Her fingers hover over the flower. She won’t touch it yet. She sniffs, brow furrowed, like she can’t decide if it’s a trap or a joke.
She lifts the bloom at last. Rolls it in her palm.
The thorn draws a dot of blood at the tip of her finger, but she only stares at it, transfixed.
She brings the rose to her nose, breathes deep.
The scent is cheap perfume and for a moment, I hate that the florist sprayed it.
Her mouth twists, but she doesn’t drop it.
I want to see if she’ll cry. She doesn’t.
Instead, she laughs—dry, hollow, and maybe a little crazy.
She paces. The cam above the door catches her muttering to herself. “Fucking psycho. Of course he leaves a flower. Next time it’ll be a fucking head.”
She sets the rose on the edge of the desk. Sits. Stares at it.
A long pause. Then she rifles through the bottom drawer, shoves aside the notebook, and comes up with a squat glass bottle.
Whiskey, half-gone. I watch the tremor in her wrist as she unscrews the cap, pours a shot into a coffee mug, and downs it.
She grimaces, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and pours another.
The whiskey works fast—she hasn’t eaten all day, and her metabolism is wired for flight, not digestion. The cooks didn’t bring up her meal and I’d have to deal with them for that. Her cheeks flush pink, then red. She talks to herself more now, her voice slurred at the edges.
“Should have smashed the fucking book over his head,” she mutters, half to the rose, half to the camera she thinks she’s outsmarted. “Should have… should have bit his fucking finger off.”
I lean closer, watching the way her tongue trips over the syllables. I record the audio for later.
She paces again, then sits on the edge of her bed, staring at her own reflection in the window. The landscape outside is just a smear of wet light, nothing worth seeing. She starts to undress—buttons, zipper, blouse over the head—but gives up halfway through, letting the shirt hang open.
She pours a third shot. This one she doesn’t finish. She just holds the mug to her lips, breathing in the vapor.
Then, softer, “Why did it feel so good?”
She drops her head to her hands. Her hair falls like a curtain, hiding her face, but I can see her shoulders shudder. She’s not crying. Not exactly. Just letting the heat drain out.
After a while, she lies down, curling into a tight ball, white skirt bunched at her thighs, the rose still cradled in one palm. She’s asleep in two minutes, mouth open, hair fanned across the cheap pillow.
I watch her chest rise and fall. The pulse at her throat, fluttering like a caught bird.
It’s time.
I head to the kitchen first, grabbing her a plate of food to put in her fridge, along with some fruit and vegetables. If she refuses to eat in the dining hall, at least she will have something.
The witching hour is when this place comes alive. Doors click shut, footsteps fade, but the walls themselves seem to lean in, eager to see what happens when the lights go out.
Hands full, I head towards the North Tower, climbing the steps two at a time before heading to her room.
I run a finger down the grain of her door.
It’s cheap wood, soft and unfinished, nothing like the armored portals guarding the rooms in my own wing.
It smells faintly of bleach and the citrus oil they use to mask the damp.
My hand covers the lock—second-rate, designed to keep only the honest out before it clicks and swings open.
She’s sleeping like the dead. I can hear her through the panel: slow, even, the kind of exhaustion that comes only after a day of fighting and failing. She talks in her sleep. Something about me, which only serves to turn me on.
Putting the food in the fridge, I look around. They really did give her the shittiest room possible, which enrages me.
Soon, baby girl, you’ll be in my bed.
The moon’s out, filtered through a curtain so thin it might as well not exist. It casts the whole living room in silver, but the hallway is dark as I head towards her bedroom.
She’s a mess as I stand in the open doorway: hair splayed over the pillow, one arm draped across her eyes, the other bent up, hand clutched near her mouth.
The shirt rides high on her thigh, the hem twisted, bunched around her hips.
Her bare leg is marked with the indent of the desk chair, a red line that won’t fade until morning.
She snores, a thin line of drool down her mouth, wetting her pillow.
I don’t move for a long time. I just stand in the doorway, filling the space, letting the chill seep into my bones. My blood’s hot enough to keep me from freezing, but I like the feel of it—the contrast between the room and what I’m about to do.
I close the door, slow, deliberate. My shoes are off before I hit the edge of her carpet. I step over the pile of discarded clothes, the whiskey bottle now empty and on its side. She barely stirs as I approach.
She smells like sweat and the sour from the bottle. It’s animal, and it drives me nearly fucking feral.
I kneel next to the bed, hands braced on the mattress. She mutters something and shifts, exposing her neck, the curve of her shoulder. Her skin’s pale, but warm where it dips into the hollow at her neck.
I place my palm there, feel her pulse. She’s dreaming. I wonder if she knows, even in her sleep, that I’m here.
I slide my hand up, along her throat, thumb at her jawline. Her lips part, a sigh escaping. I want to crush her, but I make myself gentle.
This isn’t for her. This is for me.
I take hold of her shirt, gather it in my fist, and hike it up. Her thighs are soft, the flesh giving under my touch. I run my hand up her leg, slow, savoring the goosebumps that follow my touch.
She mumbles, rolls, almost wakes. I freeze, heart pounding. She settles again, the tension gone.
I lean in, mouth to her ear. “My girl,” I whisper, so soft even I can barely hear it. “I own you and I’ll worship you even as you hold tight to hating me.”
She doesn’t wake. But her body reacts—hips shifting, breath catching.
I grip the inside of her thigh and push them open, just wide enough. No panties. I stifle a groan. She’s wet, already, and I know it’s not for me, but I don’t care. I press my fingers in, slow, then faster, curling to find the spot that makes her twitch. She groans, a low, animal sound.
When I’m satisfied she’s ready, I pull my cock free. It’s hard as iron, the tip leaking against her inner thigh.
I line up, press in. She resists at first—her cunt’s tight, unyielding, but I push harder, and the ring of muscle gives. I cover her mouth with my palm, muffling the soft grunt that escapes as I slide home.
She wakes then, just barely. Her eyes flutter, unfocused, maybe seeing the shape of me but not the face.
I keep my hand on her mouth, forcing the sound back down her throat.
I fuck her slow, measured, each thrust a statement.
Her body recognizes me before her mind does.
She goes soft, then rigid, then soft again.
I watch her face the whole time. The line of her jaw. The twitch of her brow. When she comes, I feel it—her pussy clamps down, tries to throw me out, but I only fuck her harder. She shakes, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. I lick them away, savor the salt.
I come in her, deep. I don’t pull out. I want her to wake with it still inside her, a reminder.
I stay there, buried in her, for a long minute. I brush her hair back from her face, kiss her cheek, the corner of her mouth. She’s unconscious again, breath ragged, but she doesn’t fight.
Slowly, achingly, I pull out. I don’t want to. I want to live between her thighs, the only place that I truly feel at peace. At home. My cum leaks down her thigh, soaking the sheets. I wipe myself on her shirt, then tug it down to cover her up.
Maybe I got her pregnant. Wouldn’t that be something?
I stand, look at her one last time. She’s ruined, but beautiful. Marked.
I let myself out, relocking the door behind me.
Back in my room, I replay the footage on my phone. I watch the way her body took me, the way her spirit didn’t break even when her muscles did.
When she wakes and she comes to me for her next duties, I’ll make her remember.
Finally, as my cum dries inside her, she’ll understand what it means to be mine.
And I’ll do it again, and again, molding her to the shape of me so no one will ever feel right inside her again.
I’ll fuck the bitterness, the anger, the defiance right out of her until she has nothing left but to kneel with those perfect lips around my cock and the sound of her sighs taking me to heaven.
My perfect girl.
Born to be mine.
I move the video file into a locked folder, and for the first time in years, I sleep through the night.