5. Beast
FIVE
Beast
I watch where he’s sleeping in a sitting position. It’s seven paces from my mattress to the bathroom, and he’s at the five-and-a half mark. He’s out of my immediate space, but he’s still very close.
I don’t know what to think. I don’t know how I feel about him being in here.
He was prey when I first saw him, but it’s different now that hunting him isn’t part of the dynamic. He’s trapped in here with me. He’s … helping me. That makes him something other than prey, but I don’t know what.
I might kill him once I feel better. On the few occasions that someone has been put in my cell, that’s what I’ve done. But those people have always begged and screamed for the guards to let them out, and I’ve had to kill them to shut them up.
But this one. Lucas. He’s quiet. He has no expectations. He has no hope. He barely even seems upset about being here.
He intrigues me.
Plus I like looking at him. His hoodie hides his upper body, but the way his ratty jeans hug his ass and thighs tells me he’s well built. Like most people, he’s a lot smaller than me, but he’s not small. He’s average height, maybe 5’10”.
His face isn’t average though. It’s beautiful. Refined. He’s got prominent cheekbones and a sharply elegant jawline. His light brown hair is cut short with a bit of length on the top. It’s kind of uneven, like maybe he cuts it himself.
I want to keep looking at him, but I really have to pee.
I don’t want to drag the IV pole around again and the fluids are almost done, so I pull out the needle. Then I spend a really long time getting up.
I’m groggy and stiff as shit, but at least whatever Briggs drugged me with is fading from my system because I’m a lot steadier than the last time I got up.
Lucas wakes as I’m shuffling past him. He pops to his feet but doesn’t move from the wall. He hangs back at a somewhat safe distance, but he does follow me to the bathroom.
I grunt to tell him to stay outside. There’s no door, but the dividing wall offers some privacy. I don’t know why I care, but I do.
I brace one hand against the wall as I pee. My lower back hurts, so I bet there’s blood in it, but there isn’t enough light in here for me to see.
I wash my hands. I want to wash the rest of myself, but I don’t have the energy. Hopefully I’ll get to shower in the next few days. I don’t get to stay as clean I’d like, but they don’t make me stay filthy either. I’m more valuable when I’m healthy.
I guess that’s why Lucas is here.
I find him leaning against the wall outside the bathroom. I grip the empty doorframe and stare at him. He should withdraw, but he doesn’t. He holds my gaze. The thing is, he’s not challenging me. It’s more like he can’t look away. And though he’s clearly nervous, he stays where he is instead of getting to a safer distance.
We’re still like that when the door from the guardroom opens and O’Neil comes in with a tray of food. I can see he also has a pair of sweatpants under his arm. It’s not unusual for him to bring me something extra. He’s the reason I have a toothbrush. A spare one too, actually, kept safe inside the mattress where I managed to pick open a seam. I’ve been hoarding it for months. I think about it every day and how nice it will be to use it for the first time.
Basically, O’Neil is the only one of my handlers I don’t hate, so I’m not sure why I go stalking toward the bars. He eyes me warily as he crouches to open the passthrough window and slide the tray inside. He locks it again and stands up.
As he stuffs the sweatpants through the bars, letting them hang over the crossbeam, his eyes flick past me to Lucas.
I growl. O’Neil’s eyes jump back to me with something like surprise.
I’m surprised too. I’m not sure why I don’t want him looking at Lucas, but I definitely don’t like it. He should leave.
He realizes that as well and turns to go without a word.
When the guardroom door closes behind him, I grab the sweatpants. I don’t mind being naked, but I don’t like being cold. I have been for what feels like months, so I’m thinking it’s late winter or early spring.
I wonder suddenly if Lucas is cold. He’s got jeans and a sweatshirt, but that’s not much. I’m sure he’s not used to the low temperature like I am.
I’m so damn stiff and sore and unsteady that when I try to put the sweatpants on, I fall against the bars, jarring several wounds. I just need a second to breathe and think about how to do this, but I don’t get that second. Lucas is right there, in my fucking space, taking the sweatpants from me.
What the hell is wrong with him?
He crouches in front of me and bunches up one of the legs, holding it for me to step into. I just stare at him. After a few seconds, he looks up. He holds my gaze softly, without challenge. He waits.
He’s scared of me but not scared enough. Doesn’t he know I could kill him? Even in my current condition, I could do it easily.
I lift my foot and let him slide the material over it. He gathers up the other pant leg and we repeat the process. Then he starts sliding the sweatpants up.
I’m so used to lashing out at people for touching me that it’s hard to suppress that instinct. But as I watch Lucas’s hands slide up my thighs, I don’t want him to stop.
I felt similarly conflicted when he cleaned my wounds earlier. I struggled with that. I’m only ever tended when I’m unconscious, so I’m not used to being touched like that. I didn’t like it. And yet, in a way, I did.
Now, watching Lucas touch me, feeling the glide of his fingers, I feel … I’m not sure. Something.
I don’t get physically aroused, but I feel, in some weird way, turned on. Is this a sexual response?
When he brushed my balls earlier, though it was clearly by accident, I hated it. I was already lying down, already vulnerable, so being touched there was not a good feeling. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it afterwards.
When Lucas gets near my cock with the waistband, he stalls. At this point, I could easily take over, but I keep still, hoping he’ll continue. I probably wouldn’t react well if he actually touched my cock, but in a way, I want him to.
He doesn’t. He shifts his grip on the waistband to pull it away from my body, clearing my cock without brushing it. Then the waistband snaps against my lower abdomen as he jumps back from me.
I’m watching him closely, so I see how his face is flushed as he looks away. I see how shaky he is as he goes to pick up the tray of food.
I almost growl at him to not touch it, but he preempts me with, “I’m just carrying it.”
He takes it over to the mattress and sets it down on the floor. Then he comes back for me.
Abruptly, it’s too much.
I’m not used to interacting with people like this, and I don’t know how to feel about it. It’s confusing me and I don’t like that, so I push him. He staggers back. He doesn’t get scared or shitty. He doesn’t leave. He just stands there and waits for me to walk to the bed.
He shadows me like he’s going to catch me if I fall. I make a threatening sound, but he doesn’t relent. When I get to the mattress, he offers his hand.
“Let me help you,” he says. “You’ll tear the stitches otherwise.”
It’s really hard for me to take his hand, but I do it and, yeah, it helps. He braces against my weight as I lower myself into a sitting position, then he withdraws, leaving me with the food.
At first, I’m glad. I’m pretty protective of my food. Before Oscar Crowley bought me, I spent a lot of years in a crowded prison where everyone ate together and you had to guard your food like it was gold—because it was.
It’s hard to let go of that, especially when there’s barely enough here even for me. But I don’t fucking like having him sitting over there without food.
I make a sound of irritation to get his attention. When he looks up, I motion for him to come. When he hesitates, I growl.
He gets up and walks across the cell. He sits cross legged on the floor opposite the tray but doesn’t reach for anything.
I pick up the bowl of rice and meat and hand it to him. He accepts it, takes a few bites, then passes it back to me.
We eat all the food that way, passing things back and forth. It’s very weird. I’m struggling with wanting to snatch things away and have them for myself and wanting to give everything to him so I can watch him eat. It’s strangely satisfying.
After everything is gone, Lucas takes the tray and sets it in front of the passthrough window. I’m torn again. Part of me wants him to go away. I can’t settle with him here. I can’t relax. But part of me is unhappy when he withdraws to his usual spot, leaving me alone on the mattress.
***
I fight my way out of a leaden sleep to the sound of voices. I force my eyes open. Then I throw the blanket aside and launch up from the mattress.
Briggs is reaching through the bars, and his hand is gripping Lucas’s sweatshirt. I rip Lucas away from him, flinging Lucas away from the bars. Hand darting through, I grab onto Briggs.
Electricity jolts through me, shattering my thoughts, stealing control of my body. I’m suspended by it, as always.
When the shock vanishes, I collapse to my hands and knees.
“Fucking animal, you do not touch me, ever!” Briggs shouts as he puts his taser away. “And you”—he points aggressively at Lucas—“can fucking do without!”
He has a bottle of water with him. He uncaps it and pours it out on the floor before storming off and slamming the guardroom door behind him.
It takes me a second to get up. By then, Lucas is at the bars, hands curling around them, staring at the puddle. He yelps in surprise when I grab him then flails as I haul him toward the mattress. As I fall onto it, I take him down with me. Pain flashes in a dozen places, but I don’t care.
Lucas squirms, trying to get away from me, but that is not an option. I haul him close, his back to my front. When he doesn’t quit squirming, I bite the back of his neck and tighten my hold, growling against him. He freezes.
I snug him tighter against me and pull the blanket over us both. I unclamp my teeth and breathe angrily against the back of his head. It has me breathing in his scent.
Half of me wants to thrust him away, to get him out of my bed, but I don’t. He’s not allowed to leave. No one gets to touch him but me.
He grumbles quietly, “I wanted that water.”
I grunt in annoyance. He doesn’t understand the games that men like Briggs like to play. Briggs would never have given him that water. He lured Lucas to the bars with it, but he would only have demanded something else. He would have kept demanding more until he got to something Lucas refused. Then he would’ve poured the water out anyway.
That’s how these things work.
Besides, there’s water in the bathroom. It tastes funny, but it’s fine. I’ve been drinking it for months.
Lucas sighs and starts to settle.
It takes me longer to relax. It’s so strange to feel his body against mine. I haven’t felt anything like it in years. It’s so much stimulation, so unfamiliar. For a long while, I don’t like it, even though I won’t let him go. But eventually, somehow, his weight against me starts to feel good. As the heat builds between our bodies under the blanket, I find myself warmer than I’ve been in months.
After a while, he whispers, “I wish I knew your name.”
It startles me. No one has asked my name in years.
“It’s okay,” he says quickly, obviously having felt my jolt, “I know you don’t talk.”
For some reason, I find myself straining, like words are trying to come out. I actually start shaking with the effort to speak. Or maybe it’s an effort to stop myself from speaking? I’m not sure. It’s been a long time since I’ve even remotely wanted to use words.
I’m not a person, and it’s better if I don’t think of myself that way. There’s no point in trying to prove I’m human. There hasn’t been for a long time.
Being a beast is easier. It’s safer.
So why am I trying to answer him?
And what am I even trying to say? Because my name is buried so deep inside me that I don’t know if I could possibly drag it up.
I don’t know if I want to.