Chapter 7 Roth
ROTH
The simpering girl in front of me is taking too fucking long, and I regret opening the door in the first place.
Other students know better than to come to our private apartment without explicit invitation.
We made that clear after enduring a never-ending revolving door of hapless sycophants.
At first, it was amusing, especially to Killian.
But my tolerance is thin at best, which is why I wanted to look whoever was stupid enough to come here in the eyes to demonstrate the gravity of their misstep.
Five minutes later, I still haven't cum. Her clumsy, blushing virgin act—a blatantly transparent attempt to make herself more appealing—is uninspired. She might’ve had some semblance of technique, but I don’t break my rule for anyone: no touching.
Whatever she’s doing to compensate is failing spectacularly—no finesse, no rhythm, and no reason to permit her to continue.
One glance at my watch confirms she’s outstayed her welcome, because I’m no closer to unloading my aching balls than I was when she first dropped to her knees at our door.
Taking control, I hold her head still and thrust my cock deeper down her throat despite her attempts to breathe.
Her gagged whimpers only spur me on and I put my hand around her neck to restrict her airway even more, waiting for the moment her pain turns to fear, and fear turns to panic when she realizes I won’t stop until I’ve taken what she promised when she came to my door.
Her body convulses, protesting my invasion, and her hands unclasp from behind her back, but she has enough wherewithal to resist pushing me away.
Since she’s obeying, I decide to show her a small measure of mercy.
Several rough pumps later, with her face flush against my groin, I flood her throat with cum as she struggles against my hold.
She flinches when I pull out, her garish lipstick smeared across her mouth—and my skin, I realize with disgust. Sticky strands of saliva trail from her chin as I back away, tucking my spent cock back into my sleep pants.
She wobbles, trying to stand and fix her disheveled appearance.
Her mussed hair has been partly torn out of the braid she arrived with, and her knees are bruised from the hard floor.
Her red-rimmed eyes, streaked with mascara, lock onto me with desperate eagerness—like a small, trembling dog waiting for its master's approval.
“I expected better. Get out,” I order without inflection, and turn to the ensuite bathroom in our apartment, fingers twitching with the compulsion to erase all traces of her from my skin.
“Do you want me—” she begins before I cut her off.
Revulsion and contempt drip from my voice.
“There’s nothing you have that I want.” Her face falls in confusion, and a hint of fear, at my vitriol.
Good. “Especially if all you have to offer is a repeat of that disappointment,” I taunt.
Fresh tears well in her eyes, falling down her flushed cheeks.
The proof of her humiliation sends a rush of triumph through my veins with the urge to crush whatever sense of self-worth she has left.
Her lower lip trembles, and she glances way, wiping the tears from her eyes like she has any dignity left to preserve.
“I—can I use your bathroom?” she asks quietly, but the fact that she still doesn’t know better than to further inflict her unwelcome presence means she hasn’t learnt the lesson I’ve been so generous to impart.
“No,” I say with a sharp, sadistic smile.
“You will go wherever it is you should be right now instead of in my presence. You will refrain from cleaning up your mess. Let everyone see what happens to those who reach beyond their place.” I step towards her and grasp her chin, reddened skin turning white under the brutal pressure of my unforgiving grip.
“Now, apologize for wasting my time,” I demand. She whimpers a whispered “I’m sorry” and I release her. Tripping backward in her haste to escape any further consequences, she scrambles to right herself when I slam the door in her face.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply, struggling to contain the flood of adrenaline sparking the flames lying dormant beneath my skin.
No one aside from my chosen brothers, the only ones who understand what it means to be Heir, will ever know how close they come to annihilation, held at bay only by my iron will.
Not even my mother and father know that Hellfire burns its way through my veins like a poison.
If they ever found out I held more power than any other Ignis Heir in recent memory, I’d never be free, though it’s not like I can escape their clutches as it is. None of us can.
We were never meant to be the cherished children of doting parents, merely results of breeding pedigreed bloodlines attempting to produce more powerful offspring with each new generation.
Little more than tools to be wielded by our makers, until the day comes when the tools no longer fit the hands that have brought them to heel.
The sting of scalding water on my skin washes away the memory of the unknown girl's touch and the intrusive thoughts of my parents, of the threats and machinations lying in wait for us the moment we step out that door. Here in our sanctuary, it doesn’t feel like my chest is being crushed with every breath.
I can close my eyes without fearing the knives in the shadows, lurking behind polite smiles, and begin the meticulous routing of cleaning my heavily tattooed skin, as I do every morning, followed by the exacting order of operations that ends with my trademark black on black suit, combat boots, and silver accents to provide contrast. Monogrammed cufflinks, the silver Hellhound lapel pins of House Kovacs with the accompanying chain, and an intricate Eldredge knot of black silk finish the look.
With each step, each layer of clothing, the unyielding control I wield settles into place, until the searing fury of my power hardens into glacial stillness, belying the danger beneath.
The man in the mirror looks hard, immutable.
He looks too much like my father, the resemblance marred only by my mother’s eyes.
This is the Heir of House Ignis, Legacy of Wrath.
Roth Kovacs is nowhere to be found, and not for the first time I wonder when the day will come that he disappears completely.
“Hey man, you done yet?” Luther's deep voice asks from behind the door. Despite Killian’s attempts to persuade him otherwise, Luther has never been a morning person. I unlock the door and step aside for him to enter.
“Who was that?”
“No idea.”
“Is she coming back?” he asks.
“Not if she knows what’s good for her,” I murmur. He grunts as he finishes pissing and washes his hands, brushing past me to walk back to his room.
“Save me some?” he asks before disappearing into his bedroom. Next door to him, I glimpse Thane’s foot hanging off his bed.
With one final adjustment to my tie, I leave our apartment.
My retreating footsteps and the slam of the heavy door are the only things that dare break the silence of our private hallway.
It might as well be the final turn of the vault that locks Roth Kovacs away.
My shoulders tense, my gait becomes slow and deliberate.
My jaw clenches as the all-too-familiar persona envelops me like a shroud.
By the time I’ve reached the mirrored doors of our private elevator, the Heir of House Ignis, Legacy of Wrath, has taken over.
He is a cruel, exacting man. The prodigal son of even crueler parents.
Anything less than perfect obedience risks drawing the ruthless ire of both illustrious dynasties.
Most choose to bow rather than be forced to break, which is why the sea of students and faculty parts as I stride towards the Great Hall.
The waitstaff deliver my breakfast within moments of my arrival—buttered whole grain toast layered with avocado slices and seasoned friend egg, with a side of freshly cut fruit.
I hone my senses as I eat, sifting through the hum of conversation and the clatter of silverware, cataloging everything I overhear.
While Luther wields his overwhelming strength, Killian his wild savagery, and Thane his limitless destruction, I wield knowledge sharper than any blade, trading dark secrets in the shadows of truth, scheming and manipulating until something twists and breaks. And when required, I burn.
Most don’t dare meet my gaze—sheep praying the wolf spares them for one more day.
Only one scarred, milky eye dares to meet mine in silent challenge.
He might be the only one alive who could pose any direct threat to my seat at the top of the hierarchy, but the dragon prince forfeited his birthright long ago.
When he drops his head, my demon revels in his reluctant submission.
Luther and Thane are followed by greedy, hungry eyes as they enter the Great Hall. Women adjust their blouses and hike up their tailored skirts. Men straighten their shoulders and call out greetings. All in vain attempts to get closer to us and our legacy.
Our power.
No words need to be said as they sit down.
I already know that Luther is bracing himself for verbal abuse and emotional manipulation during his next visit home.
Thane is lost in his hangover as his first blunt of the morning smothers the ghosts of his nightmares.
All that’s missing is Killian, who will finish his morning run in approximately seven minutes and breeze through like a hurricane, devouring whatever remains on our plates in addition to his own.