Blaidd
I should tear him up.
It’s been a while since I tasted blood, Fenrir said, unable to take his eyes off Whitaker.
In the last nine years, Fenrir had enjoyed his little treats—dropped deep into the vast National Forest to be hunted. The end of the chase was always the same. Violent. Limbs torn away. He’d even managed to rip Bellingham’s head clean off his shoulders.
Their funny little eyes always looked so shocked when we told them to run.
I felt Fenrir’s amusement.
“That concludes the voting results,” I said smoothly, glancing down the length of the table as I inhaled.
Fear. Sweat—
I paused.
Interesting.
Two of them had fucked just before coming to the meeting.
My gaze pinned the woman taking notes. My employee had screwed Whitaker around… I inhaled again.
Fifty minutes ago.
“Does anyone have any further questions?”
“Yes,” Whitaker began.
“Anyone other than Gerald Whitaker,” I said with a yawn.
As they stood to leave, I watched them subtly shift away from him. All except Karen—or Carol—who hesitated behind him.
Caroline Mathers, Fenrir whispered.
“Ms Mathers,” I said, without looking up from the voting results, “a moment of your time. Close the door. Sit.”
There had to be at least a twenty-five-year age gap between them. She really did stink, but I ignored the revulsion as she sat two seats away.
I texted my security a single word.
Eviction.
“You’ll hand your employee card to my men and leave the premises this morning,” I said calmly. “If you wish to fuck elderly clients, you may do so in your free time.”
I listened as my men’s footsteps scuttled along the hallway.
My eyes flicked over her.
Diamond pendant with matching earrings. Expensive perfume. Designer shoes. Strands of hair loosened from her bun. Her lipstick had been refreshed—but judging by the faint scuffs on her stockings, she’d been on her knees recently.
“But, sir—” she began, just as my security burst through the door.
She was about to deny it—until she met my eyes.
Her mouth closed. She nodded.
And they would call me an animal, Fenrir sniffed.
Indeed, I replied, watching her leave.
?
?
?
I stood inspecting Whitaker’s grand reception room—a historical property, old money, and even older interior design. The aging wife excused herself when the silence stretched too long.
I walked toward him.
Without his suit, he looked diminished, slumped in casual slacks and a matching sweater. I handed him my phone.
“Scroll through the pictures,” I said, unzipping my trousers.
He pushed his glasses up, alarm flashing across his face, but he took the phone.
“I could have these published in every major newspaper by tomorrow morning,” I said as I began to urinate on his legs.
He shifted, spreading them apart.
I slowed the stream.
“Put them back, Whitaker. You wanted the pissing contest,” I said, waiting until he complied.
I resumed, the wet streak of urine dripping onto his expensive carpet.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Each splatter ran down his trousers and slippers, pooling on the floor.
His hand trembled as he flicked through a few of the photos.
“I own you. Do not forget your place again,” I said as I finished, giving a brief shake before tucking myself back into my trousers.
I didn’t wait for a response. I wiped my hand on his shoulder and took my phone from him.
I felt Fenrir’s amusement.
He thought the room smelled better now.
I sniffed the air as I turned to leave.
Well. He wasn’t wrong.
?
?
?
I sat in my car and reached for the wet wipes, scrubbing my hand clean.
That was new, Fenrir observed.
We need him a little longer, and I don’t see him running far in the woods, I replied.
The truth was, I was bored. They were all so predictable.
Between my two companies, finance and data, my reputation was cutthroat. The players knew the rules of the game—and the consequences. Every so often, a minor disruption like Whitaker occurred. But in the end, they always fell back into line.
No one was beyond my reach. Everyone had dirt buried somewhere. Everyone had financial pressure points.
The city lights thinned as we drove through the night.
Friday night. People would be out, mistaking excess for freedom. Simpletons drinking their money away.
Fenrir stirred.
Friday nights meant fucking the week’s frustrations into silence.
He enjoyed tormenting them—making them beg, forcing them to humiliate themselves.
We both did.
?
?
?
“So you’ll make the enquiry disappear?” I asked Sir Rykens.
He nodded.
“If you don’t mind, Sir Rykens, I’ll need verbal confirmation for the microphone,” I drawled, watching his face drain of colour as his gaze flicked around the interior of my car.
“Oh, don’t worry,” I added mildly. “It’s our little secret.”
I wanted this over with. The stench of people in such a confined space was ruining my coffee.
“Yes,” he said, swallowing. “I will make the enquiry disappear.”
I pressed the button. The locks snapped open.
“Perfect. Thank you for your time this morning,” I said, unfolding my newspaper.
He hesitated, unmoving for a beat, then cleared his throat.
“Well… I’ll just be off then,” he said, discomfort creeping into his voice.
“Mm,” I hummed, already scanning the financial section—an upcoming company preparing to float.
The head of the Financial Conduct Authority finally exited my car.
I rolled the window down and took a long sip of my coffee.
The fresh air filled my lungs as another week began.