Blaidd
While I walked back to my bedroom, I checked my watch, timing when to return. The image of her—flat on her face, the tip of the thermometer protruding from her arse—made my mouth curve into a grin. I would follow the doctor’s instructions, just not his way.
She would recover. She would regain her strength.
But not before I humiliated her in every way possible.
Fenrir hummed in agreement.
He’d finally resurfaced—silent, watchful. An observer only.
I stripped the gloves off, turning them inside out before tossing them into the bin. The tap hissed as I ran the water and scrubbed my hands clean, methodical, precise.
I didn’t enjoy the act itself.
Her reactions, however, were worth every second.
I dried my hands and wrists, worked lotion into my skin, then pulled a fresh pair of gloves from the box still sitting on the counter.
The satisfying snapping sound felt good.
Another glance at the time.
I decided to give her five more minutes.
Five minutes lying there—helpless—with my thermometer lodged inside her.
Let her feel me.
Let her come to heel, like a good bitch should.
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I pushed my shorts down and stepped out of them, naked, then slipped the swimming nose clip over my nose. She was asleep when I pulled back the covers and slid into the bed beside her. There was more heat trapped beneath the blankets than the night before—a good sign.
I tested the air a few times, but the nose clip did its job.
It felt wrong, having someone lying next to me. Foreign. Intrusive.
I focused instead on the image of her face in the morning—the hatred, the disgust when she realised where she was and who she’d slept beside.
The reward outweighed the discomfort.
In the dark, I smiled.
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“Get away from me, freak.”
Her voice hissed, dragging me out of sleep.
Her cloying scent flooded my lungs as I breathed in—and then horror hit. I was gripping her leg. My dick was leaking against her hot flesh.
“Are you—?” she started, then stopped short, gagging. “I’m gonna puke.”
She tried to kick me away, but her muscles were still weak. When she gagged again, I jolted upright and snatched the plastic basin from beside the bed.
She clutched the cream-coloured bowl and retched into it.
I launched myself off the bed and grabbed my shorts from the chair. I didn’t bother pulling them on. I just bolted from the room.
Cursing her under my breath.
It didn’t help that my dick bobbed obscenely as I ran.
I cursed both of us as I stepped under the cold spray of the shower.
The arctic water did nothing. Her scent was beneath my skin.
I closed my eyes and gripped my cock, trying to shove the shame down.
The memory of her soft thigh against me made my hand move faster. My lips parted as her scent flooded back—clinging, surrounding me, impossible to escape.
I tried to stop.
I couldn’t.
Harder. Faster. My hand pumped relentlessly.
My teeth clenched as I gripped my knot with my other hand—so tight I hissed at the sharp spike of pain.
Then I shuddered and grunted as I came. Long. Hard. My come splattered against the shower wall.
All I could do was stare at it in revulsion as it slowly slid down the tiles.
I roared and punched the shower. The tiles erupted from the wall, and shards flew in the air, settling beside my feet as I panted.
I welcomed the blood and pain.
Fenrir remained silent.
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That day, I sent the guard in to feed her. I watched the feed closely at every meal. At first, everything unfolded as it should.
He entered in his usual professional capacity. He remained neutral and efficient in the afternoon.
She was wary, but compliant.
He checked her saline bag and adjusted the drip as instructed. Routine.
In the evening, he asked if she needed anything.
Fine.
She hesitated, then asked for books. Something to read.
He nodded and left to fetch them.
My fist clenched at the desk.
They were my books.
She smiled at him when he returned. Not much—just a flicker. Gratitude.
That expression tightened something ugly in my chest.
That should have been my gratitude.
When she tried to sit up, the movement was slow and careful. The covers slipped from her shoulder, baring skin that was not for his eyes. My eyes ran down from the jugular to her breast.
The guard stopped moving.
He stared.
Not a glance. Not a mistake.
A stare that lingered a second too long.
Then he smiled.
It wasn’t wide. It wasn’t overt.
But he stepped closer.
Fenrir began to pace inside me, a restless, circling pressure.
Lielit noticed. She pulled the covers back up, her posture closing in on itself.
The guard didn’t leave.
He stood there—hovering, pretending to check something that no longer needed checking.
Lingering.
And in that moment, without realising it, he sealed his death wish.
Give him to me, Fenrir snarled. Show her. Show her what we are capable of.
The words didn’t echo. They didn’t need to.
They settled—heavy, inevitable.
I pushed back from the desk so hard the chair scraped loudly across the floor. The laptop screen still glowed behind me, frozen on her image, the guard standing too close, his body angled wrong. Towards her. Wanting her.
She was mine.
I was already moving.
I took the stairs two at a time, my pulse flattening into something cold and efficient. Fenrir pressed closer with every step, not frenzied—focused. Patient in a way that was far more dangerous.
Ignore her scent, I ordered.
It clawed anyway as we grew closer.
The hallway stretched. The door waited at the end of it.
Closed.
That was enough.
The fury came sharp and clean. I lifted my leg and kicked without slowing. The impact detonated through the frame—wood splintering, hinges screaming. The door didn’t swing open.
It tore free.
It hit the far wall and slid to the floor.
The room stilled.
Fenrir saw him.
The man froze mid-movement, his body caught between instinct and disbelief. His hand hovered near his weapon, uncertain. Too slow.
The man who had smiled.
The man who thought proximity was permission.
The man who believed himself unobserved.
I owned her.
Me.
No one else.
The thought barely had time to register before Fenrir surged forward, bone and muscle twisting violently beneath my skin. Fabric strained, seams protesting as our form began to shift.
Her scream cut through the room.
Irrelevant.
The gun, however—that was not.
That mattered.
Even as Fenrir plummeted across the room, his size expanded, his paw raised before the guard could aim.
He swiped the gun from his filthy hand. Just as Fenrir began to land, his jaws widened.
He swallowed the guard’s head, snarling—wet and vicious—as he clamped his teeth down.
He shook him rapidly, chomping until the head detached and blood sprayed over our face.
Yes, I hissed. Die.
With a single gulp, he swallowed the head.
Thump.
The guard’s body finally fell.
Fenrir’s eyes rested on Lielit.
I felt his fury, but then he sniffed the air, ignoring her sobs.
He did something that had never happened during his bloodlust moments. His rage ebbed away, and he raised his head. Our chest puffed out.
What are you doing? I asked.
He paced around the bed—once, twice—then went back to the prey, dragging the carcass between his paws toward her and dropping it on the floor.
He was offering it to her as a gift.
Why are you doing that? I hissed.
Lielit screamed again, tears rolling down her face as she clutched the covers.
That’s when I noticed the speckles of blood on the covers—and on Lielit.
Tears and blood.
They suited her.