Chapter 24
I Know Torture When I See It
ELLIOT
What the fuck is with her and these skirts?
When they find the minotaur headless and dead in Trinity Square, it’ll be because of the fucking skirts. And possibly because I’m an idiot who doesn’t know when to quit while he’s ahead. But sue me, it’s Iris.
She’s punishing me. I know she is.
Her and those hips of hers. Dancing like the devil.
I would intervene if I thought I didn’t deserve it.
But from the look on her face last night, she’d be well within her rights to drain me where I stand.
This is mercy in comparison. So I take my punishment, watching as his hand roams up her thigh and along her waist, down her arm, and across her chest.
I’m not jealous. Though I can’t help but wonder if I would be, were I not cursed.
Something tells me the answer is yes, but it’s a pointless exercise to consider what I could be. There is only what I am. And right now, I’m angry.
Not because she is mine, but because he is clumsy, lazy, touching everything he can get his hands on with no regard for her or what she likes. What she wants or needs.
She deserves more, so much more.
And still, I stand by watching because I am no more deserving than he is. I don’t think any of us are.
She is too witty, too brave, too bold for them, and I am too hollow for her.
“You know I didn’t take you for a cuck, mate.”
Dred’s monotone accent is loud in my ear as he refills my drink. He’s been keeping it full in hopes it will keep me occupied enough to prevent me from ripping the horns off the minotaur. I haven’t told him it’s not working.
I growl at him, baring all my teeth.
“Shut up, before I feed you to my girlfriend.”
He waves the dirty bar towel like a white flag, and I go back to watching Iris’s breasts bounce in her tight top as she dances.
She’s had a lot of brew. More than usual. I asked Dred to start cutting them with seltzer water about an hour ago, but it hasn’t slowed her down. She continues on her tirade, tossing her head back and forth as she winds her hips.
I know she sees me watching her. Her gaze finds mine every once in a while, and I can see the challenge on her face, daring me to stop her. But I won’t. Not unless she asks me to or the minotaur makes a very stupid choice.
“Damn, bro. Sorry for your loss.”
A voice echoes faintly in my ears, and I turn, fighting every fiber of my being to tear my gaze from Iris. What I find instead is certainly less appealing.
Deacon is standing beside me, eyes unfocused and fisting a bottle of brew as he sways on his feet. He is not looking at me, but I know he is speaking to me, because he is staring at Iris.
“Excuse me?” I say, blocking his view of her and hoping for his sake that I misheard him.
“Imagine fumbling thee Iris Ashbourne,” he says, laughing as he lifts his glass in her direction. “But who can blame you. It’s hard enough keeping something like that when you’re a regular wolf. I can’t imagine how hard it must be when you’re cursed.”
My dampener constricts, and I set my drink down to keep the glass from breaking as I resist the temptation to rip the skin off his face.
“The fuck did you just say?” I snap.
Deacon’s eyes are shadowed as I look at him, dark and unfocused, but he speaks with his usual conviction.
“Is it hard?” he asks. “Faking it all the time? I bet she can tell. Probably only stays because you make her come. But you’re not the only one who can make her come. ”
His words slur, and he tosses back the rest of his drink, slamming the empty glass on the bar as a small voice pipes up from behind his slouching form.
“Deacon, let’s go. You’re going to get us severed.”
As Deacon grips the bar for balance, I peer around him to see Covington standing sheepishly in his shadow.
“You should listen to your friend, Deacon. This is your final warning.”
Deacon shakes his head, the brew making him brave, or stupid—one of the two.
“You might as well relinquish your claim,” he slurs. “It’s not like you can make her happy anyway.”
“D, come on. Just let it go.” Covington pleads with Deacon to see reason. But he’s too far gone, and I, for one, will not be bringing him back from the ledge.
He’ll make a good replacement for the minotaur.
“You want what’s mine?” I ask him. “You want to know what she tastes like? How she feels?”
He nods, too drunk to know better.
“You know how to take it,” I say, shrugging. “What’s stopping you?”
Deacon’s eyes narrow, and the grin on his face grows sloppy, a bit of brew dripping from the corner of his mouth before he spits at my feet.
“Is that a challenge?” he asks.
My brows lift.
“That depends,” I answer. “Are you prepared to die for her? Because I am.”
He stares at me a moment, assessing the seriousness of my words. But he’s already made up his mind. I can see it in his eyes.
In my periphery, Dame appears to be enjoying a private conversation with Dred’s roommate, Ethan, and behind the bar, Dred is pretending to dry empty glasses. But from the stillness of Dame’s tail and the slowness with which Dred is moving, I know they’re listening.
He’s going to challenge me, I tell Dred.
Dame wants to know if you need his blade, he asks.
I shake my head.
I won’t need it.
Alright. Just try not to make a mess. I don’t feel like cleaning it.
I laugh out loud, just in time to hear Deacon uttering the rites.
“I, Deacon Anderson, challenge you, Elliot Cross, to relinquish your claim on Iris Ashb—”
I don’t have the patience to hear her name on his lips, so I drive my fist through his face before he’s finished. The satisfying crunch of snapping bone echoes, and a few people mutter in awe as I rear back to smash my head into his nose.
It crinkles like paper, and Deacon reaches to catch the blood before it comes spilling from his face.
“Oh, come on, Deacon,” I taunt. “It’s like you don’t even want her.”
A snarl takes up his bloody face, and he recovers just enough to swing at me.
I let it connect to see what he’s working with. As expected, it isn’t much.
I reach across him, fisting his shirt in my hands and lifting him from the floor, to bring him down on his back with a heavy thud.
Somewhere behind me, a girl squeals at the sight, but the crowd has already dispersed, forming a decent circle around us as they are apt to do when the wolves start fighting.
A few people cheer as I pummel Deacon into the ground, and I wait until I hear the crack of his jaw before letting him up for air.
“Do you yield?” I ask.
He shakes his head, eyes glazed over as he continues to smile.
“Why do you care so much?” he asks. “ You don’t love her. You could have anyone. She’s just another succ-slu—”
Deacon doesn’t finish that word. I’m sure he would if he had the chance. But talking is hard to do when there’s a fist between your teeth.
Spots of white flash before my eyes as the dampener does its best to reel me in. But it’s no use.
“Say it!” I shout over the blare of the music. “I dare you. I fucking dare you!”
Deacon shakes his head, muttering through his splintered teeth. But my ears are ringing, so I don’t know what he’s saying. Nor do I give a fuck.
My hands come around his throat, squeezing until his lips turn blue.
Legally, I cannot kill him. Not here. Not off pack grounds. But the challenge rules still apply.
“Dame!” I bark.
In a second, he’s at my side, helping me to turn Deacon over, and planting his foot on the back of his neck. He crouches down, replacing the pressure with his hands, and he reads my intention in a single glance.
The best thing about being bonded since we were six? We stopped needing words a long time ago.
Using his knee to pin him down, Dame ropes Deacon’s arms behind his back while I fist the base of his tail in my grip.
Deacon thrashes as he realizes what’s about to happen, but there’s not much room for escape as I press my boot into his back for more leverage. He shouts incoherent apologies, but it’s too late.
I stand twisting and yanking upward in one swift motion, and his tail separates from his body with a sickening snap, smothered by the sound of Deacon’s screams.
Elliot.
Dred’s voice interrupts my bloodlust, and I glance up to see him watching Iris in the distance.
Your girl doesn’t look good, he says.
He’s right. She doesn’t.
In the corner, wedged between an orc and a goblin, is “my girl,” dancing beneath the strobing lights like her life depends on it. I can see the hunger in her eyes from here, smell it lingering in the air, and I don’t know whether it’s exhaustion or relief, but I’ve had enough.
I stand, dropping Deacon’s bloodied tail beside him.
He’s gone still, in shock from the pain, and Dame nods.
“Go, get Iris. I’ll handle it.”
I make my way onto the dance floor, shouldering past the other weres and the wendigos crowding around a drunken Iris.
The orc is standing much too close to her, and the goblin is eyeing her hungrily as she moves to the beat.
I shove them aside, not caring when they spew muttered curses in my direction.
They’d be stupid to challenge me here. They’re both too slow to be of any advantage in an enclosed space.
And wolves do not take it lightly when one of their own is challenged.
Any others present would happily assist me.
So they both settle for grumbling quietly as I place myself between them and Iris.
“It’s time to go, princess,” I shout over the music.
“You shouldn’t be talking to me,” she declares, flipping her hair back and forth.
“Why is that?”
“My boyfriend gets very jealous,” she says. “He will kill you.”
For a moment, I think she’s had too much to drink. But then she bends over to shake her ass in my face, and I know she knows it’s me.
She’s been bold tonight, but not that bold. And I know torture when I see it.
She makes a show of it. Winding her hips and swaying from side to side. I take a moment to enjoy the view she offers before her skirt flutters, and I step in close, shielding her bare bottom from any onlookers. She chuckles, teasing me further, as my arms drape around her.
“Alright, that’s enough,” I tell her, pulling her into an upright position.
She spins on me, rage in her usually soft brown eyes.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do!”
Her words are harsh, shouting, though she has no reason to.
“No.” I sigh. “I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stand here and watch you starve.”
Her eyes roll.
“Could’ve fooled me,” she mutters.
She’s still spinning to the music, and I wrap an arm around her waist, forcing her to stop.
“Iris, baby, come on. You know I can’t stand to see you like this.”
“Oh,” she snaps, slamming her fists on my chest. “We’re back to pretending like you like me? That’s great.”
Pretending?
What does she mean, pretending?
“Iris, I do like you. I like you a lot. I just don’t…”
I stop.
The words die in my mouth as I look at her.
Her face is blank, eyes desperately searching, and I know what she’s thinking.
She’s replaying every moment, wondering if it was all just well practiced. And while it might seem like it, the one thing I know for certain is that everything I’ve ever done for her was because I wanted to.
Whether it’s respect, anger, understanding, or some other lesser feeling, I don’t know. But why should it matter? Just because it isn’t love doesn’t mean it’s not real.
Does it?
I dip my head as she sways, pressing my forehead to hers, and her eyes slide shut as she sucks in a shuddering breath.
I wonder if she can feel it, the faint hum of the pack. It isn’t as strong as it would be if we were fated mates, but it’s still there, anchoring her to me as it has been for the past three months.
“Let me take you home, Iris.”
Her body softens in my grip, and she leans into me, roping her arms around my neck as she nods.
“Okay.”