Chapter 31
Symond
The Hive’s training yard reeked of sweat and dust. Sand crunched beneath Symond’s boots as he faced his trainer across the ring—a broad-shouldered woman with iron-gray hair and a face carved from stone.
Her name was Tareen. She didn’t smile. Didn’t speak unless she had to. Just watched him with a quiet judgment.
Symond could smell the insult. Violette had set him up with this old hag on purpose, calling him too weak to keep up with the real fighters.
A woman trainer meant he was being pitied, or worse, mocked.
Tareen wouldn’t be able to teach him a single thing worth knowing, and she sure as hell wouldn’t win a fight against him.
“Begin,” she said.
He lunged, fists ready to bury her under a mountain of bruises and frustration, but she moved like smoke. Her foot shot out and hooked his ankle; he ate sand before he knew what hit him. Embarrassment flared hotter than pain, scorching his cheeks as he scrambled up.
Again.
He tried a different angle this time. Faster. Less predictable.
She swept his legs out from under him and planted a knee to his chest before he could blink.
The air whooshed from his lungs.
Again.
By the fifth knockdown, his vision had narrowed to a red haze. His ribs ached. His pride burned. The other Hive recruits watching from the edge of the ring snickered.
He caught one face—smug, with too-familiar eyes, a crooked smile, and ginger locks. “Bested by a girl,” he snickered.
Symond snapped.
He leaped over the ropes, fists swinging. The recruit barely had time to react before Symond slammed him to the ground and punched him again. And again.
Blood sprayed. Someone yelled. Arms grabbed him, dragged him back.
“Enough!”
Tareen’s voice cracked like a whip.
Symond’s chest heaved. His knuckles throbbed. The recruit lay stunned, blood streaming from a broken nose.
Violette appeared out of nowhere, seizing his collar and hauling him toward the exit.
“You’re done,” she hissed. “You’re benched until I say otherwise.”
He didn’t fight her.
Symond waited until the sting of humiliation faded and the bruises on his ribs bloomed into a dull, manageable ache.
He bided his time in the workshop, hammering his fury into the gleam of metal and the hiss of steam.
Sparks flew like thoughts he couldn’t keep hold of.
His mind circled back to Violette’s simmering disgust as she'd dragged him out, the way she hadn’t even bothered to look at him when she benched him.
The more he worked, the more he seethed. The training yard's taunts echoed in his skull, reminding him of every goddamned slight.
He threw down his tools and left. The alleys twisted around him, dark, narrow veins pulsing with whispers and shadows. He needed somewhere loud, somewhere to drown out the noise in his head.
He found it on the edge of Aszona’s slums: a flickering neon sign advertising “entertainment.” He shoved the door open and was greeted by the smell of perfume and smoke, a riot of colors and noise. The place was packed—music thudding, people shouting, drinks sloshing over chipped mugs.
A woman with a cloud of red hair and a dress that barely qualified as such sauntered over. “Fresh from the alleys, huh? You look like you could use a drink. Or six.”
“Double,” Symond said, forcing every muscle to unwind.
She led him to a corner table where the light was low and the air felt less like being punched in the face. The bottle she brought matched her dress—cheap, potent, enough to strip paint. He poured and downed it like he was trying to cauterize something inside.
The woman leaned against the table, smirking at his bandaged hands. “You like them rough?”
He didn’t answer. Tossing back another shot, he let the burn carve its way down. The haze of the room thickened, blotting out everything but the thud of music and the bite of alcohol. Here, he didn’t have to think.
She draped herself across his lap and traced a finger along his jaw. “I could make you forget all about this,” she purred, lips close enough to taste the booze on his breath.
Her boldness snagged somewhere inside him, turned the drink sour in his gut. She was too much like everyone else, thinking they had him figured out before he even opened his mouth. His fingers clenched around the glass until it threatened to shatter.
“Cat got your tongue?” she purred. “Or are you just saving it for later?”
He shifted back, an inch that felt like retreat. “Looks like you’ve got other customers,” he said, nodding to a group of rowdy patrons.
She pulled back, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face before she smiled, slow and sultry. “I’ll be back,” she promised, sliding off with a deliberate sway of hips.
Symond poured another drink, but the sharp edge of the room dulled as he watched her disappear into the crowd. Across the chaos, someone caught his eye—another woman working a table. Dark hair and pale skin, with an underlying smugness that made his blood run cold. She looked just like Elora.
His vision tunneled, the noise collapsing to a dull roar.
It didn’t make sense, but nothing seemed to make sense lately.
He blinked. She was still there, smiling too sweetly as she took drink orders from a pack of leering men.
One of them drew her onto his lap, and she laughed, the sound digging into his skull.
Perfect.
This was exactly what he needed. Proof. Evidence that what happened in the barn was just normal, healthy desire for a woman who happened to look like Elora. Nothing twisted about it. Nothing broken.
Symond shoved to his feet, rattling the table and spilling half his drink.
The alcohol hit him all at once, spinning his head as he barreled through the crowd.
She turned to look at him as he approached, her eyes meeting his.
Up close, the differences were more obvious—her nose was pointier, her eyes slightly heavier-lidded.
“Looking for company tonight?” she asked.
This is normal, he told himself as heat coursed through him at the sight of her. This is what men do. They want women. They take what they want.
“Yeah,” he said. “Somewhere private.”
She led him to a backroom with a lopsided bed and not much else. The shit light played tricks on his whiskey-soaked brain, blurring her face just enough that he could almost see Elora staring back at him. Yeah, he could make this work. This would prove everything.
He pulled out a handful of coins and tossed them at her feet. The gesture felt powerful, commanding. Like he was in control. This was his choice, his desire driving him.
The woman laid on the bed, hiking her dress up, and spreading her legs wide for him like she thought she was a holiday feast waiting to be devoured.
No prudishness, no semblance of self-respect or modesty.
But her eagerness felt wrong somehow, too easy.
It threatened to break the fantasy he was trying to build.
“Cover yourself. I’m not interested in that.”
She raised an eyebrow but obeyed. “What do you want me to do?”
He stalked over to the side of the bed, each step vibrating with what he told himself was raw, masculine desire. The woman’s eyes locked onto his with an expression of disturbing excitement. Maybe even anticipation.
This is what it means to want someone, he convinced himself. This intensity. This need to dominate. It’s normal. It’s natural.
Without wasting time on formalities, he clamped his hand down hard on her arm, dragged her off the bed. Her surprise broke out as a sharp yelp at the unexpected action, but she bit it back quickly.
See? She likes it rough. Women like strong men who know what they want.
“On your knees,” he whispered, a command that barely needed words. She sank onto the stained rug, almost too eagerly, reaching up to undo his belt like she knew exactly how this was going to go.
He swatted her hands away. “Don’t be so willing.”
That’s better. More like how it should be. More like...
He pushed the thought away. This wasn’t about anything else. This was about him wanting her.
She nodded, withdrawing her hands, more cautious this time. He unbuckled his belt and let his trousers drop to his ankles without ceremony. His cock sprang up, and he felt a surge of satisfaction at his body’s response. See? This was working. This was proof.
Her eyes widened, and this time he saw the sparkle of genuine excitement flash through them. But instead of flattering him, it only irritated him. She was supposed to be more... resistant. More like...
Stop, he told himself. Focus on what this means. You want her. That’s all.
Cupping her chin, he shoved his thumb in her mouth. She gasped but didn’t flinch back, letting him force her mouth open wide. Her tongue danced lightly over his fingertip in a way that felt too practiced, too willing.
This is desire, he repeated to himself, even as something cold settled in his stomach. This is what attraction looks like.
He yanked her head forward, shoving himself deep into her mouth. His other hand fisted in her hair, cranking her neck at an awkward angle. The resistance of her throat against the intrusion sent satisfaction through him.
This is it. This is proof. I want her. I want women like her. There’s nothing wrong with me.
Her eyes watered, cheeks bulging. She got her hands up, fingers clamping around his hips, trying to brace herself. The sight of her struggling should have excited him more, should have proven his point about desire and dominance.
Instead, something nagging picked at the back of his mind.
Spit pooled along his shaft as he thrust in and out of her, not caring about the gagging sounds. He kept her head locked in place, shoving himself deeper. Her tongue worked circles around him, and he felt the familiar build of heat.
He held onto the bedpost, using it as leverage, chasing that validation he desperately needed.
This was control. This was power. This was normal male desire—
Her teeth grazed him.
Symond froze.
The world collapsed. Suddenly he wasn’t in a brothel with a willing prostitute. He was fifteen, confused and terrified, in a new dorm room he thought was safe. Until Gerard showed up that night, dragging him from his bed and forcing him to his knees.
He could still remember the taste, salt and copper.
He’d been stupid enough to bite him. Got him good, too.
But Gerard taught him quickly never to try again.
One threat of making him a ward, of constant degradation, of making him a pet in front of the others forever—that was all it took.
Symond never bit him again. Never fought him at all.
“What’s wrong, baby?” The shrill voice yanked him back from the memory. He didn’t know when he’d gone limp, but she was trying to revive him, trying to coax life back into him.
What the fuck am I doing?
This wasn’t desire. This wasn’t attraction. This was... this was exactly what Gerard had done to him. The same power, the same control, the same disregard for the person beneath him.
His throat was closing, his pulse pounding with panic instead of arousal. He stepped back, but the whore followed, gripping his ass, trying to pull him close again.
“It’s alright, baby. You’re not the first I’ve had to help with this type of problem. It’s completely normal.”
Normal. The word felt like mockery now. Nothing about this was normal. Nothing about him was normal.
She shoved his flaccid cock into her mouth again, trying to finish what he’d started. What he’d never be able to finish because he was broken in ways he was only just beginning to understand.
“Get off me!” He shoved her away, causing her to fall back. All the heat coursing through his body moments before was now concentrated on his cheeks and neck. He pulled his pants up with shaking hands, his shirt clinging to damp skin.
I shouldn’t be here. Not with her. Not like this.
He stared at the Elora look-alike, the resemblance even more noticeable now that she looked confused and scared. Just like he must have looked all those nights with Gerard.
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He hadn’t come here because he wanted her, or wanted Elora. He’d come here because some sick part of his brain had gotten them confused—desire and trauma, power and powerlessness, wanting and being wanted.
He’d thought he could prove his reaction in the barn was normal attraction. Instead, he’d proven the opposite. He couldn’t separate what Gerard had done to him from anything resembling healthy desire.
On shaky legs, he walked toward the door.
He couldn’t do this.
He needed control, but this wasn’t it. This was just Gerard’s poison spreading through him like an infection, making him into something he didn’t want to be.
Something he refused to become.