Chapter Five
Firestride
What the fuck am I doing?
I didn’t have time for this shit. More importantly, I didn’t have time to fuck around with some cheap piece of ass, no matter how good that ass looked and fuck my dick raw... did this bitch look good.
Too damn good for the likes of that shitbag.
The woman was a walking hard-on. Curves for fucking days, tits that spilled out of her bra, and an ass that I could bounce a quarter off.
She was fucking stunning. But it was her eyes.
Those turquoise, almost crystal-clear blue eyes that grabbed ahold of my dick and wouldn’t let go.
They were the eyes of someone who saw too much, someone who understood the rotten core of the world, someone like me.
And that was what scared me most. Seeing that recognition in her gaze, a flicker of shared cynicism and something far more dangerous—a hint of kinship—made the fleeting thrill of conquest suddenly feel.
.. hollow. It was a cheap shot, a betrayal of the carefully constructed wall I’d built around myself, a wall that kept the loneliness from crushing me entirely.
I was supposed to be above this, above the desperation that clawed at decent men.
But she... she was a siren song, a beautiful lie whispering promises I couldn’t afford to believe, and yet, my body was already betraying my mind.
The battle raging inside me was a brutal war, and I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I was about to lose.
The rough denim of her torn shorts scraped against my palm as I tugged them down, her skin already marked with the faint beginnings of bruises from that fuckhead’s earlier assault.
She was a walking contradiction, this Kyllian Ward.
A fragile porcelain doll shattered by a brutal fist, yet still possessing a core of defiance that burned hotter than any wildfire.
Her eyes—those electric turquoise eyes—locked on mine, and I could see the desperate calculation behind them, the same calculation that drove me, that kept me moving, surviving.
I was supposed to be collecting a debt, enforcing a payment, not getting lost in the depths of a woman who was clearly already drowning.
A guttural growl escaped my lips, a raw sound that was as much a warning to myself as it was a confession.
This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to go down.
I was a hunter, a collector, not some lovesick fool drawn in by a pair of pretty eyes and a sob story.
But the scent of her, a mix of cheap perfume and something wild and untamed, was intoxicating.
It was the scent of a fighter, of a spirit that refused to be broken, and it was calling to something deep within me, something I’d long tried to bury.
I knew with a bone-deep certainty that I was already too deep in this mess.
“You owe me, Kitten,” I rasped, my thumb tracing the delicate curve of her jaw. “And right now, you’re all I’ve got.”
My words were a confession, a surrender to the pull I felt, a surrender that could very well be my undoing.
This was a dangerous game, playing with fire, and she was a live wire, crackling with an energy that both terrified and exhilarated me.
But the truth was, the visual reminder of that motherfucker’s cruelty, the blatant disregard for her pain, had stoked a different kind of fire in me: a primal urge to protect, to punish.
And that, more than anything, was what truly scared me.
“You want to rape me too,” she dared me, fire flaming in her eyes as she yanked her torn tank over her head, then kicked her shorts away.
“Then go ahead. Do your fucking worst.” Reaching behind her, she unsnapped her bra, letting it fall to the floor, before yanking down her panties.
Standing naked before me, I’d never seen a more beautiful woman in my life.
Yet the defiant fury emanating from her eyes clearly told me that my next move would either break her completely or give her the courage to heal.
A knot of warring impulses twisted in my gut.
The primal urge, the one that had always lurked beneath the surface, whispered crude suggestions, urging me to take what she so recklessly offered.
It was a dark, shameful craving I’d fought my entire life, a perversion of the protective instincts I’d sworn to uphold.
But then, her vulnerability, stark and raw, slammed into me with the force of a physical blow.
This wasn’t an invitation; it was a desperate, agonizing plea for control in a situation where she had none.
Every fiber of my being screamed at me to turn away, to shield her from the world and from myself.
My mind, my better mind, conjured images of my mother’s disappointed face, of the lessons she’d hammered into me about respect and the sanctity of another’s being.
To act on the base desires she was so carelessly throwing at me would be a betrayal of everything I believed in, a descent into the very darkness I loathed.
Yet, the sheer audacity of her challenge, the raw courage in her defiant stare, held me captive.
It was a perverse kind of power, a testament to her strength that was almost..
. intoxicating. Could I truly refuse her this, this ultimate act of defiance against her attacker?
Was there a twisted logic in accepting her challenge, in forcing myself to be the monstrous figure she seemed to expect, as a way to reclaim some semblance of agency for her?
The thought was repulsive, a violation of my own carefully constructed morality, but it clung to me like a foul odor.
My hands clenched into fists at my sides, my knuckles white.
I wanted to grab her, not in the way she dared, but to pull her close, to offer solace, to tell her she was safe.
But how could I? Every instinct to protect was being warped, twisted by her desperate gamble into something else, something I couldn’t begin to comprehend.
I was trapped between my deepest moral revulsion and a grotesque sense of obligation born from her profound suffering.
To act would be to condemn myself, to become the very thing she was trying to force me to be.
To do nothing, to leave her standing there, exposed and waiting, felt like an even greater failure, a dereliction of a duty I couldn’t define.
The choice was a razor’s edge, and I knew, with a sickening certainty, that no matter what I did, I would lose.
Instead, a visceral urge, primal and hot, seized me.
My hand shot out, fingers digging into her throat, shoving her back until the cold plaster bit into her spine.
“You think this is some fucking game, bitch?” I snarled, my words ripping from my chest, laced with a venom I didn’t entirely recognize as my own.
“Your fucking piece-of-shit husband owes me, and I intend to collect. One way or another.”
“Then what the fuck are you waiting for?” she challenged.
My fingers tightened, not enough to break bone, but enough to make her gasp, her eyes widening in surprise, then clouding in fear. She’d expected a different kind of monster; I could see it.
But I was not that monster.
Not yet. Not like this.
“I’m not your fucking rapist, Kitten,” I growled, my voice rough, gravelly. “I’m the man who’s going to make Jessup Winston pay for what he did to you, and to me. And if you think you can play games with me, you’ve got another think coming.”
I released her, stepping back, the air between us crackling with an unspoken understanding.
She looked at me, her chest heaving, a mixture of defiance and something akin to dawning realization in her eyes.
I saw the fight in her, the refusal to be just another victim, and it mirrored my own inner war.
She was trouble, sure, but she was also a survivor, and that was something I could respect.
“You think I owe you?” she finally managed, her voice a hoarse whisper. “You think I have anything to give you?”
“You owe me your silence,” I stated, my gaze never leaving hers. “And maybe, just maybe, a little bit of your time. Because your soon-to-be ex-husband has left a very large tab with me. And it seems, Kitten, that you’re the only collateral he’s left behind.”
I turned to leave, the image of her defiance, her raw vulnerability, burned into my mind as I headed for my bike. The night was far from over, and there were other debts still waiting to be collected.
It was late when I stormed into the Brotherhood of Bastards’ clubhouse, heading straight for the bar. The second Xzibit saw me, he turned and grabbed a bottle of whiskey, placing it on the bar as I walked past.
“Where’s Morpheus?”
“In the pool hall, getting his dick sucked by Lollie.”
Saying nothing more, I made my way through the partying crowd and headed for the pool hall, chugging the whiskey as I went. Brothers all around me partied, drank, and fucked without a goddamn care in the world. Any other day, and I would be right beside them, but not tonight.
I found Morpheus holding court, a thick cloud of smoke swirling around him as he leaned over the pool table, his concentration absolute.
Lollie, a blonde with a trashy sequined dress and a smile that promised trouble, was indeed on her knees, with Morpheus’ dick in her mouth as she tried unsuccessfully to get him hard.
Had to give the woman props, she was nothing but determined as she slurped, sucked, and licked at his flaccid cock.
He looked up as I approached, a flicker of irritation in his eyes at the interruption, but it smoothed out when he saw the bottle of whiskey in my hand. “What’s this?” he grunted, his gaze flicking from the bottle to me. “Come to crash the party?”
“Something like that,” I replied, taking another swig. “Need to talk about Jessup Winston. And the blonde kitten he’s left behind.”
Morpheus grunted again, shoving Lollie away from him as he pushed away from the table. “Get the fuck out of here, you useless cunt. Go fuck a prospect. Maybe you can get him hard.”
Lollie ran from the room, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, while Morpheus turned his full attention to me, shoving his dick back into his pants, his expression hardening. “He owes us. Big time. What the fuck is the problem?”
“The usual,” I said, swirling the amber liquid in the bottle. “And this time, the shit he left behind seems to have landed squarely on a woman named Kyllian Ward. Jessup’s soon-to-be ex-wife. She’s got fire, Morpheus. More than enough to burn him and his fucking club.”
Morpheus raised an eyebrow as a slow smile spread across his face. “Kitten with claws, huh? I like the sound of that. So, what? You want my permission to use her as collateral?”
“Something like that. Only she isn’t our typical collateral.”
“She’s a fucking bitch with a cunt. She’s collateral.”
“He raped her, Morpheus. I saw the bruises.”
Morpheus’ smile faded fast as my words sunk in.
He knew Jessup’s reputation, the kind of slime that clung to him like a second skin.
“Everyone has their vices, brother. You know that. Doesn’t make him a saint.
Just another fucked-up asshole like the rest of us.
So, what? You wanna play protector now?”
“She’s collateral, Morpheus,” I repeated, my voice hardening.
“Jessup owes us, and she’s the only thing he’s left behind that’s worth anything.
But she’s not just some piece of ass to be passed around.
She’s got a fire in her, a defiance that reminds me of you.
She’s not going to break easily. She’s going to fight back.
And that could prove useful.” I took another swig of whiskey, the burn a familiar comfort.
“I want her. Not to break her, but to make Jessup break. She’s the key to unlocking his weakness, and I want to use her. ”
Morpheus stared at me for a long moment, his eyes assessing, calculating.
He’d always been the brains behind the brawn of the Brotherhood.
He saw the angles, the opportunities, the ways to leverage even the most desperate situations.
His slow smile returned, wider this time.
“Alright, go get the bitch. But tread carefully. If this kitten bites too hard, don’t come crying to me. ”