Twenty-Five
Present
Hunter
You betrayed me.
The past is not welcome here, yet her words disrupt his equilibrium.
He has his hand wrapped around her arm, holding it tightly as he walks the long, dimly lit corridors. He doesn’t look at her. She is his object. Here to serve him. Fulfill his needs. And all the other bullshit they’ve fed him over the years.
The puppet masters will be particularly invested this time. They must know what she means to him. There is no such thing as divine intervention, especially here, in this corner of hell. Everything they do, they do it for a reason.
Savage knows the reason.
He can taste the anger on his tongue. He is so close to losing it. To obliterating the hooded fucks that surround him. To sinking his teeth into their jugulars like a lion does to its prey, yearning to feel the life bleed from their bodies.
He’s antsy.
They can feel it, too, because they are two steps apart from him, and the more he looks their way, the more that space grows. They fear him, and with good reason.
Savage is not to be fucked with.
He takes the familiar path down one corridor, into the next, down a flight of stairs, down a shorter corridor, and to the double doors. He stands there with his Golden Bird, staring straight ahead as the fucks unlock the door for him. They bend, heads down, bowing to him—the victor—as they open the doors.
He looks on into the dimly lit room, sensing the shadows lurking, waiting for him. They wait for him to take his seat. They wait for him to turn his Golden Bird in their direction. They wait for his nod, for that official discard. They wait so they can feast their cocks into the flesh of the trophy he has no desire to touch.
It’s like this every time.
Because Savage is callous.
His insides a barren wasteland.
He cannot fucking feel.
And yet…
His eyes flicker to the hooded girl standing next to him. She stands there, fierce and still, brave and unbroken.
His throat bobs.
A pain tears through him.
A reminder of the past.
You betrayed me.
He shuts his eyes, and it’s not just anger he tastes, but regret—not for his betrayal. No, he does not regret what he did to his little flower.
It’s that, at the end of it, she got away.
“Not this time,” he whispers.
Her head twitches in his direction, hearing his words.
His grip slowly slides down her arm, catching her hand. He runs his fingers along her soft palm, and then he wraps his giant hand around hers and squeezes.
It’s a message.
He’s not only telling her she’s here now with him, and that he will protect her.
He’s also telling her she’shis, and did she ever fucking think she wasn’t?
He waits.
He waits for her answer—
She squeezes back.