Page 49 of The October Trials

17

Cage

Fuck.

Fuck.

That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

The image is already burned into my brain. My once innocent little bird standing over that dimwit’s corpse, blood dripping down her palms, that cold, dead look in her eyes.

That’s the kind of shit that gets me off.

I leave the dining room the second the guards start cleaning up the mess and head straight for the lower levels of the manor. My private rooms sit deep under the east wing, far from the cameras and any snooping members.

The air down here is always colder, just how I like it. The perfect temperature for my… projects.

The second the door locks behind me, I cross the room in three strides, yanking at my belt, my zipper. My cock springs free, already leaking, and I wrap my hand around it with a throaty groan.

All I can see is her.

When she walked into this house, she was scared and desperate, sweet and innocent.

And now?

Now she’s shaping into exactly the kind of woman I need her to be.

I stroke myself faster, my breath coming in harsh pants. The memory plays on repeat. I brace my other hand against the wall, my head dropping forward as pleasure coils tight in my gut.

God, that look she had watching that redheaded bitch break.

That was the moment. The exact fucking moment she crossed over.

From victim to predator.

From prey to mine.

My fist tightens. I stroke harder, fucking into my hand while I imagine what it’ll be like when she’s fully mine. When the last pieces of that old innocence are stripped away, and all that’s left is the version of her that belongs in the Legion beside me.

My perfect, vicious little bird who doesn’t run from the dark anymore. She lives in it.

I can picture it now, her—

A wet, weak sound pulls my attention to the side of the room.

Nico is still hanging where I left him earlier, wrists bound above his head, body sagging. Blood has dried in dark streaks down his chest.

Watching him struggle, those final breaths slowly slipping away, only makes me harder, impossibly harder. My hand glides back and forth, rougher.

Faster.

That’s…

Fuck.

I throw my head back, groaning low as I come. It spills over my hand, my sticky release hitting the stone floor in thick ropes. Jesus Christ. I wipe my hand on a cloth and walk over to him.

“You always did talk too much,” I tell him quietly, shaking my head. “Act on your impulses too much.”