Chained

by Celia Crown

  She opens her mouth and shuts it when she looks back at the hotel. Hera spins her head and scrunches up her nose adorably at me.

  “You’re lucky that time is ticking closer.”

  I keep my smirk as she turns around, presenting her ass to me again as she crouches down to her rifle.

  Her calculation is gone when silence comes, and her gun is aimed with no movement from her. My heart flutters with the wind at the roof, but that’s not enough to settle the fire burning in my stomach.

  My cock is hard and thick. It needs her more than my hands.

  While she’s concentrating, I close the distance between us and kneel behind her. Her little body stiffens, muscles tense and daunting as I run my hands down her small spine. Everything about her is too tiny, but she is a force to be reckoned with, and it wouldn’t be wise of me not to remember that.

  “What are you doing?” she says, but that does shake her resolve.

  I don’t answer her as I’m too busy exploring the curve of her spine when she has one eye in her scope. If she is good as other people say she is, then she has no problem having a bit of distraction while she does whatever she’s doing.

  I honestly couldn’t care less.

  Her tempting, young body is at my mercy, and I’d be damned to let this opportunity go to waste.

  I trace the side of her ribs, feeling the wire of her bra under my touch as I graze my finger upward to feel a little bounce of her tit. Not a breath out of place, she continues to pretend that I don’t exist for the sole purpose of her game that she’s playing with Abel.

  A flare of jealousy hits me in slow waves. I don’t want her to pay attention to anyone else but me. I’m the one that she’s with, and she has no reason to find entertainment from another man.

  I know she’s not a virgin by the way she greeted one man; the sexual chemistry between them when she went to get a package from him was choking me. She had let him kiss her, albeit briefly, but it ground my nerves that the man had no emotions on his face when he ruffled her hair.

  She is mine.

  I shove my face into her neck and sink my teeth into her skin. She stifles a yelp and a jump in her skin as I make sure to mark her in the most obvious place. The trickles of her loose strands in a high ponytail are good for yanking her head back when I fuck her tiny pussy with my fat cock.

  Grabbing a hefty handful of her tits, I squeeze them in my palms and balance them to feel the weights that fit perfectly in my hands. I will play with them another time. I have another destination to get to as I part her legs just a bit to make hers touch my thighs that are trapping her on both sides.

  Her posture is stiff like a spring ready to return back to its original curls when she aims the rifle right at the window that aligns with her eyesight, but from what I can tell, it’s the elevator that has her attention.

  Returning to the task at hand, I have no intention of peeling her pants off with her panties even if it’s the most tempting thing to do. I reach in front of her pants and run my hand into her panties. They are a shocking texture of lace and silk.

  “Huh,” I deliberate in her ears, “Not what I was expecting.

  There is a small clench in her thighs, but I keep them firmly apart with my other hand.

  “It was a gift,” she answers with steady breathing.

  I put my hand into her panties, running a finger between her soaked folds and finding her little clit hard and wet. A muffled squeak rips from her throat as I flick that little nub with a calloused tweak; she doesn’t shake until my middle finger circles her pulsing hole.

  It’s small and tight when I breach in mercilessly with a tinge of possessiveness.

  “Who gave it to you?” I ask curtly.

  “Amir,” she breathes with a moan.

  An image of that middle eastern man who kissed her today comes to mind, and I have a blistering hatred towards that man. He has had a taste of what’s mine, and I can't shake away the green monster that hisses envy.

  I can feel everything through my hands; her quivering, little pussy grips my finger tightly. The hotness from her slick that drips down to my other fingers while the shocking pulses from her clit throb in my palm when I grind down on it.

  “You’re not playing fair,” she whines, rocking her hips to take my finger deeper.

  Her greedy cunt wants me as she becomes drenched with just this much foreplay. I can’t wait to find out how soaked she’s going to be on my cock when she comes.

  Fairness in anything is a weakness, and I never play fair. I always get what I want through hard work. This pair of panties is a sight for sore eyes, and it’s easy to tear the fabric from her and take it out without removing her pants.

  The satisfying rip of the silk pops through the air, and I discard them with a toss over my shoulder. Hera centers back to her scope, and it shows how much she cares about her underwear.

  She doesn’t give a shit.

  My hand dive back in and spread her folds apart with two fingers while pushing two fingers inside her trembling walls. Her muscles lock my digits inside with a mewl, pulsating and hot as she struggles to gain her control back.

  I won’t give it back to her, not now and not later. I want her to rely on me for everything; pleasure, living, and even damn cooking too.

  At this point, I want to be her husband.

  The idea doesn’t disgust me. It only makes me more thrilled to take on that responsibility.

  She twitches at the shallow thrusts. My other hand joins in her pants and finger her bundle of nerves. Two fingers deep in her cunt and another pair pinching her clit shake her so much that her rifle is unstable on the ledge.

  “N-not now—”

  I lick the shell of her ear, “Later?”

  I’m not stopping, but I want her to think that she has a choice.

  “Later!” her voice jumps in pitch with a mewl.

  I press down on her clit harder, rolling the bud in tight circles and fucking her pussy with two thick fingers buried deep inside her quivering walls. Her juices drip obscenely thick on my hands. Her squelches break the silence in the air.

  Sirens from a distance and cars below are the only thing that’s drowning out her moans, but Hera is unwavering not to let her game be interrupted.

  One deep threat, one set of clear eyes, and one second later; the glass on the other hotel splinters, the bullet fractures the glass as it pierces through the middle of two steel elevators doors.

  The noise is loud when the bullet punctures the cable line, and the aftermath of the screeching elevator breaks rumbles throughout the block as the rifle shakily drops to her side.

  She comes with a tearful cry as I curl my fingers and push pass her limit while rolling her clit in my other fingers. Sagging on the ledge, she quakes with her orgasm surging through her. Her muscles coil and twitch with my stilled fingers. I want to feel everything to know what to expect when her tight, young pussy is wrapped around me.

  “W-why’d you do that?” she slurs with a moan, hands holding on the edge to support her.

  I withdraw my hands and let her pants snap back in place while gazing down at the soaked digits, drawing one hand up to suck the juices off while she turns around with a flushed pout. I shove my other hand into her mouth, obliging her to taste herself while watching me; her pink tongue darts out between the digits and scrape her teeth with a little nibble on me.

  “Little tease,” I say as I drag my fingers out of my mouth to push pressure on her tongue.

  Wiping my fingers on my pants, I shadow her body with mine and cup the back of her neck to bring our lips together after I thread the other wet fingers into her hair.

  I control her breathing, dominate her tongue, and possess her moans of my name. The hoarseness of her voice is a victory for me, and I have a war to win that will gift me her heart and her everything to me.

  “You’re lucky that this is good,” she murmurs on my lips, “I almost let Abel get away.”

  “You scared the shit
out of him,” I break the kiss only to dive back in for more sweetness.

  “Only one of the cables broke,” she says with a giddy smile and a drunk sigh of my name, “It’s a shame he only dropped ten levels.”

  “We’re going home,” I think back to that shitty house that smells like old people and mothballs, but it’s the only place that I want to return to because Hera is there.

  “Oh!” she gasps with a sheepish grin as she pulls back to tap our foreheads together, “I forgot to tell you.”

  She pauses as if I’m supposed to read her mind, and when I take away her rifle and begin to disassemble it in a reverse manner when she put it together, she watches with amazement.

  “Tell me what?” I remind her.

  “The owners are coming back today, so…” she purses her lips, “We’re homeless.”

  It takes me one session to understand the parts of the rifle as I put them back where they belong with the shapes in the cushion guiding me to the parts. The rich red color is a contrast to the black case; the scent of the cleaning agent hits my nose when I clip the violin case shut.

  “Homeless,” I deadpan with unimpressed eyes.

  “Not really,” she corrects, taking my hand in hers.

  She said “we”; my heart sings for this type of sincerity in her voice. Hera isn’t faking it. She has gotten used to my company that she includes me in every decision she makes.

  “Hotels exist for a reason, Damon.”

  Her cheeky grin and pretty eyes shine. I swallow the urge to keep her buried in my chest where I know she will be safe from danger. I can protect her, but only if she lets me. The stubborn and solo-mentality gets on my nerves sometimes when she trusts me not to kill her, but not enough to let me in her heart.

  I pull her along to the freight elevator that would lead us down to the loading dock of the hotel. Our fingers lace together, and she isn’t pulling away; it’s the start of a bond that I will keep working on.

  “Hera,” her name rolls off my tongue smoothly.

  She peers at me through her lashes; the cranking of the elevator comes to a stop, and the doors open.

  “I want you to know me.”

  Hera cocks her head, but she follows my lead when we blend into the streets. Music from street artists and street performers give us an odd barrier of privacy where no one can hear us.

  She may not like it because she shows signs of a wounded animal, far too scared to call out for help since no one stops to give her a second look. Hera is an open book with complicated structures and a world of loneliness.

  “The real me.”

  Hurt and hesitation cloud her eyes, “No…”

  She has helped me by giving me a chance to live as a free man even if her intentions had started out bad. She wanted to hurt Abel where it hurts the most.

  Whatever the reason for her plan of freeing me, I want to return the favor and save her from her path of self-destruction. The route that she’s walking on gets thinner and crumbles even more; it’s too dark for me, and it is definitely too dark for her.

  Hera is a girl with a sunshine smile and child-like innocence. I cannot stand by and watch the darkness that she carries take over the good that remains in her.

  During the days we spent together in that house, she has shown the side of a young, naïve girl. Living her life as if it’s her own house, and if I didn’t know what she did in the past, I would have thought she was a girl working hard to support herself through the inflation of the economy.

  We stop by a musician drumming on four hollow soy sauce drums; the noise is loud enough to push out any prying ears, and we’re in a crowded place filled with youngsters, so we blend in just fine.

  “I won’t ask you anything,” I tug her hand gently, and she falls to my chest, “I want you to listen; that’s it and nothing more.”

  “Don’t ask me questions,” she throws her arms around my waist, “You can’t ask about me or my family or why I’m doing this—”

  The break from reality is starting. I stop it in time before she has a psychotic break that she’s prone to that I noticed when I was living with her for a short period of time. There were days when she would wake up and the lights in her eyes were gone. Hera was the malicious goddess during those times.

  She wasn’t my Hera.

  “No questions,” I run a hand up her neck and curl my fingers at the base to show her that I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

  The noises can’t hurt her, the nightlife lights can’t touch her, and the people around us are ignorant of the potential dangers of Hera tuning out reality.

  “I promise.”

  She nods, “You promise, Damon.”

  I’m not breaking it, not even to trade with my life.

  Chapter Eight

  Hera

  I’m avoiding Damon with everything I have got while being trapped in this five-star hotel room with room service and a full-body bath, but I can only hide in the bathroom for so long.

  Damon drags me out with a straight face, and thanks god, I’m dressed in the softest nightgown I have ever touched.

  This hotel provides more than regular five-star hotels with an amazing view of the city. This one has clothes for us too, and that is something I have not experienced during the times I used hotels as my resident or as a cover.

  “Sit,” Damon gestures to the side of the bed where he’s not sitting on, “Get comfortable.”

  My body listens to his command, and laying on the bed is the best for me. Many people can’t sleep well in hotel beds, but I sleep better than in normal homes that I have illegally entered and stayed.

  They are the same as the way I came in; nothing is out of place, and it smells the same too. Humans are a creature of habit, and if they see anything out of place, then suspicion will arise in them, and it’s going to get complicated if people start to call in the police about their home being potentially broken into without having anything missing.

  I dig through the covers with my fingers, swinging my legs up and down while my body relaxes. This never happens in the vicinity of another person. I never put my guard down even for a moment as that one moment can determine whether I live or die.

  Being with Damon has loosened that strict rule and I don’t know why; maybe he is the protective type rather than an aggressor or maybe he is the first person who hasn’t tried to kill me, and that stamped a notion of bizarre trust between us.

  “Are you going to tell me a story?” I ask, shifting to my stomach as I watch him adjust on the bed and face me.

  I expect him to try to slowly ease me into his family history.

  “My family died in an accident.”

  He comes off strong; the information bounces in my head without fully processing it. I don’t inject myself into his story. This is his time to get whatever he needs to get off his chest, his very wide and heavy chest.

  “It was a boating accident.”

  The solemn glaze in his black eyes darkens. My hand comes up to his cheek and strokes the ticking jaw as the coarseness of his facial hair scratches my fingers. I love his eyes; too dark to read any emotions, but I can feel that he is calling out for help.

  Calling for the help that I can’t give him because I’m broken too.

  “I couldn’t accept their deaths when social services got to me. I acted out in anger and denial. When anyone tried to adopt me, I trashed their efforts to make a connection.”

  Scurrying close to him, I find his body to be too warm and tense. The muscles under my hand coil inwardly as a self-preserving tactic.

  This is hard for him.

  “By the time my criminal record became… a problem. Social services were required to tell the families that wanted to adopt me about it, and people just stopped trying altogether.”

  I lay my hand on top of his heart. The steady thrumming calms the spidery nerves in my own as the twisting in my stomach dissipates.

  “The older I got, the more serious the crimes I committed. I got thro
wn in jail for underage drinking and breaking a man’s jaw open at a bar.”

  I can imagine a drunken and young Damon not taking shit from anyone, especially from someone who is equally drunk as him while throwing slurs at him.

  From a young age, Damon had started fighting as an innate response to danger. I don’t know if he started fighting because of growing up in a rough environment or if it’s because somewhere in his genes, there is a calling for blood that makes him addicted to pain.

  “Then I came across a lackey that works for Abel,” Damon closes his eyes, fingers stepping on the curves of my waist as he pulls me close.

  “I killed him.”

  I want to know the reason why Damon had done that, but I honestly don’t care that much for the reasoning. I just know that no matter how cursed that day was for him to be in the grasp of Abel for years as a slave who fights for his life, but I see it as a blessing because it leads me to him.

  I wouldn’t be here touching and caressing his face if Damon hadn’t killed a man.

  “He gave me a choice; work for him or die. I was a street kid, and survival meant everything to me, but so did freedom. I did whatever I could to make it to tomorrow.”

  The more he talks, the worst the storm rages in his eyes. Reading those dark pools is impossible, but I can read his face; the clench of his jaw, the knot in his eyebrows, and the pain spilling out of the solid line of the black irises.

  “Nothing I did could repay the debt for killing one of his men, and a part of me knew that he would never let a money tree like me go. I bring in fights, and I win them, and the higher the stakes, the more rewards he would get.”

  Money means nothing to Abel. I have stalked him long enough to know that he wants to take what’s precious from the person whose fighter had lost. I wanted to get a taste of what that feels like. I want to understand what it feels like to be taken apart while I hold what he cherishes the most.

  Damon was supposed to be a tool for me to get back at Abel, but he ended up being someone to me.

  He stands on a road of the unknown in my life as of now, and I don’t know where to categorize him.