The Beast

by Jaden Wilkes

  He knew that there was a great probability that she posed no threat, this beautiful dark haired creature. She didn’t look the part of a trained killer, but Dimitri told himself better safe than sorry. One just never knows in cases like this.

  He’d made that mistake once before, in Vienna. A stunning blonde, willowy and elegant, had begun making small talk at the Naturhistoriches Museum. He had been in the Austrian city for a clean up job, hunting down three snitches who were on the run from Sergei for talking to the police in Moscow. He had already killed two, taking them down as they sat in their apartment drinking vodka and playing chess. The remaining man was at his job, a caretaker at the museum, so Dimitri was killing time before he killed the man.

  She had approached him in the confined space of the Venus of Willendorf exhibit. He never would have suspected she was there to kill him, this was before the accident and women still found him undeniably attractive. It wasn’t unusual for him to be propositioned in this way.

  They’d made plans for dinner that evening and she’d gone on her way. He had found the target in the sub-basement, rendered him unconscious and slit his throat on the banks of the Danube. The body barely made a sound as it hit the water, just the smallest splash and the man was gone from this world.

  Dimitri had time to tidy up, meet the blonde, charm her over dinner and take her back to his hotel.

  She had been a feisty little cunt from the get go. She’d sucked his cock on the low settee, but had fought him when he’d held her head down and tried to cum in her mouth. He’d ended up releasing his seed onto his own abdomen, assisted by her hand and hurried along by the fiery anger in her eyes.

  He’d gone to the washroom to clean up. As he’d stepped back into the room, she’d come at him. Naked, she was stunning. An incredible fighter, she’d given him a run for his money but ultimately he’d come out the victor. He had ended it by breaking her delicate neck, his hands gripped tightly around her throat as she choked her last breaths.

  He never knew who had sent her. Looking back on it now, perhaps Sergei had been trying to dispatch of him for longer than he though. He’d left her body in the room, called his contact in Vienna to clean up for him, and taken his flight back to Moscow.

  He never made that mistake again, and he wasn’t planning on repeating it now.

  “So,” he addressed her and she jumped at the sound of his voice, “this is where you tell me your name.”

  “Does it matter at this point? Why don’t you just fucking kill me and be done with it?” she said as she straightened her back and tested the ropes.

  “It does matter, and I won’t kill you until I get what I need to know from you,” he replied, keeping his voice low and calm.

  “I won’t tell you anything, then you can’t kill me!” she said, still pulling at the ropes.

  “It doesn't work that way, little dove,” he said with a grim resolve. “I wish it did, but it doesn’t. I need to know your name. I need to know who sent you.”

  “I already told you, I am here about your development at Main and Twelfth,” she told him. “I brought myself. I mean, the group encouraged me, but it was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I don’t deserve to lose my life over it.” Hysteria was starting to creep into her words, but he could see her struggle to keep it at bay. Her resolve was admirable.

  “What if I told you that I don’t believe a word you say?” he replied. “What if I told you I believe you were sent here to kill me?”

  “I would say you’re insane, do I look like a fucking killer?”

  “You look like a woman filled with desperation,” he said. “And that is a dangerous thing. So, once again, I am asking nicely...what is your name?”

  “Fuck you,” she said and spat at him.

  “I told you not to try my patience,” he warned, leaned towards her and slammed his fist into her stomach. The air left her body in a drawn out oomph sound and she sat, hunched over, with her mouth moving wordlessly.

  When he was sure she could talk again, he repeated his question. “What is your name?”

  She had a stubborn set to her jaw and he knew she wasn’t going to answer. The thought repulsed and excited him. He was repulsed because he knew what he could do to her, he could tear her small body apart with his hands if she pushed him, but he did not want to. He was excited because this was the kind of thing that got his blood pumping and his cock ready to attack. He thrived on this kind of physical expression of lust and primal animal urges.

  “What is your name?” he asked again. His voice was calm as though he had just asked her the time while they waited for the bus together.

  She didn’t respond so he punched her jaw this time. Her head snapped back and the blindfold pulled up with the force, her eyes were squeezed shut underneath. Tears sprang anew from them as she let her head drop back down.

  “Tell me your name,” he demanded.

  “I am nobody,” she replied. Her voice was low and hoarse; blood foamed at the edge of her lips. She must have bitten the inside of her mouth when he struck her.

  Dimitri stood up and walked behind her. He swept her up in one smooth motion, lifted her from the chair and carried her to the platform. Her arms were tightly bound in front of her and her legs were expertly lashed together. He laid her on her side and grabbed a riding crop. He was determined to break her spirit and strip her to nothing until he was certain she was not a threat. He had to know what she knew. He could feel madness rising in him like gorge at the back of his throat.

  He rolled her to her back and slammed the crop against her pale flesh, a red welt rising immediately against the already scarred skin of her abdomen. She grunted and flinched but her mouth stayed shut. He saw this as a challenge and laid into her with a series of hard blows. He wanted to force her to react.

  “Fuck you, you fucking animal,” she screamed in pain at last.

  Rage filled him in a red-hot wave. She had defied him; her refusal enraged him and urged him to push her further, past her limits.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he asked as he slapped her bare flesh again. She whimpered and didn’t answer. “You continue to defy me,” he continued, “this means all bets are off, little dove.”

  He reached for a knife and cut the ropes binding her legs. His only focus was on the girl in front of him, her deception and stubborn refusal to give him what he wanted.

  He pulled her arms above her head with one hand and moved to cut her bra with his knife. He slid it between her breasts and jerked the blade upwards. The bra popped open, exposing her soft curves and delicate pink nipples. She was panting lightly and had a sheen of sweat glistening over her skin. She was beautiful, and she struck some cord in Dimitri, some part of him that was not a monster, some sliver of humanity that had survived in his hardened heart. She was tragic and gorgeous and he had to have her. He wrestled the humanity down and continued to her panties.

  “You are going to tell me your name,” he said as he pulled the blade up the side of her underwear and tore the fabric. He dragged them off her and spread her legs open. She was like a deer caught. She was breathing heavily in small shallow gasps, but seemed to have lost the ability to move.

  He dragged the knife across her throat with the soft touch of a lover and said, “You are going to tell me your name, or I am going to slit your throat while I fuck you. Do you understand?”

  She nodded and with a dry, cracked voice she rasped, “Yes.”

  “What is your name?” he asked again.

  She didn’t reply, she didn’t move. She was silent in her terror; just the rapid rise and fall of her chest belied the fact that her body still housed a living soul.

  Dimitri tied her hands to the restraints above her head but left her feet unbound. He ran his hand along her body, the scars adding a dimension of sensation under his own flesh that set his nerves on fire. He wanted this perfect creature, but he wanted information even more.

  He picked up the riding crop and ran it along her thighs. She
was completely naked to him now, and the sight of her body enflamed his urge to control her. “You can make this easier on yourself by telling me your name,” he said and hit her legs with the crop. She winced and shook her head. He reached down, dragged the rope off her ankles and pulled her legs wider.

  He took his finger and pulled it along her belly to her upper thigh. He traced the scars there and sought her heat. He pushed a finger inside of her slit and found her wet and hot. Ready for him. Her hair was short, trimmed but not shaved smooth. He preferred this. He wanted to feel like he was fucking a woman, not a little girl. He didn’t understand the North American obsession with hairlessness.

  He had to find her weakness. If threats and abuse wouldn’t work on this girl, he would try another approach. He heard her gasp as he grazed her clit with the top of his finger, felt her involuntarily push against his hand. He rubbed her gently and dropped the crop, reached up with his other hand to roll her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She gasped again and whimpered, not fear this time but pleasure. He imagined if she cut herself so severely, she must be tolerant to pain. He pinched her nipple hard and twisted it while applying more pressure to her clit.

  She moaned and bucked against his touch. He had been right, she liked some pain with her sweet pleasure, so he pinched harder and rubbed her clit with more force. “Are you going to tell me your name yet?” he asked with a mocking smug tone. “Or are you going to make me work for it? Because from this position, I have to say I don’t mind working for it.” He emphasized his final words with a hard thrust against her clit and a tight pinch of her nipple. She responded by crying out and exhaling a soft groan.

  “Do you want me to stop?” he asked as he slid another finger between her soft folds and moved them towards her entrance. She was hot and slick and pushed her hips against his hand as he did so.

  She shook her head and panted. “Then you know what you have to do,” he said as he thrust two fingers into her tight heat, “tell me your name.”

  “Col-” she gasped and tilted her hips to allow him full access to her sweetness.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that,” he said, bemused by her rapid acceptance of his body inside of hers. He pulled his hand from her breast and pushed her thighs open farther to accommodate his talented fingers.

  “Columbia,” she cried out as he slid his finger back inside of her rapidly and thumbed her clit. He growled his triumph and fucked her hard with his hand, rubbing her clit in quick succession. She pushed against him and he felt her pussy tighten around him as she reached the brink of her orgasm. His cock was raging hard and wanted inside of her more than anything he could think of at that moment.

  With an iron will, he pulled his hand away just before she reached her peak and said, “Now we’re getting somewhere.” He ran the tip of his finger up her thigh to her stomach, traced the scars around her belly button and added, “Columbia.”

  She howled and started to sob on the table. Her orgasm unrealized and her name given up, she kicked at him as he stood beside her. He held her legs down and chuckled. He had realized years ago that there was nothing angrier than a woman denied her pleasure.

  “What the fuck kind of sick asshole are you,” she yelled. “You’re insane! Let me go, I won’t tell anyone what you did.”

  “What did I do?” he asked and held her legs down as she wiggled and fought against him. “I simply showed you what I could do to you. I made you want more just so I could get what I wanted.” He reached up and unhooked her arms. He wanted to take her to the wooden cross in the centre of the room to continue his exploration of her body, so he grabbed his knife and cut her hands free.

  She reacted immediately. “This is madness, I have nothing to tell you,” she screamed and started to fight him. “Just let me go. Please!” She surprised him with her strength and pushed up against him. She almost made it off the platform before he pushed her back and slapped her face. She jerked her head away from him and started screaming through her sobs. “Let me go! Let me go!” she was crying repeatedly, her voice sharply hitting his ears and escalating his own anxiety.

  “Stop this!” he demanded but she only fought harder. She grabbed his forearms and dug her nails in, kicked at him and screamed repeatedly as she fought. Tears were streaming from under the blindfold and her face was contorted with her panicked attempt to get away.

  Dimitri knew she would not get away, she could not. But if she managed to escape she would run right to the authorities and his plan to escape would be cut short. He could not let her go, especially not now with the concierge so far away. It would be a matter of hours before the RCMP showed up at his door with a search warrant. He could not allow this to happen.

  It suddenly occurred to him that this had to end. He was on the run and she, although not an assassin, had no place in his world. He didn’t have the time to fuck around with somebody as alluring and unsettling as this. He wanted to quiet her, to stop her struggling against him, to end this fight.

  His hand found her delicate throat and he wrapped his fingers around it, applied pressure and watched her struggle against him. He felt detached, as he often did when he was going to kill somebody. This was the right thing to do, after his flights of fancy earlier, after finding himself sympathizing her plight and uncertain of the action he would take.

  He wanted to take her blindfold off, but that required two hands and he was fighting to hold her down as it was. She reached for his face and tried to dig her nails in, kicked at him and wiggled wildly against his grip. She realized this was a fight for her life, and she didn’t want to lose. She opened her mouth and made a strangled sound, a dry gasp and nothing more. Dimitri squeezed harder and pressed down with his other hand on her chest. She still fought, but he could feel her pulse growing weaker under his fingers. Her kicks became weaker and her mouth stayed open in a desperate attempt to suck in any available air.

  He watched her, under the weight of his hands, and knew death was coming in a few short minutes. At that moment he was grateful for the blindfold, he didn’t think he could stand the weight of her accusing stare, or see her beautiful face contorted by broken blood vessels or bulging eyes.

  Her heart still pounded furiously under his hand. It was protesting his decision to end her life with the mad dash of a fearful rabbit in a cage. He watched as her body started to go limp and she slipped out of consciousness. Her pulse slowed and her face went lax. Her heart still beat; pounding under his hand he thought for a moment he could hear it hitting her ribs as it begged him to stop.

  With no warning, a vivid memory surfaced and his humanity caught up to him at last.

  As a child he had tamed a wild rabbit by sneaking it morsels of food throughout the long Russian winter. By spring it would come up to him when he left their tenement and he would hold it on his lap and stroke its soft fur. Its little heart would beat wildly but it allowed him to hold it, to care for it, because it had no other choice and knew no other way.

  One bright sunny day his father had caught him with the rabbit, torn it from his grasp and broken his neck. Dimitri had sobbed over the death of his pet, sobbed until his father laid the boots into him and kicked him into unconsciousness.

  When he awoke, there was a thick stew of rabbit meat for dinner and a pelt drying in the bathroom. Dimitri had cried again for the loss of his pet.

  His father had given young Dimitri to his friends to use like a bitch that weekend. His father never forgave him the tears and told him if he wanted to cry like a girl, he would be treated like one.

  Something had died in Dimitri that time. His father had been his first kill, the reason he’d fled his home and wound up on the streets. Dimitri had woken him from a drunken stupor enough to shove the rabbit fur in his face and stab him in the heart. He’d been just shy of his twelfth birthday.

  The thing that died that day now stirred in Dimitri’s chest. As he hunched over Columbia, beautiful perfect Columbia, he saw himself through her eyes. It wasn’t the scars
on his body that made him a beast; it was the madness that rode as his constant companion that made him so. It had been there since that weekend, when he had been stripped of his own humanity by those drunken men, when he’d been passed around, crying and in pain, fearing for his own life, listening to his mother’s cries from the room next door. He had allowed the madness to grow while his humanity shrunk. In being consumed with revenge against Sergei, he had become the madness, the beast.

  He loosened his grip from around her neck and straightened himself up. He could feel her heart still beating in the walls of her chest, so he knew she wasn’t dead, just unconscious. He pulled both hands away, shook them with disgust and stared at them. He had been moments away from destroying a beautiful girl with them, ending her life and disposing of her body like trash.

  He was hit with clarity of vision, a jolt to his chest. He had planned on killing her and she was innocent. This was even outside the code of the Bratva he had once followed so religiously. He had a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach and he started to back away from her prone body. He hit a chair and collapsed into it, slumped over and watched her for signs of life.

  He reflected on the people he’d murdered over the years. None of them had been innocent, every single one of them...from his father to the last men he’d murdered during Sergei’s attack, even the women...every single one of them had deserved it. This girl did not.

  “Why did you stop?” she rasped, startling him and breaking his train of thought.

  “I can’t do this to you,” he said, his voice heavy with contempt for the man he had allowed himself to become. It was filled with the regret of a thousand acts he couldn’t take back. A thousand moments in times long passed, decisions to kill and maim and hurt, to give into the madness. He wouldn’t give in this time, this time he would let her live.

  “Please,” she begged him with a whimper. “You need to let me go now.”

  “I can’t do that, my little dove,” he said with remorse. His overwhelming clarity of vision left an almost physical emptiness where his anger had been. He hadn’t realized how much a part of him the darker parts of his nature had become over the past decades. He continued, “I can’t ever let you go and yet I can’t kill you.”