Lachlan's Protégé

by V. F. Mason

  Fuck this.

  Without thinking, I dart to the right, putting all the pressure on my feet, and run in the direction of the maze. The frigid air burns my lungs, but I don’t care about any of it.

  Everything is better than point-blank surrender.

  I don’t get far though, as he wraps his hand around my hair, and I cry out as he roughly pulls me back, spins me around, and then props me on his shoulder, moving back in the direction of his house.

  And I want to kick him and scratch his back, do something, but when I notice the knife in his back pocket, my mind starts swirling.

  If I hurt him and get to his phone… the possibilities are just enormous.

  I quiet down and he slaps me on the ass. Fucking jerk! “Why so quiet all of a sudden?”

  He takes us past a shocked Levi, who just gapes at us and then trails after us, the china on his tray rattling loudly with his footsteps. I expect to go back to the cage, but instead end up in his room.

  He throws me on the bed and I huff, landing on my back, and have a second to see myself all flushed in my reflection before he pulls at my hand so I sit up. He snaps his fingers to Levi and he’s quickly by my side, placing the cup of steaming tea by the smell of it in my palms while digging a spoon in some honey and then swirling it inside the tea. He gives it to me and I raise my brow.

  What the hell is going on here?

  “In case you get sick from running in the cold.” He exhales heavily. “You shouldn’t have done it, child.” He looks like a good man, really. All grandpa-like and stuff, but his words bring little comfort.

  Instead, I become defensive. “Free me from this nightmare, and I’ll be all healthy.”

  “Child—” he starts, but Lachlan scolds him.

  “Enough of this bullshit.” He doesn’t add anything else, but it’s probably a silent command as Levi picks up his tray and, with one last pleading glance my way, shuts the door behind him.

  “Don’t even think about spilling it on the floor, Valencia. Fucking drink it.” The barely visible anger skimming over him finally registers in my mind, and my eyes widen as I realize he is not as calm as he pretends to be.

  He disappears into the bathroom while I sip the tea, welcoming the warmth that spreads through me and calms my sore throat.

  Knife.

  Keep your focus on the knife.

  He comes back with a wet cloth and kneels in front of me, pressing it to my aching foot while growling, “Keep following your idiotic plans, and you won’t ever dance again.”

  I shrug, acting all nonchalant. “Considering you intend to keep me here, I don’t see me dancing anyway. This way at least I will keep my dignity intact.” He doesn’t appreciate my sarcasm apparently, as his hold on me tightens, but he says nothing.

  He gets up to move something, and I use it as my chance, quickly taking a longer sip and then throwing the hot liquid on him, as he shouts, “Fuck!” I use this moment to stumble on him and snatch the knife away while he steadies me, and that’s when I press it against his throat, using all my power to hold the blade near his artery.

  He stills, as we both stand in the pool of tea, and then, pushing his chest toward the bed, I order, “Sit on the bed.” He is more threatening when he looms over me.

  His brow rises, but he follows the command easily and drops onto the bed while I still keep the knife close. “Give me your phone or I will slice your throat.” The words sound unconvincing even to me, so he places his hands behind his back on the sheets and smirks at me. “Go ahead.”

  “I’m not joking, Lachlan. You are vile. I won’t feel sorry for killing you.” One big, fat lie, as I can’t even imagine ever taking a life.

  It destroys a soul, even if it’s in self-defense. But he has to value his life, right? What do they say about serial killers? That they are narcissistic creatures. He won’t want to die.

  “And I say be my guest. Come on. Kill me, Valencia, and end it all,” he orders, sitting up closer to me, and he takes my hand with the blade, putting the tip of the knife right below his ear while the rest of the sharp edge slightly grazes his neck. “But do it right. You start from here to slowly cut the artery that will spill blood, but the victim will still breathe and gaze at you with fear, because nothing at this point will help him. Prolong sliding the blade to create a high that you will rarely reach from any other weapon, especially not a gun.”

  “You are sick.”

  “Torture is an art form. Either do it right or don’t fucking hold a weapon,” he states, and then motions for me to continue. “Come on. Do it. End your misery.” He mocks my state as if what he makes me go through is nothing.

  As if I shouldn’t even call it misery.

  Tightening my hold on the handle, I still while my raspy breath fills the space between us, and I finally murmur, “If I don’t do it, you will—”

  “Whatever it is, the answer is yes,” he replies, his voice turning low and deep. Yet I still don’t move, my hands trembling as I understand with clarity that he will let me do it if I decide to go through with it.

  But we know I won’t be able to. Shouldn’t I though? For everyone else so they won’t experience this. Yes, he killed Max for a reason, but Max wouldn’t have even been on his radar if it weren’t for me.

  And I’m not guilty of any crimes.

  His hands end up on my waist, and he suddenly picks me up. Before I can even blink, I’m straddling his lap as he holds my gaze. He places a palm at the end of my spine while his other one travels up, up, up, and fists my hair, bringing my mouth closer to his, with the knife still firmly pressed against his neck. “Do what you truly want, Valencia,” he murmurs, and my breath hitches when my body instantly reacts to his nearness.

  Revulsion rushes through me. How can I be aroused by him? I should hate him, and that’s it. Yet deep down under this hate are the feelings he has inspired in me since Italy, and I can’t fight them.

  Or rather, I can’t kill him, because he holds a piece of me. And as weak and pathetic as that is, I can’t hide from this truth.

  The knife falls softly on the bed at the same moment his mouth crashes on mine, demanding entrance, and I allow it, sharing with him a kiss filled with hate, doom, and hopelessness, all at the same time. There is nothing gentle about the nip of his teeth, his aggressive pulls, and his tongue that with each meeting of mine stakes a claim that should never be there.

  The kiss is coated with anger and fury, but also with overwhelming desire that sends liquid fire through my entire system, longing for the satisfaction and pleasure only he can provide. It’s as if my consciousness finds solace in his touches that can for a moment in time erase our circumstances and leave us in a cocoon that nothing can break.

  And I succumb to it, needing it to survive.

  Wrapping my arms around his neck, I bring us even closer, not leaving an inch between us as my heat touches his hard-on. A moan slips past my lips, and he lets go of my mouth, trailing kisses down my neck while I throw my head back, groaning at his bites that will for sure leave marks for everyone to see.

  I don’t dwell on it much as he rolls my shirt over my head and sends it flying behind me. His tongue circles my pointed nipple and licks the tip but then bites on it hard. I cry out in pain, scratching the back of his head, but still seeking his touch as it sends prickles of electricity through my skin.

  “There is beauty in the ache, angel,” he rasps, immediately licking the abused flesh and driving me even wilder. “I know you like it long and hard, darling, but tonight it’s going to be only hard.” His hand travels down my stomach, and it dips under his touch as he skims his fingers over my skin and tangles them in my soft curls. “Otherwise, you might feel too guilty about it afterward.” I gasp into his mouth as he buries his fingers inside my heated flesh, twisting them against my inner walls while thumbing my clit. “Ah, already so wet for me. Who are you burning for, Valencia?” he asks and pulls my head down so our eyes meet. “Who is making this tight pussy so wet it
practically drips on me?”

  I don’t answer, because answering means thinking, and all I want is to concentrate on the pleasure spreading within me, a roaring inferno that burns and burns, demanding fulfillment. He pulls again, but this time my scalp hurts and a moan slips past me.

  “Respond to me.” He quickens his pressure on my clit, almost taking me there, but then stops all movement, leaving me with a maddening ache.

  “Please,” I beg, because at this point, I can forget about dignity, but he just tsks his tongue.

  “Ah, no, it doesn’t work like that. Who, Valencia?” Our gazes meet, his molten and mine probably confused, but the granite edges of his face speak volumes.

  He needs me to surrender.

  And I do, hating myself for it while my body weeps in relief. “You do.”

  He gifts me with his sinister smile, as he murmurs against my lips, “Good girl.” I yelp as he flips me onto my back and then gasp, fisting the sheets, as he buries his face in my heated flesh, his tongue taking long licks, swiping the walls of my core as it clenches around it.

  Didn’t he say hard and not long? What is this torture, then?

  He french kisses it for a moment before latching onto my clit, pressing and massaging it with his lips and tongue. His every flick and touch highlights the pressure building inside me, and I arch my back, but he pushes me back with his hand, stilling my movements. Digging his fingers into my ass, he raises it up, swirling the tip of his tongue through my folds, teasing, yet only arousing me more. He shifts to my thighs, sucking on the skin to the point of pain, and I moan, closing them around his head as I tangle my hand in his hair, but it doesn’t deter him. He continues to torture me with light flicks as his finger slides into me, finding the perfect spot to drive me insane yet still not give me the pleasure my body seeks.

  On his bite on my clit, my eyes snap open, as I rasp, “Lachlan, please.” Any other words are impossible to me. My need is so strong that it borders on desperation.

  I don’t remember anything besides this man who awakens my entire system and makes the outside world disappear, creating a cocoon where right and wrong don’t exist, and evil is just a passing thought.

  I hear the belt buckle being unfastened, and then he places his palms on my knees, bringing me closer to the edge, and with one swift move, he flips me over again, and we end up on the floor, with me straddling him once more. My head goes dizzy and I can barely comprehend what’s going on, as he growls in approval.

  “Have to keep you off-balance so you feel nothing but this.” And that’s when he enters me, filling me to the hilt. My arms automatically wrap around his neck as my cry echoes in the room, followed by his low groan, our lips inches away from each other. “See this?” I follow his gaze to see us connected to each other. Then he raises me up and I instantly feel empty. His purple head glistens from my wetness, and as I watch, he sinks it back inside me. I moan as he catches a nipple with his mouth, sucking it hard before licking around it. “My darkness and your pureness will never change that. Here or anywhere else, when I take you and your beautiful body answers my call? You. Are. Mine. And no one else’s.” I rise again even though my knees shake, but he stills my move. “Slow and steady.”

  “No, I want hard,” I plead, but he doesn’t listen, controlling each rise, slowly dragging his cock in and out of me, making me feel every touch and harsh move, while his hands grip me harder.

  He continues this for what seems like forever, the only sounds present in the room are of flesh slapping and my panting breaths as I gulp as much air as possible while clenching around him. My body barely keeps up with him, because I’m tired, so tired, yet I need for him to finish this.

  To give me what he promised.

  Sweat is coating my skin, and finally he fists my hair once again, kissing me deeply and cutting off my oxygen while simultaneously filling me up again. And this time it reaches that place where everything goes quiet.

  And then roars back again with heat and pleasure and agony rushing through me. A moan dies inside my throat, swallowed by his kiss. I’m about to drop on him, but he doesn’t let me.

  Instead, he lifts me up one last time, and this time I feel him spilling into a condom, letting go of my mouth only to suck and bite on my neck as I throw my head back, giving him easier access. I don’t even know when he had the time to put one on, but then he kept me in a trance through most of it.

  Breathing heavily, I catch as much air as possible as slowly everything comes back and the picture becomes clear again, where the fire is finally extinguished and only hollowness is left.

  And realization washes over me like an ocean wave, reminding me that this can never be right, even if it felt so just a second ago. “I hate you,” I whisper. He doesn’t say anything, just places me on the bed, and I scoot back, ignoring how exhausted my body feels.

  He removes his pants and gets into bed, and I know our conversations are over for tonight, because he is satiated and doesn’t need anything from me for now.

  Rolling onto my back, I run my fingers through my sweaty hair and wince. I’m surrounded by the reminder of what we did, and he won’t let me ever forget it.

  But then again, I can’t blame him either, because not once did he force anything on me.

  “This doesn’t change anything,” I say, staring at myself and hating even my reflection. For how weak should a woman be to allow a monster to touch her?

  He throws a blanket over us, and orders, “Sleep, Valencia.” And although we don’t say anything for a long time, neither of us is asleep.

  This has changed something, and the connection we’ve experienced scares me way more than everything else.

  Because if his darkness doesn’t stop my desire for him, what will?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lachlan, 10 years old

  Pastor Cane continues to read the Bible to us in class as he writes the important parts on the board while everyone copies it to their notebook.

  For our “special” leverage, we still have to attend religion class every week with everyone else.

  I press on the paper, and the pressure must be strong, because the tip of the pencil breaks. I quickly glance at the pastor, but he doesn’t seem to notice, as he continues his task.

  Exhaling in relief, I urgently yet quietly search for a new one on my table but don’t find any. I scan our small classroom with around fifteen single tables that are occupied by boys only who wear similar white shirts and brown pants, and their hair is buzz cut, since a longer length pisses them off.

  The pastor doesn’t believe we should share a space with girls, because they can seduce us from our paths. Until the time comes for us to marry one of our own. But even then, he will decide the best match. We are nothing but his property after all; he reminds us each week that we get to spend with his guests.

  Weeks where we are held hostage in the special room while dirty, old men use us for their sick desires. Nothing is off limits to them, from pain to demands to companionship. They even like to cuddle sometimes, and no matter how much you want to vomit all over them, you can’t.

  Because the punishment from “upsetting” them is far greater and in the long haul is not worth it. Pastor will make sure all the touches are nothing compared to what he can dish out.

  I should know, considering I rebelled the most.

  Anger builds in me at the thought of that man and the things he has done to me the last time he visited, but I push it back, because I have more serious matters at hand.

  Like making sure Pastor Cane won’t see me panicking, or else everyone will be punished for my behavior.

  At the right corner, a few rows in front of me, Logan catches my eye and lifts his chin, silently asking what’s going on.

  Logan is my only friend, although I’m not sure what we have is friendship. We only chat leaving school and on the way here. Until you are thirteen years old, you are forbidden to interact with other kids outside your household. But there is always thi
s deep understanding between us, shared pain and all.

  Apparently they plan for a big hoopla once we turn teenagers, although I have my suspicions.

  We won’t be as pretty then. The “guests” are only interested in small kids; they don’t want older ones. That’s why after around fifteen years old they find us suitable brides.

  They say those are the rules for us, that we are special and selected just for this place. That God himself gave him this opportunity, and we should be happy about it.

  Why then did each one of us probably weep at night? I can’t imagine anyone accepting normally what they have done to us on a monthly basis. Other kids who don’t share the burden with us don’t seem much happier either.

  Just a never-ending circle of misery.

  I show Logan the pencil and he nods, fishing for one on his side. He glances at the pastor, and satisfied he is still very much occupied with the board, Logan throws it my way and I catch it right on time.

  An exhale leaves me, and I’m about to go back to writing, when all the shifting moves my book to the corner of the table. Before I can stop it, the book falls on the floor with a loud smacking noise, and all attention is on me.

  Correction.

  Their terrified attention is on me.

  Since it’s too late for any damage control, I look at Pastor Cane, who pauses midair with the chalk in his hand and his back rigid. He takes a few beats before spinning around to face us, his assertive, cold eyes scanning the environment to find the source of the disturbance.

  He slowly puts the chalk back on the table, taking his time dusting his fingers off while everything inside me stills, and I mentally prepare myself for what comes next.

  One of the rules is to never piss off Pastor Cane, as he has the power of a higher rank, meaning his punishment can never be undone. And he is second in command after Pastor, thus he is allowed to do whatever the hell he pleases with selected kids as long as they will heal before guests come.

  And we usually always do, since, after his treatments, we have doctors tending to us. And if bruises don’t fade… well, then there is always makeup to hide it.