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spookyspaghettisundae · 2 years ago

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I Got Plans for Tonight

In the hot and dusty winds of the desert, dead fields surrounded the ranch. Where the setting sun cast its dying rays, shadows danced inside the decrepit remains of a chapel.

Old rusting husks of cars lined the dirt road and circuit before the ranch’s house. It sometimes felt like they multiplied in number on some days, thinning out on others. Today, it felt like half of Nevada’s old wrecks had gathered here to attend court. A graveyard of cars to celebrate a strange king.

Unlike the myriads of metal carcasses, picked clean for spare parts, one single vehicle stood out, intact, parked near the porch. The Way King’s beaten-up old pickup truck rested there, cooling in the shade, caked as always with layers of dust.

Sand and stone crunched underneath the wheels of Michael’s van as he pulled up into the circuit, riding the gentle curve until he parked his chariot next to his King’s truck.

He remained sitting still for several moments, surveying the quiet ranch. He peeled a stick of chewing gum from its wrapper, then popped it in his mouth. Artificial strawberry flavor exploded against his taste buds, and he slapped the outside of his door twice before exiting the vehicle.

Halfway to the ranch house entrance, he paused. Stared into the distance. The recent grave on the dead fields no longer looked fresh, even though the shovel used to dig it still stood staked in the dirt like a simple headstone.

Where Klemens and Michael had buried one of the Way King’s victims alive.

“How does that make you feel?” Klemens asked.

The gaunt silhouette of his master stood in the shadows of the porch, rubbing his hands with a rag.

Michael had not heard the old man emerge from his house.

“Pleased?” asked Klemens again. As Michael dithered to answer, Klemens’ words kept cascading out. The German refugee’s accent surfaced more with every word. “I always wondered how you feel about your handiwork, my boy.”

Michael paused from chewing his gum, shielded his eyes against the blinding light of the red sun, and smiled.

“Would it surprise you to hear that I don’t take pleasure in taking lives?”

The motion of rubbing wizened hands against a greasy rag froze.

“No,” said the Way King. “It is common for men to do work as a means to the end. Lucky is a man who finds joy in his work, but not all men are so lucky.”

Michael turned fully to face his king, and bowed his head in reverence.

“What about you, my King?”

The silhouette shook his head.

“I take pride in some of the things I accomplish, but I do not cherish every difficult decision I make.”

Michael gestured to the dust on the road, and the metal husks behind him, and the recent grave.

“How did it get this way, my King? Is this the world you envisioned when you took to its throne?”

The floorboards thumped as Klemens descended from the porch. Gravel crunched underneath his boots as he neared.

Brows furrowed amidst a roadmap of wrinkles, and the Way King’s eyes glistened with sorrow.

“We envision many things to be better than they turn out to be. When I did what I did, I was not afforded the luxury of youth, or idealism. I always knew there would be a cost.”

Michael shook his head this time. “Forgive me for asking, but did you choose this squalor for yourself?”

Klemens stared him in the eyes. A burning gaze.

Magnetic.

Powerful.

“I was inspired by the great Jesus Christ,” said Klemens. “Now, please, do not misunderstand. I do not see myself as he, or as some kind of saint. But the principle of one man shouldering the burden for all the others, for suffering for all of them to alleviate their suffering—it made sense to me at the time.”

Michael flinched at the thought.

Not one for religious beliefs, he nevertheless felt a brief pang of regret. Some part of Michael liked Klemens. And he here he stood now, having done almost everything he needed to do to become his personal Judas Iscariot.

Chewing the gum a few more times as he chewed on an answer, he masked his regret by playing with fire.

Risking to expose his true intentions, hoping to bury his true feelings underneath a philosophical rebellion.

“I don’t know if the world needs another martyr. And I wonder if the way the world is going is because when you bleed, the world bleeds. You fathered this world, and I’m starting to think it has… inherited your suffering. As above, so below.”

Klemens stood frozen still, like a statue. Half a head shorter than Michael, old, and with what felt like only years left till his end, the Way King nevertheless exuded a majestic and overwhelming presence.

He smiled. Michael felt compelled to mirror it.

Klemens said, “I am very grateful for what this great country has done for me. I decided to change very little, and only weed out the… criminals who escaped justice. Do you feel I have steered you wrong in killing some Nazi-Schweine to bring about a new world?”

Michael shook his head again.

“No. The people you had us execute… I don’t question your judgment.”

“But you question my judgment over the world I dreamt up?”

A pit formed in his stomach. Michael paused from chewing, licked his lips, and pointed down the dirt road again.

“I think your dreams are distorted, my king. Blinded by faith, blinded by… I don’t know. Just look at all the potholes on your HIGHWAY, look at… look at all the trash and all the filth piling up. The plastic and metal refuse, and the human garbage we snatch up and dispose of to power our rituals. How many people go missing, never to be found again—not for sake of searching, but… because people are hopeless? Nobody cares anymore. Everything is ruled by the almighty dollar, and all dreams go to die in the growing poverty of this country.” Michael took a deep breath, and Klemens did nothing to interrupt him. “Like your homeland in the past, America has committed its own genocides, and I have seen a future in which there are more to come. If this is the world of your dreams, my king, then we need to do something about your dreams.”

Klemens listened with the patience of a saint. Even allowing for several beats and breaths to be taken after Michael had concluded his torrent of disapproval.

Michael shuddered.

Did he know? Did he know of the betrayal he plotted? Could he sense it? But there was no such thing in the stories of such kings.

Klemens smiled again, sending more shivers down Michael’s spine.

“You are not wrong, my boy. Even ascended as I have, I am but a man. You may think me blasphemous to compare myself to the savior, but it is a limited comparison. I am no savior. I am only a man. We are all but men in this vast cosmos, and no matter how desperately we try to shape the world into a better place, we are all prone to mistakes. Prone to… delusions.”

One of those wizened old hands—with dirt under the fingernails, and stains of grease from endlessly working on the clockwork heart of THE HIGHWAY—clapped down on Michael’s shoulder.

“I am not much more longer for this world, my boy. One among you will take my place, and bring about a world I couldn’t even dream of.”

A fat lump of nothing formed in Michael’s throat. He swallowed, accidentally swallowing the tiny lump of chewing gum with it.

He shook his head. Placed a palm on Klemens’ hand.

“I said it before and I will offer it again—I can extend your life like I have for others,” Michael said. “Just say the word and—”

“No,” said the Way King with the gravity of the moon. Thunder clapped from the cloudless sky. It continued to rumble in Michael’s heart for the next few seconds. “You are not wrong about the state of this world. That is why we need Agent Parker and that book. With her on our side, one of you will use the jade book to change the world for the better.”

Tears welled in the corners of Michael’s eyes.

He had been working so long to undermine and usurp the Way King that he never thought to consider Klemens might invite someone to ascendence—to take his place without conflict.

Michael had sacrificed so much. So many.

People he cared about. All in the way of his necromancy, all for the purpose of shaping a new world. A world of his dreams.

The tears tasted salty when they met his lips.

Klemens smiled again; that eerie knowing smile. A callused thumb wiped a tear from Michael’s cheek.

“I believe Jericho would be suited to dream up a world we cannot even imagine. And he would need someone of your wisdom, patience, knowledge, and visions, to guide him,” Klemens said.

Michael swallowed again and the pit returned to grip his stomach.

And twist. Mercilessly twist it.

“Jericho?” Michael’s face contorted with unmasked disbelief as he repeated that name. That damned name. “Jericho?”

“I have given this a lot of thought,” Klemens said. “If I am to abdicate, I would want to pass on the torch to someone of radical thought, of someone who is not afraid to let the past burn down when fire takes, to guide people around him to safety, and build a new future upon the ashes.”

The pit kept twisting, churning, until Michael almost felt sick to his stomach.

Jericho?

Jericho Kane?!

Was he out of his fucking mind? That fuck-up?

Almost as if he had heard his thoughts, Klemens continued. An almost musical tone mingled with his words, as if the very thought amused him. “He is unwise, still, and impulsive. He will need all the advice and help he can get, but my belief is firm, he would make a good king. He has seen many hardships that shaped the way he is. For him, a crown would be no greater burden than the ones he already shoulders, but a new opportunity. Trading one weight for another, and understanding the depth, the gravity of his decisions. Unlike men like us—men with visions—he has no delusions about himself or the world. He could make the next one… a better one. Such is my belief.”

Michael burned. Invisible hellfire scorched his body, searing the sweat away from his pores. A silent fury smoldered, deep within, but he knew better than to give in.

He never gave in to such impulses.

He took a long, deep breath. He exhaled, venting some of that anger.

Then he remembered: Jericho was trapped in the House of Change, together with that insipid woman, Karma. They would lose their minds.

And Michael… well, his puzzle pieces were all locking into their proper place.

He took another long, deep breath. As he exhaled, he vented the rest of all that sudden anger.

And the fire was gone.

In its place, a cold and calculating void remained. Where the shadows roiled.

Michael smiled. A genuine smile, smiling to himself—knowing his plans would come to fruition soon, his visions a reality awaiting eager hands to shape it—

And he lied.

“You are… you… it’s strange, a truly strange choice I never would have considered. But you are right. Jericho might just be the right choice to continue where you left off.” He stared at the metal husks of the cars, and the dirt road. As he let the smile fade from his mien, he added, “I will do my best to guide him to where he needs to be. To where the world needs to be.”

Klemens returned that smile and patted Michael on the shoulder—like a father, proud of his obedient son.

Michael spoke again, “This is a most fortuitous time for us to speak about this, because I have very good news, my king. Why I came here…”

Klemens’ weary brows lifted. His bleary blue eyes sparkled with expectation.

“Yes, you guessed right,” Michael said. “I have finally located Agent Parker again. She is currently at the Molly Stark Hospital in Ohio. Shall I arrange for us to deliver her here?”

Klemens swiveled with an energy that defied his age.

He slapped the rag against his own palm and shook his head as he met Michael’s gaze anew.

“No. I will summon her here myself.”

Michael nodded and dug around in his pocket to retrieve a tiny red plastic bead.

It looked like something broken off a cheap toy or piece of children’s jewelry, but it thrummed with power. It teemed with the wrath of eleven ghosts, bound to it by Michael’s magick.

They silently screeched in anticipation, dreaming hate-filled dreams of release.

Yearning to find her.

To find Agent Parker. To her, they reached out to, pin-pointing her precise location.

The tiny red bead dropped from Michael’s fingers into Klemens’ palm. It weighed almost nothing, yet it disobeyed the laws of gravity. It did not bounce in Klemens’ hand.

As if it bore the weight of a boulder.

The old man’s fingers closed around it. He stared at his own fist in disbelief.

Kicking up a dust cloud in the distance, a black Lincoln town car neared, trailing down the endless alley of vehicle carcasses.

Both Klemens and Michael only paid it a passing glance.

The Way King said, “I will use THE HIGHWAY to bring her and her companions here immediately. The time for letting others do my work for me is over. This is such an important moment that I must do it with my own two hands.”

Michael smiled.

He had foreseen this event.

In visions, he had seen Klemens in the backrooms of his ranch house, deep inside the labyrinthine heart of THE HIGHWAY, where intricate meshes of copper and steel and brass parts made up the living walls. Where occult machines hissed and ticked away as they clicked and churned in their indecipherably complex operations. Shifting and changing the network of roads with each pull of a lever, each pressing of a switch, shortening paths, and elongating others, all in perfect mathematical balance.

Aided by his automaton homunculus Fritz, Klemens toiled away in that vision, hovering over strange clockwork mechanisms, operating his Magnum Opus in a final ritual, with the homunculus clone of Parker sat upon his throne in the center, to channel the summoning with complete precision, and deliver the real Agent Parker to his doorstep.

That very vision… it still stuck as clearly in his mind now as it had a year prior.

Michael had been counting the days, wondering when everybody would finally conspire to turn his visions into a reality.

The Lincoln had almost reached the circuit. They glimpsed FBI Director Collins as the man behind the steering wheel.

“Will you need me here?” Michael asked.

Klemens cocked a brow.

“Things should go peacefully. But you are kindly invited to stay and witness this incredible moment. I would have thought that you of all people would have wanted to bear witness. We are standing on the precipice to a new world, after all.”

Michael feigned a sigh. He shed another genuine smile, knowing his plans were all falling into place. All visions coming true.

At least the ones he desired.

“Unfortunately, I got plans for tonight. Many people seek the counsel of the Oracle of New York, and the personal sacrifice it takes to power such sorcery is endless toil, I’m afraid.” Staring Klemens in the eyes, he added, “Besides, I’ve all seen it already, if you catch my drift.”

Klemens emitted a raspy chuckle. He clapped Michael on the back.

Gravel crunched under wheels where the Lincoln rolled up to them. Collins cut the engine and emerged from the vehicle.

Beads of sweat dotted his forehead. Even with his jacket off, he looked miserably hot in the rest of his suit.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “I’m sorry to say, we’ve learned nothing about the whereabouts of the House agents.”

The Way King replied, “No matter, Anthony. I had almost forgotten about those pests.”

Collins adjusted his glasses and cast a skeptical glance in Michael’s direction.

“Why, then, did you summon me here?” asked the FBI director.

Michael answered. “I could use your help on something. An extracurricular task, really. The good news is, we can forget about the House of Change. In a vision, I saw them die. We—”

Collins groaned. “Ah, great—thank you for letting me waste all those resources on unnecessary legwork.”

“I’m sorry, Anthony,” Michael said. The FBI director squinted at him, clearly in disapproval over hearing him refer to him by first name. “It was a very recent vision. If I had seen it any sooner, I would have let you know.”

“There’s this invention called the telephone, and I’m easy to reach by it thanks to another marvel of technology called a pager. But I guess you sometimes forget about basic technology when you have the occult on your mind 24-7.”

Michael nodded and said, “Again, I apologize. If it’s any consolation to you, we now know where Parker is, and our king will summon her here personally. Our work is almost done.”

Collins squinted at him again.

Klemens patted Michael on the back one last time.

“If you hurry with your plans for the night, you might make it back in time. It would otherwise be a shame if you are all absent for my first meeting with the elusive Agent Parker.”

Michael nodded and cast another radiant smile towards Klemens.

All good things come to those who wait.

To Collins Michael said, “Then we’ll have to step on the gas. Come on, we’ll take my van.”

Without as much as a farewell, Klemens shuffled off towards the ranch house and Collins followed Michael to the side of the van, where someone with serious artistic talent had airbrushed on a glorious image of a wizard on the moon, whose fingertips projected a ball of lightning to engulf the planet Earth.

Looking over his shoulder to assure they were out of earshot, Michael intercepted Collins’ questions by saying, “We’re headed to the Castle on the Cumberland.”

Collins stopped dead in his tracks.

“Come again?”

“Supermax. Kentucky State Penitentiary. There’s someone there we need to visit, and you being able to pull some strings would make things a lot easier for us.”

Collins frowned. “You know, if you keep stretching my strings thin, they’ll eventually snap.”

Michael smiled again. Felt another pang of anger creeping up on him.

He exhaled sharply. Vented it again.

He stepped up to the FBI director, whose posture turned as rigid as a statue in response. Gingerly, Michael straightened Collins’ collar.

“Now’s hardly the time to turn uncooperative, Anthony,” he said, letting his name drawl out with subtle shades of contempt. “Unlike Klemens, I will never blackmail you for your… past deeds. When I have that tome, and I use it, I will not just remake the world. I will make all your troubles go away. They will all be buried in the past.”

Anthony Collins’ frown twisted into a grimace and he averted his eyes in shame.

Michael wiped some specks of dust from the man’s shoulder and then opened up the van’s sliding door for him.

The stench of methamphetamines billowed out from the vehicle’s bowels.

“Step into my office. It’s a long ride from Vegas to Kentucky.”

Collins hesitated. Thumbed over his shoulder to the Lincoln. His grimace shifted, cycling between different shades of grief, regret, and defeat.

“Hold on. I’ll get my stuff.”

Michael leaned against the airbrushed wizard on the van’s sliding side door. He crossed his arms as he waited, smiling to himself.

Jericho witnessed all this through a television set. The grainy image showed enough for him to understand it all.

Even so, he slapped the top of the device in growing anger and despair.

“Why are you showing me this? Huh?”

Karma banged against the tall black door, rattling at it as it refused to open, still shouting for someone to let them out of their strange prison within the House of Change.

The room around them offered no response. Mirrors made up every wall from floor to ceiling, reflecting them in a vast infinity of reflections.

Jericho’s face was red with rage, veins popping, spraying spittle at the yellowed screen. He helplessly watched as Collins joined Michael in the wizard van. They drove from the Way King’s ranch, riding into the sunset.

“Why the fuck are you showing me this? Do you want me to do something about it? Stop it? I can’t do anything in here! Let me out! Let me the fuck out! What the fuck do you want?”

Where he smashed the television set, sparks and shattered glass scattered across the marbled floor.

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dragongod800 · 4 months ago

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Shadows in the Dust: The Search for Braeburn

CHAPTER 3: “Crossroads and Strangers”

The neon motel sign flickered in the early-morning darkness outside Emmett Hensley’s room. Dawn was still an hour away, the sky a murky purple that promised a scorching day once the sun rose. Inside the cramped motel room with faded linoleum floors, Emmett sat on the edge of a sagging bed, a single lamp illuminating the battered notebook he clutched in his lap. He’d spent most of the night writing down every piece of information, every stray clue, gleaned from his strange encounter with Ringmaster Windsor and his ominous carnival.

Braeburn’s disappearance weighed on him like a physical ache. Despite only a few days gone, Emmett felt an expanding gulf of dread—time was slipping away. Whoever took Braeburn might already be smuggling him to some far-off market, or worse. Then there was Windsor, the ringmaster who seemed to delight in Emmett’s desperation without outright refusing to help. The bizarre carnival setup outside Rockcliff Canyon left Emmett with more questions than answers.

He traced a finger over the carnival flyer again: Windsor’s Marvels: Horse Taming & Exotic Curiosities. There was a phone number and a website printed near the bottom, half peeled away by weather and use. Emmett’s phone was old, a flip model battered by ranch life. But maybe there was a chance he could glean more from that phone number—or find out when Windsor planned his next show. Before the crack of dawn, Emmett stuffed the flyer into his jacket pocket and packed up the few belongings he had. The old .30-06 rifle, a handful of bullet cartridges, his canteens, and a single duffel bag of extra clothes.

He checked out at the front desk, ignoring the bleary-eyed clerk’s attempts at small talk. Outside, the motel parking lot was deserted, the air crisp and cool. His truck’s engine coughed to life like an elderly dog, but it held steady. With a determined set to his jaw, Emmett drove back toward Pinestep Junction. After last night’s storm, the dirt roads were caked in muddy ruts, puddles reflecting starlight above.

He had no solid plan beyond chasing whispers, but that was better than giving up. As the sky lightened, Emmett tried the phone number on the carnival flyer. It rang to an automated message with tinny music, eventually cutting off mid-note. No option to leave a voicemail. Frustrated, he snapped his phone shut and tossed it onto the passenger seat. If Windsor was stonewalling him, then Emmett had to consider other avenues—particularly the odd footprints and the orchard’s flattened grass. Every gut instinct told him there was more to the story than a typical horse theft.

He pulled into Pinestep Junction’s main street just as the horizon bled into faint oranges and pinks. Light spilled across the boarded-up storefronts, and the single traffic light in town blinked yellow. Already, the local diner was open, a thin line of ranchers and travelers waiting for coffee. Emmett resisted the urge to stop again. Time was too precious for more idle chit-chat. Instead, he turned onto a side street that led to the town’s outskirts, where ranch houses dotted the land.

He remembered an old rancher named Norman Teller, a friend of his father’s. Teller had a reputation for “knowing things,” especially rumors swirling around the region. He might’ve heard about a carnival or suspicious activity. Emmett swung left onto a gravel drive lined with rust-eaten mailboxes. At the end was Teller’s property, a neat single-story home next to a cluster of abandoned stables. Overgrazed land spread behind the house, caked mud from last night’s rainfall. The early sun glinted off a battered old tractor parked crooked in the yard.

Emmett climbed out, rifle slung over his shoulder. He rapped lightly on the front door, uncertain if Teller would welcome a visitor at dawn. Footsteps approached, and the door creaked open, revealing an older man with stooped shoulders and deep-set, world-weary eyes.

“Emmett Hensley?” Norman Teller’s voice cracked with surprise. “God above, you look just like your father did at your age. Been a while, son. Everything okay?”

Emmett tried to muster a polite smile. “Mornin’, Mr. Teller. Sorry to bug you so early. My horse—Braeburn—went missing a couple days ago.” His mouth wavered on the final words. “I’ve reason to suspect a group, maybe a traveling carnival, might be involved.”

Teller’s weathered face creased with sympathy. He pushed the door open wider. “Lord, Emmett. C’mon in. Coffee’s on.”

Inside, the house was cozy in a run-down sort of way. A crocheted blanket draped over a threadbare recliner, and an old radio crackled near the kitchen. Teller pulled a second chipped mug from a cupboard. As he poured coffee for them both, Emmett explained everything: the orchard’s flattened grass, the monstrous footprints, the deserted carnival campsite. Teller listened, tapping a finger on the counter.

“I’ve heard rumors,” Teller said quietly, once Emmett finished. “Folks been complaining lately about missing livestock and strange prints on the outskirts of town. Most chalk it up to coyotes or wandering hobos. But you say you saw a carnival set up near Rockcliff Canyon?”

Emmett nodded. “Met the ringmaster, calls himself Windsor. He didn’t exactly deny or confirm anything.”

Teller’s gaze darkened. “That carnival’s been drifting through these parts for years. I remember your father once warning me about them—he said they had a knack for luring in unique animals, sometimes even snatching them if the owners wouldn’t sell. But he didn’t have proof.” He sighed, sliding Emmett the mug of coffee. “They do put on a legitimate show now and then. Real elaborate. But behind the scenes—shady business.”

Emmett’s gut twisted. “So it’s not just rumor.”

Teller sipped his coffee, wincing at the bitterness. “I’d keep an eye out. If they took Braeburn, it’s because they see something special. That horse of yours is a spectacle on his own.” He set the mug down. “You might consider talking to Sheriff Holmes again, though I doubt she’s got the manpower to confront the entire carnival on a hunch.”

Emmett swallowed a wave of frustration. “I tried the deputy. He brushed me off.”

Teller frowned. “Not surprising. Listen, maybe I can help spread word among the local ranchers. If Braeburn’s around, someone will see him. Meanwhile, you might want to check out the carnival grounds again. They move around a lot, but sometimes they linger an extra day or two.”

An uneasy memory of Windsor’s grin came flooding back. Emmett hesitated. “I was there last night. Didn’t see Braeburn, or hear any horses at all. Just… something felt off.”

Teller nodded as though he understood perfectly. “Watch your back, son. That ringmaster is rumored to keep dangerous company. People whisper about illusions, deals made under the table, even threats if folks ask too many questions.”

Emmett rubbed a hand over his face, exhaustion catching up to him. “I appreciate the warning. Could they have snuck out overnight?”

Teller shrugged. “Hard to say. Why not try looking around Rockcliff Canyon more thoroughly? If they have hidden animals, they might be stabling them away from the main tents.”

Emmett’s heart quickened. He felt a surge of renewed determination. “Thank you,” he said, finishing the coffee in a single gulp. His hands shook with pent-up energy, a yearning to be on the move again. “If you hear anything, let me know.”

Teller grabbed a scrap of paper, scribbling a phone number. “This is my direct line. Don’t be a stranger, Emmett. Your father was a good man, and that horse means the world to you. Good luck.”

Clutching the phone number, Emmett forced a tight smile. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Back on the road, the morning sun was well over the horizon, bleaching the world in swirling dust. Emmett turned the truck west again, toward Rockcliff Canyon. He planned to check the carnival’s campsite. Even if they pulled up stakes during the night, they might have left tracks or clues behind.

As he neared the canyon area, the scenery changed: jagged rock formations rose in red-and-ochre layers, carved over centuries by wind and sparse rainfall. A narrow two-lane road meandered along a dry riverbed. Emmett recalled the carnival lights from the previous night, vivid against the stormy sky. Now, the plateau appeared deserted under a blazing sun—no tents, no trucks, no calliope music. Just an expanse of dust-laden ground scarred by tire ruts and footprints.

He parked the truck on the same ridge as before, stepping out to a peculiar hush. Last night’s chaos had left the earth damp in spots. A faint wind carried the tang of wet sand and creosote bushes. Emmett hiked down to the plateau, scanning for any vestiges of the big top tents.

Tire tracks crisscrossed the area, parallel lines weaving around flattened patches of dirt. Muddy impressions of large footprints spotted the ground near where the tents had stood. Some smaller prints overlapped, a swirl of confusion. Yet Emmett recognized a set that looked like the odd elongated footprints from his ranch—and a pang of fear sliced through him. If the carnival left, they had only hours’ head start.

He crouched near a cluster of footprints, pressing a hand to the damp earth. Each track was at least a size bigger than his own boot, with a strangely pointed toe. It was consistent with the orchard’s footprints. A jolt of adrenaline shot through him. Someone at Windsor’s Marvels definitely matched these. Anger rose, swirling with hope. He wasn’t imagining things—these footprints were real.

Nearby, large rectangular indentations indicated where tent poles might have stood. Discarded scraps of rope and broken tent stakes lay scattered. A few bits of colored canvas fluttered in the breeze like torn flags of a departed army. This was definitely the carnival’s campsite. At least Emmett knew he was on the right path. But where had they gone?

He circled the plateau, scanning for any sign of hidden pens or stables. The rocky canyon walls rose steeply, forming shadowy alcoves. If the carnival had stashed animals or equipment, maybe they’d used a cave or a nook in the rocks. Moving carefully, he picked his way among boulders and ridges, rifle slung across his back. With each step, the sun beat down heavier, sweat beading on his forehead.

He found a narrow gap that led to a shallow cave. The interior smelled faintly of stale hay and animal musk. Fresh footprints dotted the dusty ground inside—bootprints, cart wheels, and possibly hoof tracks. Emmett’s pulse hammered. He crouched to examine one of the hoof impressions. It was the right size for a horse of Braeburn’s build. The print was smeared, but the shape was close enough to squeeze his heart.

A swirl of dread mixed with excitement. Maybe they had kept Braeburn in here. The proof was thin, but it was something. He pressed deeper into the cave. The rocky walls glistened faintly where water had trickled in. Broken fragments of chain lay in a corner, rust flecked with fresh scratches. Emmett set down his rifle, lifting a length of chain to study it.

Could Braeburn have broken free? The metal links were heavy enough to restrain a large animal, but the end was snapped. Possibly a horse’s frantic tug. Or maybe the carnival crew intentionally left it behind.

The darkness pressed in. Emmett’s breath echoed in his ears. He felt a fleeting sense of triumph—this was tangible evidence. But it also confirmed Braeburn might be in the carnival’s possession. He pictured the stallion’s frightened eyes, pinned ears, resisting strangers. It made Emmett’s blood boil.

He emerged from the cave, blinking against the sudden brightness. Now he needed the next step: which direction did the carnival take? Surveying the plateau’s edges, he spotted a winding dirt road snaking off further west into the desert. Ruts and deeper tire tracks suggested multiple heavy vehicles had used that route recently—likely the carnival’s caravan. His heart thumped painfully.

He hurried back to the truck and scanned a map he kept folded in the glove compartment. The nearest towns west of here were scattered across a wide radius—Hollow Gulch, Fort Yala, maybe even bigger cities if they traveled far enough. He traced the roads with a shaky finger. If they were heading deeper into the desert, the next known spot was Winslow Flats, a small settlement near an abandoned rail line. Some traveling shows occasionally passed that way to set up near old station platforms.

Biting his lip, Emmett weighed his options. He could chase the carnival alone, risking they’d slip away if he didn’t choose the right route. Or he could try bringing the sheriff and a posse. But the deputy’s indifference replayed in his mind. He doubted official help would arrive in time. With a resigned breath, he decided to keep forging west, following the fresh tracks. A pang of worry tugged at him—what if the carnival had a head start of many hours or even a day? Braeburn’s fate might rest on Emmett’s ability to catch up quickly.

He dialed Teller’s number from his old flip phone, updating him on the new lead. Teller promised he’d rally local ranchers to spread word and keep eyes peeled for a suspicious caravan. “Just be careful,” Teller warned. “A cornered carnival might lash out.”

Emmett tossed the phone aside. He started the truck, shifting into gear. The tires kicked up dust as he followed the rutted road deeper into the desert. Sun scorched the horizon, heat shimmering off the asphalt as it gradually transitioned back to gravel. The tires crunched over every rock and washboard track. Emmett pressed the accelerator harder, ignoring the truck’s rattling protests.

After about an hour’s drive, a sign for Winslow Flats emerged. Emmett slowed, scanning for any obvious carnival presence: colorful tents or large trucks. Nothing. Winslow Flats was a cluster of old trailer homes, boarded-up storefronts, and a single diner claiming “Best Fried Chicken In 100 Miles.” Hardly a carnival-worthy location. But the desert might hold pockets of open land for them to set up. Emmett’s gaze swept the horizon—no bright tents marred the emptiness.

He pulled into a shaded spot near the diner. The midday sun glared overhead, and the asphalt shimmered in waves of heat. Perhaps the carnival had moved on. But if they passed through, someone here might’ve seen them. He entered the diner, the interior blessedly cooled by an ancient swamp cooler that hummed in a back corner. The smell of bacon grease and stale coffee hung in the air. Only a handful of customers dotted the booths.

A young waitress in a pink uniform with a crooked name tag—“Bonnie”—approached. She blinked bright eyes at him. “Sit anywhere you like,” she said, sounding chirpy. Emmett slid into a booth. His body ached from the search, from the sleepless nights. If he were honest, he could eat a small horse, ironically enough. But the pang of missing Braeburn stole his appetite.

Bonnie approached with a notepad. “What can I getcha?”

Emmett mustered a tired smile. “Coffee. Black.”

She jotted it down, paused. “No food? You look beat.”

He grimaced. “Alright, maybe a slice of pie if you got it.”

She nodded, disappearing behind the counter. Emmett rubbed his temples, lost in thought. From the corner of his eye, he noticed an older couple near the window, chewing bacon and eggs. Another man in a trucker’s cap sat at the counter, nursing a mug of coffee. If the carnival came through, these folks might know.

When Bonnie returned with coffee and a slice of blueberry pie, Emmett pulled out the carnival flyer. “Miss, can I ask you something?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Not a lot goes on out here.”

He held up the flyer. “You seen any traveling show or carnival passing through? Weird footprints, big trucks… maybe last night or early this morning?”

Bonnie’s brow furrowed. She took a step closer, voice dropping. “Funny you ask. A couple hours ago, a line of trucks and trailers blew through town heading south. At least six or seven vehicles, real colorful. Looked like a traveling circus, or carnival. I remember big painted horses on the sides.”

Excitement flickered in Emmett’s chest. “Which way is south from here?”

“There’s a back route cutting toward the old Willowbend rail yard. It’s not well-traveled, but big groups sometimes use it to avoid weigh stations or official checkpoints.” She shrugged. “The trucks didn’t stop here, just blazed by. But it sure looked like a carnival caravan. One truck had a massive dancing clown painted on it. Gave me the creeps.”

Emmett’s heart hammered. “That’s them. Did you see any… horse trailers? Or a glimpse of a golden stallion?”

She shook her head, lips pursed. “Didn’t catch that detail, sorry. But they definitely had some livestock trailers on the end. Couldn’t see inside.”

He forced a grateful smile. “Thank you. You don’t know how much that helps.”

She leaned in, lowering her voice even further. “Be careful. My grandma used to say some of those carnival folks have ‘devil magic.’ Superstitious talk, I know, but they gave me a bad vibe. I saw them pass maybe two hours ago. If you hurry, you might catch up.”

Emmett inhaled, adrenaline spiking. “Thank you again.” He wolfed down the slice of pie in three bites, leaving a few bills on the table. Bonnie offered a small wave as he hurried out.

Back in the truck, he double-checked a local map. The Willowbend rail yard was an abandoned cargo station south of Winslow Flats. Rumors said it had once been a major shipping hub decades ago, but now it lay deserted, a ghost yard for scrap metal. The carnival must be heading in that direction to avoid main highways. Emmett gripped the steering wheel, forging onward.

Dust swirled behind him as he took the back road, a battered strip of asphalt that gave way to gravel. The midday heat turned the horizon into a wavering mirage. With each mile, the landscape flattened even more, patches of saltbush and mesquite dotting the land. Emmett’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. If he could intercept the carnival caravan, he might rescue Braeburn right here and now. But what if they turned off the road? The desert was vast and unmarked.

An hour later, the silhouette of rusted rail cars and twisted tracks came into view. Willowbend Yard. The crumbling remains of loading docks and collapsed warehouses poked out of the earth like rotted teeth. Emmett slowed, scanning for bright carnival trucks. A swirl of dust near a row of battered boxcars caught his eye. Heart pounding, he eased the truck behind a line of dead mesquite for cover.

Sure enough, a cluster of vehicles was parked near the far end of the yard. Emmett recognized one from the carnival—painted in peeling red and gold with stylized horses on the side. Another truck had a mismatched trailer attached, large enough to house livestock. A wave of urgency washed over him. The carnival had likely chosen this abandoned yard to regroup or hide.

He killed the engine, stepping out. The desert sun hammered his back. Rifle in hand, he crossed the dusty ground, weaving between old railway debris. An uneasy hush enveloped the yard, broken only by the occasional metal creak. The carnival vehicles looked deserted, but he didn’t buy it. They could be inside the old warehouses or behind the rusted trains.

Peering around a boxcar, Emmett’s heart nearly stopped: on the far side of the carnival trailer, a makeshift pen was set up, enclosed by portable fencing and tarps. He glimpsed at least three horses huddled inside, tails swishing flies. One was white with black patches, another chestnut. Then—a flash of golden-brown.

He swallowed a gasp. Braeburn. Even from this distance, he recognized that proud stance. His beloved stallion’s mane was tangled, flank dusty, but Emmett would know him anywhere. Emotion welled in his chest, relief and fury tangling in equal measure. Braeburn was alive.

But he wasn’t alone. Two figures crouched near the makeshift pen, fiddling with feed buckets and water troughs. Emmett recognized Ellis, the tall man from last night, still wearing that frayed top hat. The other figure had a bulky frame, clad in a heavy leather coat despite the heat. They both appeared engrossed in managing the horses, oblivious to Emmett’s presence.

Trembling with adrenaline, Emmett weighed his options. If he confronted them directly, they might call for backup—or spook Braeburn. He pictured the orchard footprints, the hint of something monstrous. But he couldn’t let fear stop him. Braeburn was right there.

He exhaled slowly, raising his rifle just enough to feel it anchored. Crouching low, he crept from boxcar to boxcar, edging closer. Braeburn tossed his head, clearly agitated, pinned ears flicking back as Ellis ran a brush down his coat. Emmett bit back a surge of anger—how dare they handle his horse like property.

Then a metallic clang shattered the hush, and everything froze. The bulky figure glanced up, alarmed. Ellis straightened abruptly. Emmett realized someone else, maybe inside the trailer, had slammed a door. He had seconds to act.

Drawing on a well of courage, Emmett stepped out, leveling the rifle. “Step away from that horse!” he shouted, voice echoing among the rusted train cars.

Ellis whirled, eyes going wide in the midday glare. The bulky figure let out a startled curse. Braeburn nickered sharply, ears pricked.

“Emmett Hensley?” Ellis stammered, forced calm creeping into his voice. “You’re trespassing.”

Emmett advanced a few steps, heart pounding. “That’s my horse, and I’m taking him back.” He could hardly contain the tremor in his voice. “I don’t want violence, but I’ll do what I must.”

Ellis raised both hands, palms outward. “Listen—this is a misunderstanding. We—”

“Misunderstanding?” Emmett barked, rage swirling. “You stole him from my ranch! I saw your footprints. I know the carnival’s been luring horses.”

The bulky figure snorted. “You got no proof.” But he edged away from Braeburn, clearly intimidated by the rifle.

Ellis’s gaze flicked around, as though calculating escape routes. “Mr. Hensley, calm down. Braeburn is well cared for, I promise you.”

Emmett’s breath hissed through clenched teeth. “He’s not your property. Now unbolt that pen.”

Behind Ellis and the bulky figure, the trailer door flew open. Another carnival worker stepped out, momentarily stunned at the standoff. Emmett’s pulse hammered as he scanned the area. He had to act quickly before they surrounded him.

Ellis sidled closer to Braeburn, voice lowering. “He was in poor condition, you realize. We found him wandering.”

“You’re lying!” Emmett roared. Braeburn pawed the ground anxiously, eyes rolling. Emmett locked eyes with the stallion, willing calm into him.

The bulky figure sidestepped, maybe looking for a weapon. Emmett barked, “Don’t even think about it.” The rifle’s muzzle trained on him. “I just want my horse.”

A tense stalemate. Dust kicked up in the swirling desert wind. Braeburn tossed his head, nostrils flaring. The chestnut mare next to him fidgeted, sensing the tension. Finally, Ellis sighed dramatically, stepping back from the fence. “Very well,” he murmured, unhooking a latch with deliberate slowness. The pen’s gate swung open.

Emmett edged forward, keeping the rifle aimed. “Braeburn,” he called softly, beckoning the horse. Braeburn snorted, then took a hesitant step toward him. Emmett’s heart lurched. Despite the adrenaline, tears stung at his eyes. His best friend was right in front of him, alive.

Ellis tried one last attempt at reason. “You’re making a mistake, Mr. Hensley. The carnival has interests in showcasing remarkable animals. Braeburn was… it’s complicated.”

Emmett gritted his teeth, grabbing Braeburn’s halter. “Don’t feed me that nonsense. I know exactly what you are.” He gently stroked the horse’s neck, reassuring him. Braeburn stood trembling, but the bond held.

Ellis’s eyes glinted. “What do you think we are?”

Emmett didn’t answer. He coaxed Braeburn out of the pen, careful not to break line of sight with the carnival workers. The bulky man watched, fists balled at his sides, a sullen scowl twisting his mouth. Ellis stepped aside, top hat tilting in the sunlight.

Just then, Ringmaster Windsor emerged from behind a stacked row of crates. His frock coat fluttered in the hot breeze. He didn’t look surprised—he looked almost amused, as though he’d expected Emmett to come. “Ah, Mr. Hensley,” Windsor purred, voice carrying easily. “You’ve arrived sooner than I thought.”

Emmett’s stomach plummeted. In the bright desert glare, Windsor’s features took on a sharper, almost inhuman cast. “Stay back,” Emmett warned, rifle still trained.

Windsor gave a theatrical bow, ignoring the weapon. “You’ve proven quite resourceful,” he said, adjusting the lapel of his coat. “I suppose our arrangement is at an end.” His eyes flicked to Braeburn with a hint of regret. “A pity. He truly is extraordinary.”

Emmett sucked in a breath. “Arrangement?”

Ellis flicked his gaze to Windsor, uneasy. Windsor only smiled. “One day, you’ll understand. But for now, if you insist on reclaiming him by force…” He spread his hands, mocking surrender. “Take your prize and go, Mr. Hensley.”

Thunder rumbled overhead, even though the sky was mostly clear. Emmett’s heart drummed so loudly he thought the others might hear it. After a tense moment, he used his free hand to loop a rope around Braeburn’s halter. The stallion pressed closer, quivering but relieved. Emmett stepped backward, rifle still raised.

No one moved to stop him. He reached his truck in slow increments, guiding Braeburn along. The stallion’s hooves kicked up dusty clouds. Emmett opened the trailer hitch he’d borrowed from a friend in Pinestep, praying Braeburn would load smoothly. The horse balked momentarily, eyes rolling at the carnival workers’ presence. Emmett cooed softly, stroking Braeburn’s muzzle, eventually coaxing him in.

Only once Braeburn was secured did Emmett let out a shaky exhale. The carnival workers remained by their fence, silent as gravestones, the ringmaster standing apart with an inscrutable expression. Emmett hopped into the driver’s seat, rifle braced on the passenger side. No one followed. Not yet.

He started the engine. The truck roared to life, and he pulled away, leaving the silent carnival behind. As he glanced in the rearview mirror, Windsor’s silhouette grew smaller against the backdrop of twisted, rusted rail cars. Emmett half expected them to give chase. Instead, they just stood there, gazing after him like specters from another world.

Once he cleared the yard, heart still hammering, Emmett let out a ragged laugh—relief and disbelief flooding him. Braeburn was with him. He’d done it. Yet the confrontation felt too easy, too abrupt. A shiver of foreboding clenched his gut. Windsor’s parting words—“One day, you’ll understand.” That grin, that carnival aura. Emmett had no illusions that this was truly over.

Braeburn stirred in the trailer behind him, kicking once. Emmett soothed him through the small window. “It’s all right, boy,” he whispered, voice cracking. “We’re going home.” Tears pricked his eyes. The orchard’s emptiness, the frantic search, the fear that he might lose Braeburn forever—it all crashed over him in a wave. But for now, Braeburn was safe.

He forced himself to focus on the drive. He’d head back to the ranch, patch up his horse, and nurse him back to full health. The footprints, the orchard, and the carnival’s secrets could wait. After all, he had accomplished the impossible—found Braeburn. Part of him dared to hope this was the end.

But another part, colder and sharper, knew better. The carnival wouldn’t forget him or the trouble he caused. Windsor’s ominous presence loomed in his mind, as though the ringmaster had laid a trap Emmett had only partially escaped. He pictured the orchard, the circle of flattened grass, and those monstrous footprints that never quite matched a normal boot. Something deeper lurked behind those illusions. Something bigger than a single horse theft.

He clutched the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands, vowing that if the carnival ever threatened Braeburn again, he would fight back with everything he had. For now, though, Braeburn’s safety mattered most. Emmett glanced in the mirror, the wind snatching dust behind his trailer. The open desert stretched ahead, harsh and unyielding—but for the first time in days, a flicker of triumph burned in his chest.

#original story #mystery #eerie #rescue mission #desert #horse

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clueingforcooks · 7 months ago

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Recipes at Shadow Ranch: Shadow Ranch cake.

#nancy drew #secret of shadow ranch #recipes

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furious-rogue-stuff · 10 months ago

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A Feral Interlude, Chapter 7: Violent Delights

Pairing: Victor Creed x Isabela Montecristo | Sabertooth x Vipress

Disclaimer: This series will have canon-accurate and heightened levels of violence, adult themes, slight dub-con/non-con overtones and undertones, descriptions of bloody gore and sadism, and graphic descriptions of sex. *Post-Origins movieverse.

Rating: Mature/Explicit 🔞

Word count: 13,000+

Series Summary: Victor Creed's reputation as the Sabertooth proceeds him. He clashes with a mysterious feral woman, an enigma and anomaly to everything he knows. What began as a hunt becomes a dance between like-minded predators.

🚨Warning: Explicit sex, adult situations, implied rape, graphic imagery, feral power play, slight dub-con/non-con overtones and undertones, descriptions of bloody gore and sadism, and a pinch of angst. I do not own any aspect or character of the Marvel Universe nor elements of the X-Men Origins movieverse.

A Feral Interlude Masterlist

A Feral Interlude, Chapter 7: Violent Delights

Dreaming could be the cruelest way the universe went about punishing her for her sins. When she was the young mestizaliving on her father's sprawling ranch, she used to dream of running through the fields and jungle, of being absolutely in tune with nature. Colors would swim throughout and she felt absolutely hyperaware and happy, reaching out with her jubilant heart to touch what seemed like energies and constellations spinning around her.

Four hundred years later, she dreamed of memories—some nostalgic and entrancing, others painful and caustic. Isabela knew they were memories lived and squandered, so they didn't haunt her. At least they hadn't since Eirik was put to death. The exuberant side of her had shut down, her animal self taking over to numb her out and bring her back from the brink of crippling grief. Dreams and memories became hollow ports of images lived and sensations felt—but nothing that could hurt her. The only feeling that crept through her from the torrent was the loneliness.

Since being with Victor, she hadn't felt the loneliness, but her dreams came back. They haunted her, each a memory she sunk down into like perilous quicksand. Every feeling was there—she remembered how she felt then, and it scared her. She had wanted to remember Eirik, but not like this, not by being arrested in a stream of conscious and sequence of events she had lived and lost.

She looked ahead at the rolling hills of the Argentinean countryside, awareness slipping away as she fell back into the memory. She was walking barefoot through a field of vibrant wildflowers, her linen dress fluttering around her knees while the cool mountain air swept down over her and the sun warmed her skin. The laugh bubbled out of her and she started spinning with her arms out, hands sweeping through the tall grass and flowers as she twirled like she used to when she was a child.

"I'm getting dizzy just watching you," the raspy chuckle made her smile before she stopped and turned to face him.

The Norse berserker stood shirtless, as he must have thousands of times throughout his millennia, sweaty from his labors and smiling roguishly at her. His blond hair looked like gold wheat under the rays of the sun, and his eyes were shadowed by his furrowed brows as they squinted in the early afternoon light. His khaki trousers and boots were caked with dirt and grime. He looked happy, the blues of his eyes were even blazingly clear as he walked through the flowers towards her. She smiled mischievously at him before taking off, running through the field with him shouting and chasing behind her.

He caught her by her waist and lifted her effortlessly, swinging her around before she wriggled in his arms to face him. They laughed as they fell in a writhing tangle before he rolled and pinned her under him. His usually swept back locks dangled down to tickle her forehead when he kissed her, his hands claiming every curve of her before he whispered into her ear: "My Valkyrie…"

Her eyes softened as she gazed up at his handsome features, the swell that itched deep into her bones making her feel effervescent and young.

The rays were blotted out by his broad shoulders and bowed head, spilling around him like streams of light that made everything fuzzy.

She knew she was dreaming, and it hurt all over again.

"Are Valkyries capable of love?"

His mouth brushed hers before trailing to her cheek, murmuring, "Only if they deem their warrior worthy. Am I worthy, Valkyrie?"

"You're not my warrior, Loki" she mused mockingly, "you can't be a god and a warrior—"

"Just because I'm a bastard like Loki doesn't mean I am god," he husked, his steely tenor dark as he framed his arms around her head. "I am warrior. I'll die warrior, my Valkyrie. Am I worthy?"

His smile was dangerous, but his eyes were expectant. She caressed his stubbled jaw and closed her eyes.

"You're worthy as long as you stay with me, Eirik…"

_____________________________________

Victor woke from his doze to the motions of the plane that jetted along through some clouds. He stretched onto his side to lounge on the plush round bed. Fuck…I could really get used to this.

He felt like a big game cat after a successful prowl. He looked down at Isabela, and a gloating, satiated smirk tugged over his lips.

They'd had the most playful round of sex, all initiated by her after she'd practically clawed his pants off and had used her hot mouth to cause havoc on him. It'd been funny to him—one of his favorite threats to her was how she went about pleasing him, setting the mood for their primal passions. He loved how voracious she could be and how unselfconscious she was about wanting him. He'd taken heed when undressing her, lengthening his claws to skate across her skin as he slipped the straps of her dress off her shoulders and caressed it down her curves, careful not to tear the fabric. He trailed his ravenous mouth down her body in the wake of his pawing hands, earning lustful sighs and groans from her. Placing a wet kiss over her navel, Victor had eased her onto the bed before bowing his head between her silky thighs. He had hungrily laved at her, driving her wild until her thighs quivered in his hands and his mouth greedily devoured her. When he'd crawled over her and settled between her thighs, Isabela had reached up to him, arms open and eyes glowing with desire. It had been beautiful and alien—everything he knew an animal like him didn't deserve. He'd taken her in a bruising embrace that would've crushed a lesser woman, claiming her with his possessive hands and brusque thrusts.

It hadn't been fucking—at least not how he knew it to be. And it wasn't like their first time, which had been feral mating. Nor had it been as tempestuous as all the other times. It had been hungry and fierce, yes, but now as he looked down at her sleeping form, curled on her side with her crossed arms pillowing her head, he felt like something itched inside of him, like his core swelled with more than pride. Huffing through his nose, he berated himself for being such a pussy about it. He was acting like an airy fairy punk-ass—reading into shit he couldn't even pretend to understand or even recognize.

He was acting like Jimmy. The comparison pissed him off, left him with a pitiless exasperation that made him want to sink his nails into something and tear it apart.

Instead, Victor focused his anger. He trailed his claws softly down her smooth back, tracing the contour of a shoulderblade before he caressed the back of a knuckle over the curve of her shoulder and down to pull her hair away from her face.

She was his. He didn't care what she had to say on the matter. Didn't care what she'd do to fight him on it either. Isabela was a hellion he wanted for himself, and if he had to cage her up to keep her he fucking would. He'd decided as much the minute she'd opened her arms to him and gazed up at him like he was—

He looked down at her sleeping features, and wondered about that guy from her past, wondered if she'd done the same to him, wondered if the bastard had felt the same way.

You're not the first man to think he could make me his—Her berate echoed back to him, and the anger he didn't feel then when she said it burned through him now—Either the desire will fade, or you will. That's what time has shown me, cub. Give it a bit longer, and it'll teach you the same.

He doubted the desire faded between them, not from how faraway her gaze got when he repeated the fucker's name, which meant he had. The smugness he felt was selfish and disassociated; whoever they guy was didn't matter to him, cuz he was dead and gone, and Izzie was his.

…he was a memory, Victor.

Caressing his hand around her waist, Victor lowered to breathe in her scent, burying his nose in the top of her hair as he tried to commit her smell to memory. She sighed in her sleep and curled up like a self-conscious animal sheltering itself from other predators. He'd noticed that; how she acted like a posh and otherworldly beauty even when she was being vicious, but when she slept, she curled up like a creature with a hardwired survival instinct—on her side or stomach, just ready to jump up if danger was nearby.

He wished he could've read the testimonial, but Dr. Krause hadn't included it in his journal. The fucking thing had ended abruptly with mentions of an upcoming session, but by the date of the entry, he figured the brink of WWII had impeded the good doctor from finishing what he started with his research. He knew enough about her to probably coax the rest out of her, but he figured the minute he did, she would coil up. His vicious viper would feel trapped, and like any other predator, she'd lash out.

Nuzzling her, he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her back against him before nipping possessively at the tender juncture between her neck and shoulder.

"I know yer awake," he husked against her skin before sinking his fangs into her skin and suckling.

She'd been awake from the moment he nuzzled her. Isabela had relished in the heat of his skin pressed against her, oddly comforted when his hands and claws pawed caresses all over her. He'd dragged her back from her subconscious, and she was sad and grateful, sighing as he lapped at the healing wound while she cupped the back of his head.

Victor nudged his head against hers, so she turned to meet him in a hungry kiss. Their tongues lingered sensually in the interplay of their kiss, the tang of her blood mingled in the warmth of his taste. When she tried to turn in his arms, he stopped her, forcing her to keep her back against his chest. She snickered, "Mmm, must we play the dominance game?" and tried to loop her arm around the back of his neck for leverage, but Victor gathered her arm and pinned it between them. The jolt of apprehension went through her just as he wrapped his forearm around her collarbones, effectively pinning her in place while she writhed and wriggled against him. He made sure not to cut off her oxygen, but her jostling against him grew rancorous as she tried to claw at him with her free hand. He growled and nudged his head against hers again, this time gruffly.

"Calm down, Izzie!" he hissed and flexed his arm when she didn't comply and tried to head-butt him. "I said relax!" he snarled and shifted so he could wring her arm at a painful angle against her back.

"Let me go now, and I won't castrate you," she warned in a measured hiss, her rage coming off of her like a blistering current.

"Not a chance, sugar," he drawled into her ear. "Be a good viper and listen to me, then we can get to the pillow talk," he growled and shoved his knee between her thighs, forcing her legs apart so he could shift and press his ramrod erection against the cleft of her womanhood.

Isabela tensed and inhaled a sharp breath, trying to buck away from him and snarling at the vulnerable and submissive position he'd wrangled her into. With her back to him and her arm pinned while the other was uselessly pressed under her, he could force her into any angle. For the moment, he'd chosen to stay on their sides, but if he pivoted his hip against the mattress, he could shove into her with practiced ease.

"This is a game you don't want to play with me, Victor—ah!" she snapped, but Victor forced a cry out of her when he pressed the head of his sex against her folds and ground slowly against her.

She stiffened when his chuckle reverberated through her. "Oh? Then why do you seem to like it so much, sweetheart?" and to emphasize his point, he shoved hard until her legs were forced to grapple along his broad muscular thighs for perch against his bucking hips. His thick sex rubbed against her soft womanhood in teasing strokes, rutting against her moistening folds and coaching gasps and hesitant sounds of pleasure from the fuming femme fatale. "Look at you—getting so hot and wet for me and this is a game you don't like?" he purred facetiously, his hot breath against her neck and jaw as he ground against her. "I'd love to see how drenched you'd get for me when it's a game you did like," he chuckled before kissing her jaw and snaking his hand to pull her hips up for him to drive his throbbing erection into her molten sheath.

Isabela groaned and arched, bucking down on him and gasping at how exquisite the sensation was. He thrust to the hilt and remained there, earning a cry of frustration from her as she started writhing to gain autonomy. "Dammit Victor!" she seethed as she wringed her arm out from between them and tried to tug at his forearm.

Growling, Victor wrapped his massive hand around her throat and squeezed dangerously. "Watch it, Izzie. I wouldn't want to accidentally snap your pretty little neck," he murmured hotly against her jaw. "Now, I want to talk, and if you don't comply, I won't fuck your sweet pussy. I might even hurt you more than I want to—and don't try to argue with me over merits and healing factors," he rasped and made his point by clawing into her shoulder and squeezing his forearm to crush her between the powerful extremity and his barrel chest. "Just…humor me, and maybe I'll cater to your tight and eager cunt after," he mused, tilting her face towards him so he could see her boiling gaze and parted lips.

She was panting, her quivering sheath clenched tightly around his throbbing cock buried deep inside her. Isabela was hyperaware of his need and cursed herself for wanting Victor's brutality, for being suspended in aching desire by his feral viciousness. He was tapping into an instinct akin to what a female predator has with a worthy male predator looking to claim her. Part of her wanted to fight him for his audacity, but another was begging for him to make her his—to take and claim her as the mistress of his primal passions, supreme and peerless as his mate.

Wetting her lips, she composed her lustful expression and murmured raggedly, "What d'you want to talk about, cub?"

Feeling the apprehension wash out of her and leave only the sexual tension that coiled her eagerly against him, Victor caressed his hand from her throat down to a perky breast. "You" he mused and teased her studded nipple. "You know what I want, Izzie. Tell me why I can't have it," he purred and pinched her nipple, earning a gasp from her and a shiver to course through her.

Her nails dug into his forearm. "This is about me saying something to stroke your ego? Get the hell off me!" she snarled and slashed through the meat of his arm.

Victor hissed and snapped his hand back around her throat, choking her while his arm mended. "You want me to test how easily I can break you?" he growled between clenched teeth and constricted her neck until he felt tendons flex back against his fingers. When she stiffened and clung to him, he eased the pressure and thrust out and then into her hot core.

The mixture of pain and pleasure seared through her core, earning a hearty cry from her. "Victor—!" she hiccupped when he slammed into her over and over again, her hand clinging to his bicep as she arched against him. Victor growled, loving it when she cried his name against her will. Her body was reacting against her better judgment, making it all the better for him as he fucked her slow and hard.

Isabela moaned, lulling her head back against his shoulder so she could try clamping her lengthened teeth into his neck. When she did, Victor rooted himself deep inside her. The jolt of pain and tension frustrated her, so she wriggled and tried to buck him in and out of her, but was thwarted by his pawing hand as it sunk lengthened claws into her belly warningly. "Ah-ah, Izzie. You're not getting off that easy," he husked snidely. He was punishing her, but also trying to hold himself back from ruining his plan by fucking the hell out of her like really wanted to.

"You want me to beg?! I'm not going to whimper what you want, I'm not your fucking plaything goddamn it!" she growled lividly but remained still, painfully aware of his claws still synched into her belly. "For God's sake, Victor just—just—!"

He tore his claws out of her skin and pawed his hand down between her thighs. Her breath hitched and he growled, "Just what? Tell me what you want."

And there it was. He had her suspended between anger, pain and desire to force her into wanting him—into saying what he'd tried to get her to admit days ago in his kitchen. Her resolve was fizzling against the onslaught of sensations, especially the ones his clawed fingers were creating between her thighs as they rubbed her pulsing bud. She moaned when his claws skirted her hypersensitive flesh and his penis throbbed within her pulsing sheath.

She gasped when his fingers pinched her pulsing bud and forced her to moan with desperate need for more. "Just fuck me, Victor!"

He groaned at her words, desire swelling in him to do as she said, but he resisted. "Say your mine and I will," he growled and kept rubbing her eager flesh. "Stop fighting me and be mine, Izzie. I fucking want you—I'm going to have you, so just fucking say it!" he argued in a hushed growl.

Isabela looked over at him and Victor groaned at the tumultuous fire that burned in her frondy eyes while her molten heat strangled his cock. "I can't!" she whispered harshly, her breath hitching in her throat when he dragged his forearm down to clamp over her breasts as he shifted the angle of his thrust so he'd brush her tender womb. Isabela saw stars and color burst behind her eyes, her cry catching in her throat when he pounded up into her again. "I don't belong to you! I can't—!" she felt vertigo when she was suddenly slammed face first into the bed.

His hand clamped over the back of her neck and hauled her up onto her knees to straddle him from behind. "Why, because he claimed you?!" he growled dangerously. When she stiffened at his harsh words, he snarled and forced himself back into her tight sheath from behind, snaking his hand around her throat while the other cradled her hip to keep her against him. His fingers brushed the smooth scar on her womb as he shoved into her, nudging his head against hers in a sign of dominance before nuzzling her temple. "You better let go of the torch you're carrying for that dead bastard, cuz no matter how much you want to, you ain't gonna join him. Ever," he hissed maliciously, pressing his fingers with bruising force as they trailed up and down her torso.

Isabela tensed in his arms. His words were like a slap she hadn't seen coming, and the shock hurt her more than his sadism and rough caresses.

She slowly reached her arms behind her to drape along his shoulders. Her hands caressed his furred jaw and cheeks, and Victor actually leaned into the touch, taken aback that she hadn't retaliated against his harsh words and was encouraging his domination. Before her, he'd have killed a frail for ever touching his face. It would send him into an irate fit that usually ended with the other person decimated or beaten to a literal pulp. The only person who could've gotten away with touching his face was Jimmy, and that was usually when the runt would dare to throw a punch; Jimmy hadn't been much for affectionate touches since they were kids, nor was he much to encourage it anyway, so Isabela was the first person in over a century to touch him this way—that he allowed to touch him like this.

He kissed her fingertips when they traced over his nose and mouth, his own hands forgetting their previous cruelty to instead caress her against him.

"You might be right, Victor, but I'm still not yours," she mused with composed serenity before pulling her hands away and resting them on the backs of his as they gripped onto her. She could feel and smell the surge of anger rise in him, but continued, "Doesn't mean I don't want you."

She turned her face to kiss below his jaw and dragged his hands so his arms would be encircling her. It was a soothing and appeasing gesture that made him feel awkward in his own skin, the swell similar to pride stretching through him as he hugged her possessively and buried his face against her neck and shoulder.

She'd said it, and the animal satisfaction that soared through him made Victor feel high.

"Say it."

Isabela relaxed in his arms and bucked down onto his lap. "I want you, Victor," she purred against his jaw and felt his growl more than heard it. "But…I'm not yours. You're not mine…I'm not putting a collar on you."

Victor snarled and sunk his claws into her flesh, scenting the air with blood, rage, reluctance, and pensiveness.

"Why couldn't you just stop at the first part?" he hissed and bucked into her, fucking her with bruising thrusts that left her gasping. "I don't have to put a collar on you to make you mine, Izzie. You—you can just be mine—belong to me!"

She wrapped her arms around his neck and arched so she could reach his lips and hold on for dear life as he drove into her wantonly. "Ah!—Victor, just—!"

"No—just shut your fucking mouth and stop talking, goddammit!" he snapped and gripped her elbows and forced her down onto the bed with a vicious shove before he pulled her hips up and plunged back into her.

Isabela cried out with apprehensive pleasure as she involuntary reared back and met his every thrust before shoving back up against him. He caught her, clutching every curve as he ravaged her with all his angry and desperate animalistic desire. She gripped his arms and rocked against him with just as much desperate want, clinging to him as their coupling became more rhythmic and fraught with frantic need. Pleasure pooled in Victor's gut and fluttered like electricity through Isabela as they panted and groaned.

They shouted practically in unison when they climaxed, the thunderous sensations sending her into overload as she rode him while Victor grunted and groaned his final strokes before a savage sound caught in his throat. He tensed, gripping her luscious body against him as the pulsing aftershocks flooded his senses. When the roar of pleasure that zipped through his blood began to ebb away, he was left bestially satisfied, buzzing with afterglow as he clamped his mouth over her thrumming pulse.

Victor nudged his head against hers, this time affectionate as he pulled her down to the bed. Isabela was still panting as she succumbed to his possessiveness, turning in his arms and cuddling against him as she kissed his throat and wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to anchor to him. After a comfortable silence fell between them, Victor closed his eyes and exhaled a sated breath through his nose.

"Do you belong to me, Victor?"

Her voice was like a serene musing, vacant of any emotion but true bemusement. He gripped the back of her neck and dragged her up to meet his mouth, kissing her with starved ferocity before pulling her back to meet his stormy gaze.

"No."

She looked into his eyes for long moments before an irreverent laugh giggled to life and she shook her head at him. His emphatic denial made her cynically amused, especially when his pitiless glower refused to ease from his rugged features. Everything in her cooled with the cold reality of Victor's tempestuous expectations, silly and selfish, but viciously dangerous. He wasn't like Eirik. Victor was wicked, completely domineering and accountable to no one, but wanting to take everything his selfish heart desired, even on the most reckless whim. He had no concept of what it was to love someone. She was sure he was incapable of loving anything, and that's where he and Eirik differed drastically.

Isabela smiled and nuzzled the spot under his jaw, where his pulse throbbed powerfully under his hot skin, before murmuring, "You're such an egotistical bastard; nothing like Eirik." His hackles rose at that, but she soothed him by cuddling him with genuine affection. "I can't belong to you, and you won't belong to me. It's funny, don't you think?"

Victor's claws scraped roughly along her back while he gripped the back of her hair and yanked so she would meet his angry gaze. "Fucking hysterical," he hissed, "but not as funny as you still longing for some asshole who couldn't stay alive, now is it?"

She laughed. The pitch of it was eerily heartfelt as she closed her eyes and fought the urge to crumble in his arms. "Oh, he was a fucking prick sometimes, and lord knows the first time I met him I wanted to skin him, but at least he was confident enough to admit what you can't, cub," she remarked and tucked her head against his shoulder so she could play with his dangling dog tags.

He wanted to hit her—mount her all over again for her saucy remarks.

This was the first time she'd willingly divulged something about her past, though. "And what's that?" he ground out, his rough fingers stroking up and down the curve of her hip while she fiddled with his dog tags.

Without censoring her thoughts, she murmured, "That he couldn't own me without me wanting to be his. I did...I loved him and he belonged to me, but he's dead. Everyone dies, but he was mine." She caressed the plane of his left pectoral muscle and rested her palm over his heartbeat. "Everyone I get close to dies," she whispered unthinkingly, "gruesome deaths; unfair deaths."

She fought the sadness that skittered unbidden into her as she caressed his warm and hairy chest, sure that Victor was too nonplussed to retort.

"Well, what the hell else did you expect?"

She looked up at him. He didn't look down at her dazzling preternatural eyes, didn't have to in order to smell the confusion in her. She tilted his chin down so he had to look at her, and Victor's eyes glinted like clear water as he shifted to stare intensely into her stoic expression.

"You thought you could make stupid attachments and not have blood on your hands? As an animal, you should really know better," he growled and grinned, berating but not scornful.

Isabela looked at him and for once felt absolutely idiotic. She was stunned by how simple it was for him—for how blunt and sincere and true it was. This was no-bullshit-wisdom, knowledge he'd taken to heart from a young age and conditioned himself to living by. Victor was one fierce animal, and his strength had been only in terms of brawn for her, until now. It took incredible strength and temerity to accept you were too dangerous and imperishable to make connections to others. He was vicious from the outside in, and it proved that he wasn't just selfish; he was wary of letting his guard down—of submitting himself to the frailties of others who could never meet his expectations and betrayed him with their weakness.

With all that becoming starkly clear, a glaring contradiction stood out to her. He wanted her beyond anything else she'd ever experienced. Unconditional possession where she belonged to him and was his to keep as he saw fit, and that meant with no strings attached, save the ones he wanted to ensnare her in.

"You're right."

Victor's berating gaze grew intense, questioning. She looked soberly demure as she smiled and kissed him before curling into his chest.

His viper was brooding in her own detached way from what he'd said, and it disconcerted him. He liked to raise her ire—to rile her up and instigate her feistiness, but he didn't like it when she grew pensive and distant.

It annoyed him. "Well, live and learn, viper. You're mine now so get over it and stop bitching," he grunted and rolled on top of her, brushing his lips against her throat before clamping his mouth over her pulse.

Groaning, Isabela wrapped her arms around him and closed her eyes after jokingly murmuring, "You're so persistent for someone so opposed to being mine."

He laughed.

"And you're real sentimental for someone so fucking against being mine," he grinned seductively and husked, "but I've worn you down so far. Just a matter of time before I break you of that stubborn streak."

_____________________________________

Even when he'd worked on the team, Victor had never felt so important and respected in his entire life. The whirlwind of being served and catered to like royalty made him feel out of place.

They had landed and were immediately whisked off the plane and into a jet black town car after he watched Isabela instruct the crew to be on standby and ordering the chauffer to their next destination. Less than half hour later they were jetting through the city towards the Russian consulate. Izzie had sat close to him in the spacious backseat, her hand resting on his knee while she stared thoughtfully out the window. He'd had his arm draped around her shoulders casually, but he couldn't help stare at her faraway gaze mirrored in the tinted window.

The visit to the embassy had been short and sweet. They'd entered a posh smoking lounge and a tall Russian dressed dapperly had practically groveled his greeting to Isabela. Uri had glanced at Victor with a look in his eyes that had winced with anxiety. She'd caught their looks and had all but rolled her eyes. The two had gone into conversing in Russian, a succinct discussion from what he could surmise that left her with a ferocious gleam in her eye. She'd thanked Uri and had sashayed back to Victor's side. He left his empty glass at the bar and practically ushered her back to their waiting car.

"If he was anymore smarmier he'd leave streaks on you," Victor had grumbled after she'd given the driver the next address.

"Uri is a quintessential ass-kisser, but he's quite useful, otherwise I wouldn't keep him alive," she'd remarked and rested her head on his shoulder.

He grunted. "Where to now?"

"A stop at my place."

And what a place it was. He'd assumed with her level of sophistication and taste that she'd be on Park Avenue, but instead their destination was a sprawling skyscraper in the middle of Manhattan. Isabela had led the way into the lobby of the building before crossing into a warm marble foyer with three elevator banks. There was no button to press for the middle elevator, but Isabela pressed on the engraved vase held by the Grecian maiden that was etched into the steel door. The elevator dinged open, and Victor betrayed a grunt of surprise.

She smiled back at him before stepping into the elevator. Once he joined her, the doors slid closed and started ascending straight up. The sleek elevator opened on a stylish foyer with a double set of doors beyond the hall. They crossed the foyer and Isabela touched the doorframe and a dormant panel became outlined before a translucent keypad appeared. She keyed in a sequence of numbers with the tips of her nails before a lock was undone and Isabela opened the front door.

Victor stood looking at the wall and then at the door, so she snickered, "What? Think you're the only one who knows a talented gearsmith?" and walked into the penthouse.

Victor scoffed and closed the door behind him as he surveyed the expansive and lavish penthouse. It was the most opulent living space he'd ever seen. The place took up the top floor of the skyscraper and stretched out into an impressive display of Baroque sumptuousness that was timeless and internationally influenced. White marble walls ascended to a ceiling ornate with inset lighting that made the ambience golden and calming. He felt like he'd just stepped into a homely museum, an intimate space furnished with rich oak and cherry wood tables, bookcases, and plush chairs. Western and Oriental influences mingled together in a complimentary style that was otherworldly and beautiful.

It was a lot like her.

He walked through to tour the sprawling penthouse, from her interior lounge to her tall bookcases and imposing curios brimming with treasures and keepsakes that were priceless heirlooms for mere mortals. Winding out of sight was the kitchen with all the tasteful amenities luxury could afford. Past a cozy sitting area was a mini library with bookcases as tall as the chamber ceiling painted in gold with bordered white crown moldings.

Towards her bedroom was the real sight.

A ninety degree angle span of the penthouse's outer wall was just a wall of glass that revealed a breathtaking view of Manhattan. The glowing night of the city was glimmering as far as the darkness of the island's outskirts. Other towering skyscrapers stood in their illuminated glory, the Empire State Building an obelisk of cement, glass and lights in the near distance and Central Park stretching almost infinitely past the tops of smaller buildings.

Victor stood looking out at the view when a smirking Isabela came to stand besides him.

"This is quite a tower you've made for yourself, princess," he mused and glanced at her with a grin.

Isabela snickered. "Take your coat off and make yourself at home. I'm going to freshen up," she smiled and touched his arm.

Victor took her hand and pulled her into his arms. "You smell fresh to me," he purred and worked her auburn vero moda coat off her shoulders.

She shrugged the coat off and pulled at his. He stripped it off with the roll of his shoulders and caressed her curves as they kissed passionately against the cool glass windows.

She hummed and pulled away from his ravenous lips. "Lets postpone this, cub. I still have a stop I have to make," she murmured and shied out of his arms to strut towards the oriental wood doors leading into her bedroom.

He loped towards an antique liquor cabinet and leaned his hip into it. "And where's that?" he inquired dryly as he twiddled his clawed thumbs and watched her walk into her bedroom.

"To find Basset. He's here in the city, and I think it's time I pay him back," she called back in a serenely vicious tone.

It turned him on how ruthless she could be. He strode over to her bedroom and slid the doors open further so he could see the scope of the room. A huge 18th century bed made for a queen stood in the middle of the high ceilinged room. A sheer canopy swept down and veiled the luxurious reds and burgundy bedding on the carved bed instead of the traditional curtain of olden times. Besides the bed, her bedroom was actually sparsely furnished. He saw her dress left on the floor in the impressive walk in closet and heard her moving in the also impressive-looking bathroom just beyond the threshold of marble tile and carpet that divided the rooms. The ornate and lavish decorations were much more muted in her bedroom. The moonlight spilled through the arch-fix window over the floor, creating a soothing ambience Victor hadn't ever considered for himself.

"Uri told me some very interesting things," she called from the bathroom. "Seems de Lioncourt put a hit on dear Basset, and the agent is en route. It complicates things a bit, but I'm not concerned."

Victor grunted and crossed his arms. He wondered if he should call Dresner and see if the tacto-empath had any new spook talk for him.

"Oh, and it seems the head of the operative squad isn't looking to capture us," she remarked as she dressed and tried to tame her hair. "He's more interested in getting his hands on de Lioncourt and the tele-computer. I figure we can give him what he wants and get him off our trail," she offered and sprayed her hair before working on her makeup.

Victor prowled into her room and headed for the plush divan sofa that faced the opulent bed. "And how did the Russian find all this out?" he inquired and idly took in the room.

Isabela continued to style her unruly straight hair. "Seems Basset went around asking for a competent money launderer and the man he hired is linked to the Russian mob. Uri is one of my many diplomatic contacts that deals in all worlds. He took a personal interest in this because de Lioncourt is one of his closest business allies and found out he's cut him out of this tele-computer deal. I told Uri his name was part of a file in the computer, and that I would make sure his name was taken out of it, just to make sure he'd comply," she explained as she eyed herself in the mirror.

Victor chuckled. "How dishonest of you, Izzie," he mused.

"He also told me someone set up Basset with the means to transfer the money and some collateral junk he has on de Lioncourt so he could disappear to South America. He doesn't know the contact directly, but he's a small timer compared to who he has laundering his money. Either way, Basset is probably out on the town before he disappears all together, and I have a good idea where he's at," she remarked and applied her lipstick.

Victor remembered Dan's buddy had passed that onto the tacto-empath, but figured he'd keep that bit of snooping to himself. "Like I said, it's your show, Izzie. Hasn't been boring so far," he mused and lounged on the divan. "Just tell me where the hell we're going next?"

As if on cue, Isabela strode out of the marble bathroom into her bedroom, and Victor's jaw dropped. She strutted in front of him and posed so he could take her in. Tall platform heels that strapped around her ankles, a silk asymmetrical dress with knotted twists and gathered bodice with a unique shoulder drapery in toga-like fashion, all in white and gold. Her eyes were lined with black and gold and shimmering glitter was on her bare skin, and her usually glossy black hair was brandished blond with an organic spray and styled in thick corkscrew and spiral curls that fell in cascades all around her. She looked like a completely different creature. The spritely Fury was now more like an impish goddess sparkling in gold and white, and his arousal spiked as he gawked at the curvy beauty.

Smelling his thick and musky arousal, Isabela betrayed a mischievous grin as she offered her hand to him and mused, "Well Victor, you and I are going to a Midsummer Night's Dream at the disco."

_____________________________________

He was staring at her, but he really couldn't help it. She looked like a different woman, save for her preternatural eyes.

"You don't like it?"

He looked at her and touched a thick blond curl. "What is it?" he muttered and twirled his finger into the curl before letting it go to watch it bounce back into place.

She smiled. "It's an organic dye. I have a collection of them. I look less threatening as a blonde," she mused and offered unconsciously, "It's a cumbersome process, but one I've had to deal with. You can't imagine how much of a nuisance it is to blend in with the times."

'Blending in' was something he'd forgotten about decades ago. "Something tells me you haven't had too much trouble, princess," he purred and ran his clawed fingers through her silky curls.

She snorted and turned her face up to him. "You'd be surprised, cub. Men's fashion over time pales in comparison to the evolution women's fashion has gone through. Corsets, petticoats, bustles? Godforsaken misogynistic fucking things," she actually sneered. "And the hair! You don't wanna know the hell I went through during the '20s. Those bobs, Eton crops, and Marcel waves almost made me mad!" When he laughed, she smirked and scratched at the mutton-chopped scruff on his cheek. "Only a man could get away with styling his whiskers in post-bellum fashion," and look so goddamned handsome she mocked and thought as she tossed her curly hair with a sassy look in her eyes. "So, do I look harmless?" she teased and leaned into his palm when he cupped her cheek.

"Not with those eyes, you don't," he purred and dragged his thumb over her bottom lip while his talon dented her mouth.

His eyes shifted from hers to glance out the limo's tinted window to the crowd that wound around the corner in front of a loud and bright club. The iconic marquee was dazzling in the wintery night as people froze their asses off dressed in scantily-clad costumes. The driver opened their door and Isabela murmured playfully, "It's time to play, cub," before climbing out onto the packed sidewalk.

He followed her out and ignored all the glitzy flashes and the crush of the crowd as they walked towards the velvet rope. Victor didn't know why everyone was dressed like literal fairies and prancing jackasses, but knew from the looks of things that the so called Studio 54 was buzzing with sycophants, sluts, queers, druggies, pushers, and pimps.

The reek of humanity pushed in on them as they were let into the club and Victor heard some nymph-like androgynous kids whisper about their 'costumes.'

"She like, supposed to be Hippolyta? So what's he supposed to be in all that black? Tall dark and vicious-looking? I don't get it!"

"No, dumbass! She's gotta be Titania and he's gotta be Oberon. Just look at how they're playing it up!"

Victor wrinkled his nose at the crowd and felt Isabela's hand take his arm, as if confirming something everyone around them was wondering. She smiled at his glowering glare.

"It's a lurid theme night, and you're looking the part of a king," she purred in his ear.

He snorted. "Yeah, the king of fairies, more like it," he spat snidely as he looked around and earned a laugh from the camouflaged viper.

"Precisely," she chuckled, and when he raised an inquisitive brow at her, she retorted, "Oberon is the King of Fairies in Shakespeare's play. Titania is his queen…"

Savage pride swelled in him and Victor smirked darkly. "Why pretend when you can have the real thing, sweetheart," he purred and tried to tug her into a more reclusive corner, but quickly realized there was no such thing in the boisterous club.

"Because we're wolves in sheep's clothing," she purred right back and sauntered from his side as she added, "I'm going hunting. Don't get into trouble."

He caught her hand and pulled her back. "Not so fast. This asshole isn't going to just walk up to you—!"

"Have you ever seen me hunt, Victor?" she smirked seductively. "Watch me. I'll show you how to have the prey come to you."

He growled and ignored the push of dancing and gyrating bodies around him. "At least tell me what he looks like, in case you don't pull in your prey," he sneered.

"He might not look the same, hence why I'm hunting," she retorted glibly.

Victor scoffed and looked absolutely out of place in the sea of half-naked fairies dressed in togas, feathers, and sheer chiffon. "And how the hell will you know it's him?"

Isabela pulled out of his grasp and scampered into the crowd with a mischievous smile and tapped her nose, as if to gesture "by following my nose."

He watched her pass through the crowd towards the platform stage while he impatiently hung back towards the bar. Victor was very intrigued to watch her in action, but the idea of his viper being touched and groped by the sweaty swine prancing around the enclosed and smoky space made him itch with anger. From his spot at the bar, he could see her hourglass body through the sea of waifs and cocaine fiends. He could feel eyes roving up and down him, so he shot a few cold glares when a cheap bitch or queer was getting too bold for his tastes.

Meanwhile, Isabela staked out the crowd around her as she started swaying sensually to the music's beat. Even in the midst of fitting into the gimmick, she garnered stares and glances for how ethereal she looked on the dance floor under the strobe lights and fog. She could feel Victor's eyes watching her, and it excited her. Her skin began to tingle with the rush of blood into the erogenous zones of her body. She thought of Victor, used him as her trigger for the dormant state of arousal that she needed to conjure in order to shimmer rapture throughout her skin. It was a heightened state that left her hyperaware to carnal sensitivity, and along with the desire that flooded her, she felt blood roar through the surface to activate the pheromone.

Isabela swayed to the percussion of the song, feeling the boom stir through her as she tilted her head and traced her tongue to wet her lips as her skin shimmered bronze under the low lighting. She flicked her tongue to brush the roof of her mouth, and the world became a prism of colors that her heightened olfactory organ sifted through. She only used her reptilian sense of smell for occasions like these, but once the sought after smell was sifted out, her nose could hone in on the scent. There.

She slowly opened her eyes and peered over at a man who looked like a Saturday Night Fever extra. His tan skin and platinum hair shone under the strobe lights while he danced. He looked like a strapping stallion come from one of the Greek isles, but his scent didn't lie. As if sensing her gaze, the hazel-eyed man looked at her and a broad smile crossed his lips. Isabela pursed her lips and batted her eyes sensually before swaying coquettishly away to look towards the bar.

Their eyes connected, and Victor's nostrils flared. Even through the stink of the sweaty, sickly wallow of the humans around him, he could still pick up her musky and heady scent. It was sweeter now, almost damp and earthy. She was turned on, and it made him jealous and hot at the same time. He watched as some tall prick made his way towards her and whispered into her ear. Isabela gave Victor a hungry look before turning to give a seductive glance at the guy.

"Wanna dance, pretty?"

She smirked and turned towards him. "Sure, cutie," she teased in a regional twang before smiling.

The electronic strumming of the song that trickled out of the club's sound system set a placid sway in the crowd's dancing, one Isabela and her prey fell into seamlessly.

Though nothing, nothing will keep us together We can beat them, forever and ever Oh, we can be heroes just for one day

He sashayed close to her and brushed her up her bare arms, a feeling similar to pure euphoria blossoming through him as he shivered and looked at the cunning green eyes and dazzling copper ring around her pupils.

I, I will be King And you, you will be Queen Though nothing will drive them away We can be heroes just for one day We can be us just for one day

Victor watched the man look thunderstruck with desire as he hung on Isabela's every move. She said something to the guy, and he looked riveted, transfixed as she smugly glanced over to him. Her eyes shifted to direct the other feral towards the back of the club before glancing back at him with a vicious gleam in her expression. Victor lurked through the crowd and disappeared in the direction she'd indicated, so Isabela laced more rapture in her prey's skin by cupping his cheek.

I, I can remember (I remember) Standing by the wall (By the wall) And the guns, shot above our heads (Over our heads) And we kissed, as though nothing could fall (Nothing could fall)"

"Come with me" she murmured and walked away.

"And the shame, was on the other side Oh, we can beat them, forever and ever Then we could be heroes just for one day

An imperative anxiety jolted the man to follow her, his hand pleading as it locked onto hers and the scorching lust eased up his arm. Rapture was going through him full force.

She led the way towards a secret door that wasn't so secret to the regulars. Going down some dimly lit hallways towards the club's basement chambers, they passed several hedonistic scenes and salacious doorways before Isabela pulled away coyly. She shot him a sultry look before she scampered into a dark room with only a basement grate supplying the dank space with light from the street. He followed her determinedly, desperate for her touch and wanting badly to delve into her.

He smiled when he entered the room and saw her standing there under the light from the window, expecting him. "I don't even know your name, pretty," he husked, lust roaring in his blood and making him throb with desire.

"Oh, but I know yours, Bezu," she hissed in a sadistic murmur before looking into a dark corner by the door.

Said door slammed behind him, and Bezu was slow in turning to see that he was closed in, and that a tall vicious man dressed in black stood imposingly between him and the door. Confusion didn't even dawn on him as he turned an adoring expression back to the angelic beauty dressed in gold and white. She advanced towards him, her strutting movements sinuous and fluid as she prowled around him.

"Hope the hunt wasn't too long for you," she mused as she sized the man up, but wasn't talking to him.

"Could've just sniffed and pointed him out," the intimidating man groused and crossed his arms, watching his pretty as she stopped her prowl and leaned on one hip to stare amusedly at them both.

"Bezu, my friend isn't the patient type, but then again…neither am I," pretty's New Yorker twang melted away into an otherworldly, regional-free diction that sounded hauntingly familiar to him.

His mind started to become hazy and lethargic with dueling sensations as rapture began to ebb away. "I-who are you? How d'you know me?" he slurred with reluctant confusion and stared at her.

Her smile was scathing. "Oh, you were going by Eduard Basset when we met. We both looked very different, I admit, but unfortunately for you, you still smell like oily leather, Bezu," she hissed and watch as confusion still clung drunkenly to him. "Sigh, I don't think he's very receptive, Victor," she mused and looked at the increasingly scary man.

Victor eyed the sycophantic shit and shot Isabela a hot glance. "What the hell will it take to bring him out of it?" he asked tersely and unfurled his arms to his sides, where Bezu could see his wicked nails.

"A rush of adrenalin and pain," Isabela mused aloofly.

"Good." Victor chuckled and swiftly punched the grating asshole so hard the guy ricocheted off the wall to crash face-first into the cement floor.

Bezu shouted in pain and crawled blindly into the corner as he held his bleeding face. Adrenalin flared his senses and squashed all his lust as his mind and instincts reared back from the flood of reality.

"Now, let's try this again," he looked up to see the woman crouch down in front of him. "Bezu Alacroix, let me reintroduce myself," her purr grew measured as she grabbed the front of his now bloody dress shirt and pulled him up with her, "I am Isabela Montecristo."

Disbelieving fear contorted the man's expression. "N-No!" he snapped and struggled.

Isabela yoked him up effortlessly and slammed him against the wall twice before dropping him. Bezu managed to grapple with the hard cement and stopped himself from sliding down the wall as he hacked blood. Absolute terror swam in him, and the feral couple was inundated by his stench as the conman began to tremble and wheeze in his throat. Victor looked on implacably as fury began to unfurl out of his statuesque viper. Rage was coming off of her in waves, and so was the sweet pleasure only a predator took in cornering their prey.

"Viper-" he growled, his tone impatient and commanding. She shot a sharp glance at him. "Get on with it before he hyperventilates to death."

His lips pursed in a derisive smirk, but his eyes were stern as they flickered from hers back to the guy. He could read the anger that flashed in her eyes; don't interfere!

Regardless, she turned back to Bezu, who had been petrified against the wall as his throat locked painfully and his head rushed. "Now Bezu, I don't like this new getup of yours. Not that I liked Eduard Basset," she hissed with her hands on her hips. "You're among mutants, so get rid of it." When Bezu looked at her with apprehension and fear, she bared her carnivorous fangs at him, "Shift."

His mouth bobbed helplessly as he eyed Victor, who for some reason was more terrifying to him than she. Catching his glance, fury boiled ravenously in her and Isabela backhanded Bezu so hard that blood flew out of his mouth before he even crashed into the floor again.

"P-Phlease-!" he wheezed and coughed dark blood as he turned begging eyes up at her. "I'm sorry! Please don't kill me-!" Isabela cut his pleas by grabbing him and hauling him up.

"Shift before I peel you away to bone!" she snarled, the malice etched in her vicious expression.

Victor watched as the man stiffened and did as he was told. Slowly, his skin began to fan away into a dark vermilion. The muted sound of leather brushing over leather was only perceptible to keen ears as the man shapeshifted into his true form.

Isabela stood back and sized up the leather-like hide of the mutant with the quill-like hair and the amber amphibious-like eyes that stared at her fearfully.

"Well, aren't you lucky to be a shifter."

Victor snorted.

Bezu cowered away. "Please-!" the treble of his voice was distorted, "I'll give you anything! You don't want me—I was only following orders! The Frenchman—"

"Armand de Lioncourt will be getting a visit, don't you worry," she cut in and smiled sinisterly. "Want to know why I've gone out of my way to find you, Bezu?"

"I would," Victor said dryly.

Isabela ignored him, could almost feel his snarky smile as she seethed with fury. Victor was not used to being the one to hang back while someone else did the torturing. Even so, Isabela did not appreciate him being a back-seat-torturer.

Both men could see her skin shimmer copper as her whole body coiled with the control of a serpent seething with rancor and ready to strike. Anger was leaking out of her, and even her curled hair began to straighten from the seething unfurling through her frame as she spoke, "Because you're ignorant and ingenious; those two attributes are insulting, especially when considering that you thought yourself cunning enough to double cross me."

Bezu scuttled desperately to try and get pass her. Before Victor took a step forward to stop him, Isabela had lashed out and grabbed the mutant by his crotch before hefting him off his feet. Her skin shimmer bronze before she slammed him back against the wall and squeezed him dangerously close to puncturing her nails into his tender parts. Victor internally winced when the guy let out a high-pitched wail and shuddered from the ball-crushing grip she had him in.

"Listen very carefully, Bezu," she hissed. "I'm going to kill you. I will take immense satisfaction in prying you apart and seeing what color your insides are, but, before that, you will spend the rest of the time I allow you to breathe knowing what I'm going to do and too strung out on lust to escape it," she declared with chilling mirth in her seductive tone before she dropped her grip from his crotch and grabbed his throat. "Now," she purred as rapture began to lace through his skin, "can you morph back and conceal your scrapes?"

That smarmy thunderstruck look flashed through the mutant's bruised face before he smiled adoringly at her. "Yes of course, whatever you want mistress," he groaned when she graced him with a smile and a caress to his cheek. His vermilion hide began to flush back to human skin. Once shifted back to the platinum-haired stud, he stood and swooned when she turned away from him and walked back to the door.

Victor didn't move, shooting a dirty glare at the lust-struck asshole before glaring her down. "All that for nothing?" he grumbled and watched the bronze ebb away from her skin tone.

Isabela huffed and wrapped her arms around his neck after extinguishing rapture. "I have something very fun in store, and it'll involve the both of us. Trust me," she murmured and smiled serenely at him.

He grunted and eyed the bastard standing patiently for his viper's next command. "It better involve much more than you promised him, otherwise I'll take charge of this game, got it?" he rumbled and watched the amusement dance in her preternatural eyes.

She could smell his aggravation and the sharp whiff of jealousy that still clung to him. She musingly wondered if he even knew how much she wanted to taste him all the while she'd been shimmered with rapture.

"I promise Victor, you won't be disappointed, and for being so patient, I want to take you home and have some real fun."

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They entered the private elevator leading up to her penthouse, the trio looking like they'd left a Halloween party in early December. Bezu was lovestruck and staring avidly at Isabela while Victor shoved him into the corner with a surly huff once the doors closed. The man stunk the elevator up with his lust while Isabela eyed him and pressed her hand on a hidden panel that illuminated a keypad display similar to the one restricting entrance to her apartment. She keyed in a sequence and the elevator began to ascend.

She looked over at Victor, who stoically marveled at the security system. "It's hardwired to sensing only my palm's ph level. Quite nifty," she offered and smiled when the elevator stopped 2 floors below the top floor. A large training room stretched out past the doors, outfitted with weights, mats, weapons, and an impressive array of punching bags that looked sturdy enough to take one of his punches.

"Bezu," Isabela purred and the shapeshifter reverently went to her. "You'll be sleeping here for tonight. You'll think of me, and how badly you want to please me in every way imaginable. Do as I say, and I'll reward you with all my secret affection for you," she murmured seductively as she caressed his cheek, lacing so much rapture in him that he'd be strung out well into the morning.

The mutant stepped out of the elevator willingly and gushed, "I can't wait, mistress."

She smiled as the door closed on him and the elevator ascended to the top floor. She turned to Victor just as the doors slid open. He watched the bronze shimmer flint away into dormancy as she walked backwards out of the elevator to the entrance of her penthouse. Victor prowled after her, his strut measured as they eyed each other intently. Once her back brushed the doorframe, Isabela effortlessly keyed in the security code without ever taking her eyes away from Victor's as he pressed flush against her.

She opened the door and back stepped into the penthouse as Victor growled against her ear and cupped her curvy derriere. "What's the 'real fun' that you promised entail?" he purred hotly against her skin before backing her into the closest surface so he could grind his hard on against her womb.

"Oberon, come my lord, and in our flight, I shall lavish you as mine king for this Midsummer night," she purred lusciously against his mouth. "I shall be thy queen for as long as the spell keeps us rapt to the carnal appeals of our natures, to which our services are bound," her poetic repartee was a provocative murmur as she wound her arms around his neck and ground against his hips.

"I prefer dirty talk, but that sounded pretty sexy," he growled before devouring her in a hungry kiss. "Just one problem, queenie o' mine—it ain't a Midsummer night."

She started leading him sensually towards her bedroom, her sassy blond curls wilting back to silky tendrils around her shoulders and down her back. "That it isn't, but we can make it hot and moist like any summer night, with the help of a long shower" she purred and playfully slipped out of his grasp when they entered her bedroom. "Oh, first, I have something to give back to you," she teased sultrily as she loped into her impressive closet.

Victor had a raging hard on that was threatening to tear through his zipper, but he liked this little game she was weaving, and the novelty of roleplay was intriguing. He watched her disappear into the large closet and heard her kick off her heels before walking back into the bedroom. She had a folded slip of paper between her fingers that she held up to him casually when she slinked back to him. He eyed her curiously before plucking the slip from her fingers. He opened it, and was surprised to see it was the check she'd stolen out of his coat after their first interlude.

"You didn't cash it?"

"It was a keepsake."

He looked at her intensely. Her expression was serene and cool, those dazzling eyes captivating to him as she turned to strut towards the bathroom.

"Let me wash off all this glitter and dye. Take your time in joining me," she mused suggestively as she slipped the dress off her shoulders and worked the bodice off her hourglass figure before leaving the dress on the marble-tiled floor of the bathroom.

He stared at her as she disappeared into the luxurious bathroom. Looking back down at the check, he brought it up to his nose and scented it, breathing in her sweet smell intermingled with his own. She'd stolen it to incite him, but he hadn't thought she'd kept it. A rush of animal excitement swelled in his core. His little viper could be a coldhearted ice queen, but she had a surprising sentimental streak. What was even more surprising was how pleased it made him feel to hold proof of it.

Tucking the folded check into his inner coat pocket with the snapshot from the diner, Victor heard the rushing of water and could smell the shampoo and soap intermingled with her moist and hot scent. His mouth watered as he grew painfully lustful with all the pent up desire he'd been rutting in. He shrugged out of his trench coat and tossed it onto the divan while he continued to strip down.

The warm vapor that wafted throughout the room clung to his skin and hair while the marble floor felt perpetually cool under his feet as he walked up to watch her bathe. The shower was set adjacent to the giant marble tub with polished fixtures. It wasn't a 'stall', but more like a small room with 3-glass walls that made the voluptuous woman confined inside resemble a prized figure. The image of her incased in a glass cage popped in his head, and he couldn't help liking the idea.

Victor watched as the water cascaded down her body and rinsed away the blond dye to swirl around the drain like liquid gold. Her hands glided through her hair until the long silky tresses turned dark chocolate again and draped down her back. She turned under the spray to face him, her lips parted and head upturned to the cascading water. He was struck with déjà vu. Dragging his claws down the glass door, he smiled smugly when she opened her eyes to gaze at him.

She looked out at the sculpted and virile feral with his wicked smile and smoldering eyes and returned his smug smirk. He opened the shower door and stepped in with her, taking her into his arms and brusquely kissing her under the hot water. Isabela pulled him under the spray and rubbed her palms over the hairy and muscled plane of his chest, her body pressed flush against him by the rough pawing hands that committed her curves to memory. She reached for her loofah and lathered it up while Victor's gaze roved her supple breasts and his hands cupped and kneaded her derriere.

He sniffed at the rose-scented lather and grabbed her wrist before she smeared the sponge across his chest. "You and I must have a very different definition of fun, sweetheart," he snickered snidely and backed her into the marble wall.

Isabela giggled at him and slid her body up against him, feeling his ramrod erection prod wantonly against her pubis. "Thou doth protest too much," she teased and licked the water dripping off his chin. When he growled and slid against her, Isabela purred, "It's still my game, lover," and shoved him back so she could pull him back under the shower spray.

Victor reluctantly complied, growling in his chest and giving her a malicious frown before she started soaping him up with her hands and the sponge. When said sponge got waterlogged, she wrung it out over her breasts and gave Victor a juicy sight as the suds ran down her cleavage and studded nipples all the way down between her thighs. Then her hands were gliding along his torso, working from his collarbones down to his defined abdomen before she slinked around and soaped up every inch of him. He closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose, humming deep in his chest with the alluring pleasure her touch and attention stirred.

She scrubbed slow circles along his broad back and over his wide shoulders, taking the opportunity to marvel at his delectable ass before encircling her arms around his waist to lather down his belly. She could feel his growls through his back, so she slid along his side and ducked under his arm as she massaged and kneaded his muscular body.

"Want me to stop?"

Victor opened his eyes and stared down at her. His smoky gaze sent a chill down to her core. Isabela's lips soften and parted as she brushed an open-mouthed kiss over his chest, her eyes hooded and gazing up into his.

"Haven't 'protested' yet, Izzie," he husked and tangled his hands in her hair. "But dunno how long I can hold back from taking you against the wall," he hissed as he snaked his hand down the curve of her body before slipping it between her legs while he pulled her taut by her hair. The pads of his fingers caressed her dewy womanhood and Isabela sighed with pleasure. "I've been very patient tonight. All I've wanted to do is bend you over the nearest surface and fuck you raw," he growled and licked up the column of her throat as he continued to tease her, "but, I haven't. You know why?"

She looked up at him with hungry eyes before a smile grazed her soft lips. "Because you're a brat…and you know I've wanted the same?" she purred and palmed his thick, pulsing erection in a feather grip.

He growled and let her go. "You're such a fucking cock tease," he snarled and looked very riled as he bared his fangs in a surly sneer.

Isabela pursed her lips and reached for him. "You're so petulant with me. All I want is to play. It's a game I thought you liked," she purred and pulled him towards her to bask under the cascading water. "Or do you only like it when you're the tease," she hissed against his lips.

Victor smirked sarcastically, his fangs denting his lip as he pawed his hands down her curves to scrape his claws back up. "Be mine. Then you can tease me all you damn want," he rumbled confidently and clutched her against him, grinning ruthlessly at her.

Isabela laughed and threw her arms around his neck, anchoring herself to him as she leaned back in his strong grip. "These violent delights have violent ends, and in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which, as they kiss, consume," she recited placidly and basked in the hot water that ran down their bodies before looking up at him through her long eyelashes.

He wrinkled his nose disdainfully. "If that was an answer—"

"It's a truth, not an answer," she retorted and caressed his furred cheek, her eyes soothing but faraway as she stared into his turbulent gaze. "I've already given you my answer, and you gave me yours. So just revel in playing the game of king and queen for tonight," she murmured and brushed her lips against his.

She pulled away slowly, but Victor dove for her mouth, savage and possessive as he kissed her with seething passion. Isabela clung to him and managed a satisfied gasp as he picked her up pinned her against the glass wall. He was so angry, irate with unrequited primitivism, but his aggression only manifested in assertive bites and the swift push of his throbbing manhood into her molten sheath. Before long, his claws were biting deep into her skin as he kept her hoisted against him, and her own talons dug into his shoulders as they coupled with intense need. His mouth laved and sucked on the skin of her neck and shoulder, while she clutched the back of his neck and arched into him. The steamy room grew scented with their lovemaking and with their blood.

Victor was throbbing from his toes to his fingertips with his desire for her, not to mention his pulsing cock buried deep inside her clenching heat. He possessed her mind and body in that moment when she arched against him and cried out, shuddering and gasping his name while he pounded into her quivering depth, but she wasn't his. It drove him crazy to no end, but she always found a way to quell his fury—to soothe his vicious and savage compulsion of wanting to break her.

She moaned, thrusting against him, urgently wanting more of him—her aching need demanding to be claimed by him. Victor licked the water off her burning skin as he cupped and squeezed a supple breast and pounded into her ravenously in answer to her wanton hunger. She stiffened in his arms and groaned when he sent her over the edge again, the pain and pleasure of the hyper-fierce sensation so quick after her first climax made her squeeze around his throbbing cock so hard that Victor choked on a snarl and came, the ferocity of his orgasm tearing a roar of savage completion out of him.

He braced himself against the glass wall with one hand and held Isabela to him with the other, cradling her against his frame while he pressed his forehead to hers. They panted and remained in feral rapport for long moments before she nudged her head against his and purred. He responded by nuzzling her and lifting her off him. Her soft murmur was wordless, but conveyed meaning as she caressed his face with her fingertips and nuzzled his throat. Victor nibbled on her fingertips when they brushed his lips and stared at her with smoky heat in his eyes before manhandling her back under the shower spray.

They bathed each other in a comfortable silence, with a nip and pinch of claws along sinuous curve every once in a while before Victor clamped his teeth on the back of her shoulder. Isabela mewled softly, resting back against him while his arms encircled her possessively.

He watched his mark knit back into unblemished skin, and the animal in him frowned. It mocked him, how perfectly indestructible she was—unable to be claimed with scars that would mark her as being only his.

It made her a coveted prize. It also made her resistance all the more poignant.

She turned in his arms and switched the nozzle off behind her. Isabela wrung her hair and smiled at him as he leered at her breasts and gave her the opportunity to survey his endowments appreciatively.

"Such a petulant, yet handsome animal," she mused and trailed her hand across his chest as she went to exit the shower. "Are you going to stay mad just to prove that you can?" she asked flirtatiously over her shoulder as she got a towel and dried off in front of him and offered him his own towel.

Victor snatched the towel and dried off, eyeing her sharply. "Sorry, queenie. I don't need to prove anything, but, the night sure as hell ain't over yet," he rumbled too sexily to project hostility, earning a playful look from Isabela.

She slinked into a silk robe that was hanging on a rack by the door and tossed her quickly-drying hair over her shoulder. "True," she replied sincerely and watched him towel off with a wry smirk pulling his boyish lips. "But, the sunrise won't wait on your account, Victor," she mused and pressed her lips together, wetting them as she turned and strutted out of the bathroom.

He huffed with amusement at her verbal play and strode out to the bedroom, coming in just in time to see her let the rob slide off her body so she could give him a perfect view of the female form from behind before she whisked past the sheer curtain and climbed into her plush bed. Isabela stretched out sinuously on her stomach and tossed her hair back when she felt the mattress protest under Victor's weight. The only light in the room was the glow coming from the bathroom, but Victor could see the shapely contour of her legs, the round and tight cleft of her derriere, the lithe line of her spine and her sloping shoulders as he prowled over her.

Her eyes were glowing at him as she watched him sidle up to her from behind. When his warm tongue trailed her spine up from the small of her back, Isabela mewled softly. She had expected him to be rough and domineering in her bed—a gesture of an insecure predator on another's territory—but instead, he caressed her with his vicious open-mouthed kisses, firm nips, and lazy licks before she turned over to accept him in her bed.

Victor crawled over her and claimed her in an ardent kiss, comforted in her welcoming arms and aroused by her sensually affectionate touches and nuzzles. She returned his feral caresses in spades, laving at his muscled planes and dipping chaste kisses over his heated flesh before he rolled her and pinned her down on the bed.

He made love to her, confident and attentive and above any sense of haughty dominance; his attention was focused on her—on what she made him need as opposed to want.

Isabela gave herself to him, unbound by any fear or hesitation—to bask in wanting him as opposed to denying him.

They ran the gamut of sexual acts, reveling in each other and forgetting any pretenses. For once, they were just a male and a female; they were in tune and content with giving into each other without fighting tooth and nail for dominance. For one night, they were just practiced lovers completely in sync with each other.

This was the most compromise either feral was aware of giving into, but neither spoke the fact, too rapt in the equanimity of coupling with a being they desired and equaled in every passion; content on being king and queen of one another, ruled by their unspoken desires.

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He disembarked the aircraft and strode casually to the exit of the terminal, whistling a merry tune his grandfather had taught him. The cold night air that blasted through the automatic doors didn't even ruffle him, even when everyone around him seemed to be scuttling for cover from the frigid climate.

Jin Kazuya could faintly see the dim glow of Manhattan in the distance. At this time of night, the only traffic buzzing in the terminal's carport were grizzled-looking taxis and sleek town cars. As he flagged one of the said town cars down, he idly felt the brand over his left pectoral through his thin black sweater and suddenly felt more tired than he'd expected. Getting into the backseat, he gazed out of the tinted window on the dark terrain and the urban jungle that rose out of the darkness. Jin didn't feel any rush. The mutant Basset would get overconfident and sloppy like most of his kind did. The moment he stepped out into the urban jungle, Jin would be there to cut him down.

Cruising over the bridge and into Manhattan, the homo-densus-epidermal mutant closed his eyes and began to meditate on the intel he'd collected before leaving Paris and planned his course of action, completely unaware that two other free agents were counting on his arrival.

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Read Chapter 8: Voraciously Insatiable

The song is "Heroes" by David Bowie, and many of Isabela's Elizabethan-esque (haha Isabela & Elizabeth = the same name lol yes I am a dork) repartee were influenced and partially quoted from different Shakespeare plays, the key ones being Hamlet, A Midsummer Night's Dream, and Romeo and Juliet.

Thanks for reading! Please consider leaving a comment and sharing your feedback. I would be eternally grateful.

#A Feral Interlude #X-MEN Origins: Wolverine #Victor Creed #Sabertooth #Victor Creed x Latina OFC #Victor Creed x Isabela Montecristo #Sabertooth x Vipress #victor creed fanfiction #sabertooth fanfiction

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