Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

He imagined Frankie back in his bed, vibrating, losing control.

Coming.

When she was with him she acted stoic. A warrior. If she was alone though, maybe she was screaming.

Begging.

Pleading.

She was maybe even making the sheets wet.

Anteros looked up and stated, “Emilio will be meeting with The Council on my behalf.”

Emilio grinned. “They prefer me anyway because I’m a De Luca. All blooded and shit.” It was meant as a joke but it boiled The Beast’s blood—his tainted, unworthy blood.

“I can send you tonight really blooded, see just how much they prefer it,” he snarled. The underlying threat completely flew over Emilio’s head and he laughed. Rhys rubbed the pad of his palm to his forehead and turned to Emilio, telling him to shut up as Anteros opened the door and slid into his wool coat.

“Am I to take your place with the Wolves again?” Rhys asked to his back. He didn’t sound too thrilled at the prospect, but to his credit, he didn’t complain. The Wolves didn’t get their name for being cuddly, and while Rhys had blended well into most aspects of mafia life, his gut had never hardened. He was a businessman first.

“No,” Anteros responded. “I’ll be back in time.” Even as he said the words though, he wasn’t sure.

“How have you been, Frankie?” Anteros asked, closing the door behind him loudly. She jumped but quickly tried to regain composure.

“Fucking fantastic,” she spat, shooting a glare in his direction. She was sitting in an armchair in the corner of his bedroom, a blanket on her body. One bare shoulder peeked out and he noted that she was probably wearing what he’d left her in—or hadn’t left her in. He’d locked the door after he left that morning, so she hadn’t been able to change into anything. His palm slid into his pocket, feeling the lace panties he’d taken from her.

“Anything interesting happen today?” he asked, stalking toward her. With care, he removed his wool coat and then his suit jacket, placing them on his bed.

“It was just like yesterday,” she snapped. “Boring, filled with hopelessness, surrounded by your overpriced shit and the smell of overcooked eggs.” He slowly came to the side of the chair. She eyed him warily as he trailed a finger down her bare shoulder. With a violent flick of his hand, he tore the blanket to the floor. She gasped and pulled her legs to her chest.

He dropped to his knees, smoothing a hand along her thigh, inside her knee. His grip tightened and he tugged, pulling her legs open despite the resistance she gave.

“Just like all the other days?” he asked. He gently slid his hand down, rounding over the curve of her soft flesh and lower until he reached her ass. He circled his finger around the lower entrance and she shuddered. He could feel that she’d taken the plug out, but her sensitivity let him know it had been in for at least some of the vibration. He pressed against her ass and it was like she was going to give in, but then she pushed him away and struggled off the chair.

She pushed sweaty hair out of her face and for a moment, her eyes locked with his. He saw the struggle inside of her, felt it himself, the tugging and straining. He saw the metal inside her too, cold but scorching at the same time, like iron put to the fire. He wanted to reach inside and touch it, no matter the burn. Her lips parted and she looked away.

Still kneeling, Anteros said, “Soon you won’t be able to hide yourself from me, Frankie.”

She heaved her breaths, folding her arms again. Silently she stepped back, falling into the wall behind her. She looked over her shoulder to Anteros, as if gauging where to run.

“I will know every inch of you,” he said, slowly standing back up. “From the arch beneath your knee to the curve in your groin.” He walked closer to her. “To the intricate folds of your pussy.” He walked closer, closing the space between them. “To the ridges inside your brain.” He pushed against her so she stumbled flat against the wall. “I’ll know them all and see them when I close my eyes. I’ll know you better than you know yourself.”

Anteros took one finger, trailing it along her cheek. Frankie's eyes locked on his and fear washed over her face, but something else was there too, something he couldn’t discern. Her cheeks ashened and she tried to push past him, but he held her firm.

It happened so quickly he didn’t have time to react. She heaved all over the front of his button-up, the smell of eggs and vomit enveloping the room in a cloying embrace. Anteros backed up immediately, arms going high. Frankie looked almost as stunned as he was.

Grabbing her by the shoulder, he thrust away from the wall and shoved her toward the door. “Clean yourself up,” he barked, arms raised to avoid the vomit on his shirt. “And be ready to leave in thirty minutes. Dress for a night out. You may pick the dress but wear the lingerie I’ve had lain out.” As he shoved her out into the hall, he added darkly, “If you go anywhere besides your bedroom, I will know.”

She swallowed and ran in the direction of her room.

Anteros looked down at Frankie as he led her through the warehouse and up to his office. It had been a little less than an hour since she’d expelled her meal on him, but just looking at her wiped away the disgusting memory.

She wore some kind of tight, shimmery spandex thing that highlighted her small curves. She looked so fucking hot that he nearly regretted bringing her along, but he knew he had to. He hadn’t sold her to The Institute, and sooner or later people were going to find out about her. It was better to get out on top of it.

He had nothing to hide, anyway.

She was just a slave.

Frankie paused, looking out at the warehouse. It was the same warehouse from just a few hours ago and the day before, but it looked completely different. A famous DJ played loud, sensual beats. Bartenders wove their way through the congested crowd. Colored lights strobed, highlighting the pulsing crowd.