Mistress to a Monster

“And you, my little kitten, have some of the sexiest claws I have ever had the pleasure of feeling.”

She tried to get up, but Damon used her annoyance against her, spinning them around so she was flat on her back. “Get off me.”

“Who trained you?”

“That is none of your business.” She had fallen into his trap and now, she had to find a means of escape before he fucked everything up.

Damon grabbed her hands and pressed them to either side of her head. With her legs spread open, there was no getting away from his hardness. She hated that the feel of him made her feel warm. “Let me go.”

“Not going to happen.” He smiled. “Why would I let you go now when I know so much already?”

She gritted her teeth.

“Who trained you?”

He pressed his lips to her ear. “Do you think I won’t find out? I wonder what your father will say when he finds out that his daughter can fight.”

Her mother’s guards were still alive. She couldn’t allow anything to happen to them.

Fuck.

He’d pushed her into a corner, and she’d fallen for it. If she hadn’t reacted at all, he wouldn’t have the upper hand.

“My mom taught me!” she yelled. She closed her eyes, hating how easily he had manipulated her.

“Your mom?”

“My mom’s guards.” She opened her eyes and stared at him, glaring, defiant. “She knew this world wasn’t fair to women. To help, she … she made sure that her only daughter knew how to fight. How to take care of herself, and so she trained me. Without my father ever knowing. She got her men to teach me everything I know, which is why I know how to fight.”

****

Damon had no intention of ever telling Russo what he knew about his daughter. His only mission when it came to that man was to bring him down, begging and pleading for his life.

Only then would he be satisfied.

Milah fighting, that wasn’t a bad thing as far as he was concerned. Her ability to defend herself made a whole lot of sense to him. This world wasn’t kind to women. Milah was living proof of that.

Her father had told him he could have anything he wanted, but not to kill him. He’d asked for Milah. Not for marriage, but for his daughter. He’d given her to him without batting an eye.

After their session in the gym where Damon had asked her to spar with him, they’d returned to the main house. Milah left to get washed and changed, and he’d gone to the basement, where his chef was chained up.

He hadn’t attended to him last night, dealing with the staff. Three of the women were dead. Two more he’d made sure they never defied him again, sent to one of the street whorehouses. They would earn their keep one way or another. Not with the rich cock, but with cheap dick.

The small light of the basement was lit, and he stared at his chef, his body limp as the chains held him up.

“How the mighty does fall,” Damon said.

“You can’t kill me. Your father offered me protection,” the chef said, coughing.

“And you think he’s alive somewhere to see that you are?” Damon asked. He laughed. It was sinister.

He used to like the chef. Not as a boy. He’d hated him. The man was cruel and would often swat at him if he even dared to sneak into the kitchen to steal food. It was strange he hadn’t thought of that time until this very moment.

His father had always said the chef was just looking after his domain. The kitchen was his responsibility, and it was up to him to serve them all good food.

Damon stepped in front of the chef. “You never stepped out of line. Even after my father died. You were always sure to do as you were told. Never making waves. Until now.”

“She has no right to sit at your table. To cook in my kitchen.”

“That kitchen is mine!” Damon yelled. “It was never yours, and you thought to poison my guest.”

“It would be a kindness to her.”

Damon picked up one of the chef’s knives. He’d watched him use it as a boy, striping the skin from fish. It was sharp, with a nice point, and also flexible.

“You see this? I wonder if it will do the same trick on human flesh as it does to fish.”

The chef’s screams filled the basement. With his body wriggling, Damon took large chunks of flesh off the man’s body.

The pain got too much for him, and he passed out.

Damon didn’t stop though. Unbeknownst to his father, he had learned the fine art of torture from his grandfather. He continued to take more pieces until he was bored. Some of his guards were in the room, waiting. They were the ones with the strongest stomachs.