Chapter 64: Beneath the Mask

The cell looked exactly as I had left it, which was to say, a miserable shoebox of stone walls, rusted bars, and that faint stench of sweat and despair that clung to every corner of this prison like a perfume no one had asked for.

Honestly, if they ever bottled the scent and sold it, they could make a fortune. “Eau de Misery: with hints of mildew, hopelessness, and just a touch of dead rat.” I’d buy it, if only to throw the bottle at someone I hated.

Inside, Brutus sat perched on the edge of his bed like a boulder someone had accidentally left in the middle of the furniture shop. His head was bowed, his shoulders hunched, his hands folded loosely between his knees.

He looked patient, resigned, maybe even calm—though with Brutus, calm could just mean he was too tired to smash his skull against the wall for entertainment.

Naturally, I had to ruin the moment.

“Well, don’t you look holy,” I purred, stepping into the light with the beastman hulking behind me. “A penitentiary monk waiting for absolution. Shame about the lack of robes. Though, to be fair, I’d pay good coin to see you in a robe. Maybe velvet. With sequins. You’d look smashing.”

Brutus’s head snapped up so fast I thought I heard a vertebra crack. His eyes bulged, his jaw dropped, and I swear for a moment I thought he might actually soil himself right there on the bed. His gaze flicked from me to the massive wall of fur and muscle at my back, then back to me, then back to him, in a panicked seesaw that made his neck veins bulge like wriggling worms.

“Wha—wha—what the fuck is that?!” Brutus choked, pointing a trembling finger straight at the beastman like a farmer spotting a wolf in the henhouse. His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, which only made it better. “Loona, why—how—”

I strolled forward with the grace of a debutante making her entrance at a gala, swinging the stolen keys around my finger like they were jewelry instead of contraband. “Oh, him?” I said casually, unlocking the cell door with a satisfying clink. “He’s our new roommate. Don’t worry, he doesn’t snore half as loudly as you.”

The door swung open. I stepped inside, the beastman looming at my back like an ominous shadow that had been fed a steady diet of steroids and red meat.

Brutus lurched to his feet now, words spilling out of him like a busted dam. “Loona, what the hell did you do?! Where did you find that thing? Why is it following you? Why isn’t it ripping your head off?! What about Victor and the other drug lords. Are they—”

I pressed a single delicate finger to my lips and hissed, “Shhh.”

The sound echoed just enough to make it theatrical, and gods above, his face when I shushed him. You’d think I’d slapped his grandmother.

“Explanations tomorrow,” I declared, sweeping toward my corner of the room like a king returning to his throne. “In the courtyard, when everyone’s had a chance to admire me properly. For now, relax. Breathe. Pretend this is normal.”

“Normal?” Brutus rasped, his voice jumping three octaves. “That thing—he’s—he’s—”

“Oh hush,” I said with a wave of my hand, settling back against the stone wall. “He wouldn’t hurt you. Probably.”

Brutus blinked. “Probably?!”

I tilted my head, considering the beastman, who was staring blankly at Brutus as though trying to decide whether he was edible. Then I turned back, flashing Brutus my sweetest smile. “Yes, probably. You’ve got, oh, I’d say… a solid sixty percent chance of survival. Those are good odds in this place.”

Brutus’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again, flapping like a fish gasping for air. He looked seconds away from either strangling me or fainting. Before he could decide, I swiveled on my heel, reached up, and gave the beastman a soft pat on the head.

The sound he made—oh saints above, the sound. A sharp, surprised bark, half-growl, half-yelp, like a wolf pup caught in the act of chewing the furniture.

Brutus staggered back, his jaw hanging so low I thought it might fall off entirely. “Did—did he just—did you—what the actual fuck?!”

I smirked, basking in his horror, then spun back toward him with a dramatic clap of my hands. “Oh! I nearly forgot. Brutus, darling, brace yourself. I’ve discovered something extraordinary.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, though his trembling hands ruined the effect. “What now?”

I stepped closer, lowering my voice into a silky whisper. “I know how to disable the gutterbrand.”

That got him. His eyes widened so far I could see the whites all around, his chest heaved, and for the first time in months—maybe years—hope cracked across his face like sunlight through storm clouds. “You’re lying.”

“Sweetheart,” I purred, “lying is what I do when I want to entertain myself. This—” I leaned close, my lips brushing the air by his ear. “This is the truth.”

Without hesitation, I straightened, pressed my hands together like a priest about to deliver benediction, and spoke the words I’d stolen from Yolmear’s lips:

“By the marrow of stone, by the iron of law, unshackle the brand, let the chain be ash.”

The effect was immediate. Brutus’s collar flared—just a flicker of heat, a dim glow like coals gasping their last breath—then sputtered out. The faint shimmer that had always danced at the edge of perception, that subtle pressure on the air whenever he moved, vanished. What remained was nothing but iron. Dead. Empty.

Brutus’s hands shot to his throat. He clutched the collar, tugged at it, his breath stuttering in sharp, ragged bursts. Then his knees buckled, and he slumped forward, gasping like a man who’d been drowning his entire life and had finally broken the surface.

Relief flooded his face so raw it nearly startled me. Relief, yes, but something else too—gratitude, awe, maybe even… respect. Saints above, it was unnerving. I wasn’t used to being respected. Admired, yes. Feared, certainly. Respected? That was new.

“Thank me later,” I said breezily, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to make him wobble. “For now, I suggest you get some sleep before I start charging rent for staring at me.”

Brutus nodded faintly, still clutching at his collar like it might vanish if he let go. Slowly, almost tenderly, he sank back onto his bed and within seconds his snores rolled through the cell like distant thunder.

I snickered at the sight. Saints, the man could snore through an earthquake.

With the room blessedly quiet, I slipped to the nearest puddle—one of those stagnant little pools that gathered in the dips of the stone floor—and crouched over it. My reflection stared back at me, blood-streaked, bruised, grime smeared across my cheek, my hair a tangled halo of ruin. A vision of chaos if ever there was one.

Naturally, I stripped naked.

Yes, right there in the cell. Yes, while the beastman loomed behind me like a mountain with a hard-on. What else was I supposed to do? A good scrub was long overdue.

I dipped a rag into the puddle and began wiping the blood from my skin, hissing as the cold bit into me. Every stroke left streaks of red fading into the water, until the puddle looked more like wine spilled on stone. My bruises throbbed under my touch, a map of tonight’s chaos painted in purples and blues.

Halfway through scrubbing my thigh, I heard it. A snort. Loud, sharp, and followed by the unmistakable rhythm of heavy breathing.

My head tilted. Slowly. Carefully. I turned around.

And there he was. My beastman. Standing upright, shoulders squared, his loincloth stretched to the absolute brink of decency by the kind of bulge that could probably be declared a weapon in some countries. His chest heaved with every panting breath, his nostrils flaring as his eyes devoured every inch of my bare skin.

I sighed, long and theatrical, dragging the rag slowly across my collarbone as though unfazed. “Honestly, your sex drive is a hazard. Someone should put a leash on it. Oh wait, they tried. Didn’t work.”

His ears twitched. He barked again—this time softer—and his cock twitched so violently I thought the loincloth might surrender entirely.

“Sit,” I commanded, pointing sharply to the far wall.

To my eternal amusement, he obeyed instantly. He lumbered across the cell, slumped against the wall, and sat down with all the obedience of a very large, very horny puppy.

“Good boy,” I murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.

I dropped my rag then and slid down against the opposite wall. His eyes—those wild, glowing things—never once strayed from me. Saints above, I could’ve been reciting scripture or juggling knives and he wouldn’t have cared, so long as I stayed unclothed.

“Well,” I said brightly. “Since Brutus is snoring his way through the apocalypse, I suppose it’s just you and me now. Isn’t that romantic?” I made a dramatic show of sighing, pressing the back of my hand to my forehead like a damsel in some stage play. “Alas, a lonely courtesan, left with no conversation partner but a slavering beast who looks at me like I’m a roast chicken. What a love story.”

He didn’t answer, of course. Just sat there, broad chest heaving, nostrils flaring with every breath, the musk of his arousal spreading thicker through the cell until I swore even Brutus would smell it in his dreams. So I improvised.

“Tell you what,” I said, curling my knees to my chest, “we’ll play a game. Something easy. Rock, paper, scissors.” I raised one hand, poised dramatically. “On three. One, two, three—rock!” My fist thumped into my palm. His hands remained stubbornly still on his knees. His eyes never left me.

I huffed. “Oh come on, you could at least humor me. Fine. Again. One, two, three—scissors!” I jabbed two fingers out. He blinked. Nothing. His breathing grew heavier, as though my little performance had been some kind of striptease in itself.

I groaned, dragging my palm down my face. “Honestly, you’re hopeless. Here I am, naked, bleeding, bruised, and trying to bond, and you’re about as chatty as a headstone. Is there anything behind that mask of yours besides drool and dirty thoughts?”

His eyes flickered, just barely, at the mention of the mask.

I tilted my head, curiosity prickling. “Oh? Sensitive subject, is it?” My grin sharpened, though underneath I felt that faint tug of unease. “What are you hiding, darling? Scars? Fangs? The fact that you’re secretly devastatingly handsome? Gods above, wouldn’t that be a twist.”

And because patience has never been my strong suit, I began crawling forward across the floor. Slowly, deliberately, like a predator—or maybe a fool. Each shuffle of my knees on stone made his chest hitch. His ears twitched, his breath came quicker. And then—he flinched.

Not a violent flinch, not the sort that came before claws and blood. No. A startled, almost fearful jerk, his shoulders curling in, his huge frame trying to make itself small.

That stopped me cold. I froze, one hand braced against the floor, my head cocked like a bird studying something strange. “Well now,” I murmured softly, “that’s interesting. You’re afraid of me.”

He whimpered, low and rough, the sound scraping at something deep inside me I didn’t want to name.

I raised one hand slowly, carefully, as though soothing a skittish animal. “Shhh. Easy. I’m not going to hurt you, darling. Quite the opposite.” My voice curled into a purr.

He made no move to run, no growl of defiance. Just sat there trembling, muscles taut, eyes wide and fixed on me as I closed the distance. Inch by inch, until I could feel the heat radiating off of him like a forge.

I reached up, fingers brushing the edge of his mask. His whimper deepened, almost pitiful, ears drooping low against his skull.

“Shhh,” I whispered again, leaning closer, my lips inches from his cheek. “Hush now. Let me see you.”

And with deliberate care, I tugged the mask free.

It came away with a soft scrape of leather, and saints above, the sight beneath it made my chest tighten. His skin was pale, far paler than I’d expected, stretched tight over high, brutal cheekbones.

But it was ruined—mangled with scars, patches of angry red burns, jagged seams of old wounds stitched together by time and cruelty. His jaw was crooked, his lips cracked, his brow split by a scar that must’ve been carved with a blade.

It wasn’t a face so much as a battlefield.

For a moment, I could only stare. My tongue itched for some cutting remark, some quip about how I’d seen prettier corpses. But the words wouldn’t come. Not this time.

He whimpered again, turning his head away and raising his hands to cover his face.

And yet, against all odds, what I felt wasn’t disgust. Wasn’t fear. It was pity. Saints damn me, but pity welled up sharp and fierce, heavy enough to crack the armor of sarcasm I wore like skin.

I reached out, stroking my fingers across the jagged lines of his cheek, gentle where the world had been cruel. His flinch was immediate, his body jerking, but he didn’t pull away.

“It’s alright,” I murmured, softer than I’d spoken in years. My thumb brushed over one of his pale scars. “It’s alright. You’re beautiful.”

The word surprised me, but once it was out, I knew it was true. Not beautiful in the polished, pretty way of nobles. Beautiful in the raw, terrible way of a storm tearing the sky apart. Beautiful in his survival. Beautiful because no one else would ever call him that, and someone needed to.

His breath hitched, his chest heaving as if the word had broken something open inside and then he made a sound I hadn’t heard from him yet—a low, aching whine that wasn’t hunger, anger, or lust. It was longing.

And saints help me, it broke my heart a little.

I leaned closer then, my knees scraping the cold, gritty stone, and tugged gently at the edges of his loincloth, the coarse fabric whispering as it loosened, revealing his cock curling into the humid air.

It was thick, veined, and already throbbing with need, its unwashed scent hitting me sharp and primal, a raw earthiness that made my nose wrinkle but my bussy clench in reluctant curiosity.

I set aside my arousal, offering him a soft smile instead, my voice light with a teasing lilt. “Gods, that smell. How long’s it been since you had a wash big guy?”

The beastman’s chest heaved faster, his breaths coming in ragged, uneven huffs that filled the cell with a low, rumbling rhythm.

I reached out slowly, my fingers brushing his massive hands away from his face, feeling the rough, callused skin tremble under my touch, revealing the prickle of tears glistening at the corners of his eyes like dew on broken glass.

A pang of tenderness twisted its way into my chest as his lip began to quiver, a pitiful tremor that made him look less like a monster and more like a lost pup.

“Hey now,” I murmured, my voice dropping to a gentle coo laced with wit, “don’t go getting all misty on me.”

Then I tilted my head. “Must’ve been hell under Yolmear’s thumb, huh? Chained up like a rabid dog, poked and prodded till you forgot what kindness even looks like—gods, no wonder you’re all wound up.”

His whine deepened, eyes flicking away in shame, but I cupped his chin gently, turning his face back to mine, my thumb brushing away a tear that trailed hot down his cheek.

My chest tightened as I leaned in closer, our breaths mingling in the stale air. “Listen, darling, I’m not like that bastard—I’d never chain you up and treat you like meat. Promise. I mean, unless you ask nicely, but even then, I’d make it fun.”

His eyes widened before he growled, the sound of a warning building in his throat, but I didn’t pull back, letting the moment stretch, the air thickening with unspoken need, his scent wrapping around me like a filthy promise.

Then, with a teasing smirk, I closed the gap, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that started soft and tentative, my mouth molding to his with a gentle suckle that drew a surprised “mmph” from him.

The kiss deepened slowly, my tongue tracing the seam of his lips, coaxing them open with a wet, insistent flick, tasting the salty remnants of his tears mixed with the raw flavor of him.

He groaned low, his massive hands twitching at his sides as if fighting the urge to grab me. His cock pulsed visibly between us, the head swelling redder, a fresh bead of pre-cum oozing from the slit to drip sticky down his shaft.

I pulled back just enough to nip his lower lip, drawing a sharp gasp from him before diving back in, my tongue plunging deeper, tangling with his in a hot, heavy dance that turned unbearably sloppy—spit slicking our chins, strings of saliva stretching between us as I sucked greedily, the wet smacks echoing lewdly in the cell.

His body shuddered, a full-body quake that made his cock convulse wildly, the shaft jerking like a live wire, veins bulging as it throbbed harder.

I felt it building in him, that desperate tension coiling tight, his breaths turning to frantic pants against my mouth.

Suddenly, his hips bucked and then, without even the slightest hint of warning, his cock erupted, a hot, thick glop of cum shooting in a creamy arc to splatter across my stomach, warm and sticky, the impact like a wet slap. More ropes of seed followed in pulsing jets, coating my skin in viscous, bubbling trails.

I pulled back with a wet gasp, lips swollen and glistening with our shared spit, and stared down at the mess he’d made, pearly strings clinging to my flesh, pooling in my navel, the heat of it seeping into my skin like a filthy brand. And then it hit me. The stench was damn near unbearable, a rancid mix of salt and musk that assaulted my nose like a punch to the gut.

Gods, what a load—but fuck, it stinks, I thought, cupping my hand over my nose as the acrid tang made my eyes water, but I couldn’t help the breathy giggle bubbling up through my fingers.

The beastman whimpered, shame crashing over his face like a wave, his massive frame curling tighter as he covered his drooping ears, eyes squeezing shut in mortification.

“Oh, darling, it’s fine,” I cooed through my giggles, my voice light and teasing despite the flush on my cheeks, “nothing a little bath won’t fix.”

His eyes cracked open, exhaustion etched deep in those glowing depths, but a faint, relieved huff escaped him, his shoulders slumping as the tension eased just a bit.

I ruffled his matted hair, fingers tangling in the coarse strands, and murmured, “Get some rest, you sweet, sacred beast—you’ve earned it after that show.” He let out a happy little “arf!” a sound so soft and endearing it tugged at my heart, before nestling against the wall, his massive body finally relaxing as his breaths slowed into the heavy rhythm of sleep.

Fuck, he’s like a big, broken puppy now, all tuckered out—makes me want to curl up with him, but alas, Brutus’s snoring calls, I thought, dipping my rag into the stagnant puddle once more, scrubbing the sticky cum from my skin, the cool water biting my flesh as the mess swirled away in cloudy eddies.

I slipped my clothes back on, the fabric clinging to my bruised thighs, the faint scent of my own heat lingering in the air as I crawled into the bed beside Brutus. His frame shifted, and I caught it—a wild, shit-eating smirk plastered across his face, his eyes glinting with smug amusement in the torchlight beyond.

I rolled my eyes, swatting his chest with a playful huff, “You doofus, quit grinning like you caught the show—go back to sleep, or I’ll make you join in next time.”

Brutus’s chuckle rumbled deep, a warm quake that vibrated through the bed, his arm lazily looping around my waist as he muttered, “Wouldn’t mind that, troublemaker.”

I sighed, a soft, sated sound, and curled tight against his furnace-hot chest, the steady thump of his heart lulling me as I sank, for the first time in ages, into some proper rest.

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