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The Jacobite's Return

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Of Gods and Monsters series 1-2

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Of Gods and Monsters: Hades © Copyright 2015 by Wulf Francú Godgluck



This e-book is a work of fiction. Incidents, names, characters, nationalities, cultures and places are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Resemblances to actual locales or events, persons living or dead, nationalities, cultures or their languages are coincidental.

This story may contain sexually explicit content and is intended for adult readers. It may contain content that is disagreeable or distressing to some readers.



The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of the following item and wordmark mentioned in this work of fiction:



Jika-Tabi: Jika-Tabi Inc.

Ziplock: S. C. Johnson & Son.

Zippo: Zippo Manufacturing Company

Fat Boy: Harley-Davidson Motor Company.

Ducati Diavel: Ducati Motor Holding S.p.A

Audi Q7: Audi of America.

Jell-O: Kraft Foods

OraQuick In-home HIV test: OraSure Technologies, Inc.





Cover Art by Wulf Francú Godgluck

francu.strydom@ gmail.com



Photo: vishstudio

Photographer: Andrei Vishnyakov



Contact Author: francu.strydom@ gmail.com





Acknowledgements





A dedication of thanks to….



My betas; Sanet, Alicia, Jason, Hanne, Lori, Mee-Mee, Yachiru, Petronella, Crystal, and Debbie.

Thank you.



You know this book would have never made it beyond the folder it was saved in without you. It's been a long road but we made it through each and every draft, re-read and gibberish that was never included in the book.



You heard me ramble, pitch a fit, throw my toys out of the cot, and yes, even attempt to kill off Hades just to get back at him for making it so damn difficult to write his book.



To Daddy Max. Thank you for reading over the scenes I wasn't sure would freak the readers out enough.



To K.C. Wells for helping with the correct spelling of Spanish words. ’Cause I can hardly do English, thank you.



To Marcie Padilla, for making sure I didn’t screw this up royally.



To Rory Ni Coileain, for answering my silly questions and not maki; ng me look like a fool.



To Ian Walker for help, advice and authentication, thank you.



To Dan for answering my very technical and detailed, blood test questions.



And lastly to Alexis. I don't know where I would have been without the hours you spent trying to fix the impossible.



A special thanks to someone who won’t even know she is being mentioned, Madeline Sheehan.

There are no words to describe how deeply you have inspired me, and how Frankie and Cox gave birth to Hades in the first place.





PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

GLOSSARY

Author Bio





Dedication





To Debbie Smith, you have been with me from Colt’s book, back and forth chatting about not only these crazy characters but life and happenings, disagreements, smiles and the stuffing in-between. Encouraging me when I’m down low and just wanna give this whole thing up. Sending care packages to deal with edits. And fighting for characters’ lives when I want to slit their throats. (Readers don’t know the blood and tears and nails you have shed, fighting for these men, they are as much mine as they are yours.) For the beautiful, precious and caring soul you are, for the strong mother and for the endurance of a tough life. Thank you for sticking with me, helping me and being a friend.

This one is for you.



To S.A. Meade, the hardship, the loss, the strength you have shown and the person you are. I’m utterly amazed at your spirit, your courage. There’s only one person you remind me of and that is my mother. I am thankful every time I see your posts pop up on Facebook, reminding me of the good and bad, the hardship that has shaped me into the man I am today.

I will be forever grateful.

Thank you.





PLAYLIST



“Happy Song” - Bring Me The Horizon

“Human” - Of Monsters and Men

“Born Naked” - Rupaul

“We All Sleep Alone” - Cher

“The Promise” - Tracy Chapman

“Love me till it hurts” - Papa Roach

“Day 3” - Marylyn Manson

“Promises” - The Cranberries

“Set Fire To The Third Bar” - Snow Patrol ft. Martha Wainwright





ABOUT THE TITLE





Hades: The ‘Unseen One’, was the King of the Underworld, the god of death and the dead. Hades was also the god of the hidden wealth of the earth, from the fertile soil that nourished the seed-grain, to the mined wealth of gold, silver and other metals. He was depicted as a dark-bearded, chthonic and regal god.



The Underworld was a vast kingdom with many different fields, making Hades in effect one of the gods who governed over the most land; Elysium, the Asphodel Meadows, and Tartarus, as well as the Fields of Asphodel and Erebus. Along with the five rivers, each in representation of a human condition; Acheron (the river of sorrow, or woe), Cocytus (lamentation), Phlegethon (fire, pain), Lethe (oblivion), and Styx (hate).



Hades was the most feared and loathed out of all the Ancient Greek gods, not because he was the most dangerous or powerful, but because he embodied the inexorable finality of death. In his kingdom, Hades sat on a throne made of ebony and carried a scepter. Despite modern connotations of death as evil, Hades was more altruistically inclined in mythology. He was often portrayed as passive rather than evil; his role was often maintaining relative balance.





PROLOGUE



Bullets ripped through the air, biting into his body. He crashed into a table and slid down. Pain jolted along his spine as he smacked the back of his head on the wooden floorboards.

Dean Hunter couldn’t fucking care less.

All that flashed in front of his eyes as his lungs filled with fluid and the last of his life’s blood oozed out of the holes in his chest, was his little boy.

His fucking pride.

Those big, hungry eyes, the same as his mother’s, would steal your soul.

Dean would never see his son again, hold him, protect him. He knew Rex was different from other kids. His son might turn out to be a fucking faggot, but that didn’t mean Dean loved him any less the day he’d first held his kid in his arms. Rex was still his boy, his fucking flesh and blood, and he was leaving him…for good this time.

He turned his head, flinching at the pain wracking his body. He watched Hades try to curl into a ball. Didn’t work. The brother’s fucking big limbs were too fucking long. Shit was funny as fuck.

“Hades!” Dean snapped, goddamn blood in his mouth. The kid turned to him, shit-scared and eyes large. “The Russians... I want you...” Dean’s vision dimmed, the world a blur in his eyes; his time was coming quick, he could feel the cold biting into his fingers. “You cut these fuckers, every fucking one of ’em, and you will do my club proud, Prez, or I’ll fucking come for you from the grave.”

Dean choked, his chest hurting as the claws of darkness crept up on him. He barely heard his own voice, over the fucking whores’ screaming—someone needed to put bullets in those fucking bitches.

“And, Hades.” The kid’s black eyes stared back at Dean in shock, while Dean spat out more blood, “you take fucking care of my ki—”





Part One

Winter





CHAPTER ONE



“I’ll make Colt Maxus look like a fuckin’ fairy princess.”—Breno Hades el Oscuro.





The cage loomed over them, bars casting elongated shadows like claws on the floor, stained russet with fresh splatters of red for posterity.

Like some deranged monster, his skin pulsated with carnal pleasure as his raw-knuckled fist ripped through the air, impacting the face of the nameless lump of meat in front of him. The piece of shit’s nose and lips exploded, teeth bursting out onto the floor, while he choked on the blood filling the back of his throat. The prison fighting ring had one rule—the fights needed to be bloody, dirty and violent.

It frightened him, this thing he had become. A seven-foot, three-hundred-and-fifty pound ’roid-infested spawn of Evangelion and Hercules, as if they’d had a fuckfest and hemorrhaged out a kid. When he stepped into the ring, Hades fucking ceased to exist; he became something else. An unnatural creature, ripping men apart and crushing bone along the way to get what he craved—the sweet taste of pain. Palpitating, surrendering pain—a living breathing entity. Hades needed to feed the savage within. Inflicting agony in the most brutal of ways satiated something in el cucuy. But what terrified him most was that this cryptid had lived inside for a long time, and now that it was here, it was here to fuckin’ stay. ’Cause in its genesis, Hades el Oscuro had been devoured like a bitch cleaning up its afterbirth.

Tears of sweat lapped down the rugged skin of his neck and dripped from his beard and hair. Others mapped the scarred-over tattoos on his back, the ink on his massive shoulders, his heaving chest, charting paths down his abdomen and clinging to his body hair. He was bleeding in too many places to care and intoxicated with too much odium to feel. All while his muscles throbbed and trembled, jacked-up on juice.

Adrenaline coursed a mantra through his body, completely in sync with the crowd’s clamor. Slaughter. Maim. Destroy. Kill. Shouting, spitting and rattling the railing, fuckin’ animals. It started slowly, increasing in tempo with a single chant that signified it was time to deliver the killing blow.

The muscled fucker across from him wouldn’t be ended with a snap of his neck. He was fighting his inevitable death hard, swaying from side to side, eyes like stone while he held up his fists.

If the monstrosity inside could feel, he would grant him an easy escape.

Hades popped his vertebrae, grunting as the muscles contracted in his face. He lunged forward with a snarl, spewing the spittle and plasma that had pooled in his mouth. He grasped the fucker’s head. The man’s hands shot straight for Hades’ throat. The crowd’s shouts and cheers erupted in a vehement frenzy of roars and an engorging upheaval. Hades forced his thumbs into the asshole’s eyes. The fucker screamed as blood and membranes popped like egg yolks in his sockets. Hades bared his teeth, gripping the skull hard, the putrid eye innards running down his fingers. He slammed his forehead into his opponent’s temple and, with all his strength, twisted his body around, using the momentum to send his rival off his feet into the air. Hades’ muscles convulsed in sharp, agonizing spasms as he tossed the man—a sack of flesh and bones—over his shoulders, raised him over his head, and slammed him into the gore-covered concrete floor. He wasn’t sure if the resulting crack was from the force of the inmate’s skull meeting stone or the vicious hold he had on the guy’s large head.

He stood silently, the fucker’s eye guts dripping from his hands, the temporary makeshift fluorescent spotlights, bright and sharp, outlined his physique and highlighted his deranged glower behind the strands hanging over his eyes. Vapors of steam visibly danced as they rose from his body, the intense cold of the winter air colliding with his heated flesh.

The horde of human scum surrounding the sealed-off Death Cage went into a fuckin’ euphoria of cheers, banging on the bars and tables. Hades couldn’t give a fuck. He wanted to get the fuck out of there and back to his cell. Movement behind him, signaling the arrival of the overseer, and the increasing cheers of the prisoners, confirmed his victory again. Fat fingers grasped his elbow, pushing his right hand into the air, one…tw—fuck it.

Hades released a carnal roar, fisting the guard’s shirt and slamming his knuckles into the man’s fat face. The overseer was merely there to confirm the other opponent’s death. He dragged the guard a few feet and then proceeded to throw him across the ring. The crowd fell silent as the man landed against the rusted bars, seconds later cheers erupted when the fucker slumped and lay unmoving, blood running from his nose and mouth.

The roars became a distant echo as he moved his heavy bulk towards the sealed door, where shaking hands, belonging to fucked-up faced guy, attempted to use a small blowtorch to detach the metal gate. He was taking too motherfucking long. A vicious growl rumbled from Hades’ chest as he kicked against the metal with his boot. The gate snapped back, and the Neanderthal screamed. The flying gate driven straight into the man’s hands, his blowtorch rising and further rearranging the idiot’s face. Hades stepped out of the cage and glared down at the insect, his cries of agony nothing more than the annoying buzz of a fly. He sent his boot straight into the cunt’s nuts when he passed him, further penance for taking his fucking sweet-ass time getting the cage open.

Hades held out his wrists to the guard standing at the entrance, next to the warden, Knight who wore seventies style aviators while a cigarette dangled between his grinning lips.

“You’ve earned yourself some cozy dark time in the hole for slamming Lewinsky in the cage, el Oscuro,” Knight growled.

Hades bared his bloodstained teeth in a sly smile. He flared his nostrils as the guard slapped cuffs on his wrists and bent over to shackle his ankles. Hades was tempted to send his knee into the bitch’s face. He seized Knight by the shirt instead, yanking him forward. The guard at his feet jumped back, pulling out his nightstick. Two more came running from his right, three from Hades’ left, Tasers ready. Hades snatched the cigarette from Knight’s lips, sucked in a deep drag, shuddering as smoke filled his lungs—cheap Chinese shit—and blew the smog into his face. He killed the coal on his tongue, not minding the quick scorch, when the first set of volts rocked through his back from behind. His muscles locked, forcing him forward and crashing to his knees.

Hades convulsed in spasms of pain, muscles rippling and twitching as electric charges coursed through him. The point of Knight’s boot bit into his side while the fucker’s voice droned overhead, “Put the dog in solitary. Don’t be too gentle about it either. Let it fucking starve.” Knight spat, the glob landing on Hades’ face.



They say fear controls men—till some fucker scrapes together the guts and slices off its head.

For fourteen years Hades had danced to the strings of the Dragon’s Tongue, taking over the Cerberus Motorcycle Club when Old Devil Eyes’ reign as King ended. At twenty-two he’d become a badass motherfucker, fuckin’ Hades the King Kage of the United fuckin’ States.

He had power. Rivals feared him. Men who would cut off a man’s cock and force feed it to his family for looking wrong at them. All fucking bowed to Hades.

But greed destroys men.

It corrupts the soul, blinds a man to his own familia and stains the heart black, makes people fuckin’ dumbfucks.

The Dragon had never been greedy in the past.

They’d come into existence at the turn of the first century, during Japan’s Heian period, hiding behind powerful leaders throughout the ages—emperors, kings, queens, governments, even other crime syndicates. Few believed the Dragon’s Tongue truly existed, that the Uroboros seal burned into the flesh of their higher ups—the Kages—was a show to induce terror of a ghost criminal organization. They were a myth, a murmur on the wind, letting fear of the unknown play in the Dragon’s favor.

The Dragon’s Tongue valued the merits of what an individual could bring to them, more so than the money, drugs and weapons they could obtain. They believed their true power lay in their people.

The single, sure way the Dragon’s Tongue was going to hold on to control in the States was by bringing in the upper-hierarchy lords of the crime world. The Dragon didn’t bother with the little sideshow punks, gangs and mobs trying to step up and wet their feet in the forbidden wine. They left Hades and the other Kages to deal with them. Made them the shadows the Dragon hid behind. In turn, they gave them each a large enough piece of turf to control and a fat cut of the fuckin’ pie, so the Kages didn’t have to fight for it amongst themselves.

The ones unaccounted for were the Russians. They were an infestation of greedy swine wanting the monopoly of the crime world so acutely balanced between the different sets of power. It wasn’t easy to achieve the delicately impartial dominance among the different crime kings. A hell of a lot of blood had been spilled before an agreement had been reached, and even then, a hell of a lot more blood and bodies had fallen before some form of respect was established between them. It was a secret peace, one shared with the top men in each cartel. The Dragon stood first among them all, a world dominator that lit their enemies aflame and devoured them whole.

The Dragon’s Tongue was not impenetrable. As mammoth as their network of crime and influence was, it all led back to the Dragon himself, Mr. Orochi. Greed had finally infected the Dragon’s Tongue and was slowly rottin’ it from the outside in. Its poison-tipped claws were slipping. A snake being attacked by a nest of ants, the serpent was deliberately being torn apart. The Dragon’s Tongue was going to fold; Hades had seen it coming for years, could fuckin’ feel it on his inked skin, like a tattoo being done with the Tebori technique. The Russians being the biggest red ants among the players wanting to gain total ground in the crime world. He also had a suspicion about who the fuck was behind it.

But...

To cut off the Dragon’s head, you needed to be the one who could get the closest, and there was something screwed up, mentally fuckin’ wrong with that fucker. Hades knew the shithead was going to send the Dragon up in flames; war and gut-matter would be splattered over the earth like a fuckin’ bloodbath.

And it had. Far and fast. In every direction.

Now the King was nothing...better known as La Perra Del Diablo—the Devil’s fuck bitch.

For four fuckin’ years he’d been living behind bars in an isolated cell that knew no light. Walls decorated with the claw marks its previous inhabitants left with their fingernails, during their bursts of insanity. Hades was an animal confined amongst other rapacious monsters. Kept on the edge, starved and violated, driving him to an aggravated rage, so he could fight in a steel cage, where only one was allowed to leave alive. Forced to sleep on a cold, hard, piss-saturated floor that made his bones ache and muscles hurt to the point he wanted to scream himself to sleep. Roaches and rats were his constant companions in the bowels of the prison. Hades was sure as horseshit, this place was so filthy it harbored cholera-infested Ebola. He was let out for four hours a day to the gym, after which guards would hold him down and drive a shot of ’roids into his system. The shit wasn’t the same stuff Hades used to supply Maxus with—this was ‘radiation’ in liquid form—placing a major strain on his heart muscle, sweltering in his veins as it flooded his body and jackfucked his already obsessive sex drive to maddening levels. They would leave him restrained and naked while his cock ached for release. Oh, I was given release—Knight would hit Hades’ sac with a rattan cane until cum exploded from his cock, forced me to lick it up too.

But Knight wanted Hades bigger and wanted it fast. Wanted Hades hurting to the point of berserk violence. If he didn’t train his tired body, they would beat him till he couldn’t move, before drenching him with ice water and forcing him to work out, then take a freezing shower.

Hades assumed it was fitting for the life he chose as a Cerberuen, being held as a fighting dog. Knight had kept him isolated, his star fighter, deprived of all human touch and contact except for the sting of volts, spit and beating fists and boots from those bitching Chihuahua puppies Knight called guards.

Then there was the dark time in the hole.

A single cell. Like a closet. Barely high enough for Hades to stand upright. He needed to bend his knees, with his feet in running drain water. His shoulders squeezed tight into the slimy walls, still dripping with fuck-knew-what. Forced to stand for twelve—sometimes twenty-four hours—with the constant stink and tap-tap-tap of the water soaking onto the back of his neck. He would shiver and scream to keep himself awake. Slam his fist raw against the steel door to drown out the voices in his head. And when they opened the door, Hades simply fell forward, crashing to the floor, too exhausted to care while his muscles cramped from the cold.

But even the cruel treatment couldn’t compare to the torment that shredded Hades’ heart… Not even seeing the hurt in his club brothers’ eyes after being in the business and riding with them for years, or the knife cut into his back, to scar over and destroy the Cerberus dog tattoo that was their club colors, before Hades entered prison. Nor was it the heartache that fucked him up as he longed to hold his mamá in his arms again, see his nephews drive his sister crazy, which would have been a Godsent blessing he didn’t fuckin’ deserve. It was best that his own family assumed their piece of shit oldest son’s body was rotting someplace six feet under.

None of that shit was anything compared to the memory that haunted him each time he found the darkness behind closed lids. A memory Hades held close to heart, no matter the ruptured pain it clawed into his chest each time he thought about him. His voice so raspy, gruff and hellfuckin’ sexy…

Dios, was he ever the sad sucker for a nice, young piece of ass. His gaze cut at the sound of gravel giving way and Hades stared at the dream walking past him, hell-bent, going straight for the bar’s entrance. He released a loud grunt, pulling the boy’s attention to him. The kid was cocky in his response when he asked, “You wanted something, big guy?” but took a step back.

The boy was nervous, all big brown eyes and soft, pink lips. Sí, Daddy Hades definitely wanted something, my fat tongue in your sweet-looking mouth. He moved closer, watching the boy’s nostrils flare, Adam’s apple moving slick under the pale skin.

Dios, he is motherfuckin’ beautiful.

Hades flexed his arms while eating the kid up with his hungry gaze. Those nervous eyes glanced at his biceps, giving Hades the perfect reason to stalk closer and grip the boy’s chin with his right hand. “You, Bello,” Hades said in a dark, graveled voice. The kid visibly shuddered in front of him. Hades knew he was big, scary and…he was no pretty princesa. He didn’t even try to fool himself when it came to his looks. He was a fuckin’ ugly motherfucker, scars, bald head and muscles heavily covered in ink. But it was there, always. A softer side. The part of him that few had the privilege of knowing. A nurturing instinct stuck out its head when it came to the smaller, younger, weaker men he was attracted to.

“Easy, easy,” he rasped, bringing his left hand up to stroke the niño’s cheek. The kid caught Hades’ hand, stopping him. A shiver raked down Hades’ spine at the boy’s touch, soft fingers rubbing gently on his callused palm, petting el cucuy. The little thing didn’t seem to even realize what he was doing as fear glazed his eyes, while he stood frozen. Hades knew that kind of fear, it wasn’t because of Hades’ intimidating bulk or appearance, it was… “It’s just a kiss. A pretty little thing like you’ve never been kissed?” Hades stroked the boy’s cheek with his right hand.

“No,” he whispered, lips trembling.

Hades bared his teeth and rumbled a grunt from his chest that could as well have said mine!

“Guess Daddy Hades should teach you how.” Hades brought his lips to the captivating creature’s, traced them with his tongue, his dick swelling in his leathers. His PA pulled at his cock head, giving him a jolt of sharp, pleasurable pain. Hades took the kid’s mouth, tasted him and drew him closer, pulling the boy’s smaller body up into his arms. He deepened the kiss that had his world spinning so fast he didn’t know when or if he wanted it to stop.

He brought Beo back to the bar three weeks later. The kid wanted to get happy and have a good time, and who better to have a good time with than Daddy Hades, at least Hades could keep an eye on him, make sure he’d be safe and not succumb to the claws of predators. It all lasted up until, after too many stolen sips of beer sneaked from Hades’ glass and lips, Beo leaned in next to him, pressing his face into Hades’ neck and took a deep breath, followed by a tipsy, satisfied sigh.

“I want you.” It was something of a mix between alcoholic-lust, pure want and puppy love in Beo’s voice. It brought Hades world to a fast and dangerous stop. ’Cause, how could Daddy Hades deny a request like that? Especially from the sweet twenty-year-old nibbling at his neck?

Summer rain had never tasted as good as it did on Beo’s skin, never smelled so motherfuckin’ sweet. And when it came to fuckin’ him, after Hades had his tongue stuffed up that beautiful, sweet hole, Beo wanted it bare, naked—Fuckin’. Little. Shit—Daddy Hades gave it to him, shutting all and any warnings off in his head about safe sex.

The devastating, sad truth about the life of criminals: those you love are your biggest weakness, your most vulnerable liability. And Beo had Hades in a way no boy ever had him before. And who could blame Hades for loving Beo Moon. Hell, who fuckin’ couldn’t love that boy?

Hades poured every ounce of love he had left in him, into that night, spilling his seed inside Beo while taking his virginity on his Fat Boy. The result of it: Hades made love for the first time in his life. He made love to someone he loved...someone he wanted with every part of his soul but would never allow himself to have. Beo fuckin’ licked my nut milk off my lips too, when I sucked it out of his tender hole and shared it with him.

The day Beo stormed Maxus’ office, that shit tore Hades a new one. As he stood there, manhandling Maxus and asking about Beo’s baby butter, Hades was hiding the fuckin’ train wreck happening in his heart. He left, wanting to get as far away from fuckin’ New York City as his Fat Boy could take him. He needed the open road, to feel the power between his legs, needed to fuckin’ forget. Only he couldn’t ’cause he and his brothers still had a ‘problem’ to take care of. And then there was goddamn Wendigo pushing Beo, after having picked him up on the side of the road, straight into Hades’ arms. Hades knew something was wrong with Beo, watching the boy he loved thinning and pale, left his heart a shredded mess. But those words, those fucked-up words, were volcanic ash in Hades’ lungs.

“I’m sick... I’m dying.”

Dios, Jesús, motherfuck and fuck.

Hades lost it for the second time in his life.

“A veces la gente llora, no porque unas personas son débiles... Sino porque llevan mucho tiempo siendo fuertes.” His padre told him once—Hades had cried when the man was declared lost at sea, and Hades cried when Beo had told him about his shit. Sometimes people cry, not because they are weak...but because they’ve gone a long time at being strong.

While holding Beo in his arms, not knowing if it might be the last time, Hades felt like useless crap, like the fuckin’ piss and fecal matter stinking up his cell. Ever since that fuckin’ night six years ago, when he’d stolen a kiss from an innocent kid with the most beautiful brown eyes and the sweetest motherfuckin’ lips that made Hades’ dick pop its shit…ever since he’d danced with him, made love to him weeks later… Ever since Hades met that little motherfucker, his heart hadn’t been working right. And what had it gotten me...

Fuckin’ nada, but nearly six years of wanting what I wouldn’t allow myself to have, only to get a bitch slap in the face when Beo fuckin’ chose that cunt Maxus, another self-righteous tyrant over me! The old Hades might have stood for it, the new one would have cut fuckin’ Maxus right in his goddamn office.

Hades peered up in his cell and clenched his fist around his aching, hard shaft, biting back the sting as his raw knuckles protested. Anger bubbled in his blood, pain radiating from his aggravated flesh while he braced himself against the wall with his left hand.

Years of pushing him away and keeping him at arm’s length, ignoring my own bleeding heart to keep him safe from my dark shit.

The carnage inflicted from the fight and Knight’s issued beating pulsed through him. It throbbed from each blow his muscles received, with each violent stroke he gave his cock.

Only to have him run straight into the arms of another fuckin’ monster, one with some fucked-up crazy going on in his head.

Hades grasped his dick at the base, fisting it hard enough he knew there would be bruises. He gritted his teeth as his skin flared with pain and tingled with pleasure.

I thought I had made fuckin’ peace with that shit the night I went to see Beo in hospital. Promising him that Maxus would be free of a crime-infested lifestyle. Fuckin’ safe!

He snapped his hips forward and thrust his cock through his callused fingers, brutally fuckin’ his hand.

I took the fuckin’ hit from the Dragon for losing one of their top connections. Got beaten to a pile of blood and bruises.

Each flex, twist and movement of his body, followed by ragged grunts, set the searing muscles under his skin on fire. His legs shook under him, thighs quaking. Whether it was from pure exhaustion or the pain racing through him, he didn’t know, he didn’t care—they came in equal measure with full velocity, as he pumped his cock.

Beo wasn’t mine, he ain’t never been. I need to stop bitch-licking my wounds, always scraping this shit back open again.

Hades’ chest rumbled as the growl erupted from him, his climax clawing closer. Splinters of pain tenderized his already swollen muscles when he arched forward, curling his toes.

I am a fuckin’ Cerberuen, while one head is lickin’ the wounds, there are two more ready to fuckin’ bite back and tear shit to shreds.

As much as Hades wanted to wring Beo’s neck and gut Maxus, leaving his innards to spill out and his body to rot somewhere in an alley, he could never bring himself to do it. Hades knew why; he would be breaking Beo’s heart—as much as he hated to admit it—Colt Maxus would be good to Beo. He’d take care of him.

Me… I couldn’t…to drag him into the Cerberuen lifestyle, watch it dislodge his soul, tear and rip it to shreds, and lose that precious boy to this kind of life? I’d never forgive myself for that. I didn’t need to add another thing to that list.

Hades grunted and closed his eyes, his chest pulling tight. He’d been fine staying here, dealing with his shit of a prison life, till some anonymous bitch had sent him an envelope of photos.

Hades had taken one look at that shit and wanted to curl up and die at how happy Beo was, how fuckin’ handsome he’d looked under those LED lights wrapped around the tree branches. Stung a sledgehammer to the balls when he saw the beautiful glow on Beo’s cheeks while he married fuckin’ Maxus. All after Hades had declared that nobody would penetrate the steel door bolted shut. That there wasn’t a motherfuckin’ boy born who he would allow to twist his gut the way Beo had.

He smashed his fist and forearm against the wall, snarling, nostrils flaring while his dick spewed jizz onto the filthy floor.

He slammed himself forward, drained, aching and heaving on the hard, cold concrete barrier. His ragged grunts of breath his only company as he crumpled and lay in his own cum and disgust, knowing they’d return soon to administer another shot, another beating before a workout and another dance in the fuckin’ ring.

He murmured to himself, “But you can’t force someone to love you, Breno.”

No matter how motherfuckin’ much you love them back.

But like all things in life, everything has a season. Hades could taste the turbulent storm rising. Soon the fuckers would need to be reminded of their place and that Hades wasn’t known as the King for nothing.



Two days later, his cell door screeched like a banshee going down on Hades’ ears, sharp light stung his eyes, sending his head into a throbbing shitstorm.

“Thought it was time I came and dug you out of Hell.” Bale Munroe’s voice bounced off the walls.

“’Bout motherfuckin’ time you showed up, asshole.” Hades wheezed in a hoarse voice, his throat raw from screaming.

“Hades, shit’s been tight.” Munroe glanced to his left and stepped into the cell, coughing. The fucker, covered his nose and struggled to get his words out as he spoke.

“Feds were onto me, asking questions, sending in a goddamn special agent to oversee my case. I was even placed on probation while everything went down.”

Munroe’s tall frame moved, dropping a gym bag on the floor. “There’s clothes, get yourself dressed. I can’t do much about a shower.”

Hades pushed himself off the floor, cringing at the flare of pain shooting up his back.

“Tell me something.” Hades sped past the gym bag, seized Munroe by the sac with one hand, shoving him hard against the wall, a palm to the man’s chest as he swept in close, breathing into his face. “Did you have a fuckin’ swell time while I was rottin’ in here, being kept as a fuckin’ pussy bitch?”

Munroe clenched his jaw, avoiding Hades’ gaze or it might have been Hades’ breath that caused the fucker to crane to the side, veins jagged on his bald head as he painted the motherfuckin’ floor with his dinner. Hades held the NYPD’s Deputy Chief up by the balls, increasing his grip before he released him and slammed his knee in the man’s gut, letting him drop to the floor.

“Jesus, Hades.” Munroe coughed, grabbing his crotch, “What the fuck? I did everything I cou—”

Hades stepped on the man’s free hand, making him cry out in pain.

“Not good enough, fucker!” Hades sneered down at him, knuckles popping at his sides while he worked the crick out of his neck, stretching it left and right.

“It wasn’t that simple,” Munroe spat.

“Not that fuckin’ simple...” Hades grabbed Munroe by his lapels, pulling him up and off his feet. “What wasn’t so motherfuckin’ simple about taking the agent out and shutting up the Feds, huh? You got the brothers’ contacts, not to mention the other Kages. I’m sure if the fucks put their thick skulls together they could have come up with something.” Hades released the man, knelt over the gym bag and unzipped it. He pulled out a pair of black briefs.

“Last I checked—shit’s too fuckin’ small!” Hades stripped them off and chucked the briefs at Munroe’s face when they didn’t want to go higher than Hades’ thick thighs “—you’re still on my goddamn payroll.”

“Hades, that agent…” Munroe fell quiet, a silence Hades wanted to murder with his bare hands.

He glowered at the man, watching the fuck’s face shadowed by his palm over his eyes in shame, embarrassment, God knew what.

“I fell for the man. Hard.”

Hades bared his teeth. Someone needed to take the fuckin’ piss pistol out of motherfuckin’ Cupid’s hands, hold the little shit down and plant a bullet straight down his pee slit.

“He helped me get you out of here.” Munroe’s hazel eyes met Hades’ gaze.

Hades grunted, pulled on the tight-as-fuck jeans, buttoned them up to the third stud and slipped on the skin-tight shirt.

“Sorry,” Munroe said as Hades growled at the flip-flops. “These are the only pieces of clothing I own I thought might fit you. They don’t make things for big fuckers like you. No offense.”

Hades slapped a flip-flop over the man’s bald head. “Talk about yourself, asshat.”

Of all the Doms at the Bark, Munroe, Hades and Maxus were the tallest, with Hades towering over the two of them at seven-foot-one. He figured they had the same problem he had, having the majority of their clothing made for them, and the fact that Hades was a motherfuckin’ behemoth of muscle didn’t help at all. The T-shirt protested when he flexed his arms.

Munroe moved out of the cell, holding the gym bag’s straps and shoving the briefs into it as he waited.

Hades groaned at hearing the sticky sound of flip-flops resonating with every step, and his motherfuckin’ nuts weren’t happy being squeezed half to death either.

Hades snapped at Munroe; his gaze fixed on the back of the fuck’s head, not caring to look at the guard at the door. “I want a joint and a goddamn STD test, the whole works. Who the fuck knows what shit I picked up in here.”

“Anything else, Your Royal Highness?” Munroe bit back while the guard opened the door for them.

“Yeah, I want a fuckin’ ice cream…no, wait make that ice cream dripping off some sweet motherfuckin’ little’s mouth while he licks it from my cock...or better yet...” A tremor rushed through Hades’ muscles, the magma searing his blood. “I wanna watch ice cream spew out of Scar’s asshole while I pound the fucker into the dirt, into a fuckin’ pulp…”

Hades grasped Munroe by the back of the neck, leaning close to whisper in the man’s ear. “And I want Allan Knight, stuffed, on a platter with garnish and shit, and an apple in his mouth, roasted alive, Deputy Chief.”

Munroe met Hades’ gaze as he turned. “That, my old friend, I will help you do with my own two hands. Gladly.”

The heavy New York clouds loosened their hold, and the rain thrummed down on his skin, disrupting the quiet night. Hades looked into the dark sky, never had the dim night seemed more beautiful. The filthy, smoggy air of NYC never smelled more delicious than it did at that moment.

Scar was going to fuckin’ die, torn to shreds and then some.

He climbed into the silver Mercedes, turning his attention to Munroe. “Who knows I’m out?”

Munroe shook his head. “None of your boys know—thought you would want to keep quiet until you knew what you were going to do.”

Hades ran his hands over his beard, he needed a shave and to motherfuckin’ soak in a tub for the next year and a half.

“Take me to my condo.”

Munroe grasped the steering wheel, the car springing to life, all blue lights and shiny shit sparkling like fuckin’ Knight Rider when the car fuckin’ spoke.

“Good evening, Mr. Munroe, what is your destination for the evening?”

“Fuck me, the NYPD has money to throw around, or is this what you do with the cut I give you each month?”

Munroe chuckled as the automated voice snapped something about improper language use. “Present from Mommy and Daddy.” Munroe pressed some shit on the LED screen, shutting the bitch up. “She doesn’t do well with crude talk.”

Hades huffed, bumping his knee on the dashboard of the small space. The seat gently slid back, giving him more room.

“Hades.” Munroe gazed out of the window, his eyes dark, his face hard, “I know this is none of my business, but…I got intel on Khaiton.”

Hades froze, each muscle going rigid and tight as wrath surged through him. The rage rush from hearing that name had him lusting for Russian blood, balling his fists.

Hades stared at the night traffic through the rain, but he didn’t see it, instead—Khaiton’s head with Hades’ big hands around the man’s cranium, increasing his grip and pressing until it exploded like a fuckin’ under ripe watermelon.

Khaiton was the man behind the Russian cartel, pulling strings and issuing orders. He was the one who wanted to bring the Kages down and out of the way, and turn the delicate balance of power in the States inside out. It wasn’t so much about revenge, or getting even over drug deal gone bad—even though Hades had set it up as a trap to take the Russians out. It was about brotherhood, about loyalty to a man who had become a second father to Hades. To a group of men that had been the only true brothers Hades had ever known.

He closed his eyes, remembering that day fourteen years ago, the day he grew some real motherfuckin’ man hair on his balls. That day, Hades and Cracker had fuckin’ front-row seats watching bodies pop with bullets. Piñatas ripped apart and candy flying everywhere, but it wasn’t motherfuckin’ candy, it was blood and scrap metal, glass and wood, and fuckin’ bone and brain guts, all while Hades had pissed himself under the table. Watched Old Devil Eyes spit his last breath, telling Hades he was passing the fire on to him, making him promise to cut every motherfuckin’ Russian down.

Happy fuckin’ times.

Nineteen goddamn years he’d known Cracker, the old, gray-bearded biker. The man’s bad was all in his fucked-up knuckles. Cracker hadn’t got the nickname because he went off like a firecracker; when the brother was popping them busted-up knuckles, you knew the bastard was starving for blood. No matter if the bones in them had been shattered and were being held together with steel pins, he’d still go at some fucker’s face till there weren’t nothing but brain pulp left. The brother had been with Hades since Old Devil Eyes’ time and had stuck around until Hades went to prison.

Hades didn’t know the current state of his club, whether or not the brothers kept going without him or were waiting for him to take back his throne of bones. And now that the Dragon’s Tongue was out of the picture, they were nothing more than a regular old MC. That fuck-piss was so sad, they didn’t even have their own fuckin’ club house.

Knight had made sure Hades was kept in solitary, preventing him from receiving any visitors. Wendigo was too young to take over and Cracker too old to be dealin’ with that shit, man had a weak heart when it came to stress. It was why Old Devil Eyes never passed the baton on to Cracker.

“I want that intel, and see what you can find on Scar. Last I heard the fucker was cruising along the West Coast working for Ardal, and—”

“Ardal MacNamara is dead, Russians blew the Irish Mob apart.”

Hades grunted. “Guess that fuckin’ Leprechaun luck didn’t go so far.”

“From what we gathered, Khaiton’s cleaning house, picking off the last remaining stragglers of the Dragon, one by one. Cartel by cartel. Hell, the Feds aren’t complaining, Hades. They’re damn glad they don’t have to get their hands dirty. Taking out one is better than taking out all of them.” He shrugged. “Why not have the cartels murder each other?”

“Yeah, piss dead easy, you boys say. Let the dirty fuckers take out their own trash.” Hades turned in his seat and combed his fingers through his greasy hair, “but here’s what you boys ain’t getting. The Russians are made from a different cut of meat, they’re gonna be more trouble than what this bloodbath is worth.”

Hades drummed his fingers on his thighs. He looked down at them, sticky and dirty from cum and blood, the underside of his short-bitten nails, black, disgusting him.

He peered out the windows as a new torrent of rain washed around them. “When the Dragon was in power we made sure the shit we dealt—drugs, whores, money, whatever was done in controlled measure. Give a little here, withhold a little there, get ’em addicted so they come back for it again and again and again. The Russians don’t give a shit. They’re as dumb as dirt. They’ll sell as much as they can, as fast as they can. They don’t think about tomorrow. End of the day, you’re gonna have crack whores and druggies popping out of every fuckin’ hole within five miles of you. Leads to violence, ’cause the Russians aren’t supplying fast enough to the dealers, people will be murdering each other left, right and center, stealing to get their next fix. Body count’ll go up, STD and infection rates will skyrocket, homelessness will quadruple, it’ll be like a fuckin’ virus invasion, screwin’ up our world.”

Hades fixed his gaze on Munroe’s reflection, watching the man’s slow swallow. “We might be the bad guys here, copper, but we’re the good motherfuckers, sí, amigo.”

“Sí.” Munroe gave a short nod. “You still want that ice cream?”

“That would be a fuck yeah, Chief.”





CHAPTER TWO



“The crane majestically spread his wings, arching his neck, beak pointing to the vast sky as he reached the peak of his heavenly dance, but the crane was so captivated by his own grace, he was unaware of the serpent slithering in the grass at his feet.” —Rex Hunter.





Rex Hunter sat on the floor, pressing his right thumb into the arch of his foot, he swiped angrily at the annoying sweat tear trailing down his cheek with his left hand.

For the first time, he didn’t feel eyes on him. She wasn’t here, watching him…them. God, did that shadow love to puff down on his neck like an angry, starving dragon.

He drew a deep breath before letting it out slowly and rolled his neck, the sinew pulled under his flushed skin. His heart was still fiercely pounding against his ribcage from the class, his body steadily on its way to cooling down.

Rex crossed his legs, giving up on his fingers, and wiped the sweat away from his forehead with his shirt, Goose bumps rode his abdomen from the chilly air.

The musky smell of his own damp skin brought forth a pulsing hunger to sniff, lick and bite along the dragon tattooed at the center of Kemono’s hard, hairy chest. It made his mouth water thinking about tracing that ink with his tongue. Tasting the colorful skin coated with sweat, while the colossal alps of flesh heaved under his lips—a chest he’d fantasized about laying his cheek upon too many times—before scraping his teeth up the man’s thick muscled neck. Veins angry and bulging under Rex’s lips, past the dense forest of a black beard and snarling lips, to peer into those cruelest of brown eyes, glazed over in coldhearted fury.

Rex could practically smell the bear’s heavy essence, as strongly as the day he had collided with Kemono. He’d nearly-almost died walking into the brute boy’s warm, solid and damp back. The world had twisted as Rex’s sweater was grasped and pulled tightly, making his undershirt cut into his skin. His feet had lifted several inches off the floor, back firmly pressed against the wall while Kemono had grunted down at him, his hot breath smelling of green tea. Rex had gazed up at the scowling, bellicose face with its flaring bear nostrils, spying heavy brows shadowing brown orbs. Sleek black hair pulled high and tight into a ponytail, exposing the boy’s beefy neck. The memory made Rex shudder. He’d been gently placed on his feet again, coming face to face with pecs bigger than his head, glistening sweat on all parts of his ravishingly exposed and muscular chest. “Sorry,” Rex had whispered, closing his eyes only to be met with the reply of bare feet hitting the hallway floor as the teenager had walked off.

That boy had become nothing more than a coldhearted killer, one Rex wanted to sink his teeth into and devour.

The man, however, terrified him.

Rex could still feel the lustful hunger combined with an earth-shattering fear in his heart when he had kissed Kemono-sama. He’d trembled with that kiss, like a strawberry bleeding, sweet against the rough, tattered cheek and strong, hard lips. His own personal bear, Kim-un Kamuy, his benevolent ararush, who had brutally made love to his mouth. Until Mr. Orochi had found them. In the four years that had followed, Rex had never again spoken to Kemono, only watched the giant man grow bigger and colder than he already was.

And never again did you look at me, Kemono-sama, not even a glimpse.

“Care to share who’s always running around in that head of yours, Rex?” Ariel’s whisper-soft voice fluttered in his left ear.

Rex pursed his lips, unsure what to answer back. He hadn’t thought of Kemono much since he’d left Japan; it was always a bitter memory. He didn’t even know why the man had popped back into his head.

“Sweetie, baby, I get you like boy bits, but this hair of yours...” Rex pulled away as Ariel tried to run her pedicured claws through his mane. “Luscious and silky.” She licked her lips. “Can’t help myself.” She finally managed to snag his hair, combing him like a kitten.

“It’s sweaty, Ariel,” Rex booed, but, oh this feels too good. He leaned into her touch as she scratched his scalp with her nails.

The clap of hands had them both snapping their attention to Mistress Olga, her blue orbs pinning Rex, her star pupil or, for a lack of a better word, her new weapon to regain her honor in the ballet community.

“In three weeks Monsieur Léonce Ritzenthaler will arrive for the auditions of his upcoming ballet, La chute de Lucifer—The Fall of Lucifer.” She pulled her lips tight, her bun fixed like a stone carving on her head as she craned her turtle-like neck out. “I expect nothing less than perfection from each of you. You will hold your head high, and you will do this academy proud…even if your audition results in your failure. You will be polite, you will be kind and you will destroy the competition and leave them in ashes.” Her lips broke into a dark smile, laced with venom. The more dancers who got roles in the ballet, the higher Mistress Olga’s honor would shine.

“Rex, my office,” she snapped, turning and strutting from the studio. Her steps on the polished wood echoed as each and every daggered glare from the other male dancers in the room cut into him. He knew what this was going to result in, another firm lecture from Mistress Olga.

Ritzenthaler hadn’t been impressed by the auditions he’d seen in Paris and London, the eccentric genius of a choreographer was flying here, to New York, to oversee the auditions of male dancers, especially those with red hair.

Rex padded into her office. The back wall adorned with photographs, diplomas and trophies of Mistress Olga’s success, but the one that always pegged Rex’s interest was the one right in the center of that white wall. The one Mistress Olga was staring at, of her when she was younger, maybe twenty-five, in a hospital bed.

“I do not have to remind you how hard both of us have worked for this.” Her tone was dry and deadly, cracking like a whip through the small room. And Rex knew by his bruised toes, the scrapes and discolored blotches his body had received from falling down, slipping, twisting over his own feet. All of them obtained during the countless nights they had both stayed behind to train him in preparation for this audition.

“Nor of the fact that it’s not so much the tale of Lucifer’s fall, but that of a romance between God and his lover.”

Rex grinned. “No, Mistress Olga.”

“Good, I will not have a petty believer hampering his opportunity.” She turned to him. Her pale, stony face going soft scared the crap out of him.

“Do you know why I keep this photo amongst the others?” She pointed to the one she’d been staring at. Rex knew better than to answer. Mistress Olga always answered her own questions. He’d learned this the hard way.

“It is to remind me, that no matter my success, no matter how hard I have worked in this art, in an instant it can be taken away from us. I am grateful for what I once had, and even more grateful to still be a part of this beautiful dance, even if it is only to discipline others. Tell me why this is.”

Rex froze and slowly averted his gaze towards the window. It was late, the New York traffic having given way long ago to that of the city’s busy nightlife. He drew his thoughts inward, careful of what he wanted to share with her, recalling the words once spoken by his adopted father, Mr. Orochi.

“We are not perfect. As humans we are genetically flawed. We will never be perfect, we will always strive for it but must never achieve it. For to be perfect, we lose any reason to better ourselves, to seek knowledge, to understand and grow, to be human. In our imperfections is where our beauty lies. Our soul is but a scarred and sometimes-torn quilt of parts, some knitted in by others and some parts woven back together by ourselves. Our imperfection are what makes us beautifully human. Without our broken parts we will never comprehend affection, love, hate, anger. Or…”

Rex looked up into her eyes, a sheen in her gaze, “failure, nor will we ever recognize in our defeat we actually succeeded by understanding ourselves better. No matter how hard you fall or in how many pieces you will break, it is our human nature to pick ourselves up and overcome, but never to be perfect.”

A long silence stretched between them. Rex knew those words as a sentiment of self-reflection, Uroboros. Not many people understood what it meant, even those that had experienced it might have never fully understood it for what it is. But it was also a personal choice, as his former ballet instructor, Mr. Garrigues, once said, “The ugly duckling can become a beautiful swan, or a majestic Phoenix that rises from its ashes. It’s you making yourself sit in that pile of ash, and it’s only you that can regain your feathers and come back all fierce like Cher.”

That statement made a lot more sense to Rex.

“You are so young, child, and yet so wise to perceive life like this. But you also know what this can mean for you.” Her gaze narrowed, gone was the soft expression, now overcome with a look of solemnity. “Life isn’t about second chances or missed opportunities. You make do with what you have, and if you want to better yourself and rise from your surroundings, you tear at your opportunity with everything you have, because there will always, always be others fighting as hard for it as you.”

And there would be. Ritzenthaler was one, if not the best choreographer in the world. Candidates would flood from all corners of the country to New York to get a shot at a part. If Rex could secure a spot, it would give him his first break, fulfilling his dream of becoming a danseur principal.

Mistress Olga folded her arms across her chest. “I have faith in you, Rex, and I know you can do this. Yes, your talent is raw, but for this particular ballet, for the role of Lucifer, this is exactly what Léonce is looking for.”

They were momentarily silenced by the sound of the dancers letting themselves out of the studio, the chatter of voices muting as they wound down the stairs.

“Ritzenthaler is a good friend of mine, and he is going to be keeping an eye out for you, so...” She licked her lips and fixed him to the spot with a hard gaze. “Don’t fuck it up.”

Yes, Mamma Ru. Rex doubted if Mistress Olga would even catch the reference. He nodded, keeping his thoughts to himself as he left the office.

He picked up his ballet slippers from where he’d left them on the studio floor and shoved them into his leather gym bag. Slipped on his sweatpants and Jika-Tabi boots and covered up in a hoodie, scarf and overcoat. He hissed as he pressed forward—knew it was going to happen—the damn tights had given him bum rash once again. It was going to be a bitch to bear getting home before he could pamper the irritated skin.

Leaving the building, he glimpsed Ariel engaged in conversation with another dancer. He shouted his good-bye to her and moved on towards the bus stop. The ride was indeed a bitch of stinging and burning, but it was partly his own fault. He had come back from a double shift as a waiter at the rustic health food restaurant, and growled at the unclean tights, deciding to put them on anyway. At least his dance belt was clean.

He needed to start owning up to his chores. He’d lived on his own for four years now.

The morning of his eighteenth birthday, two men had entered his room, ordering him to leave the temple. He’d been handed an envelope with a passport, a plane ticket and a letter from Mr. Orochi, stating that his guardianship had come to an end, and Rex was no longer his responsibility. The man who had stood, posed, as his father and mentor for twelve years had thrown him out.

The goons had taken him to the Tokyo International Airport and left him there to get on his flight to the States.

In a matter of fifteen hours, Rex had been alone in a country he hadn’t seen since he was six. And he’d been angry. Angry at his dad for leaving him, at Mr. Orochi for abandoning him and at Kemono for making Rex’s heart ache with a single kiss, and tormented that he never would be able to express his heart to Kemono. But I was also heartbroken, because you never said good-bye to me, Kemono-sama.

Rex glared out of the bus’s window, cross and bitter the moment it slipped from his left eye, wet and warm, rolling down his cheek. Why did the last part of the memory have to hurt so much? It was over, barely even happened. He stole the tear away before it dripped from his chin.

Why, Kemono, do you still come back to haunt me?

Rex shook his head; he was being ridiculous.

Mr. Orochi hadn’t completely abandoned him. Along with the envelope was also documentation regarding a trust fund in his name left by his father as well as several hundred-dollar bills. It wasn’t much, but had sustained him for a year in his first apartment, until he couldn’t afford it any longer. Then Mr. Sean found him, the old biker still remembered him, even though Rex could only vaguely recall memories of the time the man had spent with Rex’s father.

The little he could remember of his father was that he’d been a dangerous individual. They might not have had a lot growing up, but from the instances he could still recall of the biker with his wild red hair and deadly red beard, he knew his father had loved him. Okay, what he mostly remembered was the constant prickle of beard while in the embrace of his father’s big arms, and the frightening men he used to hang out with more than anything else. But to a six-year-old Rex that was love. It was the image he’d clung to when Mr. Orochi had shown up and taken him away to a strange but beautiful country where he’d met a cold fourteen-year-old boy named Kemono.

Rex sighed, pulled his hood back and ran his fingers through his hair.

“You won’t stop will you, big guy?” he whispered, making his way from the bus stop, across the street, to the apartment complex.

The six story building was luxurious, to say the least. His neighbors mostly kept to themselves, and the apartment Mr. Sean had offered Rex came complete with everything he needed. The problem was that old habits do die hard. Living under the Dragon’s Tongue, was living like royalty, all his needs were taken care of.

His complete laziness was his own undoing and the reward, dirty tights and ending up with a rash. Yeah, okay, he sighed, he was under stress for the upcoming audition, but it was no excuse for slothfulness. He was strict in every other aspect of his life, so why couldn’t he handle the laundry? He pushed his spinning thoughts aside, and rolled his shoulders, trying to release the built-up pressure.

He climbed the steps to the entrance, careful not to slip on the ice, and huffed when he saw the notice that the lifts were out of order. The winter cold crept in through his sweatpants and made his tired muscles ache. He trudged up the steps to the fifth floor and froze, shaking his head, a blush stained his cheeks, burning hot under the skin. It remained a mystery to Rex why, out of all the things Greg and Jonathan could do in public they had to make out in the hallway, dry humping each other. They had their entire condo to do their business in.

“Hi, little strawberry, wanna join?” Jonathan asked, lips red and plump from Greg’s mouth.

The request made Rex blush down to his toes, the two must have been high—they didn’t usually pay him any attention. Why would they? With orange freckles splattered over his face and dark-maroon hair adorned with neon-carrot stripes…no one liked a ginger anyway. He was a little nothing, literally a five-foot no inches, twenty-two-year-old pipsqueak. Okay. Five-foot-three.

With delicately practiced steps as soft as cat paws, Rex placed one foot in front of the other. He kept his gaze down, watching the two figures going at each other’s mouths like zombie hyenas out of the corner of his eye. It didn’t help that Greg had his hand down Jonathan’s sweats, mostly likely wrapped around the guy’s cock and stroking him off.

Rex took a deep breath. Not even the sweaty, annoying tights giving him a wedgie and bum rash were going to stop him from getting to the safety of the condo, regardless of his hard and throbbing boner. His heart pummeled in his small chest, his short fingers flexing nervously at the loud groans the two made as he passed them.

“Sorry,” Rex whispered, knowing his voice couldn’t carry the word far enough to reach their ears. He continued to the condo’s door, bending down, hissing as the nylon rubbed against his crack and picked up Bacon’s empty water dish. It was still a godonlyknew enigma how the cat managed to sneak out of a locked apartment.

His fingers trembled as he tried to slide the key into the slot. Rex let out a relieved huff when he succeeded and quietly closed the door behind him. He reached back and turned the lock in place.

It wasn’t that he was scared or that the offer wasn’t tempting, it was tempting… Rex didn’t want his first time to be with two random strangers. Okay, so they weren’t complete strangers and, yes, he was fucking terrified. But he wanted his first time with someone to mean more than lust… God, you’re an idiot, you know that! Life isn’t some fairy-tale hoo-ha romance.

Rex knew that, but still he was a hopeless romantic, wanting that dark ravenous warrior to sweep him off his feet and teach him the difference between fucking a guy and making love to a man.

Bacon’s loud meow drew Rex out of his brooding. “Hi, little beastie,” he whispered to the furball rubbing against his legs. He crouched, plucked the cat up and walked to the kitchen counter. He switched on the kettle while he opened a can of cat food, mixed it with some dry kibble and placed it down for Bacon. The little bastard attacked the bowl, sending bits of food scattering in every direction over his domain, better known as Bacon’s condo. The ginger cat wasn’t underfed—on the contrary, he got better food than his master—he was a greedy eater. Rex would clean up the scattered remains of Bacon’s dinner later.

He still didn’t know whose condo he was staying in. Mr. Sean’s only condition was that the place needed to be kept tidy. And it was—except when it came to laundry.

Rex poured the boiled water over some ramen noodle mix and let it sit. Mistress Olga was going to kill him. She had designed a strict nutrition plan for Rex to work with and he kept to it, when he could afford to, unless it came to cupcakes. Those were his devil’s chocolate.

He pulled off the sweatpants along with his sweaty tights and Jika-Tabi boots in one go, hissing when the cool air hit the bum rash. He was in serious need of a couple of new pairs of tights, but his job as waiter didn’t provide for that—winter was never a good time for tips. His chest pulled tight at the thought of paying rent, glad he didn’t have to worry about it or he’d be forced to dig into his trust fund. The money he still had left would secure his payments for the next three years at the dance studio. He couldn’t use it for anything else and rob himself of his dream, not even with the possibility of Ritzenthaler picking him for danseur principal.

He picked up the bowl of steaming soup and went to sit on the living room floor, pillow tucked under his sore butt.

To once have been given everything he could wish for with a simple request and now have almost nothing, stung. It was a small taste of Mr. Orochi’s cruelty. A cold malice that the man had poisoned his own son with.

He knew what the Dragon’s Tongue was, and he knew what they did. It might have never been discussed with him but Rex was not ignorant of the dark criminal organization with far more power than any government could ever dream of. They were not the only ones; numerous times, men from Europe had sat in consultations with Mr. Orochi. As far as Rex could decipher, there were three major players in the world, each with their own international dominating agenda. He knew that the Dragon operated the criminal world, another controlled the religious sector, and then there was the unknown third party he never could figure out. Controlled chaos was what the secret organizations represented. And that brought a hard-crashing realization to his chest. Kemono was the one to follow in Mr. Orochi’s stead, his successor, all those hours training outside in the sun, rain or snow, sitting in on meetings, coming back with bruises, or a new irezumi... Mr. Orochi was preparing Kemono for his role as the new Dragon, and in the process, killing the gentle man Rex had glimpsed slipping past Kemono’s dark and cold demeanor. He knew why Kemono-sama had been on his mind so much.

Rex missed him.

Watching him train outside, muscles bulging and flexing, dark-brown eyes stormy with determination. The indents of his cheeks as he clenched his jaw. His closely shaven head, the hairs so short one could see the skin on his scalp. The ugly scars that covered his back—punishment for Rex kissing him—slowly being covered in ink over the years. And the rich fur on his chest. He missed the man’s deep voice. His strong, powerful strides, the way he would gracefully drink tea, holding the small teacup in those large hands, and the sound of his snoring when Rex had passed his room at night.

But more so than Kemono’s cruel mien, Rex missed knowing Kemono-sama was near, for why would one feel danger when that which you fear most, would also protect you.

He was still lusting over the massive brute, stuffing cold noodles into his mouth with the chopsticks when tiny, sharp teeth nipped at his hand. Bacon rolled onto his back, giving Rex his white furred belly, hanging paws, flattened ears, big-eyed pout.

He bit his lip, a smile spreading as he took Bacon in. He ran a finger over the cat’s belly. “Sorry, little beastie, Daddy’s gotta take care of the evil bum rash. Be a fierce lion and guard the door, okay?” Rex gave the cat another rub, making Bacon squirm out from under his fingers and dash down the hallway. He placed the bowl on the marble countertop in the kitchen and trotted to the bathroom, hissing as his butt cheeks rubbed together.

After a shower, he took some baby cream and smeared it between his ass-cheeks, coated it with a handful of baby powder and growled at the tower of laundry in the massive bathtub, mocking him. There was no use in putting it off, if he didn’t want the rash to get worse he needed to get it done. He pulled out his toothbrush and spread a generous amount of paste to clean his mouth, cringed and waited as he gargled, for Bacon to come and dig his claws into one of Rex’s calves—the feline despised the sound.

Rex moved into the bedroom. The four—poster bed of dark wood spoke of its owner. It was something out of a Bram Stoker novel, from Dracula’s bedroom. Gothic, with evil-looking skulls engraved on its posts and headboard, but the mattress and bedding was an old lover hugging him tightly. Literally, he would wake up finding himself entangled in the white sheets.

He reached for the teddy bear he used for a pillow. The light black fur had long gone a shade of dirty and since he’d tried to wash it, it looked more like soft fringed barbwire. The poor thing was hugged half to death, totally flat, and missing one eye. But the bear reminded him of Kemono. Rex closed his eyes as his memories sucked him in.

It was a spring night, the scent of cherry blossoms blooming, heavy in the air. For some reason he couldn’t sleep. There was a magnetic force drawing him out of his washitsu.

He ventured into the garden, a place of beauty but mostly tranquility and peace. The flowing water spilling from the dragon’s mouth in the Shinto shrine splashed gently into the pool, creating a soft melody soothing to his ears.

Rex sat on the steps, breathing in the night air. For such a dark overlord of an organization, the Dragon’s Tongue HQ always seemed quiet and calm.

A scent ghosted in the air, a sharp sting in Rex’s nose as he smelled the whiff of kizami tobacco being smoked. Wherever he would be, Kemono-sama would follow, and wherever Kemono would be, Rex would follow. It was one of the distinct smells he had come to associate with Kemono. His heart hammered, Mr. Orochi was away from the temple, Rex hadn’t seen him in two weeks, and he knew earlier in the day that Kemono had returned from whatever job he’d been sent to do.

Rex had caught a glimpse of him with a bruised lipped and blackened eye, drinking shōchū straight from the bottle with other members of his zuiin, while Rex had trotted to his washitsu.

Now, hours later he spied Kemono-sama most likely drunk, perched with his elbows on a railing, sucking on a kiseru. Gray smoke danced off the chamber of the pipe’s silver shank.

The high glow to his rosy cheeks in the moonlight set a hard contrast against the man’s stony, handsome face, the bloody lip raw and swollen. Rex watched in fascination as Kemono straightened and ran his hand down his exposed chest, fingers combing through the long strands of body hair blatantly peeking out from the untied, white yukata hanging from his shoulders, fully displaying the tented fundoshi below.

Rex swallowed, his own dick flushed with blood. He watched Kemono’s big hand snake into his fundoshi, the bear growling angrily as he fisted his cock. The sound resonated in Rex’s blood, causing his heart to pound fast and loud, attempting to snap bone.

He knelt at the pillar of the shrine, knowing darkness concealed him from Kemono’s eyes. He wanted to believe Kemono-sama was aware that Rex watched him.

Rex panted softly, his face hot, breath warm and moist over his lips as he palmed his cock under his yukata. His garment shorter than the one Kemono wore, extending down to above Rex’s knees, allowing him easy access to his cock.

A grumble made him hold his breath as Kemono’s tree trunk-thick forearms contracted, pulling tight and displaying his muscles. His massive thighs looked as solid as stone.

The man’s body gleamed in the pale light, colossal triceps flexing, muscles and sinew pulling taut as his fist tightened its death hold in his fundoshi. Kemono ran a hand up over his hairy abs to pull the pipe from his mouth, back arched as he spread his legs to give him longer stroking movements.

Rex forced himself to breathe, gasping as Kemono exposed his cock, fat and thick. The large head snaked out from the colorfully inked foreskin. Like a dragon’s tongue, the mushroom head was covered in dark pigmented ink. If the hair on Kemono’s chest could be considered a forest, the bear’s pubes were a dense Amazon, all wild and black, with two tattooed balls looking heavy and painfully full.

Rex burned with a hungry flaming serpent, spitting and hissing in his gut, itching to creep closer, an invisible icy hand holding him back around his neck.

He wanted to be there, between Kemono-sama’s thighs, sniffing the bear’s sac, kissing his beautiful shaft, worshipping him. Wanted it to be his hair being pulled out by the barbarous grip around the man’s cock, his lips sore and swollen from sucking Kemono off. He wanted to be owned and used by the bear for pleasure, to be violated by his Kim-un Kamuy. Wanted things that would label him a disgusting deviant, because Rex was sure most gay men didn’t want another man’s piss inside their hole or mouth, marking them as their property. And he wanted to taste Kemono’s. Wanted the man to stretch him with that colorful cock and breed him till Rex wanted to die.

But most of all, the strongest desire of them all, fiercely clawing at Rex’s soul, he wanted to be Kemono’s tokui, his earthly heaven, and his golden sky.

Because Kemono-sama is my pride.

Rex own palm sped up, his fingers running over his dick, his legs cramping from the position he was in, but he refused to move and miss a single glimpse of the jutsu playing out in front of him.

Rex observed Kemono’s thick fingers dance, pumping his cock, conscious of the spittle running down and dripping from his own chin, the display in front of him a never-before-seen fantasy.

He growled as his cock pulsed, his balls drawing tight and ass clenched while violent jets burst forth, coating his fingers in hot sticky semen. His growl was drowned out by Kemono’s roar rumbling from his chest as white streams spewed from his shaft.

Rex watched the bear stand upright, and make his way towards his own sleeping chamber, not even drunk did Kemono sway, his strut heavy on the wooden planks. He paused midway, glowering over his shoulder, sneering and showing his teeth while he removed his yukata, revealing the colorful art on his back, running down his butt and ending above his ankles.

Not knowing that was the last time Rex would see him. Kemono had left the following morning on another ‘trip’ to Europe, and Rex forced back home three days later.

Rex huffed in defeat into the teddy bear’s belly, trying his hardest not to give into the torment in his chest.

America didn’t feel like home. The city couldn’t offer the vast beauty of watching Fujiyama slumber, her coned peak covered in snow.

That captivating image always give Rex hope—no matter how abysmal the darkness there was always a dusting of purity to go with it. It also represented a shadow watching over the world, a slumbering dragon, the volcano could stir and spew chaos. It was in Japan that Rex had fallen in love with dancing, watching a simple Kabuki theater performance, only to discover all the actors were men, including those playing the female roles. He’d been fascinated by their dance, their way of storytelling, the makeup, costumes and props throughout the play, the fact one actor could play numerous roles in one show or sometimes in a single scene.

He had persuaded Mr. Orochi to let him take lessons. It wasn’t often that he spoke to Rex and, regardless of how cruel the man was, there was always wisdom to be learned when sitting in counsel with him.

“It’s not how the mountain trembles under one’s feet, but how steady one stands while the mountain trembles.”

Rex wasn’t sure what his foster father had meant, but Mr. Orochi had taken him, personally, to a dance academy and suggested Rex take up a form of dance. It was on that day when he had looked up at the man with the scarred mouth and pled with tears in his eyes to pursue a career in ballet.

And it was the first and last time Rex had seen Mr. Orochi smile.

No, America wasn’t his home, hadn’t been for a long time. He didn’t have his Sensei to train him and work out his frustrations, nor did he have Mr. Garrigues to drink tea with after a ballet class, or have Miki-san to fuss at him for not picking up his dirty laundry. Yes, his life in the Dragon’s temple might have been a lonely one, but it was home because his pride resided there. Because there he could still glimpse the coldhearted man who always watched him dance.

Rex knew why the carnal force was ripping him slowly apart, he didn’t only miss Kemono-sama, he longed for him, yearned for his pride.

Rex loved him.





CHAPTER THREE



“I broke him, day by day, piece by piece, I stole from him and tore that boy apart.”

—Breno Hades el Oscuro.





Hades stomped up the steps with tired legs, barefoot, having thrown the flip-flops out of Munroe’s car’s window at some homeless kid. His muscles tensed as his chest rumbled. It wasn’t motherfuckin’ enough he’d had to argue with a shit-faced guard that he lived here, but that the fuckin’ elevator was out of motherfuckin’ order. Sí, he was angry as fuck. At least he wasn’t tempted to wring the fucker’s neck when he slapped the plastic bag down on the counter to retrieve his ratty-looking ID and confirm he was the owner of one of the apartments on the fifth floor.

The man had jumped back at seeing the nipple rings, cock PA and Hades’ piece in the plastic bag. Hades bared his stained teeth at the guard and growled. Seeing that shit in the bag pissed him off, reminded him that he needed to get his nipples re-pierced and start with his PA all over again as the hole in his cock had shrunk.

And I still hadn’t gotten my motherfuckin’ ice cream!

He dragged his exhausted frame towards his condo door. He was spent, wanted to feel soft sheets under his fuckin’ aching skin, but first he was gonna soak in his tub with a motherfuckin’ beer while smoking a fuckin’ joint.

Hades slid his key into the lock and turned the knob, pushing it open, the warm smell of an obviously not closed-up apartment hit him in the face, along with the aroma of soup that sent his stomach into an angry rumble.

He clenched his fists. Another fucker had been using his condo while he’d rotted in prison. But only Cracker had a set of keys to the place, to let the cleaning lady in to dust off occasionally. Hades trusted her to open the windows so the place wouldn’t smell like a dead piñata buried six feet under. Maybe she’d been here, made herself some soup—which Hades wouldn’t have minded. Salome was a sweet little old Spanish mamacita, fierce too—and the aroma still clung to the place. Besides, Cracker wouldn’t be living in here, the man and his old lady both didn’t like the cushy life.

He took one step, planting his big foot onto the rustic wood floors and cringed in pain from the sharp sting biting into his foot’s arch. He bounced on one leg, balancing the six-pack, trying not to slam it against the wall, along with the take-out paella, and his belongings in the plastic bag in his left hand.

He rubbed the bottom of his foot on the leg of the nut-crushing jeans, listening to the small piece of hell roll off into the darkness and spun to shut the door.

Hades placed the beer on the counter along with his dinner and other shit. He pulled off the damp shirt and flung the material down on the floor. Not even bothering with the buttons on the jeans, he yanked them off and threw them in the direction of the trash can.

Fuck, he loved being naked, especially in the confines of his own home.

Hades strode into the kitchen and switched on the lights.

“The fuck,” he grunted, peering at the white bowl with chopsticks placed over its mouth. The empty container of ramen noodles next to the kettle, the endless stacks of cat food cans. His gaze traveled the length of the kitchen’s floor. He snarled at the heap of...what fuck is this shit?

He bent over, picking it up, it looked like a woman’s goddamn pantyhose and a thong-amabob. He clenched his fist, balling the material between his fingers, sure if the stuff had blood it would come popping out. If Wendigo was here, fuckin’ some pussy...

Hades froze and peered down as a sweet, sweaty smell drifted from the tights, that was even a couple of days ripe.

It fuckin’ couldn’t be, no shit.

He dropped the clothing to the floor, his hasty steps down the hallway resonating through him as his heart pounded.

He knew that smell, the distinct aroma of a young kid barely old enough to smell like a man, that smell that made him bare his teeth, boil his belly and did crazy shit to his cock, wanting to mark smooth beautiful skin with bite marks.

He stepped into his bedroom, its curtains left open, silver moonlight spilling in and casting the dark room in a soft hue. His gaze darted to the tangled mess on the bed. A pale short leg stuck out from under the covers, attached to a solid thigh of small defined muscles and the most delicious sight Hades hadn’t seen in a fuckin’ long time.

Ass!

“Beo?” he whispered, his brain spinning, blood hot as it pumped under his skin.

But those weren’t dark hairs covering the pale flesh, laying in offering to him. He stalked closer, swallowing hard—light, furry and soft looking motherfuckin’ ginger fluff glistened in the light, covering a small creamy white ass in his motherfuckin’ bed.

Hades roared a violent sound as he grasped the duvet and jerked it off. The sight stopped him dead in his tracks. An elfin hellfire rolled onto its stomach, hugging a teddy bear. Skin stretching over beautifully chiseled back muscles, the little knobs of his spine showed prominently, needing the attention of Hades’ lips. His gaze drifted lower, his mouth dry as his glower came to his motherfuckin’ death—dimples of Venus—followed by his second death, a fuzzy, tight, soft cream of heaven he wanted to sink into.

The kid moved sleepily, turned and sat up, dark vermilion hair looking all anarchic and cute on his head. Then the small fuck had to palm his little boner between his legs with one hand while wiping his eyes with the other.

The hellfire looked up, throat working overtime as his perturbed gaze swept over Hades. The petardito gasped and bolted off the bed, cock bobbing between his legs while his small muscled body flexed as he scurried to get away from Hades.

Hades grunted as he rounded the bed, grasping the shit on the forearm, pulling the boy right against him. The small frame shivered as the niño brushed against his skin.

Bad idea. Bad motherfuckin’ idea.

You didn’t let a sex-deprived animal loose to find a pretty little thing, all cute and shit, curled up in his bed, then yank the goddamn kid against your naked body.

That soft touch of flesh ghosting flesh, ripped a shudder down Hades’ muscles, and was asking for motherfuckin’ rape, right the fuck there.

It had been too long since he had such a gentle touch of soft against his skin, fuck any intimacy for that matter. And that desire clawed in Hades’ heart.

His dick went fuckin’ crazy happy, all rugged hard, pulsing with hunger and evilly spewing pre-cum against the kid’s warm, tight belly. And it didn’t motherfuckin’ help the little spitfire’s case with the boy’s cock pressing against Hades’ leg. Not one fuckin’ bit.

Jesus, he clenched his teeth, he needed to stay fuckin’ angry or shit was gonna happen big time. There were two things Hades had vowed to himself he would never to do, no matter what the situation called for. He didn’t mind killing fuckers; ripping them apart or torturing them and scraping their innards out. Hell, he had drenched a man with acid, watched the fucker melt alive, and laughed as the dick screamed.

He would never, fuck never, lay a finger on an innocent child. He couldn’t, wouldn’t do that shit. He’d rather stab needles into his balls than hurt a juvenile.

But rape, with his current state of sexual famine, he was fuckin’ dangerously close to breaking that rule.

He pushed the kid against the wall, grunting as his chest heaved, cock still spewing and dripping juice, damn aching now too. He pinned the hellfire with a hand over his breast—another stupid fucked-up idea—the flesh radiating under his palm, and so goddamn soft, but solid, the kid’s heart pulsing under Hades’ hand when his finger brushed over the boy’s taut nipple.

Hades didn’t know if he wanted to fuck the niño or slather him against the wall with his cock, the first, Sí, definitely the first, Dios, fuck, make that both!

“P-please, take whatever you want.” That voice, scared, hoarse, fuckin’ terrified, ripped Hades a new one.

He flashed his teeth, surprised the little thing didn’t flinch and drop dead at Hades’ toxic breath. The boy was too rooted in fear.

“Who the fuck are you?” Hades growled, narrowed his eyes and leaned over to meet the kid’s gaze.

His sight was becoming more accustomed to the low light in the room, and the freckles on the firecracker’s face were not a good thing for Hades, made him want to play connect the fuckin’ dots with his cum on that sweet fuckin’ flesh.

Sí, he was horny like a bitch in heat, he only needed to start panting.

“Mr-Mr. Sean said I could stay here,” the boy rushed out.

Hades flared his nostrils as the sweet breath of minty toothpaste, and the smell of vanilla clinging to the hellfire’s skin reached his nose.

He drove his fist into wall hard. The spike of pain sliced up his arm, tremors causing him to pull his hand back from the boy’s chest. The poor thing slid down the wall onto the floor. Hades probably scared the piss out of the kid too.

He needed the fuckin’ pain to remind him of his goddamn place when he’d glimpsed the boy’s pink lips, not surprised that he’d been licking his own and moving closer to devour that small succulent mouth.

Shit! With the niño on the floor, he had a nice front-row view of Hades’ motherfuckin’ penis. That image wasn’t something Hades needed in his brain, not the fuck now.

Hades spun fast and marched out of the room, back into the kitchen, his nuts screaming hell-fuckin’ damnation while his heavy cock made long, hard bobs, slapping on his thigh and stomach. He needed to take care of this shit or it was going to be his fuckin’ end.

But Hades wasn’t sure what this shit was, if it was the boy in his bedroom or the fuckin’ fire in his groin. One he could definitely relieve with the other.

He fished for his phone from the Ziplock bag.

Hades snarled, slamming the dead-as-shit phone on the counter, watching it shatter to pieces.

He stomped back to the bedroom, seeking the little shit, finding him under the nightstand, knees pulled close to his chest, head down, hugging himself.

“Gimme your fuckin’ phone, little boy!” Hades barked, slamming his palm on top of the table. The poor thing bolted like a cat streaking a shit line.

Hades followed him with his gaze, watched as the firecracker grasped the lamp that stood in the corner and raised it, ready to defend himself.

“Please... I don’t want any trou—”

Hades snatched the lamp from the brave little fucker’s trembling hands, tossing it to crash against the wall. He was so over this shit, he grasped the boy by the shoulder, hauled him to the bed and pushed him down.

“Stay,” Hades growled, completely aware that he was still fuckin’ naked with a cock hard enough to cut diamonds. “Where’s your phone?” Hades asked, turning away from the kid, in a calmer voice.

“O-on the nightstand, sir,” the pelirrojo squeaked.

Hades grabbed the little fuck’s phone and left the room.

He dialed Cracker’s number out of memory on his way to the front of the condo, waiting, his anger building as the rings passed his ears.

“’eh…it’s middle of the night, you better have a good reason for wakin’ me, Rex.”

“Good to hear you’re still fuckin’ kicking, motherfucker!”

“P-Prez… Prez, is that—damn, Prez.” The brother’s voice broke, going all thick on the other end of the phone.

“Shut the fuck up!” Hades barked into the speaker. “Mind telling me why there’s a sweet-as-fuck ginger chico, naked in my fuckin’ bed...? Is this some consolation prize or some shit for surviving four years in the box? ’Cause fuck me.” Hades palmed his cock, growling when his hand came away sticky, and licked his Daddy juice off his palm.

Sí, stuff still tastes the same. Pity none of the littles love my papi jizz.

“Prez, listen, I’m sorry…” The voice went silent, only for Hades to hear the old man groaning, the sound of rustling sheets in the background, and, “Sugar, where’er ’em boots of mine, eh?”

Hades had to grin, sounded like Cracker was still treating his old lady with all the respect in the world.

“It’s my fault,” the old man was back, “I’ll be there in an hour.”

Hades balled his fist, cringing internally. “You can’t explain this shit to me over the phone, dumbass? And an hour, you’re pissing me right? That boy won’t be whole if you leave me here alone with him for the next hour.” Hades snarled with the hungry lust in his gut.

“Prez, please, this ain’t no secure line, eh. I’ll explain everythin’ when I get to ya.”

“Make it fuckin’ quick, I’m gonna soak in my tub,” Hades raised his voice, making sure the kid could hear him too, “and you better tell fireball to put on some motherfuckin’ goddamn clothes! A man can only take so much before I give in and ravish that creamy ass of his.”

“Thanks, Prez. Thank you.”





Hades sunk his tired body into the tub, his skin stinging with joy as the warm water swallowed his frame.

Dios, this made him a happy man, and the world a safer place.

He closed his eyes, resting his head against the wall. He loved this fuckin’ tub, custom built, it was deep and big enough to support at least two people of his size and length. He didn’t care what a badass biker he was, or how motherfuckin’ scary he seemed, he went and became a downright giddy four-year-old when it came to his tub time.

“Missed you, baby,” he petted the tub’s rim.

Hades peered down at his cock, not surprised at the purple bruise on the dark-pigmented skin around the base. His dick didn’t look too cheerful about not getting the happy either. Semi-hard, the bastard hid behind his foreskin.

“Suck it up, fucker, I’ll take care of you later.”

He grasped for his beer, only to be reminded he hadn’t brought it with him. After the phone call he’d stormed into the bathroom to fill the tub, except that it was full of laundry. Hades had hauled that shit out onto the hallway floor, growling and stomping to show how pissed-off he was.

But Cracker wouldn’t have put the niño up in Hades’ condo if he didn’t have a fuckin’ good reason for it.

Hades clenched his jaw. The poor kid was still in the bedroom, not making a fuckin’ peep, and Hades couldn’t blame him. The way he had treated the hellfire after the boy had woken up, with a giant ’roid-infested muscle-freak looming naked over him, must have scared the little thing’s soul straight to Hell.

There was no hope for Hades, he knew that, it not only took a special person to accept him along with his dark lifestyle, but to find Hades attractive was another fuckin’ issue.

Growing up, Hades had known he was as ugly as the slime that crawled out of sewage, no one had spared him a second glance, not in admiration for attractiveness anyway. It had always been a display of disgust, yet now it was out of fear or feeling threatened by his demeanor and outer shell.

He knew he most probably had image issues, and no one fuckin’ cares.

Hades swallowed, his chest constricted tightly. This was the goddamn reason he was so bent up and spent, licking his wounds over Beo.

Beo had a gift of seeing through people, straight into their motherfuckin’ hearts, right past all the ugly carnage and scars.

Beo had accepted Hades for whom Hades was, what he looked like—all the fugly included. And still he’d wanted, begged Daddy Hades to press his dick inside that sweet pink butt hole of his.

Most men, past lovers, rent boys—fuck, whatever—either did it with him while they were so drunk that they didn’t care or—Hades bit his lips and closed his eyes—those were the only times he got any. Before and after Beo. Yeah, he’d fucked Beo while the kid had been drunk but it wasn’t the motherfuckin’ same. There is no kiss that could turn this ugly monster into a fuckin’ prince.

The King lived a lonely life, and that realization hurt.

No other man had touch him the way Beo had, touched him like it mattered, kissed him as if he wanted Hades beyond lust or alcohol-induced desire and told him he found Hades attractive. And he’d never had the type of burning fire ignite inside him the way it had that night, when Beo moaned as Hades stretched and filled him.

That’s why he loved Beo, because a little shit virgin-boy had shown Hades that even a man like him could be touched, kissed and made love to like nothing else in the world fuckin’ mattered. That there was more than a rough fuck, snarls and grunts, kissing instead of biting kind of sex. And Beo had shown that to Hades, had allowed Hades to fuck the way he had always wanted to make love. Hades had tasted that beautiful thing once, and he had yet to experience it since, and in his case, he doubted he would ever again.

A kid like Beo stepped into person’s life once.

So, yeah, the badass motherfuckin’ King’s favorite whore was his palm and five fingers.

Fuck you, having a pity party without alcohol, H. That shit ain’t fuckin’ right and downright sad.

“Kid!” Hades called out. “Bring me a beer and the Ziplock bag on the kitchen counter, and stuff your fuckin’ dirty laundry in the goddamn laundry basket.” Hades grumbled. He sent up a silent prayer that the boy had gotten over his shock and would put some goddamn clothes on. He held his breath as quiet steps moved down the hall, followed by the sound of something heavy being placed on the wooden floor.

Hades waited, drumming his fingers on the tub’s edge as a frown cut over his face. He was never one for patience unless it, for some fucked-up reason, involved a little.

As strong and hard as Hades lived a twisted dark and brutal life, that nurturing instinct in him had fought as fiercely for dominance inside his soul. He hadn’t understood the desire, didn’t have a name for it until Max had introduced him to the aspect of the BDSM life known as the world of Daddy and Mommy Doms and their littles. At the first mention of it, Hades freaked the fuck out, he was no fuckin’ pedophile.

Max understood. He’d made Hades see that nurturing instinct, so long a part of him, for what it truly was.

He didn’t want a sub or slave he could dominate, he didn’t need that; being who Hades was gave him that without having to whip or discipline people in and outside of the lifestyle.

“It’s not pedophilia or age play, Hades,” Max had said to him, reclining in a leather chair with a leather harness over his chest while his sub sucked him off.

Hades was acquainted with Max, not through his association as a member of The Bark, but through the Dragon’s Tongue. Max Donovan was the M53’s mandamás —he ruled the African-American gangs under the Dragon’s order.

“Nor is it domestic discipline,” Hades had heard him say, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Max had been sitting there having a conversation with him and a mouth deep throating the man’s cock.

“Let me ask you this, about the desire you spoke of. You want someone that craves attention, almost like an attention whore, but along with that, affection. Someone you can hold tight, nurture and protect, someone who will always run to you even if it’s about something as stupid as bumping their toe, and you want to kiss that boo-boo better. You want to be this person’s sanctuary, their primary protector whether it be from physical or mental harm, and I’ll go as far as to say you want to tuck them in at night, wrap them in your arms and cuddle the shit out of them, spoil them fucking rotten too.” Max had shifted, not looking as in control when he’d laid a hand on the woman’s blonde hair. “Gentle, pet,” he had said in a calm tone before addressing Hades again.

“To you, it is not about training the person to mold and fold to your desires and sexual needs, but more to nurture their inner innocence, their inner little. You want this person to be the best that they can be, not through domination, but through believing in themselves, seeing things in them that they themselves struggle to understand. You want to be kind to this person, gentle with them, to be their entire fucking world.”

Hades had bitten his lip. Max had been so right that Hades hadn’t known if he should’ve got the fuck out of Dodge or jumped the fuck up and down.

“However,” Max’s voice had harbored a dark undertone; Hades had known what was to follow. “That does not mean you can’t be strict when it’s called for. And this brings me to the hardest part.”

The man had pursed his lips, jaw pulling tight, his hand in the sub’s hair forming a fist. “Ah, Jesus, pet.” Max had looked down, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. “Clean it for Sir.”

“You are scary as fuck, Hades.” Max had met his gaze again, running his hand through the blonde’s locks. “Hell, when I first met you, I thought that was it, this is the day I’m going to shit my guts. You might have a better shot with the pups in the Pound than you would with the littles, and there aren’t many of them around The Bark either. To a little, those insecure sweet littles, you are a walking, breathing nightmare.”

As much as those words had stung, it had been hard for Hades not to sneer at the comment. He knew it was fuckin’ true. And he couldn’t see a little being with him, putting a sweet boy in danger because of the life Hades led. It didn’t mesh right with his heart.

Two years he’d spent at The Bark watching Daddy Doms come and play with littles, Mommies taking care of them, and not once had any little even dared to look at Hades. Not even the fuckin’ subs. If there was an ugly contest at The Bark, Hades would win first, second and third prize as El fuckin’ Cucuy. Not even his mamá had ever told him he was a handsome man, but she loved him regardless. Sis got all the fuckin’ looks, stole them right from Hades in the womb.

Hades looked up at the kid entering the bathroom in a pair of jeans and a sweater. The boy didn’t meet Hades’ gaze, his hand trembling as he placed the open beer down on the tub’s rim then he held out the Ziplock bag as if it was some contagious Spanish death. Hades pushed himself up in the tub, watching the poor thing scurry back, but still holding the bag out for him. Hades snatched the niño’s wrist, ignoring the bag.

“Please, I don’t want trouble, sir.” The hellfire’s pulse raced under Hades’ fingers.

“Wanted to say sorry, little pelirrojo.” Hades kept his voice low, didn’t even try to make it gentle—’cause that shit didn’t work with his raucous tone.

He released the boy’s wrist, taking the Ziplock bag from him, watched him nod, turn and slowly walk out of the room.

Hades huffed, glaring down at his cock, “Fine! You fuckin’ win,” he spat at his raging hard on, gripped his dick with his hand and stroked himself.





Hades stepped out of the bathroom, cleaner than he had been in fuckin’ years, his fingers still numb from scrubbing to get the grime out from under them, nails clipped short. The air cold on his shaven scalp, finally rid of the annoying strands constantly in his face. His body damp with water, droplets clinging to his skin and a towel wrapped around his waist, he marched to the living room. He’d noticed on his way that the bed had been made and the laundry pile in the hallway gone. He paused, staring at the two suitcases perched on the floor, a plastic bag filled with cat food and that ratty-looking teddy next to the bags. A black garbage bag keeping the luggage company. He glanced in the direction of the kitchen, noticing the cans were gone, the bowl missing and the tights and thong-amabob had disappeared. His gaze cut to the sound of purring.

Well fuck, would you look at that shit, the ginger has his own ginger. The cat was curled into a ball on the kid’s lap where he sat, crossed legged, on the floor staring out the window. The slump to the boy’s shoulders didn’t sit right with Hades. He stepped forward, parted his lips to speak when the doorbell rang.

Upon opening the door, Hades had to admit the old man looked good, most likely Cracker’s old lady been takin’ care of him. Hades almost laughed; compared to his other brothers of the club, they probably would all look better kept than Hades currently did.

Cracker cleared his throat from the doorway. “It’s good to see you, Prez.” The geezer held out his fist for Hades in greeting, “and good to have you back.” His voice didn’t hide the emotion or the nervousness when they bumped fists.

Hades moved aside, allowing him to enter. “Sí, till I came home to this shit,” Hades grumbled, well aware of the boy’s back going stiff.

“I am sorry, Prez. If I’d known, well… How did ya—?”

“Munroe,” Hades huffed.

“He’s still on the payroll?” Cracker asked in his gruff, scratchy voice, coughed and spat into a hanky.

“Yeah.” Hades regarded the hanky, not happy the way uncertainty punched his gut. “There’s always perks to keeping the NYPD’s Deputy Chief stuffed.” He ignored the blood he’d glimpsed before Cracker hid the hanky from view.

If the man’s time was near, it was his time, nothing Hades could do about it… Right, you lying fuck, that statement applies to fucktards and enemies not to familia. And Cracker is like goddamn blood! He grasped the brother by the jacket, spinning him around.

Cracker stared up at Hades, a wetness pooling in his eyes. Sí, the man was well kept, but his face didn’t lie, his gray eyes couldn’t fuckin’ hide the truth.

“Promise me you’ll take care of Debbie when the time comes. She knows, Hades.”

Hades swallowed the knot in his throat, giving him a nod.

He grabbed the Styrofoam box from the kitchen counter, and planted himself on the couch, digging for a shrimp with his fingers. “Haven’t had a fuckin’ decent meal since before going down the shithole.” He wiped the back of his hand over his beard.

“Hell, Prez, you haven’t changed a bit, except gettin’ big, what did they feed yous, radiation or some stuff?” Cracker chuckled.

Hades kept silent, sending his narrowed gaze to the floor. He guessed the shit that went down in prison wasn’t different from what he did out here, different playground with a new fucker pulling his strings.

“Rex, get the man a napkin, would you, boy?” Cracker took a seat, hissing as he sank into the opposite couch. “I ain’t made the way I used to be, Hades, got all arthritis and pains and bad bones. But I’m here, would give my last breath to help ya out, takin’ Scar down. Brother’s gotta pay.”

Hades attention snapped from watching the niño the moment Cracker mentioned Scar. Hades wasn’t ready to talk about Scar yet. “Heard from my mother?”

“’Eh, lady’s all good. Upset, angry, pissed as hell too, went there four times in the last two years wantin’ to see yous, only to be turned away at the prison. Hell,” Cracker arched forward, “they wouldn’t allow anyone to see you.”

Hades peered at Cracker’s fist balling on his thighs, the brother was mad.

“Kept tellin’ us you’s in solitary each time. Sorry, but I ain’t buyin’ that, neither was your mamma, at one point, we-we thought ya was dead.”

Hades bit his lip, trying hard not to peer at the kid stopping next to him, the boy’s hand not trembling so much as he held out a couple of napkins and a fork.

Hades took them, wiped his mouth and dug into the lukewarm paella.

Dios, the shit was bad, but it was the closest he could get to his mamá’s cooking, the closest he could feel to home.

He cleared his throat, “The warden, Knight kept me locked up there, so I could be his dog in cage fights.” Hades waved the fork at Cracker. “But never mind him, he’ll get what’s coming his way. Scar on the other hand…” He let that statement float there and changed the subject. “Munroe says MacNamara’s been taken out.”

“’Eh.” Cra