Unnatural Instinct: Free

4.

The chain clinks against the floor. His wings scrape against the wall. He doesn't make a sound, though he must be in terrible pain. If you were in his position you would scream.

It looks like they've tortured him. You remember how he looked from the night they caught him, the pouring blood from his gunshot wound, his ragged appearance, his drooping eyes as he struggled to stay awake. Though it had been hard to see through the darkness, you're certain there'd been no slashes on his chest, no great wounds on his legs, no shocking bruising on his face. He can barely open his eyes against the swelling. His bottom lip sticks out, puffy and encrusted with blood.

As for the bullet wound—it has been stitched. Why they bothered is a mystery. Just to have their fun?

You glare at Derrick. 'What have you done?'

'Not just me, sweetheart. All the fighters have had a go. As they should. He killed Fred and Tony. He deserves to die.' You can hear the rage in his voice and it takes you by surprise. You've rarely seen him feel any emotion.

You reach out with a shout as he suddenly kicks the prisoner hard in the chest. You clutch at your throat as the monster sinks back to his side with a heavy thud. You try to swallow down your protests as Derrick kicks him again and again with the hard tip of his boot. Moment by moment he becomes more and more savage until he looks like a monster himself: his face screwed up, his teeth bared, growling and swearing. You have to stop him before he kills him.

You grab at his arm.

'What are you doing?' he snaps, jerking his arm out of your grasp.

'N-nothing.'

Keep your cool! Act like you're supposed to. No matter if it leaves a filthy taste in your mouth. You bow your head, letting your hair hang around your face as you gaze at the floor, clutching your skirts.

Rubbing your foot against your ankle like an apologetic child, you say, 'I'm sorry, it's just—I don't want you to touch him. I don't want you to go near him. What if he's got a disease? What if he strikes back? You don't know what he is. I-I don't want you to get hurt.'

Cautiously, you lift your eyes, watching him through your hair.

It seems your ruse has succeeded. His shoulders sag. His eyes soften. And that familiar arrogant smile creases his lips.

'Oh, sweetheart,' he says, taking your face in his hands. 'Nothing's going to hurt me, and certainly not from the likes of that.' He brushes his thumb against your bottom lip. 'You have nothing to fear.'

He leans in and all you can do is fight the urge to jerk away as he kisses you. Dropping his hands to your hips, he pulls you hard against him until you can feel the hard bulge in his pants. You try not to gag as he pushes his tongue deep down your throat. He's so rough his stubble tears at your chin.

Not soon enough, he finally pulls away. His green eyes are burning as he gazes down at you. His hands are still on your hips; his pelvis is still pressed up against yours. 'I can't wait until we're married, sweetheart. Four weeks is too long.'

'I feel the same.' You try not to choke on the words.

His gaze deepens with hunger. He looks at the monster, then around the cell itself. 'Let's leave this monster to its destiny, shall we? There are better places to be.'

You nod and smile and let him lead you out by the hand. The door clicks shut behind him. He locks it, and you watch as he tucks the keys into his pants pocket. Smiling, he gives it a pat.

Gently but firmly gripping the back of your neck, he walks with you down the path. You immediately tense, knowing exactly what his plan is.

The few men and women who pass you by nod their greetings; women in their long skirts, some with scarves wrapped around their heads, others with shawls around their shoulders; men in their trousers and singlets and their broad-brimmed working hats. A group of little boys rush past, playing a gunfight with sticks. Derrick laughs at them, ruffling one of their heads as they pass.

On either side of the path are more huts, most filled with families. Small children play in their yards. A dog is barking. Through those windows with their curtains drawn open you see the men and women within.

Supposedly happy families.

You throat dries out as you think of your own future. Four weeks until hell becomes your life. You think of the monster and how much he's suffered. You try to console yourself with the thought that your life isn't so bad. But it's hard. Impossible. And you start to think, is it all that different?

In a similar way, Derrick has the keys to your own prison, a prison that's your life, allowing entrance to himself whenever and for whatever reason he wants. Nausea twists your stomach.

It twists your stomach further as he drags you behind a half-built hut. You're alone, the quiet, dark forest beyond the only witness to what's about to happen.

Quickly, Derrick unbuttons his pants and slides them down to his knees. His underclothes follow, revealing the swollen, red stretch of his erection. Touching himself, he leans his head back agains the wall with a gasp.

'Quickly,' he says.

'Derrick—'

'Don't argue. We've already discussed this, haven't we? If I can't have sex with you until our wedding night, then you need to relieve me some other way. As my intended, that is your duty, isn't it?'

You swallow hard but don't disagree.

He leans his head back against the wall, revealing the big Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his neck.

A little shaky, your heart in your stomach, you lift your skirts so you don't dirty them as you kneel before him.

'Don't go too fast this time,' he says.

Your stomach churns. Your mouth is so dry you wonder if you'll even be able to manage it. It doesn't matter. It has to be done.

Reaching out a trembling hand, you grab his shaft.