Page 37 of Reclaimed

Did she just fucking squirt?

My cock is impossibly hard behind my zipper, the primal urge to rut into her cunt skittering beneath my skin. A strangled moan tears from beneath my hand, her inner walls clenching around my fingers as her orgasm slams into her. I fuck her through it, the fight shuddering from her body as she rides it out before sagging in my hold.

I draw my hand back from her weeping cunt and raise it to my mouth. “Didn’t expect a little stray like you to taste so sweet,” I say, licking her release from each of my digits.

Her breath comes out in a panted whimper as I loosen the grip of my other hand, sliding it from her throat and into her dark locks. She gasps as I wind her hair around my fist and roughly tug her head back.

“Taste yourself, little stray.”

Twisting her face toward me, I flex my jaw and watch as my spit mixed with her cum lands on her tongue. The faint light from the bathroom now illuminates half her face, and that’s when I see it– fresh rivulets of blood trailing down her chin from a split in her swollen lip, dried blood crusting beneath her nose.

I shove up to my feet, my fist still tightly wound in her hair as I force her into the bathroom and in front of the mirror bolted to the wall to get a better look. Annoyance hums through my body like a live wire when I see the clear outline of a large handprint covering her entire cheek.

Towering over her small frame, I tip my chin and ask, “Enforcer?”

Her throat bobs with a swallow, hazel eyes glistening as she meets my hardened gaze in the reflection and gives a subtle nod.

Tension tightens my jaw, teeth gritting together as the instinct to react breaches the final barrier between impulse and bloodshed, flooding my veins with violent intent. I didn’t come here to perform a goddamn wellness check, and I sure as fuck shouldn’t give a shit that someone in The Registry laid a hand on her, but…

No.

I grind my molars, driving the thought back into the dark and burying it beneath whatever’s churning through my system.

Too late.

My dick’s already gone soft, my focus shifting from the primal urge to rut into my little stray, to the urge to shatter the bones and cartilage of an Enforcer.

I relinquish my grip on Jersey, slinking back into the shadows. “To be continued,” I promise, heading back for the air duct with the thirst for violence clawing at my insides.

14

TALON

Austin Miller. Twenty-six, Captain of Asset Management at the Vanguard. A thick-necked fuck with a twitchy trigger finger and a temper that makes me look like the patron saint of patience.

He was in the same probationary unit as Slade and I when we joined the Syndicate, but Miller was and still is fucking reckless. Not in the way that bodes well as a mercenary, but in a messy, pathetic way that constantly got overlooked due to nepotism– until he botched a training operation for The Registry.

That was one of my first field assignments, and I wasn't about to let him twist the facts to cover his own worthless ass and fuck with my career before it even started. The bitch who birthed me had already done enough damage for a lifetime.

I knew his dad got him a position with The Registry after he was booted from the Mercenary Syndicate, but I assumed he’d be assigned to maintenance detail or something that didn’t involve a firearm. Guess the right bloodline can turn inherent failure into potential and power.

Tonight, I’ve spent two excruciating hours at some trendy bullshit bar downtown watching him strike out at least half a dozen times. The place is crawling with desperate fucks trying to convince everyone else in the room how much they matter– meaning Austin Miller should fit right in– but he’s evidently out of his depth here. He may have grown up with money and opportunities, but some sort of deep-seated mommy issues have turned him into such an emotionally stunted douchebag that not even an obliterated club whore wants to be prodded with his chode.

I can’t decide if he’s delusional or just relentlessly determined, but rejection doesn’t seem to be a concept he can grasp. He keeps at it until the crowd thins, his pool of potential victims dries up, and he finally closes out his tab.

Anticipation rolls through me as I tail him out into the night, something vicious settling into place beneath my ribs. I maintain surveillance, trailing him discreetly through the streets, fingers flexing with the urge to feel the give of bone beneath my knuckles.

Miller’s been overdue for an ass-kicking since probation. Putting his hands on Jersey– and who knows how many other Assets– just moved him to the top of my hit list.

His boots thud against concrete as he descends the stairs to the subway, swiping his pass before moving through the ticket gate and boarding a train for The Fringe. There’s no way he lives out there, so his destination is anyone’s guess. An electronic voice announces the doors are closing just as I vault over the turnstile and dart into the car behind Miller’s.

The train going from downtown to The Fringe late at night is depressing as fuck. Its primary occupants are overworked middle class people who make just enough to be in the raw ass fucking tax bracket, but too much for the Registry’s Assistance. Not that it’s fucking worth shit anyways. If the assistance did what it was designed to– help people get out of a hard spot– and a single job paid a living wage, then maybe my mother would’ve stayed in The Fringe and built a normal fucking life instead of warming the bed of some powerful asshole she thought could fuck her out of poverty.

I keep my hood up and my head down, finding a vacant spot in the corner to post up for the rest of the ride.

When the train finally reaches its destination, I watch Miller step off, giving him a head start before I slip out into the night and resume tailing him.

The streets here are dark with very few working lights, the weeds growing through cracked pavement the only form of landscaping. He rounds a corner, heading down an alley and disappearing into a back door with a flickering neon light above it.