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A Wicked Game [closed]
#1
[[continued from here]]

They had progressed, finally, beyond the dank tunnels of the underground. Patience was not always among her virtues, but fortified by the focus of getting what she wanted, Oriena could blithely wait until Olympus fell. It had taken time. A fucking long time. By all accounts, Ori wasn't the nurturing kind. But one day he had cautiously emerged from his den, crouched low, muscle corded. Those gold eyes shone. His lip curled. There was the bright gleam of an incisor glinting within the tangle of his matted beard. Eventually his trust grew. She fed and watered him. Offered him shelter. And time. Let's not forget the time.

The first time she'd released his chains, he'd reacted by pinning her to the wall, dirty fingers tight about her neck. Fetid breath in her face. Indignation burned bright cords that flung him backwards, and he landed with a yelp. Apparently it settled something, in his eyes anyway, because he didn't challenge her again. There was more curiosity than aggression when he stared at her. It was a fucking blessing when he finally let her wash him. Cut his hair. Shave his face. A man emerged. He didn't like the clothes she forced him in - always pawing or shivering his skin, like a dog shaking off rain, but he suffered it anyway. Fuck, he could almost pass for an actual person.

She relocated him to Kallisti, in the offices and rooms above the club, well aware that if he snapped it was her clientele who'd suffer the bloodbath. And her staff too. But it seemed worth the risk. He sniffed and paced the new territory and she left him to it, the door firmly locked for now. No sense letting a good investment go to waste before she had the chance to benefit from it.

Ori was downstairs sampling her own bar when the announcement flooded every news station and social media outlet on the net. The club was empty, daylight making a stark and hollow facade of the mystery and allure spun in the darkness of the club's opening hours. She flicked on the nearest holoscreen to watch the Ascendancy's interview on perpetual repeat. A wicked grin curved her lips. It seemed it would be a night for celebration.
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