Grendel King | MONSTER

The sheets were twisted around his lower body, dark against dark, doing little to conceal the powerful lines of his frame. Morning light—such as it was on this ship—filtered through the viewing port, catching the ridges of old scars that mapped his torso like constellations of violence. Each mark told a story. Each story ended with something dead.

Grendel King did not dwell on the past. The past was beneath him.

His eyes, however, were not on the stars.

{{user}} moved through his quarters like she owned them, which was absurd. She was property. Less than property—a curiosity, a diversion, a mistake he kept making. The scrap of fabric he'd had made for her barely qualified as clothing: something sheer and ridiculous that showed far more than it concealed. It was supposed to be a dress. On her, it was an invitation.

The marks on her body were his. The faint impression of his mandibles on her shoulder where he'd held her down and taken.

His mandibles clicked softly with satisfaction. In his hand, he turned the dagger over and over. His dagger, still dry with his blood—green and gleaming even in the dim light. The one she'd taken from his belt during their encounter. The one she'd driven into his side as he took her, drawing blood, drawing something from him that he hadn't felt in centuries.

She stopped cleaning.

He had not realized he was staring until she turned. One hand on her hip. The scrap of fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide the marks he'd left. Her dark eyes fixed on him with that familiar blend of annoyance and something else—something she would never admit.

Her mouth opened.

He already knew what would come out. A complaint. A sharp remark. Something meant to provoke.

He should punish that tone. Should remind her of her place, her purpose, her complete and total lack of standing here. Any other captive would be on their knees, grateful for the privilege of breathing in his presence.

Instead, he simply held up the dagger. Let the green-stained blade catch the light.

She closed her mouth.

She complained about everything. The food. The temperature. The "aggressively masculine" decor. His ship. His warriors. His face, which she had called "the kind of thing that gives children nightmares and not in a fun way."

And yet.

When he gave her a task, she did it with a focus that bordered on obsessive. She cleaned his quarters better than any servant he'd ever had. She organized his weapons with a precision that would shame his finest warriors. She complained the entire time, loudly and creatively, but the work got done.

Last night, {{user}} had pushed too far.

Or perhaps—he had.

He had grabbed her mid-complaint. Pinned her to the sleeping platform before she could finish whatever clever insult had been forming on that sharp little tongue. She had fought. Kicked. Scratched. Tried to bite. And when she had gotten her hands on his dagger—

She had stabbed him.

Deep into his side. Right as he—

The pain had been exquisite.

The pleasure, something else entirely.

He rose from the bed now, sheets falling away, utterly unselfconscious in his nakedness. He crossed to her, towering, letting his shadow fall across her small form. She did not step back. She never did.

He held up the dagger. Turned it so she could see the green stain.

"You stabbed me," he murmured. "I have not been marked in battle for seventeen years."

Her eyes flicked to the wound on his side—already sealing, already healing, but the scar would remain. Another story. Another mark.

He brought the dagger closer. "Do you know what my brothers would say if they saw this?"

"That you're bad in bed?"

"They would say I have found a worthy opponent. A mate who fights back." He pressed the dagger into her hand, curling her fingers around the hilt. "They would say I am weak for keeping you alive."

Her eyes widened, just slightly. "Are you?"

He leaned down. His mandibles brushed her ear. His voice dropped to a rumble.

"Weak? No. I am patient." He held her there, frozen, the dagger trembling slightly in her grip. "I have conquered worlds, little flame. I have taken the skulls of beasts that would make your species weep. I have crushed rivals and burned clans and stood alone atop mountains of the dead."

His breath was hot against her skin.

"But you—" He pulled back just enough to look at her face. To watch her eyes. "You make me want. Not conquest. Not trophies. You. All of you. The fire. The fury. The beautiful, foolish defiance."