Chapter 1: Alastair Thorne III （Axl）

Chapter

One

ALASTAIR THORNE III (AXL)

M y fingertips skate up her inner thigh, dancing over the soft expanse of skin. Her gasp is almost drowned out by the rustling of her skirts as I hoist them higher. If I had more time, I would have her naked, spread out on her plush bed with her legs apart so that I could admire her sweet delights before partaking in them. But alas, this night I must be quick.

“Alastair, my love,” she moans, her head tipped back to reveal the sweet-smelling skin of her décolletage. I inhale the scent of her French perfume, and my cock twitches in my pants. Such a welcome aroma after hours traversing the foul stench of the smog-filled streets of London. “We should not.”

I flick my tongue over the skin at the base of her throat and push her back against the wall. “But I must, Lynette. For I will be driven mad if I do not have you now.” I tug her undergarments aside and brush a knuckle through her slick, swollen folds.

She offers a small whine. “My father will be back shortly, and he—” Any further protest is cut off with a gasp as I sink my finger inside her cunt.

“I am not afraid of the viscount, little minx.” I gently work my digit in and out of her, and she moans my name. “Nor am I afraid of the duke.”

Duke Edmund Welsby—Lynette’s betrothed. A man stupid enough to believe her a virgin. But Lynette Blanchard is much too pretty to remain so pure and far too delicious for me to allow her to save herself for some stuffy duke more than twice her age. At eighteen years old, she is a ripe peach, and I plucked her weeks ago. Such a sweet, inviting little thing. It took me less than a week to relieve her of her virginity. How she cried through the pain of me taking her. Soft, genteel sobs that bubbled from her lips while her fingernails clawed a path down my back. The unadulterated shock on her pretty little face when she saw the blood between her thighs still makes me smile. I’ll take my fill of her and move on to the next, as I do with them all. At least she will know the meaning of true pleasure before her lifetime of servitude. For there is very little I do not know about wringing ecstasy from a woman’s body. My mother might call me a rake and a swine, but I am actually doing this young beauty a great service.

Lynette threads her fingers through my hair and tugs, arching her back and sinking farther onto my finger. Her arousal drips deliciously into my palm. Shame she is to become a duchess; she would make such an excellent whore.

“You’re so eager for me, Lynette.”

Her cheeks pinken with heat, and her lips part on a moan. “You make me feel things I never knew possible, my love.”

My love ? I hold back a laugh at her sentiment for me. She has known me but four weeks, and yet she declares her love each time I see her. I am sure she would run away with me and forsake the duke—and all the trappings his luxurious lifestyle will afford—if I so much as hinted at the prospect.

“I can make you feel so much more. There is much more of your body I have yet to explore.” I rest my lips against the shell of her ear and slip a second finger inside her. I twist them, readying her for me. The cry she lets out—half pain, half pleasure—is enough to make my cock ache to enter her.

“Unfasten my breeches,” I order, my hot breath rushing over her skin.

She obeys instantly. So compliant. So desperate to be fucked, or perhaps simply to feel alive. Her dark brown eyes so wide and trusting as she lets me defile her. If the duke knew what I’ve been doing to his pretty little virgin bride almost every night for the past three weeks, he would never so much as look at her again. If he knew how she mewls when I fuck her from behind, how she writhes like a feral kitten when I have my mouth between her thighs… She would be cast out. Unclean. A dirty little whore.

Perhaps I should reveal our sordid little secret. I wonder what the meek little mouse would do if she were all alone on the streets of London. The thought is certainly an entertaining one. How quickly she would become one of the whores whom she no doubts looks down upon now. Her tight little cunt is pleasant enough that I would even offer her the occasional mercy fuck. But for now, I much prefer to have her while she’s clean and smells of wildflowers. Not to mention the convenience, comfort, and warmth of her father’s house.

Lynette’s trembling fingers wrap around the base of my shaft and squeeze tightly, exactly the way I like it. Such a quick study. It will be a shame to let this one go after she is married this next week. Or perhaps I will continue to fuck her once she is wed. That would be an even greater insult to the duke. Fat old bastard.

“I have no idea how you fit that inside me,” Lynette whispers, fluttering her eyelashes like she has reason to be coy after that has been inside her more times than she can probably count.

I bat her hands out of the way and lift her skirts higher before wrapping her legs around my hips. “I fit inside your wet cunt just fine, little minx.” To prove my point, I sink deep into her with one single thrust, stretching her tight heat around my cock.

A hoarse cry is ripped from her throat, sending a shudder of excitement up my spine. There is so little in life more satisfying than the pleasure that can be found between a woman’s thighs, even if it has gotten me into more trouble in my twenty-four years than most men get into in an entire lifetime.

Her arms encircle my neck, and she holds on tight while I rut into her, my palms squeezing and fingers digging into the perfect globes of her ass while I chase the release I so desperately crave. I bury my face against in her hair, basking in the vulgar sound of her wet channel accepting every inch of me over and over again. “I will always be the first man to have had you, sweet Lynette. You will never forget me.”

“Never, my love,” she whimpers.

“Even after you wear the duke’s ring, your pretty little cunt will always belong to me.” I pull out and drive into her with all my strength, and her teeth clash together.

Tears fill her eyes. “W-what will happen when I marry, Alastair? Can we still be together?”

“If you are a smart girl and find a way to smuggle me into the duke’s house, then perhaps we will.”

Her lip trembles and her walls ripple around my shaft. “I shall find a way.”

I dust my lips over her jaw. “But the night before your wedding, I am going to sneak into your bedroom. I am going to strip you bare.” She quivers beneath me. “I am going to take my fill of your entire body, and then I am going to spill my seed inside you.”

Her eyes go wide. “Y-you cannot.”

I arch an eyebrow. “I will, little minx. But you have no need to fear, for I will take you in a place that cannot leave you with child.” I slide a finger between the seam of her arse cheeks and press against her puckered hole, edging the tip inside her. She yelps and squirms, but that only makes me want to flip her over and fuck her there right now. “I am going to defile you in every single way there is, my little Lynette, and you will beg for my cock like a wanton whore. Won’t you?”

I roll my hips, sweeping the crown of my shaft over that most sensitive spot deep inside her. She mewls, clinging tighter to me. “Won’t. You?” I punctuate each word with another rock of my hips.

“Y-yes,” she cries before sinking her teeth into her luscious lower lip.

God, she feels so fucking good. I drive into her until her tight heat squeezes my length, rippling muscles milking my shaft and bringing me ever closer to the edge.

“Alastair.” Her warm breath ruffles my hair.

“Lynette!” The voice rings loud through the house and into the scullery, the location of this evening’s clandestine meeting. Her father’s voice.

Jesus fucking Christ!

Her breath stalls in her throat, and she scrabbles to get away from me, but I hold fast. “I’m so fucking close.” I grunt out the words.

Unfortunately, the sound of thundering footsteps headed our way is enough to break me from my stupor. Viscount Blanchard is not alone. And while I may enjoy taking risks with his only daughter, I am no fool.

I pull out of her, and a rush of her slick arousal drips from her channel. “You’d better hope the duke isn’t with your father wanting to inspect his virgin bride’s innocence, little Lynette, because your juicy cunt will give you away in a heartbeat.”

Her cheeks flush bright red, and she hurriedly fixes her skirts while I fasten up my breeches, glancing around for the quickest escape route. Without a word of farewell, I dart for the door and wrench it open. The cold blast of night air fills my lungs seconds before a meaty fist lands on my face, splitting my lip.

“Filthy cur,” the voice attached to the fist growls. A second punch is thrown. I’m too fast this time, and the blow glances off my jaw. Using all of my body weight, I barrel into my attacker. He loses his footing and stumbles backward, allowing me to make my escape.

I run through the dark streets, sticking to the shadows, and while I may be faster than most, I am no match for the army of men it appears Viscount Blanchard has summoned. Their loud voices, speaking of dismemberment and retribution, carry through the night air. Thundering feet and angry bellows chase me harder. So many of them that I am certain the duke has loaned some of his own men to the cause. Perhaps he has discovered what I have been doing to his dark-haired beauty.

Sweat slicks my brow. My heart booms in my ears like the erratic beating of a drum. I stumble, skidding along the mud for a few seconds before I’m able to right myself again. But the slip cost me valuable time. The men’s palpable ire grows closer. How many of them are there? A dozen? A full score?

If they catch me, I am surely done for. One look at Lynette’s face would tell her father what I was just doing to her. The viscount is no stranger to the pleasures of the flesh, for I have seen him in many a sporting house partaking in any young nymph willing to allow him to paw at her. And if, as I suspect, the duke was with him this night, a simple hand slipped beneath Lynette’s skirts would confirm her misdeeds, so soaked for me was she.

I stumble blindly around the bend into the alley in hopes of losing my pursuers, but I plow straight into a solid wall of muscle. I bounce off him like he’s made of granite and fall to the ground. Thanks to the lights installed upon the streets of London’s wealthiest, enough light is thrown into the alley for me to make out the man standing above me. And as I look up into his face, I am certain that my racing heart stops beating altogether. He is… mesmerizing.

Olive skin, dark hair. Square jaw covered by a neat swathe of beard.

Time stands still. I’m vaguely aware of the viscount’s and the duke’s men closing in on me, but I cannot bring myself to move as I stare into the face of the enigmatic stranger. Except he’s not a stranger. At least not entirely. He is the man I saw at the corner of Bond Street this last morning. The same man who watched me so intently that it sent shivers of both fear and excitement skittering up my spine. But at such close quarters, he’s even more mysterious. No, he is terrifying. His dark eyes glow like the dying embers of a fire. He cannot be much taller and is perhaps a tad broader than I, but his presence dominates the entire space around us. And yet, despite my fear, I am captivated.

The voices of the viscount’s men draw closer, and the stranger steps past me, disappearing into the shadows of the street I just ran from. The sound of screams and breaking bones and tearing flesh fills my ears, making my stomach roll. I screw my eyes closed, yet still, I do not move.

What feels like only seconds later, the shadow of the stranger falls over me once more. My eyes are drawn to his mouth where, even in the dim lamplight, the startling sight is unmistakable. Darting out his tongue, he licks the single drop of blood from the corner.

“W-what are you?” My breath is a fog in the cold night air.

He cracks his neck. “Some would say a monster. Others a god. What say you, Alastair Thorne?”

How the hell does he know my name? Fear crawls its icy fingers up my spine, but I can’t prevent my eyes from raking over his body, taking in his exquisitely tailored suit and shoes cobbled from the finest leather. I detect an accent in his speech, but I cannot decipher where it’s from. I have no idea who or what he is, but I find myself eager to know more. “What did you do to those men who were chasing me?”

“I stopped them.” His tone is clipped, giving me the impression that he believes answering such questions beneath him.

“Are you going to stop me?” My blood hums through my veins, buzzing beneath my skin.

His right eye twitches. “If I were, I would have done so by now.”

“How do you know my name? I saw you near Bond Street this morning. How long have you been watching me?”

He fiddles with the cuff of his shirt, giving off an air of disinterest.

I push myself to my feet, dust the dirt from my trousers, and try another question. “Why did you help me?”

That at least seems to spark his interest once more. His intensely dark eyes narrow. “You remind me of someone.” He glances around as though he’s heard something. “We need to leave.”

“We?”

His jaw tics, and he glares at me. “Unless you want to explain the mess of bodies around the corner. Or perhaps wait for the rest of the duke’s men to find you and string you up by your ballocks for defiling his soon-to-be-bride.”

He turns and marches swiftly in the opposite direction, forcing me to jog to keep up with him. As terrifying as he is, he’s right; neither of those outcomes sound the least bit appealing to me. I glance sideways at him. His jaw is set, and he strides with a purpose that both confuses and assures me.

“Where are we going?”

“To my lodgings in Whitechapel.” His response is brusque.

“Whitechapel?” I scoff, unable to hide my surprise.

He comes to a stop and turns to me, arching a thick dark brow in either amusement or disdain. It’s difficult to tell. “Do you not approve?”

I shrug. “It’s just not the kind of place I’d expect a gentleman like you to be lodging, Mr.…?” I pause, waiting for his name.

“What makes you think I am a gentleman, Alastair?” His voice is low and dangerous now, and icy tendrils of fear coil around the base of my spine. He may have saved me from the men who wanted to tear me to pieces, but I can’t help the feeling that I have merely traded one precarious situation for another.

I tip my chin anyway. “You dress like a gentleman.”

He snorts a harsh laugh. “The English put so much stock in what a man wears.” He reaches out and drags his index finger along my cheekbone, his touch leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. Despite my desire to pull away, I find myself fixed to the spot by his scrutinous gaze. “Is it not the character of a man which indicates his status—or lack thereof—as a gentleman?”

Despite the tenuous nature of my current situation, I bark out a laugh. If that were true, then I would be considered nothing better than a vagabond. “Who are you?”

“My name is Alexandros. But you may call me Sire or Master, whichever you prefer.”

I balk at the idea of calling anyone by such a title. Not even my father engenders that kind of respect in me. And this stranger may have saved my life, but he has most certainly done nothing to earn my respect.

His lip curls in a half smile, half sneer, and he cups my jaw in his hand. “That displeases you?”

I wrench my head, trying to free myself from his grip, but he is freakishly strong. “I serve no master, and I bow to nobody.” I snarl my response as anger begins to prickle beneath my skin.

“Oh, you do not need to bow to me, young pup.” He runs his tongue over his top teeth, and that’s when I see the glint of his?—

Terror clamps around my heart like a vise, and all the breath is sucked from my body. Are those fangs?

“But you will kneel.” He squeezes my jaw harder, pushing me down until I’m forced to my knees at his feet.

“What the hell are you?” I grit out the words.

He bends down, bringing his face close to mine. “That all depends on you, Alastair.”

Somehow, I don’t think that’s true, but I cannot stop myself from asking the question. “What do you mean?”

“I will be your end…” He licks his lips. “Or your salvation. Certain death or immortality. Which is it to be?”

I stare into his eyes, which are darker than tar, and I am unable to look away. He holds me there, transfixed, even as I fear falling into the chasm of nothingness that stares back at me. I am many things—most of all, I am a survivor. So I give him the only answer possible. “My salvation.”

He bares his fangs once more, which are sharper than a wolf’s teeth, and smiles. “I hoped you would say that.”