Chapter 3: The Hellhound's Den
The whiskey in Millie’s glass tasted like burned honey and regret. It was her third, but the pleasant fog she sought wouldn’t come. Instead, the grime of The Rusty Nail pressed in on her: the sticky linoleum under her boots, the ceaseless, maddening buzz of a dying neon sign casting a sickly pink glow over everything, the smell of stale beer and wet dog.
Another day of cleaning up Blitzo’s mess. Another day of Moxxie being somewhere else, even when he was right beside her in the van. His mind was a vault she couldn’t pick. He’d jump at her touch lately, then overcompensate with a hug that felt like it was meant for someone else. He was polishing his guns with a monastic focus that had nothing to do with maintenance. She’d seen the look Loona mentioned—that “constipated thinking” look—but whenever she asked, he’d smile his tight, perfect smile and tell her it was nothing.
Nothing. The word was a splinter in her heart.
“Tough night, darlin’?”
The voice was a low drawl, slick with false sympathy. She glanced up. A hellhound, younger than Loona, leaned against the bar. He had the lean, cocky posture of a predator who’d never been punched properly. His leather jacket was too clean. Two others watched from a booth, their eyes gleaming in the shadows.
“Just thirsty,” Millie muttered, turning back to her glass.
“Whiskey’s a thinking drink. You don’t look like you wanna think.” He signaled the bartender without asking. A fresh glass, amber liquid sloshing, appeared before her. “On me. Name’s Raze.”
She should have said no. She was a married imp. She was Millie, for fuck’s sake, the one who had it together. But the warmth of the unwanted drink, the directness of his attention—it was a stark contrast to the confusing silence at home. It felt good to be seen, even by this smirking pup.
“Millie,” she offered, taking a sip. The liquor burned a cleaner path this time.
“I know.” Raze’s grin widened. “IMP, right? The little lady with the big axes. Seen your work. It’s… visceral.”
A flush, part pride, part discomfort, crept up her neck. He’d seen her. Not Moxxie’s wife, not the support staff, but her. The muscle.
“Moxxie’s the planner,” she said, out of habit.
“Sure he is.” Raze’s tone dismissed Moxxie entirely. His gaze traveled over her, appreciative and blunt. “Planners think. Doers… do. You look like a doer who hasn’t done much lately. For herself.”
The accuracy of the blow stole her breath. She hadn’t done anything for herself in weeks. She’d been tiptoeing around a husband who felt like a stranger, picking up the emotional and literal debris Blitzo left in his wake. She was a vault too, filling up with unspoken hurts.
“What’s your point?” she asked, her voice harder.
“No point. An observation.” He leaned closer. The musk of him was different from an imp’s—sharper, wilder. “My friends and I think you’re impressive. We’ve got a back room. Better drinks. Less… noise.” He nodded toward his booth. The two other hellhounds raised their glasses in silent invitation. “Come have a real drink. No strings. Just respect.”
It was a line. She knew it was a line. But the word respect hooked into the neglected part of her soul. She was tired of being the oblivious, cheerful one. Tired of the secrets she could feel but not see. A reckless, bitter heat spread through her chest.
“Alright,” she heard herself say. “One drink.”
The back room was exactly what she expected: a windowless, claustrophobic box smelling of old smoke and mildew. A single bulb hung from a wire, painting everything in harsh, unforgiving light. The two other hellhounds—broad, quiet—stood as they entered. The door creaked shut behind them with a finality that made her stomach lurch.
“This is Karr and Vex,” Raze said, his friendly drawl gone, replaced by a flat, businesslike tone.
The one called Karr stepped forward, a bottle of something clear and potent in his hand. He poured a shot into a dirty glass and handed it to her. His eyes were black, expressionless. “To doers,” he said.
Millie knocked it back. It tasted like fuel. The fire in her gut blossomed, muting the warning bells in her head.
Raze was in front of her now, very close. He didn’t touch her. He just looked down, his gaze landing on her mouth. “You’ve got a strong jaw. Bet you’ve got a strong everything.”
“You bet right,” Millie said, defiance flaring. This was a bad idea. A terrible, fucking idea. But it was her terrible idea. For once, she wasn’t waiting for someone else to explain, to apologize, to include her.
“Prove it,” Vex, the third one, spoke from behind her. She hadn’t heard him move. They were triangulating her.
Raze’s hands came up then, not to her waist, but to his own belt buckle. The click was deafening in the small room. He undid his jeans, pushed them down just enough. His cock sprang out, already fully erect, thick and uncut, the tip dark and leaking against his belly.
Millie’s breath caught. This wasn’t a drink. This was a transaction. She understood her role now. The respect she’d been offered was the respect given to a useful tool.
“Suck it,” Raze said. It wasn’t a question. It was the next logical step in the evening he’d orchestrated.
The part of her that was Moxxie’s wife screamed. The part of her that was lonely, and angry, and tired of being good, stepped forward. She dropped to her knees on the sticky floor. The linoleum bit into her skin.
She didn’t hesitate. She opened her mouth and took him in, all the way to the back of her throat in one practiced motion. The taste of him, salty and musky, flooded her senses. A rough hand—Karr’s—came to rest on the back of her head, not pushing, just claiming.
“Fuck yeah,” Raze hissed, his hips giving a shallow jerk. “Knew she was a mouthy one.”
She worked him with a brutal, efficient rhythm born of a different kind of passion. This was a task. A punishment. For Moxxie. For Blitzo. For herself. She hollowed her cheeks, using her tongue to press along the thick vein underneath. Her own arousal was a distant, shameful hum, completely disconnected from the act. This was about obliteration.
Raze didn’t last long. With a grunt, he fisted her pink hair and held her still as he pumped into her mouth. His release was bitter and copious. She swallowed, the automatic act of a professional, her eyes open and fixed on the grimy wall.
Before she could even catch her breath, she was being pulled up by her arm and turned. Vex was already seated on a rickety chair, his cock out, stroking himself to full hardness. It was longer than Raze’s, narrower.
“Your turn, little imp,” he grinned, teeth glinting.
The hand on her head guided her back down. This time, she went with less fury, a numb automation taking over. Vex preferred a different pace, shallow thrusts that bumped the head of his cock against her tongue. He moaned, talking to his friends over her head.
“Tight fucking throat. Like a vice. You see that?”
She didn’t listen. She thought about the silence in her apartment. The way Moxxie would be sitting in his chair right now, cleaning a weapon that was already spotless, lost in thoughts of another man. The heat of shame finally arrived, scalding and swift. What was she doing? This wasn’t claiming power. This was annihilation.
Vex came with a shout, his fingers digging into her scalp. She took it, her throat working.
When Karr, the largest, took his place, it was too much. As she bent forward, the world tilted. The cheap liquor, the humiliation, the crushing weight of her own choices rose in a wave. She gagged violently as the thick head touched her lips, pulling back with spit and worse streaking her chin.
“Whoa, easy, killer,” Raze laughed, but it was cold.
“I… I can’t,” Millie gasped, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. The room was spinning. The three figures loomed over her, their satisfied faces blurred.
“You got what you came for,” Karr stated, tucking himself away without ceremony. The transaction was complete.
They left her there, stumbling out of the back room with low laughs and backslaps. Millie slumped against the wall, the taste of three strangers coating her tongue, her throat raw. The physical violation was nothing. It was the hollow, aching vacancy inside her that terrified her. She had tried to fill Moxxie’s silence with this, and it had only made the void louder.
She fumbled for the door, bursting out into the marginally fresher air of the bar. She didn’t look at anyone. She walked straight out into the acidic hell-night, the neon lights smearing in her vision.
She walked for blocks before she vomited violently into a gutter, her body trying to expel the poison. It didn’t work. She knew the real sickness was rooted deeper.
When she finally keyed into her apartment, it was late. The lights were off except for the blue flicker of the television. Moxxie was asleep on the couch, a blanket pulled to his chin, an infomercial playing silently on the screen. He looked peaceful. Innocent.
The smell of the bar, of them, clung to her skin, her hair, her mouth. She stood in the doorway, watching her husband sleep, the guilt a physical weight crushing her ribs.
She stripped in the hallway, leaving the contaminated clothes in a pile, and crept into the shower. She scrubbed until her skin was raw and pink. But under the scalding water, she could still feel the phantom pressure of hands on her head, the invasive heat in her mouth, the utter, degrading emptiness of it.
She slid into bed beside Moxxie. He murmured in his sleep and rolled toward her, his arm falling across her waist, nuzzling into her clean hair.
“Love you, Mills,” he slurred, asleep and utterly trusting.
A silent sob wracked her frame. She lay perfectly still, staring into the dark, the words she could never say clotting in her throat. The secret was hers now, too. A foul, rotting counterweight to whatever secret he was keeping. The distance between them, in the quiet bed, felt infinite.