Chapter 14: Chapter 14
The stale, whiskey-and-sweat fug of Rabastan’s bolt-hole clung to Cassie like a second skin as she slipped out before dawn. Her body was a map of aches – deep bruises from Tom’s desk, the raw tenderness between her thighs from Rabastan’s relentless possession, the sticky residue of multiple encounters dried into an uncomfortable film on her skin. She moved stiffly, every step a reminder of the hours spent pinned beneath him, against the wall, sprawled across the filthy rug. Yet beneath the exhaustion, a strange, humming energy pulsed. A dangerous warmth.
She didn’t go home. The thought of facing the wreckage of Sirius and Lucius, the memory of Tom’s icy fury dissolving into animalistic claiming, felt overwhelming. Instead, drawn by some perverse instinct, she drifted towards the sprawling weekend garage sale taking over Elm Street. The early morning air was cool, carrying the scent of damp grass and exhaust, a stark contrast to the cloying intimacy she’d just escaped.
The sale was already bustling, a chaotic tapestry of cast-off lives. Tables groaned under chipped porcelain, faded board games, towers of yellowing paperbacks. The air hung thick with the distinctive perfume of dust, old paper, mildew, and bargain-hunting fervor. Sunlight, still low and weak, filtered through the canopy of mature oaks lining the street, casting long, shifting shadows over the mismatched treasures. Cassie wandered aimlessly, her senses dulled by fatigue and the lingering echo of Rabastan’s voice.
"Tell me you want it wrecked, Cassie." His growl, rough and immediate, seemed to vibrate in her bones. She’d told him. Oh, she’d told him. Again and again, until her throat was raw from screaming it.
A hand clamped onto her arm, startling her. Rabastan stood there, materializing from the crowd like a phantom. He hadn’t followed her; he’d anticipated her. His dark eyes scanned her face, taking in the shadows under her eyes, the faint smear of dried something near her temple she hadn’t managed to scrub off. He wore a worn leather jacket over a plain black tee, looking effortlessly dangerous amidst the suburban detritus. A slow, knowing smirk touched his lips.
"Lost, little bird?" he murmured, pulling her slightly off the main path, behind a towering stack of mismatched chairs. The relative privacy was an illusion, the murmur of haggling voices close by. His proximity instantly reignited the low thrum in her core. He smelled of leather, cheap soap, and the faint, metallic tang of the knife he’d been cleaning. "Thought you might need… redirecting."
Cassie tried to summon defiance, but it felt thin. "I needed air."
"Air?" He chuckled, low and dark. His hand slid down her arm, fingers tracing the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. "Looked like you needed something else when you stumbled out my door. Looked… unfinished." His other hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing roughly over her lower lip. "Still hungry? After all that?"
The memory flooded back – the brutal efficiency of his possession against the cold wall, the way he’d lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist as he drove into her standing up; the animalistic coupling on the threadbare rug, his teeth scraping her shoulder, his filthy promises rasped against her ear; the final, slower, deeper claiming on the lumpy sofa where he’d pinned her wrists and watched her shatter with agonizing intensity. Each encounter distinct, overwhelming, leaving her trembling and hollowed out, yet inexplicably craving more.
His thumb pressed harder against her lip. "Answer me."
"Yes," she breathed, the word escaping before she could cage it. The admission sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in her belly.
Rabastan’s smirk widened into a feral grin. "Knew it." He glanced around swiftly. The alley between two overflowing garages was narrow, shadowed by overflowing boxes. He backed her into the dimness, the brick wall cool and gritty against her torn blouse. "Gotta be quick," he muttered, his hands already at her waist, shoving her skirt up. "Quiet." He didn’t bother with her tights this time, just ripped the flimsy underwear aside. The cool air hit her exposed skin, a shocking contrast to the heat radiating from him. He fumbled with his jeans, the rasp of the zip loud in the confined space. "Hold onto me."
She gripped his shoulders as he lifted her, pressing her back against the rough brick. He slid into her with one hard, deep thrust, filling the aching emptiness instantly. She gasped, biting down on her lip to stifle the sound. He felt enormous, stretching her deliciously, the familiar soreness flaring into sharp, welcome sensation.
"Fuck, you’re still soaked for me," he groaned against her neck, his hips already setting a punishing rhythm, driving her hard against the unyielding wall. "Told you I’d wreck it. Feel that? Feel how deep I go?" Each thrust jolted her, her shoulders scraping brick. "Still think about Riddle’s pathetic little splatter? Or Black and Malfoy playing dress-up?" He nipped her earlobe. "Forget ‘em. This is all you need. This cock. Ruining you." His words were crude, vulgar, painting vivid pictures that only heightened the intensity. He described what he was doing to her in graphic, degrading detail, his voice a low, relentless growl in her ear, each filthy phrase punctuated by a sharp snap of his hips.
Cassie clung to him, her legs locked around his waist, her face buried in the leather of his jacket. The friction was exquisite agony, the pressure building rapidly, fueled by his words, his possession, the sheer illicit thrill of being taken like this in a semi-public space. She felt herself tightening around him, the coil winding impossibly tight.
"Yeah," he hissed, sensing it. "Come on it. Come on my cock while I fill this greedy little hole again." He shifted his angle slightly, grinding against her clit with each inward drive. "Do it. Now."
The command, coupled with the brutal friction, shattered her. She convulsed silently, her body clamping down on him in violent pulses, a silent scream tearing through her as the orgasm ripped through her with shocking force. Feeling her inner muscles spasm, Rabastan cursed, burying himself to the hilt, his own release surging hot and deep inside her. He held her there, pinned, grinding against her as he emptied himself, his breath ragged against her skin.
He lowered her slowly, her legs trembling as they touched the ground. He stayed pressed against her for a moment, his forehead resting against hers. "See?" he breathed, his voice rough but satisfied. "Told you you weren’t finished." He pulled out, tucking himself away with swift efficiency. Cassie sagged against the wall, feeling his spend already beginning to seep out. She felt utterly spent, yet the humming warmth inside her hadn’t dissipated. It had intensified, wrapping around her ribs, squeezing her heart.
Rabastan straightened her skirt roughly. "Meet me at the flat. Two hours." It wasn’t a request. He brushed a stray strand of hair from her sticky forehead, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Then he was gone, melting back into the garage sale crowd.
Cassie leaned against the cool brick, breathing in the dust and the distant smell of coffee from a vendor. Her body throbbed. Her mind felt strangely clear, yet filled with a single, overwhelming thought that bloomed like a bruise, dark and undeniable amidst the physical wreckage: I love him. The realization wasn’t sweet. It was terrifying. Visceral. As raw and brutal as his possession. It felt less like affection and more like addiction, a desperate clawing need for the chaos he embodied, the way he obliterated everything else – Tom’s cold fury, Sirius’s reckless charm, Lucius’s brittle pride – leaving only this pulsing, aching void he alone could fill.
She pushed off the wall, her legs unsteady. The cheerful chatter of bargain hunters, the clink of china, the mundane reality of the garage sale felt surreal, like watching a play through thick glass. She walked through the maze of tables, not seeing the faded linens or chipped figurines. All she saw was Rabastan’s fierce grin, heard his guttural promises, felt the phantom ache of his claiming deep inside her. The warmth spread, a dangerous, all-consuming fire. I love him. The words echoed in the hollow spaces he’d carved within her, a terrifying truth she couldn’t un-know. She needed the flat. She needed two hours to pass. She needed him to wreck her all over again.
The flat’s familiar, oppressive scent – stale whiskey, old sweat, and something metallic – hit Cassie the moment she pushed open the door. Two hours had crawled by like tar, every minute spent replaying the alley encounter, the scrape of brick against her shoulders, the shocking heat of him filling her. She’d walked, aimless circuits around the neighborhood, her body a throbbing echo chamber tuned solely to Rabastan. The cheap fabric of her skirt chafed where he’d ripped her underwear away; a phantom ache pulsed deep inside, a persistent reminder.
Rabastan was already waiting, leaning against the grimy kitchen counter, a half-empty bottle of cheap bourbon beside him. He’d shed the leather jacket. His dark eyes tracked her entrance, predatory, satisfied. "Took you long enough," he rasped, pushing off the counter. He didn’t move towards her immediately, just let his gaze rake over her, lingering on the faint bruise blooming on her collarbone from the brick wall. "Still walking funny?"
"Feels like I got hit by a truck," Cassie admitted, her voice rough. She kicked off her shoes, the cool linoleum a shock against her soles. The admission felt dangerous, exposing her vulnerability. "Twice."
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Good." He finally closed the distance, stopping inches away. His hand lifted, fingers tracing the line of her jaw, rough skin catching on hers. He smelled of bourbon and leather and himself. "Told you you weren’t finished." His thumb pressed against her lower lip, forcing it down slightly. "Open." The command was soft, absolute.
Cassie obeyed, her breath hitching. He slid his thumb into her mouth, pressing down on her tongue. The taste of salt, leather, and something uniquely him flooded her senses. He watched her suckle it, his eyes darkening. "That’s it," he murmured. "Get used to the taste." He withdrew his thumb slowly, glistening. "Now strip. Slow. Let me see what I’m wrecking this time."
Her fingers trembled as she reached for the buttons of her blouse. The air felt thick, charged. Each undone button revealed more skin marked by him – the fading bruises from Tom’s desk, the fresh scrapes from the alley brick. She pushed the blouse off her shoulders, letting it pool on the filthy floor. Her skirt followed, catching on her hips before dropping. She stood before him in just her torn tights and the useless shreds of underwear he’d ripped earlier. The vulnerability was terrifying, exhilarating.
Rabastan’s gaze was incendiary, burning across her skin. He didn’t touch her yet. "Tights too," he ordered, his voice thick. "Want nothing between me and that greedy little cunt." She peeled them down, stepping out awkwardly. He circled her slowly, a wolf assessing prey. His fingers brushed the curve of her hip, the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, making her flinch. "Still sore?" he asked, a cruel amusement in his tone.
"Yes," she breathed.
"Good," he repeated, stopping behind her. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her back flush against him. She felt the hard ridge of his erection through his jeans, pressing against her lower back. His breath was hot on her neck. "Gonna make it worse." One hand slid around, fingers delving roughly between her legs. She gasped, arching back against him as he found her slick core, already swollen and sensitive. "Fuck, you’re dripping," he growled, fingers sliding easily through her wetness, circling her clit with brutal precision. "Just thinking about it, huh? Just thinking about this cock splitting you open again?" He pushed two fingers inside her, deep and unforgiving, curling them upwards. Cassie cried out, her knees buckling. He held her up easily, fingers pistoning, stretching her already tender flesh. "Yeah, scream," he commanded against her ear. "Scream how much you want it."
"I want it!" she gasped, the words torn from her. "Please, Rabastan!"
"Please what?" His fingers withdrew abruptly, leaving her clenching around emptiness. He spun her around to face him. His eyes were pure fire. "Beg properly."
"Fuck me!" she pleaded, desperation clawing at her throat. Her hands scrabbled at his belt buckle. "Fuck me hard! Please! Wreck me!" The words spilled out, raw and unfiltered, feeding the frantic need consuming her.
He didn’t need telling twice. He shoved her backwards. She stumbled, crashing onto the lumpy, stained sofa. Before she could right herself, he was on her, his jeans shoved down just enough to free his cock, thick and flushed and already leaking. He pinned her wrists above her head with one large hand, his other guiding himself to her entrance. No preamble. No gentleness. He slammed into her with one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
Cassie screamed, a ragged sound ripped from her lungs. The invasion was shocking, agonizingly deep, stretching her impossibly wide against the lingering soreness. It burned, a white-hot agony that instantly ignited into overwhelming pleasure. He didn’t pause, didn’t give her time to adjust. He withdrew almost completely and drove back in with the same savage force, setting a relentless, pounding rhythm that shook the flimsy sofa frame.
"Fuck! Yes!" he roared, his hips pistoning, driving her body down into the cushions with each thrust. His grip on her wrists was iron, holding her immobile. "Take it! Take every fucking inch!" He leaned down, his teeth scraping her neck, his breath hot and ragged. "Feel that? Feel how deep I own you?" Each word was punctuated by a jarring snap of his hips. "Deeper than Riddle ever got? Deeper than Black could dream?" He slammed into her cervix, making her cry out again, a sound mixed with pain and ecstasy. "This is yours now! This cock! Ruining you!"
He released her wrists, grabbing her hips instead, hauling her up to meet his thrusts, angling her pelvis for deeper penetration. Cassie clawed at his shoulders, his back, anything to anchor herself against the onslaught. The friction was unbearable, exquisite; the raw stretch, the relentless pounding against her most sensitive spot. She felt herself hurtling towards the edge with terrifying speed, the coil winding impossibly tight, fueled by his ferocity, his filthy words, the sheer, brutal possession.
"Gonna come?" he snarled, watching her face contort. "Gonna come all over this cock wrecking your tight little hole?" He shifted his grip, one hand sliding down to rub her clit in rough, frantic circles, perfectly timed with his thrusts. "Do it! Come for me! Now!"
The dual assault was too much. Cassie shattered. Her back arched violently off the sofa, a silent scream tearing through her as convulsions ripped through her body, clamping down on him in fierce, rhythmic pulses. The intensity was blinding, wiping out all thought, leaving only raw, pulsing sensation.
Feeling her inner muscles clamp and flutter around him, Rabastan let out a guttural roar. He buried himself impossibly deep, grinding against her as his own release surged. Hot, thick pulses flooded her, filling her already stretched channel. He held himself there, shuddering, hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself deep inside her. His weight collapsed onto her, crushing her into the sofa springs, his breath ragged gasps against her sweat-slicked neck.
He lay slumped on her for long moments, the only sound their harsh breathing and the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the squalid flat. Cassie felt utterly obliterated. Every muscle screamed. The ache between her legs was profound, a deep, satisfying throb. His spend was already leaking out, warm against her thighs. Yet beneath the exhaustion, the dangerous warmth bloomed fiercer, wrapping tight around her heart, a terrifying anchor. He shifted his weight slightly, pulling out with a wet sound that made her flinch. He rolled onto his back beside her on the narrow sofa, staring at the cracked ceiling, one arm flung over his eyes. Cassie lay still, trembling, staring at the water stain above them, the terrifying realization echoing louder than ever in the sudden, heavy silence.
The silence in Rabastan’s flat pressed down, thick with the smell of sex and cheap bourbon. Cassie stared at the water stain, its shape blurring as the terrifying thought echoed: I love him. It wasn’t soft or sweet; it was a raw, gnawing hunger, a craving for the oblivion only his brutal possession offered. Beside her, Rabastan’s breathing had evened out into a low rumble, one arm still flung over his eyes. The utter stillness felt wrong, suffocating after the violence of his claiming.
She couldn’t stay here. Not with that realization clawing at her insides. Moving felt like tearing muscle from bone. Every joint protested, the deep ache between her thighs a constant, throbbing reminder. She slid off the sofa, her bare feet hitting the cold linoleum. Her discarded clothes felt like damp rags as she pulled them on, the ripped underwear useless. Rabastan didn’t stir. He was already gone, lost in whatever dark dreams fueled him.
Cassie slipped out without looking back. The morning air outside was jarringly fresh, scented with cut grass and exhaust fumes. Sunlight glared off parked cars. She walked stiffly, her gait uneven, feeling Rabastan’s spend cooling against her skin beneath her skirt. The cheerful chaos of the garage sale was long packed away; Elm Street was just a normal suburban road now. Normalcy felt like a slap. Her mind replayed the alley, the sofa, the scrape of brick, the feel of him filling her, the crude, possessive words growled against her ear. The humming warmth intensified, warring with a sharp spike of disgust. Love? Was this love? It felt like drowning in poison and begging for more.
The walk home stretched interminably. Each step jarred her bruised body. She passed Mrs. Henderson walking her yapping terrier; the old woman offered a bright "Good morning!" Cassie managed a tight-lipped grimace she hoped passed for a smile. Inside her head, Rabastan’s voice snarled, "Beg properly." She pushed the heavy front door open, the familiar scent of polished wood and faint lavender air freshener hitting her. It smelled sterile. Dead. Compared to Rabastan’s fug, it was antiseptic.
The silence inside was different. Thick. Expectant. She kicked off her shoes in the hallway, the cool hardwood a relief. Movement came from the living room. She stepped through the archway.
The scene was a tableau of aftermath. Sirius sat slumped in an armchair, a half-empty tumbler of amber liquid dangling loosely from his fingers. His shirt was rumpled, open at the collar, his dark hair messy. His gaze, when it lifted to hers, was flat, unreadable, holding a weary kind of resignation. He looked like he hadn’t slept. On the floor, leaning back against the sofa, sat Lucius. His usually immaculate appearance was shattered. His fine silk shirt was torn open, hanging off one shoulder. His platinum hair was disheveled, strands plastered to his damp forehead. His eyes were red-rimmed, hollow. A dark bruise bloomed high on his cheekbone. He stared blankly at the Persian rug, his posture radiating utter defeat. The air hung heavy with the sour tang of spilled whiskey and something else, something intimate and acrid.
Cassie stopped, taking it in. The wreckage she’d orchestrated. The memory of forcing them together, of watching Lucius’s brittle pride shatter under Sirius’s rough handling, flickered coldly. Sirius took a slow sip from his glass, the ice clinking. "Enjoy your walk?" he asked, his voice rough but devoid of inflection. It wasn’t really a question.
Lucius flinched at the sound. His head lifted slowly, painfully. His bloodshot eyes found Cassie. They weren’t filled with anger, or even resentment. They held a terrifying emptiness, a void. Then, something shifted. A tremor ran through him. His gaze locked onto hers, desperate, pleading. His lips, dry and cracked, parted. A ragged breath hitched in his chest.
"Cassie," he whispered, the name cracking. His voice was ruined, scraped raw. He swallowed convulsively, his throat working. "Please." The word was barely audible, torn from somewhere deep and broken. He pushed himself up slightly from the floor, a clumsy, graceless movement. His torn shirt gaped open, revealing more bruises on his pale chest. He didn’t look at Sirius. His entire focus was on her, desperate, terrified. "Please… tell me… tell me what you want." His voice gained a fraction of strength, edged with panic. "Anything. Just… tell me. Command me."
He dragged himself forward on his knees across the rug, stopping just short of her feet. He looked up at her, his face a mask of abject surrender. Gone was the aristocratic sneer, the cold superiority. In its place was raw, trembling need. "Please," he begged again, his voice breaking. "Tell me how to serve you. How to… submit. Properly. I’ll do it. Anything. Just…" He reached out a trembling hand, not quite daring to touch her skirt. "Don’t leave me like this. Don’t leave me… unknown." His eyes searched hers, filled with a terrifying vulnerability. "Own me. Tell me how."