Chapter 5: The Breeding Ground
The dust motes danced in the sliver of cold light piercing the roof hatch, swirling like Hamish’s fractured thoughts. Below, in the cavernous master bedroom he’d shared with Fiona for twenty sterile years, the scene unfolded with brutal clarity. He was a gargoyle frozen in the rafters, the rough wood biting his knees, the scent of ancient timber and bat guano thick in his nose, but utterly obliterated by the tableau beneath.
Fiona lay sprawled across the massive four-poster bed, the velvet hangings pulled back. The expensive silk dressing gown she’d worn earlier was a puddle on the Persian rug. She was naked except for a pair of lace top hold up stockings and kitten heels, her body dramatically altered by the pregnancy. Her breasts, impossibly full and heavy, swayed with each movement, the dark aureoles large and taut. Her belly was a vast, taut curve that Lachlan knelt between, his powerful back muscles rippling like a big cat’s as he braced himself over her.
"Look at you," Lachlan growled, his voice thick with lust and a terrible possessiveness. He ran a calloused hand possessively over the swell of her stomach. "My son. Growing strong in there. Filling you up." He squeezed her breast roughly, making her gasp, her nipple pebbling instantly beneath his thumb. "Your cunt feels different now. Hotter. Tighter. Like it was made for my cock."
"Lachlan," Fiona moaned, arching her back, offering herself. There was no pretense now, none of the cool detachment she wielded at the dining table. Here, she was pure, ravenous need. Her green eyes were glazed, fixed on his face. "Please. I need you inside me. Now."
Hamish’s jaw clenched so tight his teeth screamed. He could smell the sex on the air even from here – the musky tang of her arousal, the sharp scent of Lachlan’s sweat. He saw the slick glisten between Fiona’s thighs. His wife’s thighs. Opened wide for this man. For the man whose seed had rooted deep inside her.
With a low grunt, Lachlan positioned himself. The broad, ruddy head of his cock pressed against her entrance, glistening wet. Fiona whimpered, her hands scrabbling at his back. "Yes! God, yes!"
Lachlan didn’t ease in. He never did. He was a man who took. In one brutal, powerful thrust, he sheathed himself completely inside her, hilt-deep. Fiona’s cry was sharp, primal, echoing off the high ceiling. Her head snapped back, exposing the long line of her throat. Her pregnant belly jolted with the force of his entry.
"FUCK!" Lachlan roared, his head thrown back, the cords in his neck standing out like ropes. He stayed buried for a second, savouring the clenching heat. "Still so fucking greedy for me, aren't you? This cunt remembers its master."
He withdrew almost completely, then slammed back in, hard. The wet slap of flesh meeting flesh was obscenely loud. Again. And again. A relentless, driving rhythm that shook the heavy bed frame. Fiona’s cries escalated with each thrust – wordless sounds of pleasure that tore through Hamish like shrapnel. Her legs wrapped tightly around Lachlan’s waist, her heels digging into the hard muscle of his arse, pulling him deeper.
"Harder! Oh God, Lachlan, harder!" she begged, her voice cracking. "Fill me! Remind me who owns this pussy!"
"I own it!" Lachlan snarled, pistoning into her. One hand tangled brutally in her hair, pulling her head back. The other slid down, fingers finding her swollen clit, rubbing hard, relentless circles. "Say it! Whose filthy cunt is this?"
"Yours!" she shrieked, her body starting to convulse. "It's yours, Lachlan! All yours!"
"Who put this fucking baby in your belly?" He punctuated each word with a savage thrust, his balls slapping against her arse. "Who bred you like the fucking bitch you are?"
"You! You did! Oh fuck, I'm coming! Lachlan, I'm coming!" Her body bowed off the bed, a high, keening wail tearing from her lips as her inner muscles clamped down violently around his invading cock.
Lachlan roared, his thrusts becoming wild, uncontrolled jackhammer slams. "Take it! Take every fucking drop! Breed you again, right here! Show your fucking cuck husband what a real man does!"
He was looking up. Not at Fiona writhing beneath him, lost in her climax. He was staring directly at the dark square of the roof hatch. Directly at Hamish. Their eyes locked across the dim, perfumed space.
The rage that had been a cold, simmering coal in Hamish’s gut for months erupted into an inferno. It wasn’t just the sight, the sounds, the smells. It wasn’t just the betrayal. It was the mockery. The absolute, gloating triumph in Lachlan’s eyes as he violently fucked Hamish’s wife, his swollen belly a testament to his victory.
"See this, Hamish?" Lachlan ground out, his voice thick with exertion and malice, never breaking his punishing rhythm, but only to the room. Fiona whimpered beneath him, oversensitive but still held tight by his grip. "See what she needs? What you could never give her? Her cunt belongs to me now. Her son belongs to me. This whole fucking house will belong to my bloodline. You’re just a ghost here." He slammed home again, a final, brutal punctuation. "A fucking ghost watching the future happen."
He threw his head back and roared, his body rigid as he emptied himself deep inside her, pulsing, claiming, marking his territory with a ferocity that vibrated through the ancient floorboards.
Hamish didn’t hear the roar. He didn’t see Lachlan collapse onto Fiona, spent. He saw only red. A crimson tide washing over the world, drowning the portraits, the velvet, the entwined bodies on his bed. The raw, splintered wood under his hands. The heavy iron latch of the hatch. The sharp, biting edge of the slate tile beside his knee.
He moved. Not with the heavy deliberation of the Laird, but with the terrifying, silent speed of a man unmoored from everything but the need to destroy. The hatch groaned as he shoved it wider. Dust rained down. He didn’t climb down the ladder. He dropped.