The Warden's pet growled, and I swear to every saint that ever bothered existing, the stones beneath my boots rattled with the sound.
It wasn't the kind of growl you hear from dogs, not even the nasty kind that sleep under butcher's carts and bite at anyone foolish enough to wander too close. No, this was something deeper, something older, like a furnace deciding it had opinions about my existence.
The men around me jumped back then, a ripple of bodies stumbling and shoving each other in their frantic attempt to make space, as though the extra foot or two might protect them when this thing finally snapped and started treating us like hors d'oeuvres.
His step thundered, heavier than before, and I found myself standing there like the idiot ringmaster of a circus, smiling at the lion while wondering whether I'd remembered to lock the cage.
Now, the sensible thing—the absolutely sensible thing—would've been to run. Saints above, I could almost hear Brutus's voice in the back of my skull telling me to quit while I still had legs attached to my body.
But sensible has never been my specialty. If anything, I've built a career—nay, a vocation—on doing the exact opposite of what keeps you alive.
And so, instead of bolting like any sane man, I took a slow step forward. My grin stretched a little wider, my hands rising in mock surrender like I was trying to coax a nervous puppy out from under the bed.
"Easy there, darling," I cooed, my tone low, careful, dripping with the false confidence of a man who's already written his own eulogy. "Remember me? We've met before, haven't we? You and I, in the Warden's little playpen. I gave you quite the show, didn't I? Surely you remember that."
The beastman rumbled again, his broad chest swelling with the sound. The sheer vibration made the hairs on my arms stand tall, a primitive part of my body shrieking that I was about to be torn limb from limb.
His eyes caught mine, glowing faintly with that animalistic light, and for one blessed second I thought I saw recognition flicker in their depths. Or maybe it was hunger. Hard to tell, really, when a creature's vocabulary is limited to snarls, grunts, and the occasional gnash of teeth.
Still, I pressed on, because if I didn't keep talking, I'd probably start screaming.
"Come on now," I whispered, inching closer with all the hesitation of a drunkard climbing onto a gallows, "don't tell me you've forgotten already. I'm unforgettable. Ask anyone. Well, ask anyone still alive, at least."
And then he growled again—different this time. Not a warning, not a threat, but something lower, rougher, like the kind of sound a man makes when he remembers something better left unsaid.
Gods preserve me, the noise twisted straight into my spine, dragging with it memories of my own. I swallowed hard, forced a laugh that sounded a little too brittle, and closed the gap another inch.
Closer now. Close enough to see the rise and fall of his chest, close enough to smell the raw heat of him—sweat, blood, and something more primal, musk thick enough to choke on.
"That's it," I purred, softer this time. "you remember now don't you? You liked me. You liked the way I moved, the way I spoke. The way I felt..."
His chest rumbled again, but this time it came with a shift of his weight, a tilt of his head, something that might have passed for curiosity.
I was close—close enough to gamble, and gambling is the only game I ever win. So I leaned forward, just a fraction, my voice curling around us like smoke.
"Tell you what, big guy. You help me out of this little mess, and I'll make sure you never have to feel this cage again. You'll have me instead. My smile, my laugh, my…" I let my hand drift lower, lower still, until the heel of my palm pressed against the bulge swelling beneath his ragged loincloth.
Oh, gods. Gods above, gods below, gods in every forgotten corner of this miserable world—he was hard.
Not just hard, but monstrous. The heat of him pulsed against my palm like a living thing, and I nearly melted on the spot, my knees trembling in betrayal.
I bit my lip hard enough to taste copper, eyes flicking up to meet his as my fingers flexed ever so slightly against him. The beast let out a guttural grunt, low and dangerous, and for one insane moment I thought he might crush me right there.
But no—his cock twitched instead, straining harder, and I felt a manic giggle bubble up in my throat.
"Good boy," I whispered, my tone drenched in teasing venom, as though I were praising a lover instead of a creature that could rip my head off with one flick of his wrist. "See? We understand each other. You want out. I want out. And between the two of us, I think we can make quite the mess of this place."
I slipped around him then, every nerve in my body screaming, my hand trailing across the taut muscles of his side as if I were staking a claim. My fingers fumbled with the keys, slick with sweat and blood, and for a moment I feared I'd drop them like the hopeless fool I am.
But no—the lock turned, the chains groaned, and then, at last, they hit the floor with a sound like a death knell.
The men around us didn't wait. Of course they didn't. The moment the beast stepped free, their courage shriveled like fruit left in the sun, and they bolted, scrambling over each other in their desperation to escape.
I couldn't resist. I patted the beastman's firm little ass and chirped, "Sic 'em."
And oh, saints, he did.
He bolted out of that cell like a storm given flesh, his roar splitting the chamber as he descended upon the nearest unfortunate soul.
One leg, just one, he snatched up in his monstrous grip, and with a howl that rattled marrow he began to swing.
The man hit the ground with a thunderclap of flesh and stone, his body bursting on impact like rotten fruit. Again and again the beastman slammed him down, each collision exploding into a spray of blood, shards of bone jutting through torn skin, teeth scattering like dice across the floor.
By the fifth strike the skull was completely pulverized yet still the beast swung him, pounding the ruin into slurry until only a red smear soaked into the cracks.
Then, with a guttural snarl of boredom, he hurled the dripping husk into the crowd, painting their faces with gore as he turned, hungry for the next toy to break.
I brought my hand up to my mouth in mock surprise, my eyes wide, my lips parted. "Oh my," I gasped, though the laughter bubbling in my throat betrayed me instantly.
Gods help me, I couldn't hold it back. A cackle tore free, sharp and bright, echoing through the blood-slicked chamber.
The slaughter began in earnest.
He was beautiful in his fury. Men tried to scatter, but he was faster, stronger, relentless in his wrath. Each swipe of his arm sent bodies flying, each stomp cracked bones, each roar sent men scattering like cockroaches.
The chamber filled with the sound of breaking, tearing, and the wet slap of flesh against stone. And still, I laughed, drunk on the chaos, giddy on the spectacle of my plan unfurling into perfection.
It didn't take long for the survivors to realize running wasn't going to save them. The chamber's walls boxed them in, and the beast was faster than fear.
So they did what desperate men always do—they turned to face him. Two of the gang leaders, bloody but unbroken, rallied their remaining dogs with guttural roars. Weapons rose, eyes narrowed, courage stitched together from scraps. They would face him head-on, because it was the only path left.
The beastman stilled, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing. He didn't chase them. He didn't roar. He simply waited. Stood there, massive and immovable, daring them to strike first.
One leader snarled, thrust his blade toward him, and barked the order. A charge.
The first man barely made it three steps before the beast swatted him with a backhand. Just a backhand. The strike caved half the man's skull in with a wet crunch, and the force sent his body sailing through the air like a sack of meat hurled from a catapult.
The poor fool hit the wall so hard the impact cracked the stone, his spine snapping in two audible places before he slid down the bloody smear he left behind. The silence that followed was ghastly, heavy, a choir of horror hanging in the air.
And then, of course, they noticed me.
A handful of men, eyes wild and teeth bared, spotted my slim, smirking frame still standing near the cage. Their thoughts were obvious: smaller target, easier kill. They rushed me, blades flashing, curses spitting. Saints above, I almost pitied them.
Almost.
I disappeared before their blades could taste me, vanishing in a flicker of shadow and reappearing above them, vaulting clean over their heads. I landed with a cat's grace, my boots skidding against stone.
They whirled, eyes wide, blades raised, but I was already moving, already laughing, my body thrumming with manic glee.
And then I bumped into him.
The beastman. Towering, snarling, drenched in gore. For one blessed moment, we stood back to back, his growl rumbling through my spine, my smirk stretching wide.
"Oh, darling," I purred, picking up a stolen blade and twirling it in my hand, "Let's dance."
And saints above, we did.
They came at us in waves, but together we moved like two halves of some terrible whole. His fists shattered skulls, my blade found throats. His roars sent them stumbling, my laughter tore the courage from their bones.
He crushed, I cut. He mauled, I mocked. Back to back, spinning, slashing, tearing, the two of us painting the chamber red while the walls themselves seemed to shiver.
It was glorious.
By the time the last body hit the floor, the air was thick with blood and silence. The chamber was a charnel house, corpses strewn like discarded dolls, limbs twisted, faces frozen in terror.
A few still twitched, groaning, bleeding, clinging stubbornly to life—but only barely. Among them, the surviving gang leaders, broken, battered, but breathing.
I stood there, hair matted to my face, grinning like the lunatic I am. The beast beside me panted, blood dripping from his knuckles, his chest heaving with the weight of violence.
Together we surveyed the ruin we'd made, and gods help me, I'd never felt more alive.