“Jina!”

“She’s here!”

The moment she arrived at the rendezvous point, her friends rushed her with a warmth that felt only half-genuine.

The room was packed. Strangers turned at the sound of her name, their heads coming together in quick, hushed whispers. Seeing the crowd, Jina leaned in close to her friend.

“What’s happening? Why are we meeting somewhere this big? How many people are here?”

The meeting was for the ‘Ambitious Female Chefs of London,’ a networking group founded a decade ago on an internet forum. Jina had been an active, dedicated member, and the friends she’d met here were her closest allies.

“The turnout is definitely higher than usual,” her friend observed.

“It’s strange. This is a bad time for people to be attending meetings. Everyone’s just getting settled into new jobs.”

Her friend nudged her arm, a knowing glint in her eye. “Why do you think it’s so packed? It’s because you RSVP’d. And Chloe will be here soon, too.”

“Chloe?”

The name alone was enough to draw her brow into a tight frown.

Chloe had always been a complicated presence. Attractive and superficially straightforward, she was the person everyone in the young chefs’ community wanted in their corner.

But beneath the appealing facade was a hungry, corrosive envy and a ravenous desire for recognition. She created minor and major drama everywhere she went, earning her the reputation of being ‘more trouble than she was worth.’

Jina had never openly disliked her, maintaining a polite, lukewarm distance.

Chloe was a relentless boaster. Every time they met, she had a new, miraculous job, a head chef who adored her, or an imminent promotion.

In the next breath, she’d claim she quit her previous job because it had “no growth potential,” or that she’d “turned down half the industry” to pursue a better opportunity, always omitting the fact that she was rarely, if ever, asked.

Later, the truth always leaked out: she’d usually been fired for insubordination, or for the conspicuous way she tried to push others aside to stand out.

Since there was never any direct conflict, Jina kept her distance. Their relationship only turned genuinely sour when Jina’s own catering business took off.

Chloe had launched her own catering company around the same time. Since Jina’s had started first, she’d offered help with paperwork and advice. Chloe had accepted it, offering nothing more than a clipped thank you.

Jina had shrugged it off. As expected. She hadn’t wanted a cheap bottle of wine anyway—it would just have become another bragging point for Chloe later.

But when Jina’s company gained traction and started going viral on social media, Chloe’s discomfort curdled into malice. She began spreading rumors that Jina’s success was pure luck or that she’d paid for promotion. It escalated until malicious comments started appearing on Jina’s company accounts.

The breaking point came when Chloe made an unforgivable mistake, accidentally posting a comment filled with profanity from her personal account. Jina had seen it, screenshot it instantly, and sent Chloe a direct message.

📱[I don’t want to have this fight. If you post one more strange comment, I’m going to report you to the moderators, so stop it.]

She’d considered telling everyone, but the industry was notoriously small, and she knew the narrative would become about two jealous women fighting. She let it drop.

The bizarre comments stopped immediately—presumably due to embarrassment—and Chloe all but vanished from the group meetings.

Then, after her business imploded because of Emily, Chloe had reached out.

📱[I heard the news. Are you doing well?]

Jina could practically see the satisfied smirk behind the screen. Ignoring it felt like conceding a victory, so she sent a brief, formal reply.

📱[Yes. It’s a bit difficult, but I’ll get better. Thank you for your concern.]

📱[I see. If you ever need help, feel free to contact me :)]

The final, wide-grinning emoticon was what cemented her decision not to reply. It was, she knew, the exact look on Chloe’s face at that moment. That had been their last exchange.

“Why is she coming here?” The question slipped out, blunt and sharp.

Her friend’s eyes widened, as if the answer should have been obvious. “Chloe applied for the Aylesford job, too. She was rejected.”

“She was?”

“I heard she practically sprinted to the interview the day the job was announced. And apparently, she also slept with Ian Aylesford.”

“……!”

The sudden mention of Ian’s name, dragged so crudely into the conversation, made her flinch.

“She slept with Ian?”

“Yeah. And speaking of him—have you actually seen the guy at the Aylesford estate? He’s plastered all over the papers and magazines these days. He was always known as a total piece of trash, but now he’s suddenly acting respectable because he’s taking over the company. A silk glove on a rotten hand, I say.”

“……He’s not that bad,” she heard herself say.

She should have stayed silent, let the comment pass, but the impulsive defense of Ian had already left her lips.

“Have you seen him?”

Seen him? She cooked his elaborate, specialized meals every day. She crossed paths with him constantly inside the house.

Every time, he maintained a polite, almost chilling distance, offering only a courteous greeting before retreating. That consistency, that respect, had earned her quiet, growing trust.

He does have his issues, though.

The real problem wasn’t Ian. It was her.

I’ve been having the strangest dreams lately.

In them, she was locked in his embrace.

They were naked, skin to skin.

Their bare bodies writhed together, a tangle of limbs like mating snakes. Embracing, tasting, rubbing, pressing down with a fierce urgency.

And yet, despite every lewd, frantic act they engaged in, they never went inside.

Consumed by the need, she’d grabbed his hardness and guided it between her thighs, practically begging him to enter. He’d simply laughed—a dark, throaty sound—and squeezed her hand.

“Not yet.”

Even in the hazy borderland of sleep, she hated those two words.

She felt like she couldn’t ask for anything more if he would just scratch that intense, aching itch between her legs, but while his hands and mouth teased and tormented every other part of her, he absolutely refused the final, devastating intimacy.

Frustrated, she’d clung to him, whining his name. He’d answered by biting softly on her ear.

“I’ll wait a little longer,” he’d whispered.

She had no idea what in the hell he was waiting for.

Instead of entering, he would use his hands. He’d cover her vulva with his entire palm, rubbing with a fierce, punishing friction.

That alone was enough to make Jina peak, several times over. And after he’d made her come with his hand, he would always, always lick what was on his palm.

When that wasn’t enough, he’d bury his face between her legs, tasting her deep, complex satisfaction.

Finally, when she lay sprawled, utterly spent, he’d climb back on top of her to lick and taste her entire body.

When she woke, the room was always still, quiet, and empty, as if the encounter had never happened. The only thing different from when she’d fallen asleep was the strong, persistent scent that lingered in the air.

But she’d grown so used to it that she no longer noticed—or maybe it had never been there at all.

And yet, she couldn’t bring another soul into her room and ask them to confirm the exact nature of the lingering scent.

She wished the whole thing would stay safely in the realm of sleep, but waking brought with it a jarring, alien sensation in her own body.

Even a slight, accidental brush against her chest was enough to send a startling jolt, liquefying her legs beneath her. It wasn’t just the heightened sensitivity of her nipples. The juncture between her legs was often slick, heavy with moisture, a humiliating, undeniable testament that she had, in fact, been pleasured all night.

In the beginning, she’d frantically checked the door lock, convinced of a nocturnal visitor. But it was always securely fastened.

My mouth feels numb, too.

Sometimes her jaw ached, as if she’d been clenching down on something thick and foreign all through the dark hours. But it was only a phantom pain; her body bore no marks, no physical evidence of the night’s violence.

She hadn’t been plagued by the dream today, thank God. That was why her body felt light and rested enough to run.

Since Ian isn’t at the mansion, I don’t have the dreams.

That realization only deepened her sense of shame. It confirmed that the desire originated not from some external, supernatural force, but from the hot, embarrassing depths of her own mind. She was truly harboring lustful thoughts for Ian Aylesford.

It would have been less mortifying if the man had been a celebrity, a nameless fantasy. But since she was engaged in such acts in her sleep with a man she saw daily, her cheeks burned with a humiliating flush whenever she encountered Ian in the mansion.

And yet, Ian himself remained utterly, maddeningly composed.

When Jina only lapsed into silence, her friend nudged her again.

“You really see him often at the mansion, then?”

“Well, sort of… I’m in the main building, so our paths cross occasionally.”

As her vague answer trailed off, a sudden clamor near the entrance drew her attention. Chloe strode in, her hair and makeup more fiercely put-together than usual.

“Hi, everyone! God, I got such a fright—there was this huge black dog sitting right by the door. Anyway, how have you all been?”

Her eyes, sparkling with predatory interest, swept over the crowded tables.

She spotted Jina. Her immediate approach was calculated.

“Hi, Jina. Long time no see. How have you been?”

Without waiting for an invitation, she dropped her designer bag onto the empty chair next to Jina and slid into the seat. Before her rear fully settled, the interrogation began, clipped and sharp. “You went shopping with Ian Aylesford at the department store, didn’t you?”

“How did you know that?” Jina asked, her brow furrowing instinctively.

Chloe’s expression hardened, turning ominously sour. Jina’s question wasn’t a denial of the outing, but an admission of its truth, which was precisely the answer Chloe hadn’t wanted.

“What did he get you? A bag? Shoes?” she pressed impatiently.

Ian Aylesford was known to take women shopping.

The women he showered with gifts tended to stay in his orbit for a longer period than the rest.

And Chloe…

I didn’t get anything.

She remembered the night Ian had come to the hotel where she worked, stumbling and heavily intoxicated.

A mix-up in communication. When the woman he’d called couldn’t make it, Ian had casually propositioned the small gathering of women lingering in the lobby. Chloe, ever alert, hadn’t missed the opportunity.

She went up, entering what she was certain was the most expensive suite she’d ever seen. They had tangled together until morning.

Chloe had given everything, bending to his every command. Ian had even patted her head, a gesture of almost contemptuous praise, while her face was buried between his legs. “It’s been a while since I’ve had such an obedient one,” he’d drawled.

She’d smiled then, a happy, hopeful thing, and crawled on her hands and knees, desperate to satisfy him further.

But that was all.

He had vanished while she was still sleeping. There was no follow-up call. She’d even deliberately left her number saved on his phone.

He didn’t answer when I called.

She was certain he had blocked her number.

The following week, Ian was photographed exiting a hotel with a famous singer. The pictures featured him buying her clothes and bags.

Staring at the glossy photos, a brutal realization had hit her: to Ian Aylesford, she wasn’t even worth the price of a cheap pair of shoes.

In a perverse twist of logic, Chloe’s fury was directed not at Ian, but at the singer who had emerged with him. It felt like she’d been robbed of something that was rightfully hers.

Even now, Chloe couldn’t let go of the memory of Ian. It wasn’t love.

It was the festering regret of having squandered the greatest opportunity of her life. Then, the job posting for the Aylesford mansion appeared.

The details were initially restricted. Chloe got the scoop from a married man she was seeing. She applied instantly. And she was soundly rejected.

If the rejection had been clean, she might have accepted it. Instead, she was disqualified after failing a mandatory test—she’d lied about being a smoker.

The shame was compounded by the petty annoyance of being charged for the testing fee.

Afterward, Chloe kept a meticulous watch on the Aylesford mansion’s employment listings. Every time she learned the position was still vacant, a sense of relief washed over her.

Occasionally, someone was hired, only to be dismissed within forty-eight hours.

Then, one day, the posting vanished. The truth hit her: Jina was the one who had been hired.

Of all people.

She despised the idea of anyone getting in, but that the girl she loathed most had succeeded was a special kind of agony. She had checked—twice, subtly, with a friend still in Jina’s orbit—and the confirmation, along with the useless tidbit that Jina was “doing well,” had been devastating.

“And you, you also had a meal with him, didn’t you? At that place in Mayfair.”

“How did you know that, too?”

“I saw it on social media. The chef was someone I was already following.”

Jina pressed a finger to her temple, a sudden headache forming. The chef had apparently snapped a photo during their conversation and uploaded it.

“Okay, the dinner is one thing, but how do you know about the department store? Who told you?”

“I just heard it through the grapevine,” Chloe replied, waving a dismissive hand. “Ah, I should go say hello to some other people.”

She deftly avoided the question, scooped up her phone, and stood. She made the rounds, greeting friends she hadn’t seen in ages, before retreating to busy herself with her phone.

📱[Jina’s here. Do I tell them when I’m leaving? She doesn’t drink much, so getting the ‘medicine’ into her might be tricky.]

The reply was instant.

📱[If it’s successful, I’ll transfer an extra 1,000 pounds the moment you leave the establishment.]

Chloe paused, tapping a manicured nail on the screen, then sent a reply.

📱[I’ll try.]

Chloe jammed the phone into her pocket, not wanting anyone to glimpse the screen, and then glanced at the window. She gasped.

The black dog, the same one she’d seen earlier, was sitting on the pavement, staring intently at her from beside the building.

It was a black dog—an ominous symbol in her mind. Even though she liked animals, this one radiated a primal danger she instinctively wanted to avoid.

“Go away. Shoo!” Chloe waved her hand, a sharp, dismissive gesture.

The dog didn’t budge, watching her with those unsettling, gleaming eyes.

“Chloe? What are you doing?” A friend passing by asked, glancing at her puzzled.

Chloe pointed frantically out the window.

“That dog…”

“Dog? What dog are you talking about?”

Her friend gave her a blank look. Chloe snapped her gaze back to the window. The dog that had been sitting directly in front of her moments before had vanished.

The gathering dragged on deep into the night. Wine bottles, emptied and abandoned, began to clutter the tables.

It would have been merciful if it had ended with wine. Instead, whiskey bottles began to appear, nestled brazenly among the empty vintages.

As inhibitions dissolved, the crowd flocked to Jina’s side, eager to gorge on their pent-up curiosity.

“How is the Aylesford mansion? I heard Sir Simon is there? You know how much I admire him. I wish he’d give lectures or work as an advisor, but he’s the Chairman’s personal chef, so he never shows his face anywhere. Maybe he doesn’t even use social media because of his age…”

“Is it true there’s a huge glass hydroponic greenhouse inside? And that they raise chickens and sheep? They say the absolute best produce from the Aylesford farm goes straight there, is that true?”

“Excuse me, what’s the annual salary, if you don’t mind me asking?”

The barrage of questions made Jina’s head spin.

“Hold on. Let me check my contract.”

“Why the contract?”

“There’s a confidentiality clause.”

Jina pictured the contract she’d photographed. The forbidden topics were clear: menu items prepared for the Chairman and Ian, the specific layout of the mansion, and their private health statuses.

“I saw the Aylesford documentary, and the greenhouse looked enormous. The separate buildings for the staff quarters are huge, too.”

Her friend’s remark made her realize why the contract didn’t mention the exterior grounds: they were already public knowledge. They were no longer secrets.

“Well, it’s true that some produce is brought in from the greenhouse. Not everything, just what they grow there. They have chickens and sheep, but they’re just kept—they can’t be slaughtered. All the meat is delivered fresh every morning. And the exact salary is confidential, but yes, they pay very well.”

“They say there are separate buildings for employees. Are the accommodations good?”

“I live in the main building, so I don’t know much about the staff quarters.”

As Jina’s answers flowed, Chloe’s face, right beside her, curdled into a mask of bitter envy.

Everything Jina spoke of so casually—the things she had managed to secure—were the very things Chloe had desperately yearned for and failed to obtain.

Chloe had been practically ejected moments after entering the compound, and Jina was living in the main building, bypassing the staff quarters entirely. It was a searing, intolerable form of success.

Chloe bit her lip hard. She noted Jina’s glass—it had been empty for a long time.

“Do you want something else to drink?” Chloe asked, her voice falsely sweet.

Jina looked at her, clearly wondering at the sudden solicitousness, and shook her head.

Instead, she accepted a fresh drink offered by another friend.

The conversation resumed its natural, easy flow, the group organically gathering around Jina.

When Jina excused herself to use the restroom, Chloe seized the moment.

While the rest of the table dissolved into laughter over a separate conversation, she quickly dropped the packet’s contents into Jina’s glass and used a nearby muddler to swirl it in.

The powder dissolved almost instantly.

Colorless and odorless, they said.

She won’t notice a thing.

They also said it wasn’t very dangerous.

Of course, she hadn’t believed that. Still, as a precaution, she’d tested a pinch on a dog’s water bowl outside a nearby pub. The dog that drank it had seemed fine.

A bit groggy, perhaps, but that was the extent of it. It wasn’t going to die, so what did it matter?

Jina returned a few minutes later. She didn’t immediately touch the glass, though. Chloe’s heart hammered against her ribs, and she was about to reflexively cover her mouth when Jina finally picked it up and took a sip.

She slammed the glass down instantly. A frown furrowed her brow through the noise of the room. Jina poured the remaining liquid into a random empty bottle and grabbed her water glass, taking several large, urgent gulps.

Did she notice?

But Jina didn’t say or do anything further. After a moment, she picked up her bag and stood.

“Sorry. I should head back now.”

“Why? You just got here! Aren’t you going to stay out longer? You said today was your day off and you don’t have morning work tomorrow.”

“That’s true… but I think I just need to get home and sleep.”

Her friends tried to coax her into staying, but her fatigue seemed genuine, and they eventually relented.

Jina made her rounds, saying her goodbyes. She hesitated for a moment, then offered a small wave to Chloe.

“I’m heading back first, Chloe.”

“Okay. Have a good night.” Chloe waved back with a practiced smile.

The moment Jina was out of sight, Chloe pulled out her phone and sent a text.

📱[She’s gone.]

“Ugh, it’s cold.” Jina pulled her arms tight across her chest, sniffing sharply.

The crisp, bitter night air of London enveloped her the second she stepped outside. She suddenly craved the mansion’s atmosphere—the climate-conTrolld, overly warm air she usually complained about.

A quick check showed a late-night bus was running, which would drop her within a short walk of the estate gates.

A strange drowsiness was settling over her, but she reasoned that the walk home from the bus stop would clear her head by the time she reached the mansion.

It was early in the week, and apart from one or two late-night pubs, most establishments were shut.

The area near Angel Station, once London’s trendiest district, was deserted now, the frantic daytime energy replaced by the ominous silence of the deep night.

As she hurried towards the bus stop, a car—unmarked and moving fast—surged up behind her.

She hesitated.

She thought it would simply pass, but the rear door beside her snapped open. A large hand shot out, grabbed her, and violently pulled her inside.

“Mmph—!”

Before the sound could even form, a rough palm clapped over her mouth. Her body was instantly shoved onto the floor of the car. The door slammed shut, and the vehicle took off with a violent, revving roar.

“Help—! Mmph! Ugh!” As she tried to scream through the gaps, someone shoved a piece of filthy rag into her mouth.

It reeked of stale grease and solvent—a mechanics glove, probably—and the nauseating smell made her stomach revolt.

Screeeech!

A rough, tearing sound was followed by the sting of wide packing tape being cinched tightly across her mouth. As Jina thrashed in panic, a heavy, sack-like material was thrown over her head.

Her vision was stolen. Jina moved her body with a frantic, desperate energy.

But there were more than one of them. Several hands grabbed her, pinning her small body down onto the cold, grimy floor.

She couldn’t overcome their sheer, terrifying strength. Worse, a strange, profound weakness had settled over her muscles. Despite the panic, the relentless drowsiness began to press down.

Her wrists and ankles were swiftly bound. With her mouth sealed shut and her body thrashing in pure panic, she felt the terrifying onset of breathlessness.

The stench of grease, heavy and sickening in her sealed mouth, made her bile rise.

What is this? Who are these people?

She couldn’t make sense of it. The area near Angel Station wasn’t the safest after dark, but there were still open shops and people about. Her immediate path had been quiet, but she knew there were lit houses across the street and cars at the end of the block.

I’m being kidnapped. In London. Before midnight.

Why?

Kidnapping was anachronistic. In this world, with so many people willing to sell themselves, why bother with the risk of forcible abduction?

It was a crime reserved for revenge or powerful enemies. But who on earth had a grudge significant enough to warrant this level of violence against her?

The car jerked and swayed wildly. Screaming would only exhaust her precious oxygen, and rash action would surely provoke them.

Escape is impossible.

Her captors remained unnervingly silent, simply holding Jina down. Then, after a cold stretch of time, the hands pressing her body began to move. Slowly.

At first, they stroked her neck and lower back, a horrifying parody of comfort. Then, they became sly, slipping under her running top as she lay helpless.

Large, brutal hands roughly squeezed her breasts. Other hands were fumbling between her thighs. Some hands openly, possessively caressed her genitals.

“……!”

She wanted to scream for them to stop, but the tape held firm. Her desperate, roped thrashing was useless against the unrelenting violation.

If they had been making crude noises, giggling, or mocking her, it would have been vulgar. Instead, the silent, continuous molestation was a pure, profound horror.

The most terrifying part? Her body reacted. Even now.

She desperately attributed the involuntary response to the residual effects of her dreams, but hot tears of shame flooded down her temples. Her body was betraying her, a twisted, desperate part of her getting excited, enjoying the rough, brutal touches.

Ian would have been better.

In her dreams, he had taken a cruel, deliberate pleasure in arousing her. It was a world away from the savage immediacy of these rough hands.

He had spent his time touching her gently, slowly inserting his fingers to warm and loosen her tight spaces.

Yes, he was sometimes rough, but afterward, he would follow with a soothing lick, kissing the parts he had gripped too tightly.

She’d been so frustrated by the one-sided teasing in the dreams. But compared to this, his actions—even the refusal to enter—had been nothing short of affection.

Her consciousness spiraled, growing hazy and detached. The relentless drowsiness was too strong, and Jina finally, mercifully, succumbed to sleep.

She opened her eyes again, and immediately felt a hand deep inside her trousers, fumbling with the elastic of her underwear.

Screeeech!

The car braked violently and the engine died. They had arrived. The hand hovering over her sex gave a light, almost regretful tap before pulling out of her pants. The driver’s door opened.

“Get out.” The voice was rough, uneducated.

It was a rough voice, but after the terrifying silence of the ride, the sound of a human voice, however brutal, offered a strange, sick sense of relief.

“Take her inside.”

At a brusque command, Jina’s body was hauled abruptly into the air. Someone had hoisted her over a shoulder like a sack of grain.

Her head tipped low, sending a dizzying wave of nausea through her. The stench of stale oil, mercifully dulled while she slept, now flooded her chest, demanding expulsion.

“Ugh!”

“Sounds like she’s going to toss her cookies.”

“Damn it, what a mess. Take the sack off and rip the tape. Don’t want her choking and suffocating us with the aftermath.”

At his order, the sack was roughly torn away, and the binding tape was ripped from her lips. Her only, desperate priority was to clear the vile taste from her throat.

“Ugh! Ugh!”

The dirty, saliva-soaked cloth fell away. Jina fought for purchase, desperately trying to lift her head to see her surroundings.

All she saw was a heavy door swinging shut. And in the closing crack, a pair of gleaming eyes. A black dog was watching her.

Ian sat at his desk, perfectly still. It was late. The city’s subdued night-glow, muted by the selective lighting of the tower, filtered into his eyes.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

His fingers drummed a slow, precise rhythm on the dark wood. He’d meticulously planned this absence, making it impossible to visit Jina the previous night. It had only been a day.

Compared to the month he’d gone without consuming a Human, it was nothing. Yet, in that single day, the hunger had been a relentless, grinding agony.

His mouth was dry, his throat tight with the frantic swallowing of air. He’d asked the Chairman multiple times if his own health was failing.

Every pang of hunger was a physical urge to abandon the charade and return to London, to Jina.

He’d been visiting Jina nightly. It was an established routine now; he barely needed the veil of mental suppression.

She would undress for him, easily, spreading her legs. More than that: now, a single touch was enough to draw moans and a helpless, viscous dampness from her core. Because of this, he found it nearly impossible to lift his face from between her thighs.

If he pulled away for even a breath, her body would flinch, contracting, and immediately leak a fresh surge of the sweet, thick fluid. He could not, would not, allow a single drop of that preciousness to be wasted.

Only after drinking his fill, after the hunger had been thoroughly sated, did his hands move to exploration.

With a full belly, his movements were languid. He would gently caress her breasts, hard and heavy from arousal, and then trace the outline of her stomach, which, infuriatingly, refused to fill out no matter how much she ate.

He’d grip her skin, here and there, before pushing his fingers deep into her navel, rolling them around the tight button.

Jina would weakly push his hand away, a silent protest. He found her resistance amusing—a delightful challenge. He’d apply more force, pushing until her entire body shuddered.

But the greatest amusement lay further south. Past the soft nest of her pubic hair, he’d find the plump lips of her sex, held tightly shut. His fingers would slide against the flesh. The area, already softened and yielding from his mouth, accepted his intrusion eagerly.

I… Yes… Slowly…

No more denials or protests. Now, Jina pleaded for him to move slowly, gently. He found the sound of her voice endearing. He’d pull her into his embrace and nip softly at her earlobe.

The spot was intensely sensitive. Every time his lips closed and chewed, her lower body would tighten, a reflexive clench around his fingers.

He loved that sudden grip. One finger became two. Each time, a sheen of sweat would break out on her neck, a sign that she was near her limit. He would, of course, lick that away, too.

Two became three. But that was his absolute limit. Each time he pressed past it, she would cry out, convinced she was tearing apart, begging him to stop.

When she genuinely trembled, tears of fear blurring her eyes, he found himself softening, inexplicably.

I want to put more in… If it’s too much, shall we use your mouth?

He offered the compromise. Jina nodded instantly. He laid her flat on the mattress and moved her head to rest on his thighs.

This, she liked. Once settled, she’d wear an expression of pure, unadulterated happiness when he stroked her hair—like a child being showered with parental affection.

But he was not a parent. While stroking her hair, he would then force her jaw open and slide his fingers inside her mouth.

As if accepting that her other entrance was truly forbidden, Jina would swallow his fingers without protest, opening her mouth wide in obedience.

Then, a sudden curiosity struck him. He wanted to try his own engorgement.

What would it feel like to push this—this rock-hard, sensitive flesh—into her mouth?

There was no reason to hesitate. He yanked his fingers out and thrust his menacingly erect penis toward Jina’s face.

Even before contact, a viscous thread of pre-ejaculate dripped from the slightly parted tip. Stiff and throbbing with a primal urgency, it quivered at the prospect of a new, tight space.

He grabbed her head, pulling it closer to his own pelvis, steadying the beast that kept trying to slap against his stomach.

He could have simply forced it home, but he wanted Jina to open her mouth and swallow him willingly.

Jina. He spoke gently, stroking her lustrous hair. You can do it, right?

He whispered in her ear, a low, trusting encouragement.

Jina had the simple, desperate need of a child starved for praise. Making her move as he wished was effortless.

When he spoke with that note of anticipation—the promise of his approval—she always complied.

While he could have issued bald commands via mental suppression, subtly inducing her voluntary action was infinitely more satisfying.

This time, she hesitated. He took her hand and forced her to grasp his cock. Jina’s eyes went wide, horrified by the sheer size of the thing that barely fit in her small hand. She tightened her grip instinctively. Even that simple closure sent a shocking thrill through him.

I could just keep enjoying it with my hands. It would be more than enough. But he dismissed the thought. He desperately needed to force himself into that small, cute mouth.

Come on, quickly.

He urged, stroking her hair. He began to fiddle with her earlobe, rubbing the thin edge between his thumb and forefinger.

Her ears were exquisitely sensitive. A low groan slipped out, and then, as if braced for impact, she gently parted her lips.

She took the blunt, heavy tip carefully into her mouth, and her tongue moved, a single, tentative lick. Pathetically, with that one small movement, he ejaculated.

The sensation was a blinding, overwhelming flood that consumed his senses.

Of all the intoxicating sensations he had experienced since inhabiting this Human shell, this was the greatest.

He held Jina’s head, slowly pressing down. Her diligent, food-consuming mouth took nearly half of his length. But that was her limit.

Ugh, cough!

Jina made a strained, gagging sound, the effort of swallowing too great. Her face turned bright red as she shook her head, pleading for him to withdraw.

Just a little longer. Okay?

He coaxed again. As if seeking a solution, the tongue beneath his cock twitched. He waited patiently.

These Human customs, which he had slowly come to understand, always yielded the most pleasing results.

And this time was no different. Jina stopped struggling, the choking subsided. She had somehow acclimated to the massive intrusion, her distress receding.

Then, she began to move her tongue with a surprising, instinctive skill.

You did well.

He praised her, the genuine joy surprising even himself. Now he understood why Humans coddled their young. The satisfaction of instructing was greater than he’d imagined. And better yet, he learned something too.

A sudden thought intruded. What if he tried this with another Female? It would, logically, be easier.

Unlike Jina, those creatures wouldn’t require mental suppression; they’d spread their legs on command. He frowned instantly.

They don’t taste good. He’d seen plenty of Females while accompanying the Chairman.

They all licked their lips, their eyes hungry for his body. Sometimes, one brave enough would approach when he was alone, seating herself between his legs.

I heard you like this, they’d purr. He’d sent every single one away.

He still wanted to consume Humans. Despite the frequent unpleasant smells, Humans were the unparalleled prey for sating his hunger. But licking Jina’s tongue, her willing cooperation, was suddenly more satisfying than swallowing an eager Female whole.

While his thoughts strayed, Jina was working diligently. The urge to ejaculate returned, swift and overwhelming.

Sensing the change, Jina tried to pull away, to spit him out, but he held her head fast. The message was absolute: he would not allow it.

The end was inevitable. He ejaculated, filling Jina’s mouth. He knew that some Humans found this revolting, while others were driven mad by the taste.

Cough!

Jina was on the struggling side. Unable to breathe, she dissolved into a fit of hacking coughs, forcing him to quickly withdraw.

Sorry.

The word was out before he could recall it. He was stunned by the syllable. Sorry. It was not a word a Predator offered to its Prey. In all of his existence, it was the first time he had spoken it.

He wondered if it was a ghost from the body’s memories, but the Human predecessor had seldom used such language. Yet, in that moment, it was the only word that captured his strange sense of remorse.

He snatched a piece of discarded clothing and quickly wiped the semen from Jina’s mouth. She was still choking from the remnants he’d left inside. He grabbed the water bottle she’d left on the desk and held it for her.

A moment later, she stopped, gulping for air, utterly exhausted. He pulled her into his embrace. Perhaps taking the comfort as a prelude, she lowered her face toward his crotch again.

It’s okay, you can stop for today.

She was clearly spent. At his permission, Jina simply rested her face against his chest and instantly fell asleep.

He should have been annoyed—a pleasure interrupted. But strangely, the irritation never came.

He lay down, pulling her into the curve of his body. Lying in the sheets, enveloped by Jina’s scent, holding her close, the world suddenly seemed beautiful, even delicious.

I need to fatten her up more.

His chest felt sated, but the rest of him was still dry. There was nothing left to consume in this state.

He was already feeding her without reserve, and the slow, frustrating rate at which she gained weight was an intolerable offense.

He stroked her thin wrist. Jina, seeking a more comfortable position, moved away slightly. Thinking she was trying to escape, he gripped her, but she simply burrowed into his side.

Her hazy eyes blinked open. When their gazes met, she gave him a rare, silly, utterly trusting smile, then buried her face back in his flank and was instantly asleep.

The memory of two nights ago surged back. He lowered a hand to himself. The grotesque, bulging outline of his penis was hard against his inner thigh.

He recalled Camilla, who’d tried to climb him here.

What if it had been Jina?

If she had clung to him, begging for his entrance, even without his forced suppression…

A surge of heat and the urgent need to ejaculate tightened his muscles. Just as he was about to lower his hand, he heard it—a distant, impossible “Woof!”—the rough, territorial sound of a beast.

His office was on the thirty-fifth floor, perfectly sealed against all external noise. No dog bark in all of London should penetrate that silence. He stood, moving swiftly to the window, his eyes gleaming. The dog he had summoned was waiting.

Oliver Sackville Carrington, the aged man known simply as Count Carrington or Sir Carrington, sat in his study, gently swirling the amber contents of his whiskey glass.

He had just returned from a distant, hidden underground storage site. There was an Asian girl there. The woman Ian Aylesford kept by his side.

He even brought her into the mansion.

Ian had run through countless women—the documentation alone filled several pages—but this was the first he’d ever housed at the Hampstead Heath estate.

A cook, nominally. The absurdity was laughable. He could hire any Michelin-starred chef.

Why bring in a woman with such meager experience?

She must be someone he’s comfortable having around.

He had observed the woman briefly before retreating to his mansion. His intentions, he knew, would have been understood by his secretary without a word.

Her eyes were covered. She won’t know who was behind it.

He wiped his hand—the one that had held the girl’s chin—again with a clean linen handkerchief, as if removing something soiled.

To involve himself personally in such a grubby act was utterly beneath him. He shouldn’t have needed to give a direct order for the messy business of disposing of a woman.

Count Carrington, swallowing a sip of chilled whiskey, thought back to Ian leaving with his own grandson. To the Count, Ian was a fool—pathetically inferior to Jeremy.

Jeremy may have dabbled in drugs, but that was an internal secret. On the surface, he had been the perfect heir, prepared for years to take over the Carrington real estate empire.

He was sharp, intelligent, and knew how to manage people with ruthless efficiency. Unlike Ian, who chased insignificant prey, Jeremy’s connections spanned the British Royal Family, Middle Eastern royalty, American titans, and Hollywood’s elite.

He possessed language skills and genuine business acumen. Aside from the minor flaws of occasional drug use and a tendency toward cruelty with his hired escorts, Jeremy was a perfect successor. That was why Chairman Aylesford had always regarded him with barely concealed envy…

Now, Jeremy was completely incapacitated. And Ian, by contrast, was soaring, as if he had finally found his true form.

Chairman Aylesford paraded him everywhere—shareholder meetings, society banquets—showcasing him like a prized beast. Everyone who saw Ian offered praise: the Chairman had no worries; his grandson was a shining success.

This fact was the Count’s primary, bitter fury. The praise belonged to Jeremy, not this imposter. Ian had not only ruined his grandson, he had stolen his future. His hand, wrapped around the chilled glass, began to tremble violently with suppressed rage.

He won’t be harmed by losing one woman he’s merely playing with.

What were the Aylesfords if not a family that viewed common people with the same utter contempt as his own?

Ian wouldn’t even blink at the disappearance of one nobody. Perhaps he would even be grateful, believing the Count had simply cleaned up a toy he was already bored with.

I still need to send the warning.

Through that woman, he would make his intentions perfectly clear: Ian would suffer the exact fate he inflicted upon Jeremy.

Count Carrington, his glass now empty, called for his secretary. “How did it go?”

“We were told to leave her alive to be dumped at dawn, sir. It should commence shortly.”

When the secretary departed, the Count poured a fresh measure of whiskey. The nameless, mixed-race Asian girl would be found, pathetic and ruined, near the Aylesford mansion tomorrow morning.

That girl isn’t innocent either.

He’d learned that on the very day Ian crushed Jeremy’s face, Jeremy had dragged that same girl into his room. That was likely the entire reason for Ian’s assault. How dare he…

At that precise moment, he felt a chilling gaze outside the window. He turned his head and saw a black dog sitting, perfectly still, on the balcony. “A dog?”

He shot to his feet, a gasp trapped in his throat.

He kept no such creature on the estate. Furthermore, his study was on the third floor. A dog on the balcony was impossible.

He stumbled back. The dog, which had been watching him, began to turn its head.

Slowly, unnaturally, it continued to rotate its head past its shoulder, completing a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree circle until its eyes—still fixed on the Count—returned to the front.

The bizarre, anatomical impossibility made Count Carrington rub his eyes violently. He wasn’t drunk. Even without the added horror of drug use, he wouldn’t suffer such an hallucination. But he blinked, and the dog remained, sitting in the same spot. He took another stumbling step back.

“……!”

The dog’s mouth parted, a silent, mocking grin. Its teeth were revealed. Not one set, but a horrifying, uncountable series of them that filled its entire palate.

Where a tongue should have been, there was only a ridge of razor-sharp enamel. A creature born only to tear.

“Is there anyone out—!”

He struggled to shout, retreating blindly, until his body slammed into a solid presence behind him.

Before he could even turn, a hand shot past his shoulder, effortlessly snatching the whiskey glass from his grasp.

“Yes, how dare you.”

“……!”

Count Carrington knew that voice.

A cold, absolute terror seized him and he turned slowly.

The face he knew so well—the Aylesford grandson he’d always dismissed as utterly insignificant—was looking at him, a wide, terrifying grin pulling his lips back.

No. Is this really Ian? Is this truly…
“You, you… who…”

The figure merely offered a savage grin in reply, his hand shooting out. It wrapped around the Count’s neck.

Crack!

The sound was sickeningly loud. Count Carrington’s neck snapped in a grotesque arc, bone jutting out from the side.

A desperate, gurgling sound escaped the tear—the groan of escaping air.

In his rapidly receding consciousness, the Count heard the final, contemptuous assessment aimed at him.

“Just old, tough meat.”

That was the epitaph for one of England’s most powerful real estate magnates.

Where could this be?

Tied hand and foot, bound to a chair, Jina strained to place her surroundings.

It was definitely a basement. The air was thick, damp, and heavy with the unmistakable, musty smell of mold.

The men who’d dragged her in had left, locking the door behind them. She had screamed, pleaded for answers, but when the silence remained unbroken, she stopped.

Her body felt unnervingly weak. She assumed she’d been drugged, despite not having ingested anything.

After what felt like an eternity, the door opened. The men returned, immediately blindfolding Jina again.

Then, she heard new footsteps. A third person had entered.

This newcomer approached, gripped her chin, and turned her face left and right, examining her as if she were a piece of livestock on the block.

She fought to tilt her gaze downward, desperate to see anything through the thin cloth, and glimpsed the hand holding her.

It wore a ring—the design was common, but the family crest engraved on the metal was complex, almost familiar.

Before she could process it, the hand released her and wiped itself deliberately on her shoulder.

It was an attitude of profound disgust, as if she were something foul. Then, he left without a single word.

This silence was the most terrifying element of all. Just like the men who’d snatched her, the person who had inspected her gave no demands, no context.

It suggested that negotiations were unnecessary—everything had already been decided. All that remained was execution.

Once he was gone, the blindfold was removed. The men returned, smiling with a horrifying, conspiratorial pride, and began to display their instruments.

“What… what is that…?” she stammered, her throat dry.

They only grinned. One man plugged in an electrical cord and flipped a switch. The tip of the metal rod he held began to glow a dull, menacing red.

Only then did Jina recognize the terror: a branding iron. They waved it near her face, eliminating any need for explanation.

Then, another man entered with a large, heavy bag and emptied the contents onto a table beside her. Jina’s breath caught. What spilled out were perverse, monstrous adult toys—instruments clearly not meant for pleasure, but designed to inflict pain.

“Which one do you like?” one of the men asked, the words unnervingly conversational. “We’ll have to probe for a while. If there’s something you like, we’ll start with that. But we’re going to put it all in anyway, so it doesn’t really matter.” The calm voice ended on a spike of cruel, naked delight.

“…Hic.” Her throat seized up. She understood now.

“Why, why are you doing this…? Why to me…? What did I do wrong…?”

“You’d know that better than we would. Why did you get on the bad side of the dirtiest humans?”

Another man kicked the speaker’s leg, a silent reprimand not to give away unnecessary details.

“Damn it, I know. More importantly, miss, you’re a chef, right? I don’t know much, so tell me, which is more horrific: having your tongue cut off or your hands crushed?”

The meaning was clear, yet her mind refused to grasp the reality of the question.

The man testing the branding iron opened his toolbox and retrieved a large, heavy hammer.

“Are you going to drug her and break them? Can’t you break her arms before you drug her? I want to hear her screams.”

“Pervert. You like that so much?”

“It gets me harder when I hear it. Besides, the better the sound, the better the video sells. And I don’t want to be called a pervert by someone who only probes from behind.”

Ignoring the monstrous content, their tone remained detached, like ordinary men discussing the weather. Knowing their words were sincere, Jina began to tremble uncontrollably.

“We have to be on time. We have to control the intensity, too. That way, we can discard her while she’s still alive.”

“Let’s smash her face in at the end.”

They were seriously, calmly debating how to inflict maximum, calculated trauma. Begging for mercy was futile. Jina could only shake, every inhale a struggle.

“M-Mom…” In the face of absolute terror, her mind sought the most primitive anchor. Her distant, barely-communicative mother was the only person she could call out for.

Who else? Someone who cared even a little…

Then, a single face solidified in her mind. The one who caressed her in her dreams every night. The one who whispered, “You can do it,” skin against skin.

“Ian…”

He was merely the object of her lustful sleep-fantasies.

An employer. A passing acquaintance. A brief moment of misfortune, now twisted into a desperate potential savior.

It was a pathetic, crushing sadness that the shallowest connection was the only lifeline she could imagine.

Nevertheless, he was all she had.

The men’s preparations were finished. One of them reignited the branding iron, bringing the searing tip to the edge of Jina’s coat, testing its heat.

Sizzle. A hole, black and immediate, appeared in the fabric.

“Ah, ah…” Tears poured down her face. Fear was a cold hand strangling her throat, preventing the simplest act of screaming.

“Come now, don’t cry. Open your mouth. Ah.” The man clamped a rough grip on her jaw, squeezing with a bone-crushing force. She tried to resist, to clench her teeth, but his brute strength overpowered her. The searing-red branding iron arced toward Jina’s open lips.

Clang!

A sudden, deafening bark erupted as a black dog appeared in the doorway. The unexpected intrusion shocked the men—and Jina.

The next moment, the dog’s mouth split open wide, tearing the flesh around the jawline, and it lunged for the nearest man.

Crunch!

The sound of crushing bone and muscle echoed in the damp cellar.

I’ve gone mad.

Jina’s final, terrified thought confirmed the madness. She was watching a dog’s mouth split open like a monster, tearing a person apart. It was like a sea anemone unfolding to envelop a fish.

The man’s entire upper torso disappeared into the maw, which had multiplied into multiple gaping, hungry orifices.

She could not comprehend how the bulk of a full-grown man could vanish into a dog’s smaller body, nor did she care.

This is an illusion.

But the gore was too vivid, the sounds too real.

Crackle! Crunch!

Amidst the breaking bones, the sound of thick, gurgling blood filled the room. The stench of iron and viscera was immediate.

The remaining men froze, paralyzed by the sheer, gruesome spectacle. The one in front of Jina was the first to regain motion.

“Monster! Die!” he screamed, swinging the branding iron he was about to thrust into her mouth.

The creature, not yet finished consuming, spat out the man’s lower half onto the floor. Intestines tumbled out, spilling onto the concrete. Foul-smelling waste flowed from the torn bowels, mingling with the pooling blood.

“Ugh! Blech!”

Overwhelmed by the horrific vision and the pungent smell, Jina finally, violently vomited the sour emptiness from her stomach.

The monster turned. It opened its impossible mouth again and bit down on the head of the man wielding the branding iron.

Thump!

Like a dropped watermelon, the man’s head exploded. His protruding eyeballs fell, landing wetly in Jina’s lap.

Roll.

The severed eyeball held the exact expression of the man’s shock and terror from the moment before death.

“Ah… ah…” The surreal horror was beyond articulation. Jina couldn’t even scream. Her consciousness simply folded inward.

Slurp. Slurp, slurp.

A sound of frantic, gluttonous satisfaction echoed from the cellar’s depths. The monster, starved and ravenous, couldn’t suppress the low, rumbling pleasure of its long-awaited feast.

It licked the fragments of flesh from the floor, not a single piece left behind. Its movements were hurried, desperate not to be interrupted. When the meat was gone, it began to lap at the pool of thick, pooling blood to sate its thirst.

The sound of liquid splashing echoed in the silence.

Thump. Thump.

Footsteps approached. The sound was too measured, too heavy. The creature instantly withdrew its tongue and sealed its monstrous, split mouth.

In a flash, the grotesque form vanished, replaced by the familiar shape of the large black dog.

The door opened. The owner of the footsteps entered.

Woof! The black dog gave a sharp, joyous bark, welcoming the one it had waited for.

Ian looked down at the dog and clicked his tongue in mild disgust. “Cù Sìth.”

Cù Sìth.

Just as he was known as a troll, the creature before him was named the Cù Sìth by humans—a devil in the form of a black dog that roamed the night, whose howl was a signal for all mortals to flee before the third utterance.

To Ian, it was simply a weak beast, wagging its tail for the human scraps he occasionally granted it.

This same dog had once dragged the torn remains of Frida Troll—a former meal of his—into the wilderness to devour, lest Ian reclaim the decaying flesh.

The severed hand found by the search party was all the Cù Sìth had been forced to leave behind.

The black dog approached, tail wagging eagerly, rubbing its head against his hand in a bid for praise.

Ian’s gaze fell on Jina, tied to the chair, unconscious.

Her face was smeared with tears and mucus, and the sour smell of vomit stung his enhanced nostrils. He saw the violent handprints bruising her skin and the scorched mark on her coat.

Snap! Crack!

His hand shot out, seizing the Cù Sìth’s neck and mercilessly breaking it. The dog thrashed, momentarily stunned. Ian tightened his grip.

The Cù Sìth’s split jaw opened wide, its teeth rattling in a silent plea for mercy. He released the pressure just as the animal’s grotesquely twisted neck dragged on the concrete.

“You should have torn her apart before she got like this.”

Whine.

At his rebuke, the Cù Sìth whimpered, slinking into the corner. Even wounded, it extended its long, forked tongue to furtively lick up the blood it had missed.

Ignoring the pathetic creature, Ian turned to Jina. She was in the messiest state he had ever seen her. And it was exactly as he had intended.

He needed someone to project his frustration onto. Jeremy Carrington would live out his life paralyzed, unable even to control his own waste, mind completely fractured by Ian’s power.

He had kept him alive only to avoid further scrutiny, but the Count’s predictable, escalating rage at his grandson’s state had been directed, as planned, at the Aylesford line. The moment Jina was photographed with him, the target was obvious.

So, he had deliberately left her vulnerable.

When they first met, Jina had openly flinched from him, her biological instinct screaming at her to flee.

Her attitude had only shifted when he brought her into the mansion and offered to pay off her suffocating debts. Her guard had dropped.

He knew what his next step had to be: inflict hardship, then act as savior. The more intense the suffering he rescued her from, the deeper her loyalty would become, and the further she would drop her defenses.

“Of course, I didn’t think that alone would be enough, so I visited her every night,” he murmured.

He untied the ropes binding her wrists and ankles. The skin was scraped and bloody from her frantic struggles. He stuck out his tongue and licked the injured parts. The blood, though minor, was sweet.

But he didn’t linger. Even in her deep unconsciousness, Jina’s body twitched intermittently.

The sights she’d witnessed had been profoundly shocking. He found Human reactions bizarre; they killed and consumed other animals in horrific ways—electrocuted, skinned, butchered, roasted, and seasoned—yet they were utterly shattered when a Human died in a similar manner.

As if they never consider that they themselves might be eaten.

He rose, lifting Jina into his arms. He had shown her enough fear. Now, it was his turn to lick away her pain.

As he carried her out of the cellar, he issued a final command to the whimpering Cù Sìth.

“Eat it all.”

The dog’s tail thumped against the floor. It was the command it had been waiting for.

“It hurts…”

The moment her eyes fluttered open, Jina moaned, the ache an immediate, all-over reality.

What was this? Why was she like this?

She painstakingly pieced together the fragments of memory: the fun evening, Chloe’s reaction, heading for the bus. Then the blackout.

The car. The hands. The basement. The branding iron. The man approaching. And a black…

“Ughhh!” Nausea, sharp and suffocating, overtook her again. Jina clapped a hand over her mouth and scrambled out of bed, desperate for a restroom.

A door was visible nearby. She stumbled in and wretched violently, emptying the last, sour contents of her stomach.

“Ugh! Blech!” How many times had she vomited? Only bitter stomach acid remained.

After flushing the toilet and washing her mouth, she finally registered her surroundings. The room was sterile, clean, and immaculate. A hotel?

More importantly, how had she gotten here?

She had seen them.

Dying.

Torn apart by a creature that materialized in the doorway. It was insane, impossible, yet utterly vivid.

The man with the iron… his head exploding… his eyeball…

She swallowed down the renewed surge of bile and fumbled over her body. It couldn’t have been a dream. The man had burned her coat; the scar must still be there.

“My clothes…”

She looked down. She was wearing a soft bathrobe, utterly plain. Not her coat. Not her clothes.

She quickly checked beneath the fabric. No undergarments. Her skin felt cool and damp. She touched her hair—it was also wet. Someone had washed her while she was unconscious.

She checked for burns or cuts. Nothing but muscle soreness.

Then, she raised her arm to her nose.

“Ah.”

A familiar scent. The knowledge that someone she knew was near stopped her trembling. He was here. The only person she could possibly cling to.

The door opened.

It was Ian. He entered, his expression guarded, seemingly worried. “Are you awake? Are you hurt anywhere?”

Jina didn’t answer. She simply ran.

She threw herself into his arms, clinging to him desperately.

“I-Ian…” The sound of his name was a sob. She was alive. A wave of overwhelming, traumatic release broke over her. Jina wept uncontrollably, clutching his shirt. Ian’s large hand patted her back, slow and steady.

His face, watching Jina cling to him, wore an extremely satisfied smile.

It was a smile that she, crying, could not see.