“You’re disgusting,” a twenty-three-year-old Tyronian grumbled. Tristan laughed, and the sound almost made him grin. They used to laugh all the time in their youth, but things changed when Xavier became chief. His cousin and best friend grew more withdrawn; their laugher was a rare sound to behold nowadays.
“What?” Tristan asked, still chortling. “Don’t tell me you’ve never done it.”
“There’s a difference between ramming your cock into a whore’s ass, and pleasing it.”
Tristan scoffed. “I’m not interested in pleasing them. I take what I want, when and how I want it. What are whores for if not to use them as I see fit?”
No matter how many times Tristan denied it, there were times when he was scarily similar to his brother. While neither ever had any trouble getting women, Tristan was by far the one who frequented the pleasure found between the thighs of a woman the most. There were times where Tyronian and Tristan had shared the same woman between them concurrently, a system that worked. Tristan was rough, almost brutal, using them as he saw fit, while Tyronian was there, giving them the attention they lacked, enticing them to endure until they were both done.
Tristan was pain, while he was pleasure. It was enough for him . . . until it wasn’t.
“You’re a god, Tristan,” Tyronian mumbled, his tone bitter even to his ears. “All shall bow before you and your cock-of-pain.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Tristan scowled. “Have you not had your dick sucked lately or what? You’re a right bastard these days.”
He’d like to deny it, but he had a strong feeling it was true. He didn’t know why he was so irritable these days. Even Xavier had given him an odd look when he snapped at Samanthia for dropping his cup when she went to refill it a few nights ago. It was an accident, one that usually wouldn’t even give him the slightest pause, but it did that night.
“Not all of us consider that a priority, cousin.”
Though, it probably wasn’t a bad idea. He couldn’t remember the last time he had bedded a woman. Maybe that did explain why he was so high-strung.
“Or is your mood perhaps pertaining to the young mute girl Hunt’yr has set his eyes to claim?”
It was a bastard move, and Tristan knew it because with just that one sentence, Tyronian became high-alert with the unwitting anger that coursed through him. His cousin’s expression was smug when Tyronian grabbed his forearm and slung him in front of him.
“What are you going on about?” he demanded.
Tristan’s eyes danced with humor. “Hunt’yr is claiming Namoriee. He’s been scoping her out for weeks, helping her do her chores and escorting her to and fro. He’s become her little guard dog.”
Tristan’s humor seemed to grow with the same speed as Tyronian’s anger, until he was practically vibrating with glee.
“He plans to kiss her tonight, at sundown. Which would be about, oh, I don’t know . . .” Tristan pretended to ponder it, a grin stretching across his face. “Now.”
Tyronian wasn’t even aware that he’d let Tristan go, or of his cousin’s laughter behind him, or his feet stomping in the direction of the path that he knew so well. All he knew was anger—hot, teeth-grinding, anger. It was a reaction that he had no right to. In fact, it was wrong to be feeling this way over a girl who wasn’t nearly close to being a woman yet, to be angry at the fact that a puny sixteen-wintered boy had the audacity to think that Namoriee could be his. That he had the right to kiss her.
But he was. He was furious, a feeling that doubled when he saw Hunt’yr a few paces ahead of him, traveling the same destination that he was heading.
With a savage growl, Tyronian spun him around by the shoulder. He had his hand wrapped around Hunt’yr’s throat before he could even blink.
“Tyroni—” Hunt’yr choked on his words when Tyronian squeezed.
“I’ve been hearing things as of late,” he bit out through gritted teeth. “Things that I don’t like to hear. Not. One. Bit.”
Hunt’yr was valiantly trying to struggle against his hold, and if Tyronian wasn’t so enraged, he might have felt sorry for him because of how pathetic he looked.
But it was just another reminder of how unworthy Hunt’yr was.
“I’m going to make myself real clear here,” Tyronian said, his expression unrelenting. “You don’t look at her, you don’t talk to her, and you most certainly don’t kiss her.”
“I . . . I . . . don’t—”
“Listen to me, you little maggot,” Tyronian snarled, cutting off his pathetic attempt at innocence. “From now on, she doesn’t even exist for you.”
Hunt’yr’s face paled, and Tyronian knew his smile was all teeth when he pulled him in closer so that he could see the white of Hunt’yr’s eyes when he delivered the severity of his demands.
“If I ever find out you even thought about her, or catch you snooping around Namoriee again, I’ll slit your throat. You got me?”
He was surprised Hunt’yr’s neck didn’t snap with how fast he nodded.
“Glad we came to an agreement,” Tyronian beamed, releasing his throat and stepping back. He watched with contempt when Hunt’yr fell, not even able to catch himself in time and land on his feet.
Tyronian turned to leave, taking a step before he paused, then twisted around to face Hunt’yr.
“Oh, I almost forgot!”
With quick efficiency, he grabbed Hunt’yr’s wrist and jerked it to the side at the same time his foot came up, and he stomped down on his arm.
The satisfying crack of Hunt’yr’s bone and the shrill scream he let out when his arm broke met Tyronian’s ears and left him in high spirits for the rest of the day.
It might have been barbaric, but it got his point across. Hunt’yr left Namoriee alone from that day on. He should have felt guilty that Hunt’yr’s cold shoulder made Namoriee’s face fall whenever he would practically run the other way at the sight of her, but he didn’t.
Because deep down inside of him, he knew that the only lips she would kiss were his.
He’d make sure of it.