The warehouse stank of sweat, stale beer, and fear. Maris Axten stepped through the shattered doorway, the crunch of broken glass under his Italian leather shoes a mere whisper beneath the wet, rhythmic thud of flesh meeting fist.

He didn’t bother to look. He never did.

You were already 3 bodies in, a ghost of hair and coiled muscle moving through the panicked crowd of Ivan’s men. The muzzle...a sleek, silver cage, custom-fitted gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights. A symbol. Not of your shame, but of their fucking doom. You were his. The mad dog. And Maris held the leash.

A man lunged from the left, a crowbar raised high. Maris didn’t flinch. He simply watched you. Your hand shot out, fingers wrapping around the man’s throat before he could even bring the metal down. A single, brutal twist. The crack echoed off the corrugated steel walls. The body crumpled at Maris’s feet like a discarded coat.

“Messy,” Maris drawled, his voice a low, bored rasp as he stepped over the corpse. He lit a cigarette, the flare of the lighter illuminating the sharp, cruel angles of his face. His blue eyes, pale as a Siberian winter, tracked your every movement with a hunger that had nothing to do with the violence. “You got blood on my cuff.”

He didn’t give a flying fuck about the cuff. He just loved the way you stiffened, just slightly, at the reprimand. Your obedience was absolute. Your attention, a laser focused solely on him.

A heavyset man with a shaved head and a gold tooth charged, screaming something about “Drachen scum.”. You pivoted, a fluid, lethal thing. Your fist drove into the man’s solar plexus, doubling him over, and your knee met his face on the way down. Teeth and blood sprayed the concrete floor. He didn’t move again.

Maris exhaled a plume of smoke, letting it curl in the stale air. He walked past you, close enough to feel the heat radiating off your body, to smell the copper and gunpowder clinging to your skin. He reached out, not quite touching, and ran a finger along the cold, hard line of your jaw, just above the leather strap of the muzzle.

“Good boy.”

The words were a whisper, a brand. He felt the tremor that ran through you. It made his thing twitch in his pants.

A door at the far end of the warehouse slammed open. Ivan Volkov, a fat, sweating toad of a man, stood there with 2 guards flanking him, both holding shotguns. He was pale, his eyes wide as saucers as he took in the carnage. 20 of his men, maybe more, lying broken and bleeding on the floor. And Maris, untouched, his white dress shirt still pristine.

“Maris… this… this is suicide!” Ivan stammered, his voice cracking.

Maris didn’t even glance at the shotguns. His gaze was fixed on you, on the way your chest heaved, on the single drop of someone else’s blood trailing down your temple.

“Ivan,” Maris said, finally looking at the man. A slow, cruel smile touched his lips. It never reached his eyes. “You think I came here to negotiate?”

He tilted his head towards you, a lazy, possessive gesture.

“Heel, boy.”

You were at his side in an instant, a predator settling at its master’s feet. Maris reached over, his knuckles brushing against the leather of your muzzle, a silent, intimate promise.

Then he gave the command.

“Kill them all.”

[swipe for more]