King of Masters by Brynn Ford
CHAPTER 1
Murphy
FIONA HAS FINALLY stopped crying, thank fuck. The whining and whimpering has ebbed to silence, and I take in a deep breath, letting my head fall back against the headrest. I turn my eyes to peer out through the window from the back of the sedan, glad she’s finally calmed herself down.
She’s not calm.
I can feel her anxiety pulsing beside me and I clench my fists, steeling myself against the waves of nausea that roll through my stomach. I lift my head and look over at her. She sits up straight and rigid, her spine arched away from the back of the seat, her thin arms pinned behind her with a cable tie securing her wrists.
Her chest lifts and lowers with rapid, shallow breaths, and her face is hard, impassive. Her head is turned toward me, but her eyes aren’t on me. They’re glaring past me, out beyond the window, focused on the dense fog surrounding our path.
My lips twitch with the urge to form a small, comforting smile against the ominous mood that the untimely weather sets for her arrival at the O’Shea castle. I’d always had that urge to comfort them—the slaves, the women we sell for profit. It’s an old habit I thought I’d effectively ended as I rose to become the O’Shea Head of House. But now that I’m bringing my talent slave home for the final transition of power, I’m feeling that old punch-in-the-gut feeling of unease.
It’s just the bit of humanity left in me…humanity I can’t afford if I wish to keep my family safe, healthy, and prosperous.
Business is businessas Boyd would always say.
I haven’t called him dad in years. He’s been Boyd O’Shea, the cutthroat king of our territory, since the day I picked Fiona to become my talent slave almost ten years ago. At his insistence, I was no longer able to see him as a parent after that day. He was my boss, my mentor…and I was his apprentice.
Now that he’s retired, I’m in charge and I’m responsible for everything. The entire O’Shea territory is mine—to control, to find prosperity with, to fuck it all up and ruin if I make a mistake.
So long as my humanity doesn’t creep its way back in with its morality and ethically righteous bullshit, I won’t fuck it all up. My family can’t afford the repercussions of human decency, so I force indecency with Fiona to prove a point.
I reach over and wrap my palm around Fiona’s elbow, yanking her toward me across the leather bench seat. She whimpers, her eyes darting down to where I touch her arm as I drag her closer. I lift away from the back of my seat, sitting up straight to level myself with her eyes, and she shrinks back as I hold her stare.
“Who do you belong to now, Fiona?”
She shakes her head, a tear slipping out from the corner of her eye. She refuses to respond to me, and I won’t have that. My hand slips up her arm, over her shoulder, creeping around behind her neck, and grabbing hold of her.
I give her another chance. “Who do you belong to?”
“No…” she whispers. “Please.”
I grit my teeth as I shift her in my grip, forcing her to bend, pushing her down over my lap until her face lands on my thigh. She turns her cheek as I harshly press her into tense muscle. Her eyes pinch shut as I slide her head toward me, until the tip of her dainty nose touches my leather belt.
“Tell me who you belong to, or I’ll show you.”
Her eyes pop wide when she catches my meaning with her chin brushing against my cock, and she flounders in panic. Her lithe body wriggles, struggling against me, though I hardly have to press to keep her face against my thick thigh.
She’s small and weak, and it almost makes me regret choosing her years ago. My dick isn’t even hard for her. Yet I’ve spent a great deal of time and money funding her talent as a secret benefactor over the years, so it is what it is.
I angle her face toward my cock, reaching down with my free hand to work the buckle of my belt.
“No!” she yells. “No. I…I belong to you. I belong to you, master.”
My hand goes still, almost thankful she spoke up and said something because I’m not in the mood for this. I loosen my grip on the back of her neck and stroke my palm over her strawberry-blonde hair, petting her for being a good girl, like she’s a fucking pet.
But that’s exactly what she is.
A pet, and my responsibility.
A fucking burden.
She remains in my lap for the final ten minutes of our journey, huffing in shallow breaths and whimpering. She can cry all she wants, though it changes nothing. Still, I stroke her hair, unable to quell the instinct to comfort.
The fog dissipates as we round the curved drive. We come to a stop beside the front steps leading up to our grand estate. I peer out the window as Fiona trembles, realizing our journey has come to an end and unable to control her fear for what’s to come.
Boyd and my mother Bridget stand side-by-side on the landing at the top step of the stone staircase. Their talent slave, Esmerelda, kneels beside them. Impressive, they can still command her to kneel given her bad knee, though it’s really rather cruel. One would think my father, at his advanced age of seventy-five, might have more compassion for his aging slave.
Esmerelda is fifty-six, two years younger than my mother, but in far worse shape. I can’t really say whether that’s from my father’s use and abuse over the years or it’s just poor luck on Esmerelda’s part.
I watch them a moment longer while my family gathers behind them. My brothers, my cousins, my aunt and uncle. The entire thing is a spectacle, a procession of degradation to welcome our new talent. I shake my head, pulling my attention away from them and their expectant stares.
“Give us a minute,” I say to my driver. He nods and cuts the engine, stepping out of the vehicle. I continue to stroke Fiona’s hair as tremors quake through her. “Look at me.”
She blinks through tears, but tilts her head slightly so she can meet my eyes.
“This is your new home. I am your master. You will be at my beck and call, and you will do as I say when I say it. If you behave and do as I say, then we won’t have any problems. If you decide to test me, you will be met with punishment. You’re my pet, but others will want to play with you. And you’ll happily oblige them if I tell you to…won’t you?”
Her throat bobs and her lips part slowly, her tears soaking through my slacks. “Y-yes.”
I curl my fingers into her hair, digging into her scalp, mashing the metal of the two rings on my left hand against her skull. “Yes, what?”
She closes her eyes in defeat. “Yes, master.”
Good.
“I’m going to remove the binding from your wrists. If you want to avoid humiliation and pain on your first night here, I suggest you keep your tiny hands at your sides unless you’re asked to put them to good use. Understood?”
“U-understood,” she stutters.
I fist her hair and tug, lifting her upright from my lap. I tilt my hip off the seat to pull my knife from my back pocket and quickly slice the cable tie. Fiona whips her arms around in front of her, rubbing her wrists in turn. I reach out to smooth her hair and swipe tears from her cheeks in an attempt to make her look minimally presentable.
She’s my talent slave—her appearance, her actions, her behavior are all a reflection of me, and I won’t be made a fool of.
“We’re going to greet my family on the way to your new room. You’ll be put in your place. You will not react to them. You will not cry, you will not scream, you will not speak. You will follow me quietly. You will watch and wait for us to finish our final transition of power, and you will not interrupt. If you do that, you’ll be given time to rest and recover alone.”
She looks at me like a child with wide, wondering, fearful eyes. It makes me think of the first time I saw our human assets in one of our factories in Oslo, back when I was a child with the same wide, wondering, fearful eyes. A ripple of unease flows through me and I blow out a heavy breath to force it away as her head bobs in something resembling a nod.
That’s good enough acknowledgment for me.
I grab the handle and pop open the door, stepping out and smoothing down my waistcoat before holding out my palm to her. A few seconds pass before her hand lands in mine and I help her out of the car. She tugs at the hem of her jumper to adjust it over her jeans.
I shut the door behind her, letting go of her hand as Bailey, my black and white Border Collie, circles my legs. I bend to scruff behind her ears, then ask my driver to take her around the back to play on the hills.
“You walk behind me,” I tell Fiona. “Never beside me.”
I turn and head up the steps. I glance over my shoulder, fully expecting to see her still standing there like a fawn caught in headlights, afraid to move. She looks frightened, but I’m happily surprised to see her follow me immediately.
I reach the landing as the family parts to allow me to pass, naturally forming two queues that line either side of the entryway. The dreary fog surrounding the stone castle walls creates an eerie mood for the scene ahead, though I don’t think sunshine would’ve done much to alter the general sense of dread with what’s to come.
I stop when I reach my parents and hold out my palm to Esmerelda. She looks dreadful kneeling beside my father with her head bowed. I almost feel bad for her considering what’s to happen next—that awful tick of humanity fisting my heart for a moment longer than it should have.
I look to see Fiona still behind me, waiting though she shakes. Esmerelda takes my hand and I help her to her feet before guiding her forward. She walks beside me for this…her final walk.
Boyd and Bridget join the queue lining the entrance to our home. Esmeralda and I pass them first, and as Fiona crosses their path, I hear my father.
“Whore,” he says behind us to Fiona. “Slut.”
“Worthless tramp.” That comes from my brother, Cormac.
Then his fiancée, Tallulah. “Slag.”
“Scum,” my mother hisses.
“Cheap tramp,” Saoirse taunts.
Then my cousin, Cordelia mutters, “Nasty twat.”
The degradation of my new talent slave continues down the line as we enter the large, circular foyer. The family moves around us, lining the circular space as we come to a stop beneath the large, crystalline chandelier that hangs overhead, shining a spotlight above us.
“Kneel,” I instruct Esmerelda, feeling as cruel as my father for making her bend on her bum knee. Yet, she does so without hesitation, effectively broken after decades of slavery and abuse at the hands of Boyd and Bridget O’Shea.
But it doesn’t matter anyway.
It’s the last time she’ll ever have to kneel.
Esmerelda quietly cries, lifting her palms to cover her face as I glance up to see my parents move in front of me. Bridget looks heartbroken, and it tugs at my tattered heartstrings. But then I remember why she’s heartbroken and my sympathy wanes. She’s a part of this, too—we all are. None of us have the right to be upset about it.
I step back beside Fiona, who quivers beyond control, tears streaming down her porcelain cheeks as her arms protectively crisscross over her chest.
I take in a deep breath then speak loudly and clearly, ready to get this mess the fuck over with.
“Esmerelda, we thank you for your service to the O’Shea family. You will not be forgotten. Your grave has been dug and you will be laid to rest among the talent slaves of generations past. You will be visited and remembered dearly by your masters.”
Bridget blows Esmerelda a sad kiss and my father gives her a curt, passive nod. “Thank you for your service,” they each say in turn.
I look around the circle, meeting each person’s eyes before I sigh and tilt my chin down. “A moment of silence for Esmerelda.”
Everyone bows their heads, and the room goes quiet…except for the echoing sob that slips from Esmerelda’s stuttering chest. She leans forward, placing her palms on her thighs and chants in a hushed whisper, “Please, please, please.”
It’s the only time in my memory that I’ve heard her speak out of turn, but it’s no matter. Time for rewards and punishments has passed.
This is the end for her.
After a brief silence, I lift my head and speak somberly. “Family, please thank Esmerelda for her service.”
Boyd and Bridget step back as everyone else steps forward, each brandishing a blade. My cousin Cordelia is the first to reach Esmerelda, and I’m not surprised at how eager she is for bloodshed.
“Thank you for your service, Esmerelda,” Cordelia draws her arm back and thrusts her blade forward, slicing into Esmerelda’s side, forcing blood to spatter.
Esmerelda screams as Cordelia pulls the knife out and steps back, as the remainder of my family each takes a turn stabbing her, stealing her blood, spilling the life force of her servitude all over the tan tile.
Fiona is shocked into silence behind me. I wonder if she makes the connection that she’ll share the same fate one day, decades in the future.
Esmerelda topples sideways, her white gown soaked red from the multiple wounds inflicted by my immediate family. Blood pools, flowing out from her prone form, and all eyes turn to me.
This twisted tradition has been carried out by the O’Sheas since the four families first began their partnership generations ago. The Mikhailovs, the Vittoris, the Campbells…they all have their own ways of welcoming their new talent. They don’t all end the life of their previous talent slave like we do. This is an O’Shea family tradition, uniquely our own, a rite that we perform for each new Head of House when the newest talent slave is brought to the estate.
It’s a ritual that puts a stamp on our family’s brutality. We are as we always have been—ruthless masters, quiet and unassuming until the time comes to do our work. And when that time comes, our family spills blood together. No one’s hands remain clean.
Boyd and Bridget step forward, and though it’s clear Esmerelda has already drawn her last breath, they brandish their blade together. Boyd wraps his palm around the handle and Bridget’s fingers curl around his wrist. They bend together and drive a final thrust of their blade into the soft flesh of Esmerelda’s stomach. Bridget lets out a sob as Boyd gradually loosens his grip and removes his palm from the handle, leaving the blade stuck inside her.
The eyes of my family cast a glare that burns, heating me with intensity as they recognize my ultimate, unquestionable authority. I lift my chin, my lips twisting into a smirk as I feel the power wash over me.
Power and responsibility.
Apprehension.
Ultimate command.
No one’s hands remain clean.
I stride forward, stepping in Esmerelda’s blood as I move in close. I bend, grip the handle of the single blade still stuck in her flesh, and rip it out with force. Blood sprays from the wound, spattering my clothes.
I regard the dagger with care, marveling at the fact that it’s now mine. It’s the dagger my father owned before me, a precious item in this family. It’s kept only by the Head of House, and I regard it with care—it’s a signifier of power amongst the O’Sheas.
I run my finger over the totem pole of skulls that make the grip, the cross-guard that’s formed by two crossbones at its base.
This object is sacred, and it now belongs to me.
“Is that it?” I hear Tallulah whisper, and my neck seizes with tension at the sound of her grating voice interrupting this moment.
My head whips toward her to say something, but thankfully, my brother has a handle on his soon-to-be bride. He grabs her, forcing her behind him, and he snarls, “Shut the fuck up.”
I return my attention to the dagger and my reverie reminds me that this is it. The transition is complete. I’m the O’Shea family Head of House.
I’m the leader of this brutal horde of bastards, these masters of our realm.
And I am their ruthless king.
I am the king of masters.