My, What Big Teeth You Have

The Wedded Knight - 1

➤ Wordcount 1.7k

Dain Azulan walked into the gaping room and immediately wanted to stalk out as the offensively cloying scent of perfume attacked his sense of smell, causing him to give one big shudder. Like a dog shaking water out of its coat,
except no one but him would see it that way. He was grateful for his mask, which helped hide his expressions and had often saved him from sneering in people's faces.

Mistake, the animal side of him growled. Too much flesh. Back out now.

Why didn't anyone tell me about the fucking banquet that I am apparently holding?! The human side shouted.

"Quiet," Dain said, and regretted it immediately when Whitlock leaned in and said,

"Pardon, Command? Yes, sir?"

"Never mind," Dain replied, nodding for the old butler's benefit.

Whitlock had worked for him for forty years now. Dain had tried pretty hard to scare him off, but the human had clung to his job like a burr on a shoe. Dain respected that. Decades later, they had finally come to a polite understanding of each other.

Whitlock learned to do his job quietly, stay out of the way, and keep questions like "Where did all that blood come from" and "That's enough meat to feed an army" to himself. Dain had learned to make some noise when approaching and to clean up to the best of his ability after a hunt.

Whitlock had all but broken down in tears when he discovered bloody prints stamped on the white carpet one morning. The poor fellow.

Before Dain could finish his internal war of conflict Baron Eastwood looked up from his cluster of bootlickers and noticed him.

"If it isn't the man of the hour!" He boomed, raising his glass.

The whole room went silent for a few moments, long enough for Dain's fingers to start curling into fists and his breathing to turn into more of a pant.

Stop looking at me, is what he wanted to shout, but thankfully all that came out of his mouth was, "Good evening."

Someone started clapping, and soon the room was giving him dutiful applause. He wanted to snarl at all the noise but forced himself to remember that he was in polite company. He settled for giving the collar of his shirt an absent-minded tug and walking into the room.

"If not for you, I'm fairly certain we would have never won the war," Baron Eastwood said, closing in on him.

"It was nothing. I'm honored to have been able to fight for this Kingdom," he said, which was a lie if he had ever told one.

Really, he just liked getting his hands wet with blood, but the room would clear out in minutes if he said that.

Polite company.

Baron Eastwood dragged him around the room and inserted him into conversations he had no interest in, but Dain was good about it. He had learned well, and those who didn't admire him were at least lulled into a state of false security.

Subconscious assurance that he was safe and level-headed. He wasn't going to gut anyone and wear their entrails like medallions, no.

Dain couldn't help but notice that no amount of charm would bring any of the ladies within five feet of him. As a person, he was intimidating enough, but his reputation and appearance- though most of the latter was hidden under clothing- made it so that no woman would even look twice at him. The best he would get were the working women, the ones desperate enough to do almost anything for some money and food.

That was fine by him. For once, he could help, even if it was just a pretense. Payment for pleasure. Enough money to give them a good life for their children.

He extracted himself from a group of elderly men and wandered to the side table. Most of them smoked cigars and the acrid smoke stung his nose, but not as much as the sour smell of curdling disease many of them carried. Dain had learned to keep his mouth shut about that too. No one wanted to know when they were going to die. He was a monster already, no need to give them further ammunition.

He downed two glasses of liquor and ignored the two whispering women who huddled on a chaise a few feet away.

"I wonder why he always wears that mask," one said.

"Perhaps his face is as monstrous as the rumors say it is," the other murmured.

"Is all of him so large?" The first wondered. "Even below the belt?"

They dissolved into furtive giggles. When Dain cast his eyes in their direction, they sat up so quickly that one of them dropped her fan, and it slid to the floor. Dain licked his teeth and perked up when he caught the scent of food. Just then, Whitlock announced the dinner and the guests flocked into the massive dining room. The table seemed to go on forever, and it was quite depressing to eat there alone.

Tonight every chair was filled, and Dain found himself half enjoying the scene; Crystal goblets dancing with wine, towers of roast potatoes and steamed vegetables, baskets of dinner rolls, and swan-shaped gravy boats. At the very least, no one could accuse him of being a bad host. Of course, he would be without Whitlock, who decided on everything from the dinner to the decor.

Dain took his seat at the head of the table and gave perfunctory answers until those seated near him stopped asking him questions, leaving him free to eat and let the conversations flow around him. Eastwood kept throwing him gleeful looks from across the table. Dain was not close with him- he wasn't close with anyone- but they had a good relationship with each other. Dain had learned how that kind of look on Eastwood often meant he had gone and done something Dain wouldn't approve of.

The dinner ended well. Dain stood at the front door and thanked everyone for coming, the rich food heavy in his stomach and his clothes feeling a little too tight on him. When the last person was out the door he all but tore his shirt off, growling a little as the tight collar dug into his neck. He yanked at it and a button came loose, bouncing to the floor.

"Hello hello," Eastwood said, popping out of the drawing room.

Dain froze with his shirt in his hands.

Thank the gods that you didn't remove your mask, the human side of him said cynically. Otherwise, Eastwood would be unconscious on the floor from the shock of it.

"Oh," Eastwood said, his eyebrows hiking up as he followed the vicious, carving trails of scars on Dain's torso.

Anyone with a bit of brain would know that this meant Dain was a man of battle. Or that someone had tried to do him in at several points. The truth was that it was both, and then some.

"Well," Eastwood cleared his throat and blinked, recovering fairly quickly. "I got you a gift. Consider it as thanks for winning the war and for coming home."

"A gift?" Dain echoed.

He bunched the shirt in his hands and the muscles in his arms flexed. Eastwood didn't seem able to look away from the imposing horror of him, a man who looked better covered in blood than not. A made killer.

"Ah, yes. According to Whitlock, it's in the kitchen now," Eastwood said, finally looking away from when the clock gave its midnight toll. "Christ, is the hour that late already? I must be getting home."

He started to the door, accepting his coat from Whitlock.

"Enjoy," he called, before ducking out into the night.

"What did he get me, a fucking pound of beef?" Dain muttered.

"Not quite," Whitlock said and grimaced.

Eyeing him, Dain marched to the kitchen. He had to take two different hallways before he found the place and he realized he had never been in it. The air smelled sugary and mild, like the lingering scent of baked goods long after an oven has cooled. He found it mouth-watering, even though sweet things never sat well with him.

"What did you make in here?" Dain asked because he knew there hadn't been anything of that sort after dinner. "Cake?"

"No," Whitlock said quietly behind him.

Dain prowled into the kitchen but his search did not take long at all, for he found Eastwood's gift immediately. A person sat sprawled at the kitchen table, head cradled in the crook of their arm, a half-eaten roll dangling from limp fingers. Dain took in their curly hair and pretty, layered dress and shouted,

"A woman?!"

The woman in question stirred slightly, and Dain found himself lowering his voice as he hissed,

"Eastwood has gifted me a woman?"

"Paid in full," Whitlock said in a thin, informational voice, and Dain was outraged.

"A slave, then. Where is the contract? Why didn't you turn her away?"

"She would have nowhere else to go, but back to the auction. To return so soon after purchase would drive her price down, I'm afraid," Whitlock said and added, "Besides, she was hungry."

"Gods," Dain said, fighting the urge to yank his mask off and run into the woods to blow off some steam. "What is Eastwood trying to aim for here?"

"Perhaps he thought the mansion was a little lonesome?" Whitlock commented, and Dain choked on a snarl.

"I am perfectly fine on my own!"

"What's happening?" A husky, sleepy voice uttered, and Dain felt his soul shrivel into a ball.

How often is it that you have women here? At a minimum, you should try not to frighten her. First impressions are important, the human droned.

Flesh! The beast exclaimed gleefully. Decadent, soft, fuckable flesh!

Dain opted to flee. He nearly ripped the back door off its hinges in his haste, stumbling as he yanked on his shoes. The mask joined the footwear by the fence along the property, left for Whitlock to take inside later. He wasn't quick enough for the pants, and the material burst around the expanding muscles in his legs. Another minute and he was changed, free to snuffle in the forest and hunt deer like the monster he was, excused from human worries for a few hours.

When he came back, he would figure out what to do with the woman.

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Anyone remember the story I wrote under the same title? I've had this idea lingering vaguely in my head for over a year, and it finally made it into writing!