KAYLEE

Bambi.

The nickname had hit like a bruise, sharp and deep. My chest tightened but it wasn’t just the name—it was the way Skoll said it.

Like he still saw me as that trembling girl too afraid to meet his eyes and for some reason, that grated. 

Skoll had called me that since I was twelve, the first time he found me crying in the hallway after my mother's sharp words had cut too deep. 

"Look at those wet eyes," he'd said, towering over me like a shadow given form. "Like a frightened little deer. Bambi."

It wasn't the tears that earned the name. It was the way I'd always flinched when he was near me, the way I always froze in place—prey instinct taking over at the mere proximity of a predator. 

How I'd trembled, unable to meet his gaze.

The name stuck. Not because it fit but because it hurt and Skoll knew it. Because it reminded me of my weakness every time it fell from his lips.

And now, years later, watching him go after Russell with an almost bored precision, I realized some things hadn't changed at all. I was still flinching. Still trembling.

Still Bambi.

Russell choked as Skoll’s fingers clamped around his jaw, grip tightening just enough to wrench his mouth open.

The warlock thrashed, panic flaring in his eyes. Fingers twitching, a sickly hum of magik sparked to life at his fingertips—raw energy crackling in the air, ozone and desperation thick on the tongue.

But the moment the spell touched Skoll, it died. Fizzled into nothing and the Lycan didn’t even flinch. Didn’t blink.

Russell’s panic spiked as his power—his lifeline, his birthright—slid off Skoll like water over stone. No resistance. No reaction.

Nothing.

That was the thing about Lycans, most magik didn’t work on them. No wards. No hexes. No clever spells to save you. That immunity and beastly strength made them feared. Uncontested, untouchable but it came at a cost.

No healing. No enhancements and only bone, blood and brutality to keep them standing.

And Skoll? He looked carved from all three.

With terrifying ease, he pressed his thumb inside Russell’s mouth, tilting his head back and pinning him to the bookshelf. His emerald gaze scanned the warlock’s face with detached amusement—cold, clinical, cruel.

“Do you know what a deer sounds like when it’s caught?” Skoll asked, voice low, conversational.
Too calm for what was about to happen.

“I think you’ve scared him enough,” I said quickly, trying to anchor the moment before it spiraled further. “We should head back to the dinner party.”

I should teleport somewhere else…

Russell whimpered—muffled, frantic—his fingers clawing at Skoll’s wrist and the Lycan didn’t move. Didn’t even acknowledge the effort because his strength wasn’t just physical. It was absolute.

The kind that didn’t yield. The kind that didn’t care.

When Skoll hadn’t backed away, I pushed myself off the desk, hands trembling against the polished wood and my body throbbed from Russell’s earlier blow—ribs aching, stomach tight, nausea curling in my throat.

“I’m not done with my story,” Skoll finally said as I walked away and toward the library door.

“I don’t care,” My intentions were to leave them here, but beneath the wet, garbled whimper choking from Russell’s throat, a darker thought slithered in.

He deserves this.

That realization hit harder than the violence itself.

I told myself it was the pain talking—trauma, adrenaline, shock but it didn’t stop the ugly satisfaction from curling low in my belly.

“When you rip a stag’s throat out,” Skoll furthered, voice dreamy, distant, “the sound it makes… it’s not a dog’s whimper. Not a wolf’s growl.”

I stilled, too curious for my own good, and made the mistake of glancing back. I should have been horrified, when Skoll leaned in, nostrils flaring slightly as though he could smell the kill.

And don’t get me wrong, I was terrified but also wrongly intrigued.

“It’s high. Strangled. Like they don’t understand what’s happening. Like their body’s still pretending it can fight. Still pretending it isn’t seconds away from becoming food.”

I swallowed back bile as my pulse pounded.

Gods.

If it was possible, Skoll came back more feral.

More depraved.

Who the hell gets poetic about throat-ripping?

Russell gagged, veins bulging at his temple as Skoll applied more pressure. The Lycan’s thumb shoved into his mouth, forcing his jaw wider.

“Skoll—” Tears blurred my vision now but he ignored me.

Then, he shoved forward and his fingers drove cruelly into Russell’s gums, grinding against teeth with deliberate, excruciating force.

Russell screamed.

High. Broken. Human.

The sound tore from him like something dying—muffled by Skoll’s grip, drowned by the wet gurgle of blood.

There was a thick, wet pop and Russell convulsed. A guttural, animal cry ripped free as blood burst from his mouth, bubbling over his lips in a hot crimson stream, spilling down his chin in thick, glossy streaks.

I flinched, hands flying to my mouth.

Horror twisted inside me—sharp and sickening.

“Skoll, stop!” I gasped. “That was—that was uncalled for!”

He turned, eyes burning beneath the low flicker of the library light, and his grip didn’t loosen. If anything, he looked… disappointed.

“Bambi,” Skoll murmured. “He doesn’t deserve mercy,” His head tilted, wolf-like. “Or pity.”

I exhaled slowly, forcing my spine to straighten, lifting my chin even as my stomach twisted in on itself.

Don’t let him see that you’re rattled.

“Regardless,” I said, voice carefully even, “there’s a whole dinner party happening right outside this library. Someone will hear him screaming!"

Skoll didn’t miss a beat, "Every room in my parents’ estate is soundproof."

My stomach dropped.

Of course it was. They were Lycans. Their senses were too sharp, too heightened—privacy would be a necessity.

Damn it and then—Without breaking eye contact with me, Skoll pressed down. Russell arched beneath his grip, a raw, garbled scream tearing loose from his throat.

Crack.

I grimaced, one hand flying up to cover my ears as the sound of enamel splintering echoed like a gunshot inside my skull.

More blood poured from Russell’s mouth in thick, choking ropes, bubbling at the corners of his lips as he gurgled on pain and helplessness.

“What the hell!” I shrieked.

Skoll finally looked down at Russell, like only now remembering the man writhing beneath his hand. “You want mercy?” he asked, voice light. Almost bored. “Then beg.”

I blinked, stunned. “What?”

His tone dropped, softer. Deadlier. “If you want me to stop… if you don’t want me to break another one of his teeth, get on your knees and ask me nicely, Bambi.”

Russell let out a broken sob, twitching, blood slicking his chin and I shouldn't still be here. This was insane and I should've left. Two broken teeth ago, I should've walked out.

But suddenly, a memory I'd tried to bury surfaced. My father used to do this too—make us beg for mercy whenever he was beating my mom. The same cold command, the same expectation of submission.

Yet there was a crucial difference. My father's eyes had been empty, his cruelty random and uncontrolled. Skoll's were calculating, measured—his violence had purpose. And somewhere in that distinction lay the reason I was still in this room, watching instead of running.

My nails bit into my palms, a sharp sting I clung to like a lifeline and my jaw clenched. My pulse thundered against my throat.

“I—I won’t—”

Skoll exhaled through his nose, a quiet sound full of, guess what, disappointment. “Shame.” He pressed against a third tooth—slow, cruel, deliberate.

Russell let out another shrieking cry that cracked apart in his throat and it didn’t even sound human anymore.

I swallowed hard, bile creeping up.

This wasn’t supposed to be my burden.

How the hell had Skoll twist this moment, like this?

How had he made me feel responsible for what he was doing?

“Please!” I gasped, the word spilling out before I could think.

Skoll clicked his tongue—soft. Almost scolding. “That’s it?” he murmured, his voice was quiet, edged with something cold. Unsatisfied and then came the slow shake of his head. “You don’t really want me to stop, do you?”

I didn’t know anymore.

“No—no,” I shook my head. “I don’t want Russell to suffer like this.”

“No?”

“No!”

“I think you’re lying.”

Russell sobbed in the background—high, keening.

Skoll’s grip shifted, fingers pressing deeper into his ruined mouth. Against the fourth teeth, and I shouted.

“Wait!” Panic clawed up my throat.

My knees slammed to the marble floor. Sharp pain shot through my legs—but it was nothing.

Not compared to this.

Not compared to the choking, suffocating pressure in my chest.

The raw sting of Russell’s blow still lived in my skin. Bruises forming. Breath catching but none of it compared to the man towering over me now.

Not his strength.

Not his violence.

Not even his eyes.

I had to make him stop because if I didn’t, if I watched this happen, knew it was happening and said nothing…I was just as bad and maybe worse.

“Please,” I whispered, barely audible.

Skoll arched a brow, unimpressed. “Bambi, you’re not even trying.”

His thumb dragged across Russell’s blood-slicked lip, like he was testing texture. Like he was tasting fear.

“Please,” I said again, my voice hoarse but softer. “Skoll, let him go.”

Skoll’s gaze dissected me like a thing meant to be devoured and then—he smiled. 

Not a smirk. Not smugness.

It was slow. Sharp and the kind of smile that sank into your bones and whispered too late. The kind that said he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.

“Crawl to me,” He Skoll demanded and my body locked. Breath caught sharp in my throat.

Shame burned through me, thick and blistering, but I moved.

One hand forward.

Then the other.

My knees dragged over the cold marble, the hem of my dress brushing across the polished floor.

Each inch forward felt like a scream under my skin as Skoll’s gaze tracked me like a predator watching prey crawl into its jaws.

By the time I reached him, my body was wrecked—hiccuping, trembling, breath shallow and fast.

Skoll made a sound. A low, pleased hum and it was dark. Twisted but he was pleased. “Fuck, you make shame look soo sweet.”

Then, without effort, he grabbed Russell by the collar and yanked him down—down to my level.

I flinched as Russell let out a choked cry. His mouth hung open, ruined, and blood spilled out.

Skoll’s bloody fingers twisted tighter in the fabric of Russell’s shirt, holding him upright. “Say sorry,” He ordered.

Russell twitched violently, shoulders jerking, body shaking like a leaf in a storm and he tried. Really tried but between the sobs and the blood choking him, the words couldn’t make it past his lips.

And for a single, fleeting second…I almost felt bad.

Almost.

But no amount of blood was going to make me forget who Russell really was. Even now, I could picture him painting himself as the victim. Like this moment erased everything that came before.

And then a whisper crept in: Was he the victim right now?

Russell murmured nonsense—slurred, soaked in blood.

Skoll tilted his head, “You can do better than that.” And with a brutal tug, he dragged Russell lower—forced his face toward the blood-slick marble. “Beg.”

And Russell broke. “I—” he choked, saliva and blood mixing on his tongue. “I’m sorry.”

A pause.

Skoll smirked, "That’s a start."

The warlock who tried to own me—who leveraged my mother’s downfall like a leash—now knelt at my feet, crying, bleeding, broken.

Skoll stood dragging Russell back up with him. He wiped his bloodied hands into Russell’s tuxedo jacket.

Skoll took a step back, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the last remnants of restraint. Then, just as effortlessly as he had torn Russell apart, he turned his emeralds back to me.

His expression softened as he stared down at me—just a fraction, just enough to send my heart slamming against my ribs in a completely different way.

My voice came out hoarse, shaking. "Skoll, he’s Russell Bale." I said hoping he would sense that Russell wasn’t just an every day Warlock, the Bale bloodline was well known and powerful in their own right.

Skoll answered, "I know who he is. Back in the day he used to sponsor fighters in the fight ring and from what I last remember, he owed me a few favors.”

In other words the warlock wouldn’t talk. Not after this.

Russell jerked a frantic nod, agreeing that those favors still stood even now. His head bobbed uselessly, like a broken marionette on frayed strings.

Skoll didn’t even spare him a second glance. His voice was smooth, almost indifferent. "Get out. Use the back door."

Russell staggered, blood dripping, wet splatters onto the marble floor, and he fled.

Across the library, the door clicked shut behind him, and the space was too quiet—unnaturally so. Like the storm had passed, but left something heavier in its wake. Something that clung to me and wouldn’t leave.

The only sound left was mine. My own broken sobbing, the wet sniffling that filled the silence like a pathetic echo.

Skoll exhaled, slow and deep, like he was already bored of the whole thing. Then, he extended a hand. A gesture so casual, so utterly absurd after what had just happened, that for a moment, I just stared at it.

Then, without thinking, I swatted his hand away. The sharp smack of skin against skin cut through the silence and his fingers twitched. Just slightly, not in irritation. Not in amusement but just a slow curl, like something thoughtful.

I pushed myself up, legs weak, body trembling, but I refused to show it. I straightened my dress, smoothed the fabric, forced myself back into something that resembled composure.

Then, voice steady, even as my pulse thundered in my throat, I spat, "Fuck you, Skoll."

And I walked past him, refusing to look back but I felt him.

Still watching. 

Even as I disappeared through the door, even as I forced myself to keep moving, his presence, his emeralds and his damned scent lingered—heavy, inescapable.

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This is an early draft, so if you spot anything or feel something, I’d love to hear it. Doesn't have to be long, a few words. Your comments and feedback help shape the final version.

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