CHAPTER 5 – CROWN OF TEETH
| 18+ |
The SUV eats highway like a shark through chum, Bangkok's smoke fading in the rearview. Sea drives one-handed, the other laced with mine, our gold rings clinking like tiny handcuffs. The sun dips low, turning the road to fire, and I lean my head on his shoulder, Glock heavy in my lap. My body hums—adrenaline crash mixing with the ache between my legs from last night's shower fuck, the burn of stitches pulling when I move. Father's tower is a black smudge on the horizon now, flames licking the sky like his empire's dying breath.
We didn't kill him. Not yet. I wanted him to live with the ash in his mouth, the headlines screaming *Suvijak Heir Vanishes, Empire Ignites*. Let him choke on it. Let him send more dogs after us. We'll feed them to Tsunami.
Surf's in the passenger seat, scrolling a burner phone, Java shotgun with a map app open. "Rivals are circling," Surf says, voice casual as if discussing weather. "Saw Sharks put a call out—double bounty now, two hundred mil. Dead preferred."
Sea snorts. "Let 'em come. Honeymoon needs entertainment."
Honeymoon.
The word hits soft in my chest. Sea said it on the jet, casual as loading a clip: *Our honeymoon starts when we hit the island. No fathers, no bounties, just you, me, and the road.* I laughed then, thought it was a joke. But his eyes were serious—dark, possessive, the kind of look that says he'd carve the world to keep me.
Now, with Bangkok behind us, it feels real. Terrifying. Beautiful.
I squeeze his hand. "Where to first, husband?"
He glances over, smirk sharp. "Cliff lookout. Where I first made you mine."
Heat floods me, cock twitching in my jeans. Memories: his teeth on my throat, the Silvia's hood burning my chest, his thrusts raw and relentless while the ocean roared approval. I shift, thigh brushing the Glock. "Promise more bites?"
"Promise teeth," he growls, thumb circling my ring. "Crown of 'em."
The SUV turns south at Chumphon, cutting inland through rubber plantations where shadows stretch like fingers. Night falls fast—jungle black, stars punching holes in the canopy. Surf kills the lights for a stretch, navigating by phone glow. No cops. No tails. Just us, ghosts on the run.
We hit the coast at midnight, Koh Lanta's lights winking like old lovers. The pier road is quiet—too quiet. No neon, no bass. Just salt wind and the whisper of waves licking concrete.
Sea parks at the line, kills the engine. Silence presses in.
"Trap," Java says, knives already out.
Surf nods, shotgun ready. "Sharks. Bet they're waiting in the mangroves."
Sea looks at me. "Stay close."
We move like smoke—Sea first, me behind, Glock raised. Surf and Java flank. The air smells wrong: diesel, sweat, gun oil.
They hit us at the first corner.
Spotlights blaze. Engines roar. Three trucks—Saw Sharks, roll cages, men hanging out with AKs. Bullets ping off the SUV, shattering glass.
Sea shoves me down, returns fire—sawed-off booming, one Shark flipping off a truck bed, chest caved. I pop up, squeeze the Glock: two shots, one hit, a driver slumping over the wheel. Truck veers, crashes into a palm, exploding in orange bloom.
Surf whoops, pumps buckshot into another. Java's a blur—knives flashing, climbing a truck like a spider, slitting throats mid-leap.
Sea grabs my arm, drags me to the Silvia—parked hidden in the banyans, tarp ripped off in the chaos. "Drive!"
I slide behind the wheel, key in the ignition. Vroom—turbo whine, tires spinning mud. Sea shotgun, window down, firing back.
We punch through the line, Sharks scattering. One truck chases—headlights glaring, bullets stitching the road.
"Faster!" Sea yells.
I downshift, drift the next corner—Lambo lessons paying off. Silvia hooks, ass sliding perfect. The chasing truck fishtails, clips a barrier, flips end over end. Fireball lights the night.
We lose them in the jungle backroads. Heart slamming, hands slick on the wheel. Sea's hand on my thigh, squeezing. "Good boy."
I laugh—wild, breathless. "Honeymoon's off to a bang."
He pulls me into a kiss at the next straight—messy, teeth, blood from a grazed cheek. "Bang's just starting."
The cliff lookout waits like a throne: moon full, ocean endless below. We park nose-out, engine ticking cool. No words. Sea kills the lights, pulls me into the backseat.
Clothes rip. His mouth on my neck, biting fresh marks over old ones. "Mine," he growls, hand down my jeans, fisting me rough.
I arch, nails in his ink. "Yours. Always."
He preps me quick—fingers, spit, the knife from his boot tracing my hip without cutting. Tease of steel, promise of pain. I beg for it— "Please, Sea, mark me"—and he does: shallow line across my abs, blood beading hot.
Then he's inside, raw, deep, backseat creaking under us. Pace savage—hips slamming, my legs over his shoulders, every thrust hitting that spot until stars burst.
"Come for me, Prince," he pants, thumb on the cut, smearing blood like war paint.
I shatter, spilling over his fist, clenching around him. He follows, flooding me, groan muffled in my throat.
After, we stay tangled, windows fogged, ocean sighing below. His ring catches moonlight on my skin.
"Honeymoon," I whisper.
He smiles—rare, soft. "Day one."
Dawn brings the island proper. We ditch the SUV in Saladan, steal a fishing boat to cross the channel—Surf and Java taking the long way with a decoy truck. The boat rocks gentle, Sea's arm around me, Tsunami's head in my lap. She licks the blood off my abs, whining soft.
"Easy, girl," Sea murmurs, scratching her ears. "That's my mark."
I laugh. "Jealous?"
"Of a dog? Nah. But she gets first bite of the next Shark."
The villa at Long Beach—my old cage—waits empty, staff scattered by the news. We claim it: king bed with silk sheets, infinity pool overlooking the sea. Surf and Java arrive at noon, duffels of cash and guns, Tsunami bounding in like she owns the place.
"Honeymoon suite's ours," Sea says, tossing them keys to the guest wing. "Don't interrupt unless it's bodies."
Java smirks. "Noted. We'll be... occupied."
They vanish. Minutes later, moans echo through the walls—Surf's grunts, Java's gasps. I blush. Sea laughs, pulls me to the pool.
We swim naked, sun warming our rings. Lunch is fresh papaya and whiskey—stolen from Father's cellar. Afternoon: lazy fucks on the lounger, Sea's mouth mapping every scar from my past, tongue soothing the new cuts.
But the island doesn't sleep.
Evening: Boon calls. "Sharks regrouping. Mainland crew inbound. They want the Lambo back—says it's theirs now."
Sea hangs up. "Let 'em try."
Night falls bloody.
They come at the pier—ten Sharks, armed to teeth, Boon's den torched as bait. We're waiting: Sea with the sawed-off, me with the Glock, Surf shotgun, Java knives. Tsunami off-leash, eyes glowing demon-red.
First wave: trucks screeching. Bullets fly. Sea drops two from the rooftop. I nail a driver through the windshield—glass shatters, truck flips.
Surf booms buckshot, shredding a flank. Java dances through shadows, knives wet with throats.
Tsunami launches—pitbull fury, jaws clamping a Shark's arm, shaking like a ragdoll. He screams. She rips. Blood sprays. Another goes for her—knife raised. I shoot him mid-swing, bullet through eye.
Sea grabs me, backs me against a piling. "Stay down!"
A Shark charges him—chainsaw revving. Sea sidesteps, drives the sawed-off into gut. Boom. Guts everywhere.
Last three run. Tsunami chases one down, drags him back by the ankle—tendon snapped, screaming. She drops him at Sea's feet like a gift.
Sea pats her head. "Good girl. Litter soon?"
She pants, tail wagging. Blood on her muzzle.
We burn the trucks. Boon's den rebuilds tomorrow—our money.
Back at the villa, adrenaline crashes hard. Surf and Java crash in the den, whiskey bottles rolling. Tsunami curls by the fire pit, gnawing a Shark's boot.
Sea leads me to the master bath—marble tub, lemongrass soap mocking from the shelf. I freeze. Memory: Father's hands, water in lungs.
Sea sees it. Drops the soap. Fills the tub with sea water instead—salty, warm, fetched in buckets. "No ghosts here, Prince."
We sink in together, his chest to my back, rings clinking under bubbles. His fingers trace my scars—belt lines, burn marks, the fresh knife cut.
"Tell me more," he murmurs. "All of it."
I do. The closet at five—darkness so thick I clawed walls till nails broke. The belt at seven—lashes for losing, skin splitting, him saying *Pain makes winners*. The sauna at twelve—coals searing scalp, smell of burning hair, his voice *No softness in Suvijaks*. The debtor at fourteen—golf club heavy in my hands, blood pooling, him forcing me to swing and miss, then breaking my fingers one by one. *Power isn't given. Taken.*
Sea listens. Kisses each scar as I speak. When I finish—the drowning, the broken boy in Boston—he turns me, cups my face.
"You're not his anymore," he says. "You're steel. My steel."
I kiss him—desperate, grateful. Hands roaming, cock hardening against his. Water sloshes as I straddle him, sink down slow, taking him deep.
This fuck is different. Gentle at first—rolls of hips, his hands on my waist guiding. Then harder—water splashing, my nails in his shoulders, his teeth on my ring finger, nipping the gold band.
"Love you," I gasp, riding faster, prostate nailed with every thrust.
"Love you," he groans, hand fisting my hair, pulling back to expose throat. Bites—not breaking skin, just bruising deep. Claim.
I come first—spilling into the water, clenching around him. He follows, pulsing hot inside, arms crushing me close.
We stay like that, water cooling, until Surf bangs the door. "Incoming! Mainland crew—twenty strong. Beach landing."
Sea sighs. "Honeymoon's never dull."
We dress—me in Sea's tank, him in blood-streaked jeans. Guns loaded. Tsunami up, whining eager.
The beach assault comes at 2 a.m.—speedboats beaching, Sharks spilling out with machetes and Uzis. Floodlights from the villa pool turn it to a war zone.
We mow them down. Sea's sawed-off thunders. My Glock barks. Surf's shotgun booms like thunder. Java's knives whirl, collecting ears like souvenirs.
Tsunami's the star—feral shadow, tearing hamstrings, throats, dragging one into the surf for the crabs. A Shark corners her—machete high. She dodges, leaps, clamps his face. Rip. Scream cut short. Blood fountains.
By dawn, beach is bodies and brass. Twenty down. Us untouched.
Boon calls: "You're legends now. Island's yours."
Sea hangs up. "Ours."
Sunrise finds us on the pier, rings glinting, Tsunami's head in my lap. She's pregnant—puppies coming soon, Sea says. Revenge litter.
Honeymoon day three: blood on the sand, love in our veins.
But rivals whisper. Father plots from the ashes.
The crown's teeth are sharp.
And we wear it proud.