CHAPTER 6 – PUPPIES & PYRES
| 18+ |
Keen's POV :
The sun hangs low over Koh Lanta like a blood orange, bleeding into the sea as we drag the last Shark's body into the surf. His eyes are still open—wide, surprised, throat torn ragged by Tsunami's jaws. She sits beside me on the wet sand, panting, muzzle dark with gore, one ear cocked as if listening for applause. The beach reeks of cordite, copper, and low tide rot. Waves lap at the corpses like a lazy undertaker, pulling the first one under with a suck of foam.
Sea stands hip-deep in the water, sawed-off slung over his shoulder, ring glinting wet on his finger. He's shirtless, of course—jeans rolled to his knees, ink gleaming with sweat and seawater. A fresh graze mars his bicep from a ricochet; blood trickles lazy, mixing pink into the surf. He doesn't flinch. Just watches me, eyes dark and hungry, like the kill sharpened him instead of dulling the edge.
"You good, Prince?" His voice cuts the crash of waves, low rumble that vibrates straight to my cock.
I nod, wiping sand from my palms. The Glock's still warm in my waistband, barrel kissed by the spray. "Better than good. That was... us."
He wades out, water sheeting off his thighs, grabs my chin rough and kisses me—salt, blood, victory on his tongue. I melt into it, hands fisting his wet hair, grinding against him shameless. The others are gone: Surf and Java hauling gear back to the villa, Tsunami nosing a severed hand like it's a toy. But here, with the dead cooling at our feet, it's just Sea and me. Honeymoon eternal.
"Villa," he growls against my mouth, nipping my lower lip until I taste copper. "Now. Need to fuck the fight out of you."
Heat coils low in my gut. "Promise teeth?"
"Promise everything."
We stumble up the beach path, Tsunami trotting ahead, tail high. The villa's lanterns flicker gold through palm fronds—our kingdom, claimed in fire and flesh. Inside, the air's thick with whiskey and moans: Surf has Java bent over the dining table, knives scattered like confetti, Java's gasps punctuating each thrust. They don't stop when we pass. Surf just winks. "Nightcap?"
Sea flips him off, drags me to the master suite. Door slams. Tsunami curls by the balcony doors, whining soft—tired, maybe. Or something else.
Clothes hit the floor. Sea shoves me onto the king bed, silk sheets cool against my overheated skin. He's on me in seconds—mouth devouring my throat, teeth sinking into the bruises he left yesterday, hands pinning my wrists above my head. The gold ring on his finger digs into my skin, a bite of its own.
"Mine," he snarls, free hand shoving my thighs apart, fingers plunging deep without warning—two, then three, curling ruthless against that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes.
I arch, keening, legs wrapping his waist. "Yours—fuck, Sea, more—"
He laughs, dark and filthy, pulls his fingers free and slicks his cock with spit. Lines up. Thrusts in raw, one brutal stroke to the hilt. I scream—pleasure-pain white-hot, stretching me full. He doesn't pause, sets a pace meant to break: hips slamming, bedframe rattling, every drive nailing my prostate until I'm sobbing, clawing his back, drawing blood that slicks our slide.
"Love how you take it," he pants, releasing my wrists to fist my hair, yanking my head back. Exposes my throat. Bites—hard enough to mark, not break. "Love how you fight, how you kill, how you beg."
I come first—untouched, clenching around him like a vice, spilling hot between us. He follows roaring, flooding me deep, hips stuttering as he grinds through it. We collapse tangled, panting, his weight grounding me like anchor chain.
After, he doesn't pull out. Just rolls us so I'm draped over his chest, still joined, his hand lazy on my ass, plugging me full. "Sleep, Prince. Puppies tomorrow."
Tsunami whines again from the balcony—sharper this time. Sea tenses beneath me. "Easy, girl."
But she's not easy. She paces, tail low, a soft growl rumbling. I sit up, Sea slipping free with a wet sound that makes me flush. Cum trickles down my thigh; he swipes it up, pushes it back in with two fingers. Possessive. Perfect.
"Labor?" I ask, heart kicking.
Sea nods, already moving. "Whelping box in the garage. Come."
We dress quick—me in his boxers and a tank, him in sweats. Tsunami leads, whining urgent, belly swaying heavy with the litter. The garage is dim, lit by a single bulb swinging lazy. The box is ready: clean towels, heat lamp, shallow dish of water. Sea built it last week, hands steady with plywood and nails, muttering about "revenge pups" the whole time.
She circles twice, then drops into the box with a grunt. Paws kneading towels. A contraction hits—her body shudders, whine turning to a low keen.
Sea kneels beside her, hand gentle on her flank. "Breathe, girl. You got this."
I kneel too, opposite him, stroking her ears. She licks my hand—trust, bloodstained and true. The first pup comes fast: slick black bundle, tiny jaws already gnashing. Sea cleans it quick—towel rub, umbilical snipped with his knife—then places it at her teat. She cleans it herself, instinctive, nose-nudging it to nurse.
One. Two. Three—brindle like her, eyes sealed shut, paws scrabbling blind.
Four is breach—hind legs first. Tsunami pants hard, pushes. Sea's hand steady on her belly, guiding gentle. "Push, mama."
Sweat beads his brow. I wipe it, our eyes meeting over her back. Something shifts—raw, unspoken. This is us: blood, birth, unbreakable.
Pup four slides free, blue-black, mewling weak. Sea revives it—mouth-to-muzzle, tiny chest rising under his finger. It latches. Tsunami licks it grateful.
Five—spotted, fierce already, biting the air.
Then—nothing. Tsunami pushes again, whine desperate. Sea checks: last one stuck. Placenta tearing.
"Shit," he mutters. "Breach again."
He works fast—gloved hands (pulled from a drawer), lube, calm voice. "Easy, Tsunami. For the pup."
She trusts him. Lets him reach in, turn, pull. Blood everywhere—dark, slick. The pup emerges limp, sac unbroken. Sea slits it careful with the knife, rubs vigorous. No breath.
Minutes stretch eternal. Tsunami whines, nose-nudging the still form.
Sea's jaw clenches. He brings it to his mouth—careful, warm—breathes life in tiny puffs. Rubs. Breathes. Again.
A gasp—tiny, wet. Chest rises. Latches.
Tsunami cleans it, tail thumping weak.
Sea sags, forehead to her flank. "Good girl."
Five live. One gone. The dead pup—small, perfect—Sea wraps in a towel, buries it under the banyan at dawn. No words. Just dirt and salt on his cheeks.
Back inside, the whelps sleep piled at her belly. We watch from the doorway, arms around each other.
"Honeymoon gift," I whisper.
He kisses my temple. "Our family."
But the island doesn't pause for miracles.
Noon: Boon calls. "Your father. He's coming. Personal. Yacht inbound—full crew, mercs from Myanmar. Lands tonight. Wants the boy's head on a spike."
Father. Vorasit. The ghost I thought burned.
Sea hangs up. "Pyre time."
We prep like lovers planning a feast: guns cleaned, knives sharpened, villa rigged with tripwires and gasoline trails. Surf and Java take the beach—snipers in the palms. Tsunami stays in the garage, whelps guarded by a locked door and her growl.
Dusk paints the sea crimson. The yacht arrives—sleek black predator, Suvijak eagle on the bow. Docks at the private pier below the villa. Father steps off first: silver hair windswept, suit rumpled, eyes dead as the debtor he made me club. Flanked by ten mercs—tattooed killers, AKs slung casual.
He looks up at the villa, spots me on the balcony. Smiles—cold, paternal. "Keen. Come down. We talk."
Sea's hand on my shoulder, steady. "Your show."
I descend alone. Glock tucked in my waistband, ring heavy on my finger. Heart steady—Sea's love a bulletproof vest.
The pier creaks under my steps. Father waits, mercs fanned behind. Up close, he's smaller than memory—shriveled by hate.
"Son," he says, voice silk over steel. "You've caused enough trouble. Come home. Marry the girl. Inherit."
I laugh—sharp, free. "No."
His eyes flick to my ring. "That trash? He'll get you killed."
"He saved me." I step closer. "You broke me."
Flash: age ten, him forcing me to watch a rival's family burn in their shanty—lesson in ruthlessness. I vomited. He made me lick it up. *Taste your weakness.*
"I made you strong," he says now, hand out. "Take my hand."
I draw the Glock. Mercs raise weapons.
"Strong?" I press the barrel to his chest, over his heart. "You drowned me. Whipped me. Broke my fingers. Burned my mother's pictures. Shattered the boy in Boston. Locked me like a dog."
His eyes harden. "Discipline."
"Abuse." My voice cracks, but doesn't break. "You built an empire on bones. Mine almost included."
Mercs shift. Sea's voice from the shadows: "Move, and you die first."
They freeze. Surf's scope glints in the palms. Java's knives whisper.
Father's hand twitches—goes for his ankle holster. I shoot his knee. Boom—silenced, but bone shatters wet. He drops, screaming.
"Beg," I say, echoing Bangkok.
He spits blood. "Never."
I nod to Sea. He steps forward, knife out. Mercs lunge—chaos erupts.
Gunfire cracks. Surf's rifle drops two. Java's knives take three—throats slit mid-charge. Sea's a whirlwind: sawed-off booms, knife flashes, bodies piling.
I shoot Father's other knee. He crawls, gasping. "Monster. Like me."
"No." I kneel, Glock to temple. "Better."
Sea finishes the last merc—knife to spine. Pier runs red.
Father laughs—bubbled, broken. "Empire falls. But you... you're nothing without me."
I pull the trigger. Brain matter sprays the yacht's hull.
Sea hauls me up, kisses me over the body—fierce, claiming. "It's done."
We drag him aboard. Douse with gasoline. I strike the match.
The pyre ignites—flames devouring silk and silver, Father's screams silent in the roar. Yacht burns bright, a floating funeral.
Back at the villa, whelps mewl. Tsunami greets us bloodied, licks our hands clean.
Sea pulls me to the garage floor—towels soft, whelps tumbling around us. "Vow here," he says, knife out. "In front of family."
I nod. He cuts our palms—shallow, matching. Press together, blood mingling, rings witnesses.
"I vow you my teeth, my blood, my fire," he says. "Till the sea takes us."
"I vow you my crown, my scars, my soul," I reply. "Till the island crumbles."
We seal it with a kiss—slow, deep, whelps yipping approval.
Honeymoon ends in ash.
But our story? Eternal.
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**END OF CHAPTER 6**