Crimson Reckoning
Chapter 3
By: Mikolai
Benny’s flashlight beam danced across stone walls slick with damp moss, his breath puffing white in the chill air. The bunny boy had found it purely by accident, brushing aside thick cobwebs near the hidden door that led to a dead-end, his fingers stumbling upon a loose brick. A soft push revealed a narrow passageway, sloping steeply downward, and he did not know where he was after what seemed like forever crawling. Now, he stood in a vaulted chamber, utterly forgotten.

Dust motes swirled in his light, settling on piles of gold coins spilled from rotted chests, glinting dully. Jeweled daggers lay scattered beside tarnished silver goblets, and a crumbling tapestry depicted ships sailing under unfamiliar constellations. The air smelled of wet earth and ancient metal. Benny’s heart hammered not with greed, but pure, childlike wonder. “Whoa.” He took a careful step forward, mindful not to disturb anything. This wasn’t loot; it felt like a tomb, a shrine. He wouldn’t touch. Just look. Respect, he whispered to himself, echoing the unspoken rule of explorers everywhere. He crouched, shining his light on a massive stone plinth dominating the center. Resting upon it wasn’t a treasure, but a single, enormous book bound in cracked leather the color of dried blood. Its pages looked brittle, edges curling like dead leaves. Symbols etched onto the cover pulsed faintly under his beam – twisting knots and staring eyes that seemed to follow him.

His beam drifted away from the book, catching something else leaning against the plinth’s base. A large, ornate picture frame, thickly layered with grime. Benny hesitated, then gently blew on the glass. Dust billowed away, revealing a faded sepia photograph beneath. He leaned closer. It showed a large group posing formally in front of what looked like the mansion’s grand entrance. 

But the family… Benny’s breath caught. Tall, elegant figures stood proudly. They wore fine Victorian attire, but their features —sharp vulpine muzzles, pointed ears tipped with dark fur, intelligent eyes gazing directly at the camera —were striking. Foxes. Surrounding them were staff – humans, dragons, and others, Benny realized with a jolt – dressed in neat uniforms, smiling stiffly. The central fox figure, most likely Lord Holloway, rested a paw protectively on the shoulder of a small fox girl clutching a stuffed bear. They looked… happy. Truly happy. The date ‘1867’ was etched into the frame’s lower corner. ‘The Holloways,’ Benny thought, a pang of unexpected sadness hitting him. Before he could stop himself, he pulled the fake blood apron over his hand and carefully wiped the glass clean, revealing the scene fully. The dust fell away like years peeling back. The fox girl’s smile seemed brighter, and her father had a prouder posture. The mother with a son and a daughter is smiling. The staff looked less strained. It was a moment that was frozen in time, radiating warmth and prosperity. Benny carefully lifted the heavy frame, placing it upright against the plinth, facing the room. "There," he murmured softly. "Better."

Benny’s flashlight beam lingered on the fox girl’s face in the photo. That smile… it triggered a memory, sharp and sudden. Old Mrs. Gable, the town’s unofficial historian, who ran the antique shop, muttering over dusty teacups years ago. Benny had been hiding behind a rack of moth-eaten coats, eavesdropping. “…just vanished, the whole lot,” Mrs. Gable had hissed. “Lord Holloway, most of the staff… and the children. Little Elara and young Master Theron. Poof! Gone overnight, like smoke. December of ’68, it was. Left poor Mrs. Holloway – Lord Holloway’s wife, that is – all alone in that monstrous place. She shut the gates, barred the doors… lived like a ghost herself until she died, bitter and broken. The town never knew what happened. Never found a trace.” Benny stared at the happy family in the photo. Vanished? But… why? And what happened to Mrs. Holloway? The cheerful scene suddenly felt unbearably sad. He traced the frame’s edge with a dusty finger. Where did they go? Why leave the mother behind? The questions buzzed in his head like trapped flies.

He turned away from the photo, the weight of the unanswered questions pressing down. His gaze drifted back to the massive book on the plinth. The symbols pulsed faintly under his light, those staring eyes seeming to follow him. The wonder that he felt moments ago was rapidly being overtaken by a restless, jittery energy deep in his gut. It was the same feeling he got when he found a hidden compartment in an old desk, or a loose floorboard promising secrets. The need to know, to uncover, to dig deeper. He’d been trying so hard to be respectful, quiet, like exploring a museum. But this place wasn’t a museum. It was forgotten. Buried. And Benny was here. The urge to touch, to pry, vibrated through him. He glanced around the chamber, half-expecting a disapproving curator to emerge from the shadows. Nothing. Just dust and silence. His resolve crumbled. “Just a peek,” he bargained silently. Just see what it is.

His fingers, trembling slightly despite the thick fake blood coating his palms, brushed the rough, cool leather of the cover. The symbols felt strangely warm beneath his touch. Taking a deep breath, he lifted the heavy cover. It groaned softly, releasing a puff of ancient dust that smelled of dry parchment and forgotten libraries. Inside, the pages weren't printed text, but elegant, looping handwriting in faded brown ink. The date at the top of the first page read: April 3rd, 1865. Benny’s flashlight beam scanned the flowing script. It was Lord Holloway’s voice, warm and proud. "Lysandra mastered her scales today on the pianoforte! Theron declared he would help me with the business while we were talking about his studies. Elara laughed, her fur catching the sunlight..." Benny flipped carefully. Page after page unfolded like petals: sketches of fox pups playing tag in the gardens, pressed wildflowers, a recipe for spiced cider noted in Lady Holloway’s neat hand, accounts of staff picnics by the mill pond, Lysandra’s messy drawings of dragons soaring. Joy radiated from the pages, tangible and pure. Benny found himself grinning foolishly, caught in the warmth of their lives. He flipped faster, chasing that light.

The entries grew sparse as the years passed. Mentions of "unrest in the town," "strangers watching the gates," "Theron fighting fiercely with boys in town about his lover, who was a boy his age." The handwriting grew tighter and angrier. Benny’s smile faded. He reached the final entry, but this time it was written by Lady Holloway: *December 24th, 1868*. The ink was dark, the script jagged, desperate. "They came tonight. Torches. Pitchforks. Screaming 'abominations' and 'unnatural'. Led by that cursed Becker preacher and his mob. They killed everyone. Theron fought... they hung him. Lysandra... my brave Lysandra... she tried to run, but they caught her. Elara screamed..." The entry ended abruptly, mid-sentence. A single tear-shaped stain blurred the ink below. Benny stared, his own breath shallow. The happy family, their servants, and their families vanished because they were hunted. Driven out like monsters on Christmas Eve. Mrs. Holloway hadn't been left behind; she'd been trapped, imprisoned in her own home with the ghosts of her slaughtered family. 

Benny slammed the heavy book shut. Dust billowed. The wonder was gone, replaced by a cold, sickening weight in his stomach. Why kill the whole family? Over Theron loving a boy? Over Theron being gay? Over fear? It was monstrous. Pointless. Cruel. He wasn't having fun anymore. This wasn't treasure; it was a tomb filled with injustice. He closed his eyes tight, picturing the terrified kids, the desperate father. He remembered the prayer his abuela taught him for the dead – a soft murmur of respect, a plea for peace. "Descansen en paz," he whispered into the dusty silence, his voice thick. "Que encuentren luz." (May they rest in peace. May they find light.)

He fumbled with the drawstring of his candy bag, fingers clumsy. Forget treasure. Forget gold coins. He dumped the contents onto the dusty stone floor beside the plinth – a cascade of brightly wrapped chocolates, lollipops, and chewy caramels. The vibrant colors looked jarringly out of place amidst the decay. "For Theron," he said softly, placing a chocolate bar near the book. "For Lysandra." A lollipop went beside it. "For Elara." He added a caramel. "For Lord and Lady Holloway." More candy. "For everyone they hurt." He scattered the rest in a small pile. It felt stupid, childish even, offering Halloween candy to murdered ghosts. But it was all he had. A tiny gesture against the vast, echoing horror. A promise.

The silence pressed down, heavier than before. Benny stood, wiping dusty hands on his jeans. His flashlight beam swept the forgotten chamber – the plinth, the book, the sad little pile of candy. He needed proof. Something tangible he could show the town council, show Mrs. Gable, show everyone. The photo was a start, but it only showed the happy lie. The book… the book was the truth. It was heavy, ancient, fragile. He couldn't carry it out intact. But he could carry its words. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he winced at the cracked screen. Battery: 12%. He opened the camera app. The flash flared, harsh and sudden, illuminating the dusty gloom like a lightning strike. He photographed the sepia family portrait leaning against the plinth. Then, carefully, he lifted the heavy book's cover again. Page by painstaking page, he photographed Lord Holloway's final, desperate entry, the jagged script stark in the phone's light. "They came tonight..." * Click. * "...dragged him out into the snow..." * Click. * "...Elara screamed..." * Click. * The battery dipped to 8%. He snapped the tear-stained page. Evidence. Cold, hard evidence of the Beckers' monstrous lie. At least what Benny could see for right now.

He pocketed the phone, its slight weight suddenly immense. Where next? His beam traced the curved stone walls, slick with moisture. Near the pile of spilled gold coins, partially hidden behind a rotting tapestry depicting storm-tossed ships, a heavy wooden door stood slightly ajar. Iron bands reinforced it, rusted and flaking. He hadn't noticed it before, distracted by the plinth and the treasure. Where did it lead? Deeper into the earth? Towards the mansion's foundations? Towards… answers? Benny approached cautiously. The air near the door felt colder, smelling faintly of damp earth and something else… something metallic and old, like buried iron. He pushed gently. The door groaned open on stiff hinges, revealing impenetrable darkness beyond. Only one way to find out. Taking a deep breath, Benny stepped through.

He didn't see the silent watcher. Near the plinth, amidst the swirling dust motes caught in Benny's fading flashlight beam, a faint shimmer coalesced. It took shape: a fox boy, perhaps fourteen, dressed in fine but threadbare Victorian clothes. Translucent fur covered his muzzle and ears, his eyes wide and impossibly sad. Theron Holloway. His ghostly gaze drifted from the heavy book Benny had disturbed to the small pile of brightly wrapped candy scattered beside it. He stared at the offerings – the chocolate bar, the lollipop, the caramel. A flicker of confusion, then something softer, touched his spectral features. His eyes lifted, focusing intently on Benny's retreating back, clad in the absurd costume, disappearing into the doorway's gloom. The ghost boy tilted his head, a silent question hanging in the air. Then, like smoke dispersed by a sudden breeze, he vanished.

Meanwhile, a mile away from the mansion’s oppressive aura, Silas, the wolf, led Rex, the Doberman, through the dense, moonlit woods. Twigs snapped under their shoes, the crisp autumn air sharp with pine and damp earth. Rex stumbled slightly, not used to traveling in the woods at night. "Almost there," Silas murmured, his voice tight with exhaustion. He pushed aside a low-hanging branch, revealing a clearing and a sturdy log cabin nestled against a rocky outcrop.

Rex paused, catching his breath. His eyes scanned the small structure – neatly chinked logs, cleaned windows, pumpkins lining the porch steps. It looked cared for, lived in. Safe. "How'd you get the key?" Rex asked, suspicion warring with relief. "This place looks… maintained. Like someone's actually using it."

Silas dug into his jeans pocket, pulling out a single brass key on a worn leather cord. He stared at it, tracing the teeth with his thumb. "Uncle Pete gave it to me," he said, voice flat. "After Dad broke my arm last winter. Said if the shouting started and the bottles flew… run here. Hide." He gestured vaguely at the tidy porch, the stacked firewood. "He checks on it. Keeps it ready. For me." The unspoken hung heavy: ‘Because Dad might kill me one night.’ Silas knew one day he would either need to run away or have to do the unthinkable to make it stop.

Rex stepped closer, his eyes searching Silas’s face. The moonlight etched shadows under Silas’s eyes, highlighting the tension in his jaw. Rex leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against the wolf’s lips. It wasn’t desperate like earlier; it was grounding. Solid. "Uncle Pete sounds great," Rex murmured, pulling back just enough to meet Silas’s gaze. He squeezed Silas’s hand, the one clutching the key. "Maybe… maybe he should adopt you. Get you out of that hellhole for good."

Silas flinched, pulling his hand away. The brass key dug into his palm. "He tried," Silas said, voice low and rough. "Once. When I was eleven. Dad found out Pete was looking into custody papers." A harsh, humorless laugh escaped him. "That’s the only time my dad gives a damn about me, Rex. When someone actually wants to care for me. He owns me. Like property." Unspoken, even the police won't take action against Silas' father because he's a council member. He turned toward the cabin door, jaw tight. "Come on. Inside. Before we freeze."

Silas slid the key into the heavy lock. It turned with a smooth, oiled click – Uncle Pete’s doing. He pushed the solid oak door open. Inside, the air was still and cold, smelling faintly of pine sap and woodsmoke from a long-dead fire. Their flashlight beams cut twin cones of light through the thick darkness, illuminating floating dust motes. The cabin was a single, cozy room: rough-hewn log walls, a stone fireplace dominating one end, its hearth swept clean. A sturdy wooden table and two chairs sat near a counter holding a hand pump sink – the well connection Uncle Pete maintained.

Silas moved with practiced familiarity, heading straight for the fireplace. Beside it, neatly stacked logs and kindling waited. Rex lingered near the door, his beam sweeping the space. It felt improbably peaceful after the incident with Leo. A narrow doorway led to a tiny bathroom, its porcelain basin and toilet stark white in the flashlight's glare. Against the far wall, beneath a window shuttered tight against the night, stood a simple iron-framed bed piled high with thick wool blankets. Safe. Simple. Empty.

Rex exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. He pushed the heavy oak door shut with a solid thunk. The draft died instantly, replaced by the profound silence of the insulated cabin. His fingers found the sturdy iron bolt and slid it home with a satisfying scrape of metal on wood. Locked. The sound echoed louder than it should have in the stillness. Outside, the wind moaned softly against the logs, a distant reminder of the world they’d fled. Inside, it was just them. Rex leaned his forehead against the cool wood for a moment, listening to Silas rustling behind him – the dry whisper of kindling, the clink of flint striking steel.

Silas knelt before the stone hearth, his movements precise. He crumpled newspapers, layered pine needles, then snapped twigs. A spark leaped from the flint, caught the tinder, and bloomed into a tiny, hungry flame. He shielded it with his palm, coaxing it with gentle breaths until it licked eagerly at the larger kindling. "Fire's going," Silas announced, his voice low and steady in the quiet room. He added two small split logs. "Warmth in a couple of minutes." Orange light danced across his face, highlighting the exhaustion etched around his eyes but also a flicker of fierce concentration. He watched the flames take hold, ensuring their survival.

Rex stood near the bolted door, the adrenaline seepage leaving him feeling hollow and shaky. He clicked off his flashlight, plunging the corners of the cabin back into shadow, save for the growing firelight. The beam's harsh glare vanished, replaced by the softer, warmer glow that pushed against the lingering chill. He shrugged off his backpack, the cheap nylon rustling loudly in the stillness, and dropped it beside the sturdy wooden table. His candy bag, half-forgotten and slightly crushed, followed with a soft *thump*. He kept his eyes on Silas's back, the lean muscles shifting under his hoodie as he tended the fire.

Silas added another split log, the wood crackling and spitting as sap met flame. Sparks danced upwards like frantic fireflies. Without turning, he reached back and slid his own flashlight onto the rough-hewn mantelpiece above the hearth. His candy bag, still bulging slightly, joined Rex's on the floor near the table leg. The mundane act felt strangely intimate, shedding the tools of their flight. "Should be warm soon," Silas repeated, his voice quieter now, almost absorbed by the fire's hungry murmur. He stayed kneeling, staring into the flames, the orange light painting stark highlights and deep shadows on his face. The cabin smelled sharply of woodsmoke now, overlaying the cold pine scent.

Rex moved silently across the worn wooden floorboards. He stopped behind Silas, close enough to feel the radiating heat from the fire and the tense stillness of the wolf kneeling before it. He didn't speak. Instead, he reached down, his fingers brushing lightly against Silas's shoulder, tracing the fabric of his pirate costume. Silas stiffened for a heartbeat, a reflex honed by years of anticipating blows, then slowly exhaled, the tension bleeding out under Rex's touch. Rex slid his hand down Silas's arm, his touch firm and grounding, until his fingers intertwined with Silas’s. He gently pulled Silas up.

Silas rose slowly, turning to face Rex. Firelight danced in his wide amber eyes, catching the exhaustion and the lingering fear, but also something else – a fierce, fragile trust. Rex’s gaze held his, unwavering. The crackle of the fire, the groan of wind outside, and the scent of pine smoke and dust faded into irrelevance.

Rex cupped Silas’s jaw, his thumb brushing the boy's face. Silas leaned into the touch, a shuddering breath escaping him. Their foreheads touched, breaths mingling warm in the chill air. No words were needed. The frantic flight, the suffocating dread of Silas’s life outside these walls – it all dissolved in the shared warmth radiating between them. Rex closed the infinitesimal gap.

Their lips met more softly than before. A sigh escaped Silas, tension melting from his shoulders as Rex’s arms encircled him, pulling him flush against the solid warmth of Rex’s chest. The kiss deepened slowly, a deliberate exploration replacing the earlier desperation. Silas’s hands found Rex’s waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his pants. A low, involuntary hum vibrated in Silas’s throat, muffled against Rex’s mouth. It was pure reaction, a sound of profound relief and burgeoning need escaping the wolf’s tightly controlled defenses.

Rex broke the kiss first, pulling back just enough to meet Silas’s eyes. His breath hitched, pupils blown wide in the firelight. "Silas," he murmured, voice thick and rough. "God, I’m… I’m so fucking horny right now." His hands slid down Silas’s back, settling possessively low on his hips, pulling him closer still. The hard press against Silas’s thigh was unmistakable. "After everything… I just need… you."

Silas didn’t hesitate. He pressed his forehead against Rex’s, his own breathing ragged. "Me too," he admitted, the words a raw scrape against the quiet crackle of the fire. "Need you." He kissed Rex again, hard and hungry, fingers tangling in the fabric of Rex’s shirt. The taste of fear and adrenaline was fading, replaced by something hotter, more urgent. Rex groaned into the kiss, his hands sliding under Silas’s shirt, seeking fur.

Rex pulled back abruptly, frustration warring with caution. "Fuck," he breathed, voice strained. "I didn’t… didn’t bring anything. No lube. No condoms." His gaze flickered towards the door, as if the outside world might intrude on this fragile sanctuary. "Stupid. Wasn’t thinking."

Silas traced Rex’s jawline with a thumb, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Don’t sweat it." He gently disentangled himself from Rex’s grip. "There’s some here." He padded across the creaking floorboards towards the iron-framed bed, kneeling beside it. His fingers probed the narrow gap between the mattress and the rough-hewn log wall. With a soft grunt of effort, he retrieved a small, unmarked cardboard box tucked deep in the shadows. Dust motes danced in the firelight as he lifted it.

Rex watched, brow furrowed. "Why the hell do you have condoms and lube hidden in your uncle’s cabin?" Suspicion edged his voice, mixed with a flicker of unease. "Does he… know you stash this stuff here?"

Silas snorted, shaking the small box. Dust flew. "Nah. They're his. Uncle Pete loves bringing dates up here." He tossed the box onto the rough wool blanket. It landed with a soft thump. "Romantic getaway, he calls it. Middle of nowhere, fireplace, no neighbors…" He shrugged, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "Guess he likes privacy. Leaves supplies tucked away." He kicked off his worn sneakers, the laces undone. "Found them last month fixing a loose floorboard."

Rex stared at the box, then at Silas. The absurdity cut through the tension. A laugh bubbled up, sharp and unexpected. "Your uncle," Rex choked out, shaking his head. "Romantic getaway." The image of the gruff wolf Silas described in past conversations, stashing condoms for woodland trysts, was ludicrous. Relief washed over him, warm and dizzying. The frantic energy of the night, the lingering fear – it all seemed momentarily distant, locked outside the bolted door with the moaning wind. Here, it was just firelight, the scent of pine smoke, and Silas. Rex reached for the hem of his own shirt.

Silas mirrored him, fingers already pulling at the worn fabric of his shirt. No words were needed. The fire crackled, casting long, dancing shadows on the log walls as fabric rustled. Rex peeled off his shirt, tossing it carelessly towards his backpack. His mummy costume – cheap, frayed gauze – followed, unwinding from his torso and legs in loose, dusty strips. He kicked off his jeans, then his boxers, socks, and shoes, standing naked in the flickering orange light. The chill air prickled his skin, but the heat radiating from the hearth and from Silas’s gaze kept the cold at bay.

Silas worked methodically, shedding his pirate coat, then the shirt beneath. His movements were precise, purposeful. The loose pants pooled around his ankles; he stepped out of them, kicking his own sneakers aside. Finally, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and pushed them down. He stood tall, bathed in firelight, lean muscle etched by shadow and flame. His gaze locked onto Rex’s, intense and unwavering. The pirate hat lay forgotten on the floorboards beside the pile of his clothes.

Rex’s breath hitched. Silas was all lean lines and coiled strength – the defined ridges of his abdomen, the powerful curve of his shoulders, the sharp jut of his hip bones. But Rex’s gaze inevitably dropped lower, drawn to the thick, heavy cock already half-hard against Silas’s thigh. It was impressive, flushed a deep pink at the tip, curving slightly upwards from a thick base nestled in dark fur. The firelight glistened faintly on the swollen head. Rex swallowed hard, his own cock twitching in response, thick and heavy against his leg.

Silas turned towards the bed, the muscles in his back shifting fluidly. He grabbed the rough wool blankets and yanked them down towards the foot of the iron frame, exposing the thin mattress ticking. He snatched the small cardboard box from its dusty landing spot. The cardboard flap tore easily. Inside, nestled amidst crumpled tissue paper, there were three foil-wrapped condoms and a small, clear bottle of lube. Silas shook the bottle, the viscous liquid inside sloshing softly before putting it and the condoms on the bed. He tossed the box onto the floor by the bed. It landed with a thump. Turning back to Rex, Silas’s eyes were dark pools reflecting the firelight, intense and focused. He tilted his chin up slightly, a challenge in the gesture. "So," he said, his voice low and rough, holding Rex’s gaze. "How do you want me tonight, Rex? Face down? On my back?" He took a deliberate step closer, closing the distance. "Or do you want me to ride you?" The raw need vibrated beneath the words.

Rex closed the gap in one stride. His hands landed hard on Silas’s hips, fingers digging into the lean muscle there. He pulled Silas flush against him, the heat radiating off both their bodies mingling. "Face down," Rex growled, the command rough against Silas’s ear. His cock, thick and heavy, pressed insistently against Silas’s thigh. "Ass up." He punctuated the order with a sharp nip at Silas’s earlobe. "Want you spread wide open for me."

Silas shuddered, a groan escaping him. "Fuck, yes." He scrambled onto the narrow bed, knees sinking into the thin mattress. He shoved pillows aside, positioning himself on all fours, then deliberately lowered his chest, arching his back sharply. The firelight danced across the taut curve of his spine, the swell of his ass presented deliberately. He glanced back over his shoulder, eyes dark with anticipation. "You know I love it when you fuck me hard, Rex."

Silas reached blindly towards the discarded pile of clothes near the bed, fingers scrambling through the fabric of his pirate shirt and coat. "Going to put some music on," he muttered, patting urgently. "Set the mood." Silas's search grew frantic, pawing at the floorboards around the bed. "Shit. Fuck!" He slammed a fist onto the mattress. "My phone! It's gone!" Realization dawned, sharp and bitter. "Must've dropped it... when I punched Leo." Frustration warred with the need coiling low in his belly. "Damn it!"

Rex froze behind him, fingers hovering near the lube bottle. "We should go back," he said, voice tight with sudden tension. "Before someone finds it. Leo... or worse." The image of Silas's father discovering that cheap cellphone, the texts, the photos—it was a different kind of violence waiting to happen.

Silas twisted his neck, meeting Rex's worried gaze. "No." The word was flat, final. He pushed his ass higher, a deliberate invitation. "If it's smashed by morning, fuck it. I'll shovel snow at the churchyard or fix Old Man Harker's fence again." A harsh, defiant laugh escaped him. "Dad might own me till I'm an adult, Rex. Not my sweat. I earn my own damn money." He reached back, brushing Rex's thigh. "Right now, I need you. Not that phone."

Rex hesitated, the tension in his shoulders palpable. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Okay." He slid off the bed, his naked form momentarily silhouetted against the firelight. He padded to his discarded backpack near the table, rummaged inside, and pulled out his own phone. A few taps later, a low, pulsing bassline filled the cabin – a slow, sensual rhythm that seemed to sync with the crackling fire. He placed the phone carefully on the wooden floor near the head of the bed, the screen casting a soft blue glow upwards. The music swelled, a sultry melody weaving through the air, thick with promise. "Better?" Rex asked, returning to the bed, his eyes locked on Silas's arched form.

Silas grinned over his shoulder, the firelight catching the fierce approval in his eyes. "Perfect." He pushed his ass higher, spreading his knees wider on the thin mattress. The invitation was explicit, primal. Rex grabbed the bottle of lube, the cap popping open with a sharp click. He squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers, the slick sound loud in the sudden quiet between musical beats. The cool gel dripped onto Silas's exposed anus. Silas gasped, hips jerking instinctively at the sudden chill, but he held his position, muscles taut.

Rex didn't tease. He pressed two slick fingers firmly against Silas's entrance, circling once before pushing steadily inside. Silas hissed, his back arching deeper, head dropping between his shoulders. Rex worked him open with rough efficiency, fingers thrusting deep, scissoring and stretching. Silas panted, low groans escaping with each inward thrust, his cock hanging heavy and flushed beneath him, dripping pre-cum onto the ticking mattress. "Fuck, Rex... hurry," he rasped, pushing back against the invading fingers. "Need you. Now."

Rex withdrew his fingers with a slick pop. He tore open a foil packet, the crinkle loud against the pulsing music. He rolled the condom down his thick length, the latex gleaming in the firelight. More lube slicked over it, his hand pumping once, twice. He positioned himself behind Silas, the blunt head of his cock pressing firmly against the stretched, glistening ring of muscle. One hand gripped Silas's hipbone, fingers digging in. The other guided himself. "Breathe out," Rex commanded, voice thick.

Silas obeyed, exhaling sharply. Rex pushed. Hard. The thick crown breached him, stretching him wide, burning impossibly full. Silas gasped, a choked sound swallowed by the music. Rex didn't pause. He drove forward relentlessly, burying himself to the hilt in one long, brutal thrust. Silas cried out, his body arching taut as a bowstring, fingers clawing at the mattress ticking. The invasion was searing, overwhelming – exactly what he craved. Rex filled him completely, stretching him deep, the thick base pressing against his prostate, sending sparks up his spine. Rex held himself deep, buried inside Silas's clenching heat, letting the wolf adjust, letting him feel the sheer, undeniable fullness. A low groan rumbled from Rex’s chest. "Fuck, you’re tight," he growled, grinding his hips in a slow circle, making Silas whimper.

This was Rex transformed. The nervous Doberman boy vanished, replaced by something primal, commanding. Gone was the hesitation, the fear of Silas’s father, the worry about consequences. Here, in the firelit cabin, Rex was pure dominant. His grip on Silas’s hips was iron, anchoring him. His thrusts, once he began moving, were powerful, deliberate pistons, driving deep with bruising force. He set a punishing rhythm, the slap of skin against skin echoing the bassline. Silas loved this Rex – the Rex who took exactly what he wanted, who wasn't afraid to claim him, to fuck him raw and desperate. It was a brutal affirmation, a counterpoint to the suffocating control of Silas’s life. Rex owned him here, utterly, and Silas surrendered to it, pushing back against each thrust, meeting his power.

Silas buried his face in the mattress, muffling his cries. Each deep, hard thrust sent jolts of electric pleasure-pain radiating from his core. Rex’s thick cock dragged against his prostate relentlessly, igniting sparks that threatened to consume him. His own neglected cock throbbed painfully against his belly, dripping steadily onto the mattress. He reached beneath himself, fingers wrapping around his aching length. He pumped furiously, matching Rex’s rhythm, the friction adding another layer of exquisite torment. The sensations collided – the deep, stretching fullness inside him, the rough slide of his own hand – pushing him towards the edge. He whimpered Rex’s name into the mattress, the sound raw and pleading.

Rex’s eyes narrowed, catching the frantic movement of Silas’s arm beneath him. A low growl vibrated in Rex’s chest. "Hands off," Rex commanded, his voice thick with exertion. He slapped Silas’s hand away sharply from his cock, the sound a sharp crack in the air. Silas gasped, his hips jerking involuntarily at the sudden loss of friction. Before Silas could protest, Rex’s own hand replaced it, wrapping firmly around Silas’s thick shaft. Rex’s grip was different – possessive, controlling, his palm rough against the sensitive skin. He squeezed deliberately, not stroking yet, just holding him captive. "This," Rex growled, punctuating his words with a deep, grinding thrust that made Silas cry out, "is mine tonight." He began to pump Silas’s cock slowly, firmly, his rhythm perfectly synced with the powerful drive of his hips. Each inward thrust pushed Silas onto Rex’s fist, each withdrawal pulled him off, creating a devastating counterpoint to the deep invasion.

Silas arched violently, a choked sob tearing from his throat. The dual assault was overwhelming – the relentless pounding deep inside him, hitting his prostate with bruising precision, and Rex’s commanding grip controlling his pleasure. He felt utterly claimed, every nerve ending screaming. He pushed back desperately against Rex’s thrusts, trying to drive him deeper, faster. Rex leaned forward, his sweat-slicked chest pressing against Silas’s arched back. His teeth grazed Silas’s shoulder blade, a sharp bite that drew a gasp. "You take it so good," Rex rasped against his skin, his breath hot. "So, fucking greedy for my cock." His thrusts became shorter, harder, piston-like, focused entirely on grinding deep. The slap of skin grew louder, frantic. Rex’s hand tightened on Silas’s cock, his thumb pressing hard against the leaking slit. Silas’s body locked up, trembling violently on the precipice. "Rex!" His voice shattered, a raw, broken plea.

Rex felt Silas’s inner muscles clamp down like a vice, the rhythmic pulsing pulling him towards his own climax. He drove in one last, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt as Silas convulsed beneath him. Rex’s groan was guttural, primal, as Silas’s release pulsed hot and thick over his fist, spattering the mattress. Rex’s hips jerked erratically, his own orgasm ripping through him inside the condom, muffled but intense, his forehead pressed hard between Silas’s shoulder blades as he rode the waves.

Silas collapsed onto his stomach, gasping, trembling. Rex withdrew slowly, the condom slicked and full. He tied it off, tossed it towards the mini trashcan by the bed, then slumped beside Silas, both breathing hard. The pulsing music filled the silence, the fire crackling low. Rex traced a finger down Silas’s sweat-slicked spine.

Silas turned onto his side, facing Rex. His eyes were dark, amber wide, lips kiss-swollen. He leaned in, closing the small distance, and pressed his mouth softly against Rex’s. It was a slow, lingering kiss, tasting of salt and exertion, utterly different from the frantic need minutes before. Rex kissed back gently, his hand cupping Silas’s jaw.

When they broke apart, Rex searched Silas’s face, a flicker of concern replacing the earlier dominance. "Okay?" he murmured, thumb brushing Silas’s cheekbone. "Was I… too rough back there?" His voice was quiet, hesitant, the commanding growl entirely gone.

Silas huffed a soft laugh, the sound warm and genuine against Rex’s skin. "Too rough?" He shook his head, a slow, satisfied smile spreading. "God, Rex. That’s the point. When you flip that switch…" He traced the line of Rex’s jaw. "When you get all bossy, take control like that…" His gaze dropped briefly, then met Rex’s again, fierce and appreciative. "I fucking love it." He shifted slightly, turning onto his back beside Rex, staring up at the log ceiling beams cast in flickering firelight. The air still smelled of sex, woodsmoke, and sweat. "It’s like… the rest of the world just stops mattering."

Rex chuckled, low and a little self-conscious now. He rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand, his other tracing idle patterns on Silas’s bare chest. "Yeah? Well, don’t give me all the credit." He grinned, the playful glint back in his eyes. "Pretty sure my dick does most of the thinking during that part." He nudged Silas’s shoulder gently. "The rest of me just along for the ride, trying not to embarrass myself."

Silas snorted, swatting lightly at Rex’s wandering hand. "Bullshit. You know exactly what you’re doing." He stretched languidly, the muscles in his arms flexing. "That ‘bossy Rex’ isn’t some accident. It’s you." He turned his head, meeting Rex’s gaze squarely. "And I like him. A lot." The raw honesty in his voice warmed Rex more than the fire ever could.

Silas reached down, snagging the edge of the thick wool blanket tangled near their feet. With a grunt, he hauled it up over their cooling bodies, tucking it roughly around Rex’s shoulders before pulling it snug over himself. The scratchy wool settled heavily, trapping the fading heat from their skin and the fireplace. Rex instinctively shifted closer, their legs tangling beneath the rough fabric. Silas turned onto his side, facing Rex, his hand sliding up Rex’s arm to cup the back of his neck. He pulled Rex in, their lips meeting in a slow, deep kiss. It tasted of shared exertion and lingering sweetness, a quiet counterpoint to their earlier frenzy. "Love you," Silas murmured against Rex’s mouth, the words muffled but clear, a low thrum of certainty beneath the crackle of the dying fire. Rex kissed him back, deeper, his hand sliding into Silas’s hair. "Love you too," he breathed, the world outside the cabin door – the town, Holloway Mansion, his father, Leo's bullshit, the lost phone – dissolving into meaningless static. Here, under the blanket, wrapped in Rex, was the only place that mattered.

Outside the cabin, pressed against the frost-rimed windowpane, the massive form of Bartholomew solidified. His rhino head, crowned by short, thick horns, tilted slightly, his dark, pupil-less eyes fixed on the entwined figures on the bed. His spectral butler’s coat was immaculate, his ghostly hands clenched into fists the size of hams. A low, guttural rumble vibrated within his broad chest, a sound like grinding stones. “Must kill them all!” The command from the Master echoed in his hollow mind. His misty form began to coalesce further, preparing to phase through the sturdy logs, intent on dragging these insolent boys screaming into the spectral void. His heavy foot shifted forward.

A small, cool hand landed on his thick forearm. Bartholomew froze, the grinding rumble cutting off abruptly. He turned his massive head slowly. A young lady stood beside him, her vulpine features sharp and delicate beneath the moonlight filtering through the pines. Her ghostly fur shimmered silver-blue, her large, intelligent eyes fixed not on the cabin, but on his face. She didn't speak – words were often clumsy things for their kind – but her gaze conveyed volumes: “Look. See.”

Bartholomew’s burning eyes snapped back to the frost-etched window. Inside, bathed in firelight, Silas was tracing Rex’s jawline, his thumb brushing the corner of Rex’s mouth. Rex leaned into the touch, his eyes drifting shut, a sigh ghosting past his lips. Silas pulled him closer, their foreheads touching, a silent communion in the flickering glow. The raw intimacy was a palpable thing, a shield against the cold dread of the world outside their woolen cocoon. Bartholomew’s fists tightened, knuckles like granite boulders beneath his spectral hide. The injustice burned – traitor’s spawn, finding solace, finding this, while his own boy lay cold and forgotten in the mansion’s shadowed halls.

The vulpine lady’s grip on his arm tightened, insistent but feather light. Bartholomew slowly turned his massive head towards her. Her vulpine muzzle tilted upwards, her large, luminous eyes reflecting the distant moon, not the cabin’s fire. A silent understanding flowed between them, deeper than words. Her gaze shifted pointedly towards the distant silhouette of Holloway Mansion, its jagged roofline piercing the starless sky. A faint, discordant chorus of spectral wails drifted on the frigid wind – the other guests, restless, agitated. Her meaning was clear: “These two are entwined, shielded by their own fierce flame. But the others… they are vulnerable. Exposed.” Her father’s command echoes loudest for them.

Bartholomew’s burning gaze lingered on the cabin window. Inside, Rex had shifted, pulling Silas closer beneath the blanket, his arm draped protectively over Silas’s waist. Silas murmured something sleepily, nestling his head against Rex’s shoulder. The profound intimacy, the quiet trust radiating from them, struck Bartholomew with the force of a physical blow. It wasn’t just defiance; it was a fortress built of shared breath and whispered promises. His Mistress’s silent urging resonated: “This is not the prey you seek tonight.” The raw, possessive fury that had driven him here faltered, replaced by a chilling clarity. O’Neill’s grandson was tangled in this warmth, yes… but the others, they were unshielded. Easy echoes of the betrayal that fueled his Master’s rage.

With a final, grinding rumble deep in his spectral chest, Bartholomew turned away from the window. The vulpine lady’s hand slipped from his arm. Together, their forms dissolved into the freezing air, leaving only the faintest shimmer where mist met moonlight. Inside, Silas stirred slightly, a frown touching his brow as a sudden, inexplicable chill prickled his fur, but Rex’s steady breathing beside him pulled him back under. They slept on, obliviously.