The late evening draped the Council Building on Krakoa in a heavy shroud of shadows, the air thick with unspoken tension. The Training Room, usually a place of sweat and steel, was eerily quiet save for the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Tyler "King" Kingston stood in the center, his towering, lion-like frame a stark contrast to the turmoil roiling within him. His golden fur bristled as he clutched a black duffel bag, its contents a twisted mockery of the grief clawing at his heart. The revelation about his father’s death—a memory possibly fabricated by Carl Denti, the man who’d molded him into a weapon—gnawed at his soul. His limited speech left him mute to express the storm inside, but his amber eyes burned with raw, unspoken pain.
The door swung open with a deliberate creak, and in strode Emma Frost and Domino, two women whose presence commanded the room before they even spoke. Emma, with her platinum blonde hair and icy blue eyes, exuded a regal disdain, her tailored white blazer hugging her curves like a second skin. Domino, her dark hair streaked with that signature white patch, carried a dangerous swagger, her black leather jacket slung over one shoulder. Both women were fierce, untouchable, and yet, under Carl’s insidious control, they were here for a purpose that made even their steel wills bristle.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the big kitty himself,” Emma purred, her voice dripping with sardonic honey as she crossed her arms, one perfectly manicured nail tapping against her bicep. “What’s in the bag, King? Another of Carl’s delightful little surprises?”
King’s massive hand tightened around the bag’s strap, his jaw clenching. He couldn’t form the words to explain, not with his limited vocabulary, but the weight of his gaze spoke volumes. Slowly, he unzipped the bag and pulled out its contents: cow-patterned string bikinis, floppy cow ears on headbands, thick brown dog leashes, and pink collars engraved with the damning words, *I killed Tim King*. The sight of the collars—bearing his father’s name—hit him like a punch to the gut. His chest heaved, a low growl rumbling in his throat.
Domino’s sharp laugh cut through the silence, though her dark eyes flickered with something dangerously close to pity. “Oh, this is rich. Carl’s really outdone himself this time. What’s the game, lion boy? You gonna moo at us or just stand there looking like a kicked puppy?”
King’s trembling finger pointed toward the bathroom door at the far end of the Training Room, his silent instruction clear. Change. Now. His amber eyes avoided theirs, shame and grief warring across his rugged features.
Emma arched a perfectly sculpted brow, her lips curling into a smirk that was equal parts venom and allure. “Really, darling? You expect us to parade around in this... bovine burlesque? I’m flattered by the attention, but I don’t do barnyard chic for just anyone.” She snatched the bikini from the pile, holding it up with two fingers as if it might contaminate her. “Still, orders are orders. Come along, Domino. Let’s give the kitty his little show.”
Domino rolled her eyes, grabbing her own set with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. But if I hear one ‘moo’ out of you, King, I’m using that leash to tie your tail in a knot.” She shot him a wicked grin, her tone teasing but her eyes sharp, assessing his every reaction as they sauntered toward the bathroom.
Minutes later, they emerged, and the sight of them stole the breath from King’s lungs. The cow-patterned bikinis clung to their toned bodies, the black-and-white fabric barely covering their curves. The floppy ears perched on their heads only heightened the absurdity, but the pink collars around their necks—those damning words glinting in the harsh light—twisted something deep inside him. Tears welled in his amber eyes, spilling over as a choked sob broke from his throat. He pointed at Emma, his voice a rough, broken rasp. “Cow.”
Emma froze, her icy facade cracking for a split second before she recovered with a sharp laugh. “Oh, how poetic. One-word wonder over here thinks he’s Shakespeare. What’s next, King? Gonna call me a heifer and expect me to curtsy?” She stepped closer, her hips swaying with deliberate provocation, the leash dangling from her hand like a weapon. “Look at you, all teary-eyed. What’s the matter? Can’t handle a little roleplay, or is it the name on this collar that’s got you sniffling?”
Domino leaned against the wall, one hand on her hip, the other twirling the leash with a smirk. “Yeah, big guy. You gonna cry over spilt milk, or are you just mad Carl’s got us all on a tighter leash than these ridiculous things?” She tugged at the collar around her neck, her dark eyes glinting with challenge. “Come on, spit it out. Or growl it out. Whatever works for you.”
King’s massive hands clenched into fists, his tears drying as a low growl rumbled in his chest. He pointed at the collars again, his voice a strained whisper. “Father.”
Emma’s smirk faltered, her sharp mind piecing together the fragments of his pain. She stepped even closer, her bare thigh brushing against his furred arm, her voice lowering to a dangerous purr. “Oh, I see. This isn’t just Carl’s sick little game, is it? This is personal. Tell me, King, did Carl dangle Daddy’s death in front of you like a carrot, or are you just now figuring out how deep his claws go?” Her hand reached up, fingertips grazing the edge of his jaw, forcing him to meet her gaze. “Speak, pet. Or are you too busy playing the loyal lapdog to bite the hand that feeds you?”
Domino pushed off the wall, circling around to his other side, her presence as predatory as it was playful. “She’s got a point, you know. You’re standing there, all muscles and misery, while Carl’s got us dressed up like livestock. What’s your deal, King? You in on this twisted little circus, or are you just as much a pawn as we are?” She flicked the leash against his chest, the snap of leather against fur sharp in the quiet room. “Come on, lion. Roar for us. Or are you just gonna let Carl milk this drama for all it’s worth?”
King’s amber eyes darted between them, the weight of their words cutting deeper than he could express. The erotic tension in the air was palpable, their provocative attire and biting banter stoking a fire he didn’t know how to extinguish. Emma’s cool fingers lingered on his jaw, Domino’s teasing smirk inches from his face, and yet beneath it all was a shared frustration—a mutual cage forged by Carl’s manipulations.
Emma tilted her head, her voice a sultry whisper now, laced with steel. “Well, darling? Are you going to stand there gawking at your pretty little cows, or are you going to do something about the bastard who put us in these collars? Because I assure you, I don’t moo for just anyone—and I certainly don’t kneel without a fight.”
Domino chuckled, her breath warm against his ear as she leaned in. “Yeah, King. You’ve got two bad bitches on a leash here, and we don’t play nice. So what’s it gonna be? You gonna be Carl’s good boy, or are you ready to break some chains with us?”
King’s chest heaved, his limited words failing him as the women’s sharp tongues and commanding presence pressed against the raw edges of his grief. The collars around their necks bore his father’s name—a cruel taunt from Carl that he couldn’t ignore. And yet, standing between Emma and Domino, their strength and defiance a mirror to his own buried rage, he felt the first stirrings of something new. Not just loyalty to Carl, not just pain over his father, but a bond with these women—fierce, controlling, and unapologetic—who might just be the key to unraveling the truth.
The Training Room fell silent, the weight of their charged banter hanging in the air, as King’s amber eyes locked with theirs. Whatever came next, one thing was clear: the game Carl had started was far from over, and these cows had claws.
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