He had always been a possessive man.
Most that knew him - precious few, at any rate - would have argued otherwise. They confused the definition of "possessive" with that of "territorial." Graverobber had never been a territorial man - he switched residences with the ease of a leaf blowing in the wind; sometimes managing an apartment, sometimes bunking overnight in the bed of whatever scalpel slut he had made into a charity case. Hell, some nights he even crashed in a dumpster, so long as it was reasonably clean. He hated door number three, however - it always left him feeling like a filthy, disreputable bum, rather than the slightly more reputable back-alley businessman he was. Dumpsters were better employed as quick escape hatches from Amber's petty but well-financed wrath.
The bitch was spending less time in the alleys these days, but then again so was he. She had GeneCo's labs to gleefully supply her addiction, and he... Well he had better things to attend to.
Like this, the warm sweet scent of girl flesh in the dark, his lips trailing over supple skin as firm hands gripped boyishly slim, bucking hips. The rapid, breathless whimpering turned into a wail, music to his jaded ears - she tensed, tremors wracking her nubile frame. He smirked wickedly as the girl came down, slowly withdrawing his stroking, questing fingers and raising them to his mouth. The deathly stain of lipstick lingered there still, and he looked like nothing so much as a demon, meeting the eyes of his little sacrifice with pure decadence as he licked her nectar from his fingertips.
"Graverobber..." the little voice reached his ears again, panting still.
"Yes, pet?" He purred.
"Name!" She insisted, barely coherent in the post-coital haze.
He quirked a brow at her through the gloom, amused by her adamant insistence that he use her given name - though, to be fair, she had never once used his. It gave him a kind of perverse pleasure to hear her young voice crying out the drug-dealing nomenclature - "Graverobber!" Her breathless, angelic cry echoed in his ears, still, from that first time...
But that was neither here nor there. That little angel had asked him to use her name, and use it he would. Leaning over her, an incubus over his prey, he lowered his lips to her ear, warm breath caressing the delicate shell as his tongue gently flickered over her earlobe. His teeth followed, slightly less gentle, and when he'd managed to wring a little moan from her he finally gave her what she'd asked for. "Yes, Shilo?"
Her tiny hands clutching at him, urgent in their need, would be his undoing. Fortunately, her undoing always came first. Graverobber may have been a man of few principles, but he had them.
But returning to matters of possession. Territorial, no, he was not a man that could ever be bothered to claim one place as his homestead. But possessive...
Shilo thought that the bitemarks he left on her neck, blossoming purple flowers against her pale skin, were merely a result of overenthusiasm. She thought that the slight awkward step, which marred her coltish gait after a night with him, was perfectly normal. But she would be wrong.
He never looked at her when she walked at his side through the nighttime streets. His eyes were active, baby blues roaming the visages of men passing by - and a few women as well. Most of them gave him a wide berth - notorious criminal and all that - but a few paused, their eyes lingering on Shilo.
His Shilo. His pet.
The lustful gazes she received were received with both pride and an animalistic snarl on the part of his primal inner voice. She bore his marks, had his scent all over her skin - and at times, depending on how precocious the little cat was, his come sticky between her thighs. And still, they looked.
Graverobber just sneered back. There may have been no brand on her porcelain skin or a leash around her neck - at least not in public - but she was his, all the same. And in his lawless world, possession was everything.