Entwined: (A Dark Romance Kidnap Thriller) (The Dark Necessities Trilogy Book 3)

by Felicity Brandon

  “Promise me,” Connor demanded, resting his forehead against her face.

  Molly raised her head to meet the strength of his gaze, and she knew he meant it. She was going to have to promise him. That compelling look in his eyes was never going to have it any other way. “Okay,” she sobbed quietly. “I promise, Master.”

  But even as the words slipped from her lips, Molly knew she didn’t mean them. Whatever was going to happen to him, there was no way she was just going to lie here and wait.

  No fucking way.

  Chapter Fifty

  Connor left his kitten wrapped up in his bed, on the promise that she would lock the door behind him. Her eyes had been swollen with desperate tears, and the look of her broke his heart. He recalled a time when the sight of her tears had used to make him hard, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember why that was now. As he closed the door, and joined Dalton in the hallway, the last thing he wanted to do was leave her in that state. Every fiber of his being wanted to run to her, hold her and bring her comfort, but he knew that wasn’t to be.

  Couldn’t be.

  This next chapter in his life wasn’t going to be about comfort. It was going to be about suffering, and if he was lucky, deliverance, and the only thing he knew for sure was that he didn’t want Molly exposed to any of that shit.

  “You ready for this?” Dalton probed, breaking through the silence which had threatened to envelop them as they approached the elevator.

  “I guess,” he conceded with a sigh. “I’m ready for it to be over, at least.”

  Dalton nodded, and Connor reckoned his brother could understand that much at least. He hadn’t been crazy about Malone’s idea, but after some persuasion on Connor’s part, Dalton had agreed to do the deed that needed to be done.

  They stepped into the open elevator, Connor hitting the appropriate button before he turned to look at his brother. Dalton looked tired and older than he remembered, and fleetingly Connor wondered how much of that was due to him. He hadn’t been much of a brother to him in recent times, disappearing for years on end, and landing in a pile of shit which he needed help to climb out of.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Dalton proffered quietly from the other side of the elevator. “As far as I know, this is just Malone’s batshit idea. Morrison hasn’t directed it, or anything, and I’m not exactly crazy about my role.”

  “I know,” Connor said, swallowing hard. “And normally, I’d agree with you, you know that, but for some reason, this time I…” he hesitated, uncertain how he’d intended to finish that sentence.

  “You want to hurt?” suggested Dalton with an arched brow.

  Connor chuckled. Irritatingly, his older brother was right. That was exactly what he wanted. A taste of the masochist. Just this once. “Right.” He laughed, but the noise sounded sad and shallow even to his own ears. “I need it.”

  Dalton’s eyes widened, but he didn’t respond immediately. “It didn’t sound like Molly was all that keen on the idea,” he remarked quietly.

  Connor inhaled, steeling himself. He knew there would be much worse than this interrogation to come tonight. “She doesn’t know,” he told him at length. “I mean, she knows something is going to happen, but she doesn’t know what. And I don’t want her finding out. This is Syndicate business.”

  His tone was sharper than he’d intended it to be, and Dalton threw him a look of surprise.

  “I thought she was one of us now?” Dalton continued, pressing the point, despite the curt response of his brother.

  Connor squeezed his eyes closed. “She is,” he muttered, “but she doesn’t need to be part of this.”

  When his orbs flickered open again, they’d reached the basement, and he found Dalton shaking his head at him. “I think you’re making a mistake, brother,” he murmured. “Your woman might be into the same kink as us, but she’s also intelligent and serious. I know this, and I’ve known her, what? A couple of days?” He paused, peering at his younger brother as though he expected his words to resonate more deeply. “But hell, Connor. I know that’s not going to stop you! Nothing ever has.”

  Connor smirked at him. “You’re right on that part at least,” he teased, moving in Dalton’s direction. “And about Molly. She really is something special, and you know she’s the real motivation for this…”

  The small space filled with silence as Connor’s words hung in the air for a moment.

  “But seriously, man, thank you,” Connor went on. “Thanks for coming with me. Thanks for agreeing to do this. I know it’s fucked up, but I don’t know if I could have gone through it with anyone else.”

  It wasn’t an easy thing for him to admit. Connor had spent years enjoying his independence, and it pained him to concede the fact that, maybe, he did need someone again. And of course, this was no ordinary need. This was something else, something dark, even by Reilly standards.

  “That’s my job, little brother,” sighed Dalton. “I’ll always be here if you want me. If you need me. Even for something as fucked up as this.”

  Connor eyed him pensively. He needed him now alright, but in the very worse way possible. Only a man like Dalton, his brother and a guy who knew the life Connor had led to this point, could be trusted to perform the deed. There could be no one else for the job.

  “Come on then,” huffed Connor, as he requested the doors to open. “Let’s get the penance done.”

  They crossed the dark corridors of the basement level, pushing through the crowds of Syndicate members who had assembled. Connor despised the fact his suffering must have an audience, but of course, that was all part of the endurance test. There must be witnesses to his misery there to validate the price he was about to pay.

  “And here he is!” Morrison’s voice cut through the rumble of the crowd, silencing the hordes in an instant. “The man of the moment, Mr. Reilly.”

  Connor nodded in Morrison’s direction. “Evening,” he drawled, intentionally swaggering toward the older man. Despite the anxiety gripping at his insides, he couldn’t resist putting on a show for the assembled crowd.

  Morrison rose from his chair, dismissing the leggy blonde who’d been perched on his lap with a single gesture. He strode in Connor’s direction, patting him roughly on the back. “Do you still want to go through with this?” he whispered into his ear. “I think we’d all understand if you’d changed your mind and would prefer a sentence which was less… hostile.”

  Connor swallowed hard, but he shook his head in reply. “No,” he decided firmly. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Morrison nodded, gesturing toward the large black bench which had been erected in the center of the room. “When you’re ready then, Reilly,” he replied.

  Connor eyes darted around the place. He took in Morrison’s grave expression, lingering on the concerned face of his brother, before his gaze fell finally on the bench. It was a spanking bench really. Black, and covered in leather, and not so unlike the one he’d had his little kitten strapped to over and over again in the basement of his little house. The one he was destined for was slightly larger, but in reality, the structure was the same; a location for the victim to be strapped down for punishment. Once upon a time, that victim had been Lydia, and later it had been Molly. Today however, that role was reserved for him alone.

  With one last breath, he stumbled forward, ignoring the pounding in his head. He had to practically force himself into position, draping himself over the clean leather and insisting his limbs remain still as two men moved forward and strapped his wrists into the leather straps. The volume of the voices in the room rose as those there to bear witness began to take in the scene. No one had any real knowledge of what was about to take place. No one except Morrison and Dalton, plus Malone of course, who had concocted the entire malicious scheme on the phone from Ireland. Everyone else would be expectant, desperate to know what fate was to befall Connor. No doubt they’d all heard of his story, and knew that Morrison had intervened to break him free fro
m custody.

  While he contemplated the levels of curiosity in the room, Connor was aware of his ankles being strapped into place, and then, all at once, it was done. He was bound into place, head-first over the bench, and there he waited. Ragged breath after ragged breath, he waited, knowing all too well what was coming next, and yet utterly incapable of stopping it. Connor’s head was racing, filled with the hot humiliation of the bondage, and the fact there were so many onlookers. For the first time in many, many years, he knew what it was like to have no control. To be bound, to be vulnerable, to be humble. If he’d thought prison had reintroduced the lesson a few months ago, then he’d been wrong. Again. This was what it was like to be powerless, helpless. Entirely under someone else’s control.

  “We have gathered here today to bear witness to Connor’s penance.” It was Malone’s voice which speared the tension in the room, his Irish lilt vibrating over Connor’s bound frame. “We all know the things he has admitted, and we have already prayed, asking God for his absolution. Tonight’s event will be the conclusion of that process, and it is agreed, the only fair way to right the wrong he committed.”

  There was a pause then, and Connor pressed his face into leather. Half of him was willing it to just bloody well begin, so it could be over with, while the other half wanted to scream for something else: help, mercy, deliverance. He wasn’t sure which.

  “It is also worth reiterating that Connor himself has consented to the action that will now take place, though it was I who suggested it,” Malone went on. “It is my belief that the only way we can truly understand the hurt we have caused, is for us to have the same trespass done unto us, and that is the basis for this evening’s proceedings.”

  Again, silence filled the air, swallowing up the oxygen in the place until Connor felt like he could barely take another breath. How fitting, snarked the tiny voice in his head. I wonder if that’s how Lydia felt that morning, when you had her bound down to a bench just like this?

  “Dalton,” cried Malone from somewhere behind Connor. “Are you ready?”

  Connor gulped at the sound of his brother’s name, burying down the nausea which threatened to spill from his mouth. This was real terror then, and it wasn’t the uncertainty which had created its power, but the complete opposite. The fact that Connor knew exactly what was going to happen. The fact that it had been discussed with him, and he had agreed to it. The fact that he had even chosen his brother to be the one who did it; all of those things made the reality even more dreadful. At least that was one thing he’d saved Lydia from. She would never have known what was coming. Not until it was too late.

  “Do you have a medic standing by?”

  That was Dalton’s voice, and it sounded weary, as if it was weighed down by the weight of his little brother’s expectations. Connor had to sympathize. How many people would ever receive the call to step up in the way Dalton was about to, and how many would ever agree? Only men as fucked up as they were would even contemplate this type of justice.

  “Yes,” answered Malone. “McColl is here standing by, and we also have Brand and Willoughby upstairs if we need them.”

  “Get them down here,” instructed Dalton. “We’re not going ahead until everything is ready. I want all the medics in place.”

  Connor’s squeezed his eyes shut. So, there was to be a delay then, before he could even look forward to the start of the ordeal, and yet even as his mind tried to process his brother’s words, he knew Dalton was only acting in his best interests. And Connor knew that if the tables were turned, he would surely have demanded the same.

  A hand at his shoulder drew his attention and Connor turned his head, straining his gaze north to find Malone watching over him.

  “Just a few minutes,” he murmured down to him gently. “The others were already on stand-by. They are on their way.”

  Connor nodded as best he could against the leather. He tried not to think. Not to over-process the events as they unfolded, but somehow, he had to. Every time his head went blank, his attention was forced back to the churning sickness in his stomach, and only the buzzing of his mind seemed sufficient to distract him from it. After a few minutes, Connor was aware of someone coming to stand by his head. His heart raced at the close proximity, but he didn’t try to get a better look. He knew it would be McColl. They had already been through the process of how this would work a number of times.

  “The medics are in place,” Malone declared. “Dalton, are you ready to do this?”

  Connor’s heart thundered in his chest, his ears straining to hear his brother’s words. Not that it would have been such a feat at this point. The room had fallen silent again, and the atmosphere in it seemed stretched to its breaking point. Apparently, this was the best entertainment The Syndicate had seen for some time…

  “I’m ready.” Dalton sounded severe and determined. Connor guessed he couldn’t blame him.

  “Then let’s proceed.”

  The man ahead of Connor shifted all of a sudden, crouching down to meet his eye. Or at least, he would have met his eye if Connor didn’t have his face pressed into the bench. “Connor,” he whispered. “It’s time. Lift your face up. I need to see you.”

  Inhaling deeply, Connor complied, feeling the strain in his neck as his chin lifted to acknowledge McColl’s pale complexion.

  “Are you okay?” asked McColl, reaching forward to feel for the pulse at Connor’s neck.

  Are you okay? Connor’s head threw the question around his mind like a ball. Are you? Can anyone be okay when they know what’s coming at them next? Is that even possible?

  “Yes,” he replied, but his voice was hoarse. Already.

  McColl gave a nod, and that was when Connor felt it. There was weight on the back of the bench, and even though he couldn’t see what was happening, he already knew the events which were about to transpire. Dalton was coming. In fact, he was already there.

  Connor felt his brother’s limbs nudge against his legs as Dalton got into position. He guessed it wouldn’t be as easy for Dalton as it had been for him. He had been fucking Lydia at the time, so he found the position had come easy. Neither Connor, nor his brother had any desire to replicate that part of the deed, so Dalton was presumably finding it much more difficult to settle into a stance which would serve his purpose. Connor lowered his eyes to the tops of McColl’s thighs, but he kept the strain in his neck. He knew granting access to the area would make things easier for Dalton, and he had no desire to hinder him. If this had to be done—and it did—then let it be done. Let it be over with.

  A moment later the weight of Dalton’s large hands landed on Connor’s shoulders, and slowly they made their way toward their target. Connor inhaled, trying not to panic. Not an easy feat when you knew those same hands were about to cut off your air supply altogether, and worse still, there was nothing he could do to stop it. He was bound, just as Lydia had been bound. There was no way to fight back. Hell, he couldn’t even struggle.

  Dalton’s digits were soon in position, the ends of the fingers curling around the front of his neck.

  This is it, Connor’s mind raced. This is what you deserve, Connor. Time to pay the piper.

  The sensation of Dalton’s fingers tightening around his neck didn’t startle him. How could it? He expected it. That was what he was here for, but as the pressure intensified, Connor couldn’t stifle the panic which ricocheted around his mind. Breathing became harder all of a sudden, and not just because of the position he found himself in, which didn’t help, but because now there was less air. He gasped, pulling against the straps at his wrists and ankles, as he became aware of his brother’s grasp tightening further. He hadn’t wanted to pant, to make his struggle obvious, but somehow, the action was reflexive. Connor had spent his life fighting. Fighting for Dalton, for himself, and then later, for the other members of The Syndicate. He was a highly skilled martial arts expert, trained in combat, and this notion of just lying down and surrendering was wrong to him.

&nbs
p; All wrong.

  Yet, that was what was happening. That was what Connor had signed up for. And as Dalton squeezed harder, Connor looked for the pain and the blackness. He looked for the relief it would bring him. He welcomed it, but of course, he wasn’t going to be that lucky. First, must come the pain. First, he must suffer.

  “Connor.” It was McColl talking. “Connor, can you hear me?”

  The initial wave of panic washed over him, but was fast replaced by the urge to fight. Once it became clear to Connor’s mind that self-preservation was not going to be an option, came the agony. A wall of it, and it was all about to land on him. He was gasping for breath, trying to take in air from somewhere—anywhere—but Dalton’s massive hands left very little leeway. By this point, Connor’s head felt like it was going to explode, his eyes no doubt ready to pop from their sockets. McColl was still there with him. He had been the whole time, but Connor was lost to that fact now. He couldn’t focus on the medic, nor on anything except his fight for survival. Would he black out before McColl gave the word, or would he be made to endure more of this fucking torment? More to the point, could he withstand much more of it? Connor had done his homework, and he knew the potential lasting damage of strangulation. At any moment, Dalton could go too far, and it would be too late.

  He was vaguely aware of a commotion in the crowd, the sound of a screeching woman cutting through his distress.

  “Connor!”

  That was his name, wasn’t it? And in his mind, there was a flicker of recognition of the fact, and something more. He knew that voice, and he recognized the panic in it, but more than that his brain simply could not decipher. It was giving up. He was giving up, and as he approached the painful precipice, only one thought permeated his consciousness.

  This. This was what it felt like. This was what Lydia felt when you strangled her with your bare hands.

  This.