Chained

by Kim Fielding

  Edge set his hands on Terry’s shoulders. “Terry.”

  Terry stopped immediately and looked up at him. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes. But… I’m going to come. Don’t want to yet. Please.”

  “Well… since you’ve asked so nicely….” Terry kissed the tip of Edge’s cock, making him gasp, and let it go. With a few quick movements and a little help from Edge, he shoved the blankets off the bed entirely, returned to his original spot beside him, and snuggled close. “Do you have rubbers?”

  “I… what?”

  “Rubbers. Condoms.”

  “No.” Edge knew about them, but nobody had ever used one with him. The subject had never come up, and besides, most people spent little time chatting before fucking him. Whitaker’s guests took Edge the way they took Whitaker’s food and drinks and drugs: like an amenity they deserved and with only their own needs in mind.

  Terry was again petting Edge’s face. “I don’t have any rubbers either. I didn’t expect to need them.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We can—”

  “I’ve seen people die, Edge. Amos—a man I once loved—caught the disease before anyone knew what the hell was going on, and he… he withered away. I’d broken up with him long before he got sick, and I’m pretty sure I don’t have the virus, but I can’t risk it. Can’t risk you.” His thumb skated down the length of Edge’s nose.

  Can’t risk you. As if Edge mattered. “It’s fine. I’m immune.” Edge assumed so, at any rate. He knew he couldn’t catch other human diseases, and he didn’t see why this one would be any different.

  “Nobody’s immune, baby. But don’t worry. We can work around this.” He pressed closer, his hard cock tucking into the groove of Edge’s hip. “We can be creative.”

  “I’m not sure I know how.”

  “Sure you do. We have all night. Let’s play.”

  He took Edge’s breath away. If the world were a different place and fate didn’t hold Edge so firmly in its grip, he could imagine a lifetime with this man. In dog years, at least.

  Terry planted a kiss on Edge’s nose and another on his forehead. He ran fingertips along Edge’s scalp. Then he pulled back a tiny bit to run his hands across Edge’s chest, flicking the nipples with his thumb in passing.

  Smiling, Edge copied him and was gratified when Terry huffed and thrust his hips forward. “Fast learner.”

  “I try.” Bravely, Edge scraped a fingernail gently over each of Terry’s nipples, and when the reaction proved satisfactory, did it again. He’d never had the opportunity to play with a man’s body before, and he liked it a lot. He hoped Terry would let him do it for a while. And he hoped Terry would do the same to him.

  “You’re sort of amazing,” Terry said. He rubbed his thumb along Edge’s lower lip and into the little divot between the lip and Edge’s chin. Then he lowered his hand to Edge’s neck and slipped a finger under the chain, lifting it. It wasn’t a terribly thick chain, although at times it felt unbearably heavy. The boss had placed it around Edge’s neck the day Edge arrived at the estate—as he’d done with Butch, Duke, and Holt—using a tool to fasten the ends permanently together.

  Now Terry weighed the links on his finger.

  And Edge saw the exact moment when comprehension bloomed in Terry’s mind.

  Chapter Eight

  “You’re… the dog.”

  Terry didn’t move as he said the words, and Edge froze too. Terry still held Edge’s necklace—his collar—with one finger.

  “Yes,” Edge whispered.

  Terry let the chain drop but otherwise remained still. “I should have kno— Dammit, I did know. In the back of my head. I just ignored my own good sense.” And he should have known better; that kind of carelessness got an agent killed.

  Edge blinked slowly at him. “You’re not…. You know I can shift my form.”

  “To a dog, yes.” Terry furrowed his brow. “Can you do other things to? Or just the mastiff?”

  “Just the mastiff.”

  “Okay, good. I never heard of a shifter with more than two forms, but there’s always something new under the sun. Or the moon—although I guess that’s more a thing with wolves than dogs. Huh.”

  “But you’re not….” Edge sat up and shook his head in confusion. “You’re not surprised.”

  “Well, there were clues. Your chain for one. And I’m no expert on dogs, but you seem a little too well-trained to be an ordinary mutt. You seem sort of—I don’t mean to insult you, but you seem a little clueless about some ordinary people stuff. Like music. Plus, the third dog disappeared as soon as Edge the man appeared. Hey, the other dogs. Also shifters?”

  Edge nodded. “My brothers.”

  “Wow. Okay, I guess that makes sense.” Were they the only dog shifters in existence? It seemed unlikely, but in any case, that wasn’t important at the moment.

  “You’re not shocked that I exist.” Edge let out a shuddery breath. “You said something about vampires. I thought you were kidding, but you weren’t.”

  “Nope.” Terry sat up too. “Have you ever met one?”

  Wide-eyed, Edge shook his head.

  “They’re a mixed bag. Some of them are out-and-out monsters, but some are pretty decent. They tend to skulk, and even the good ones have swollen egos—Look, I’m the Lord of Darkness!—but maybe if I were two hundred years old, I’d be full of myself too.”

  “How do you know this? People don’t— We’re secrets, creatures like me and my brothers.”

  Terry chuckled darkly. “Not very well-kept secrets. Some people know. Whitaker, for instance.”

  Edge briefly closed his eyes, then gave Terry a look filled with despair. “He has connections. Do you?”

  Shit. Edge’s very personal secret had been exposed, but Terry didn’t feel comfortable divulging his. They were both still naked, and Jesus Christ, he still yearned to touch and taste Edge. “I think mine are different than his,” Terry hedged. “I’m a good guy, if that helps.”

  “Good guy. Good dog.” Edge flung himself off the bed and stalked toward the door.

  But Terry’s side of the bed was closer to the door, and he sped over to block Edge’s way. “Don’t go.”

  That brought a growl. “Why not? I’m good for fucking or guarding. You don’t want one and I can do the other from the hallway. In my other form.” It was possibly the longest string of words he’d uttered in Terry’s experience. It was also a little heartbreaking.

  “I’ve enjoyed your company. Honestly. I don’t hang out with other people much. It’s been nice having you around—even if you’re guarding me or spying on me or whatever Whitaker has you doing.” He set a hand on Edge’s shoulder. “And who says I don’t want to sleep with you anymore?”

  Many emotions had raced across Edge’s face over the past half hour. This one said that he suspected Terry might be insane. “I’m not human.”

  “Maybe not exactly, but you’re a gorgeous and very attractive man.” And because he still saw doubt in Edge’s eyes, he continued. “Look, my personal definition of personhood is broad. You fall very easily within it.”

  He wished he could tell Edge about other men he knew who’d fallen in love with… non-Homo sapiens partners. It was a side effect of working for the Bureau, since you tended to spend a lot of time with a variety of interesting beings. One of those men, a former agent, ended up in a relationship with a goddamn demon for fuck’s sake, and now they did private-eye work that occasionally interfaced with the Bureau. Terry had spent three days with them on a stakeout in Santa Monica. It had been interesting, to say the least.

  But he couldn’t tell Edge about that, not without raising more questions he couldn’t answer. And Edge still appeared skeptical. Terry squeezed his shoulder again, then cupped his cheek. “Can you at least tell me a little about yourself?”

  Edge momentarily leaned into the touch before taking a step back. “What?”

  “The things you couldn’t say when you didn’t want me to know who y
ou are. Where are you from? How did you get here? What about your family—you have brothers, but who else? Why the fuck do you work for Whitaker?”

  Although Edge looked indecisive, at least he didn’t try to barge past Terry and out the door. He crossed over to the window instead and stood looking out, hands on hips. Terry waited. Enjoyed the view, because Edge’s ass was the finest he’d ever seen, but otherwise he remained patient and passive. He wasn’t in a hurry tonight.

  Terry could tell when Edge had reached a decision by the firming of his shoulders. Edge spoke without turning to face him. “I don’t know where I’m from. It was… a building. Big. With a yard where we could play but surrounded by walls. Other litters lived there too, some older, some younger. Five or six of them, all males. I don’t know if the female pups were somewhere else. Humans… trained us. They took our mother away when we were weaned. I don’t know who sired us.”

  Edge fell silent, and Terry thought that was the all the biography he’d get. Honestly, it was more than he’d expected, and even those few sentences had given him plenty of information to digest. Plenty of information to upset his stomach, actually. Was someone breeding dog shifters the same way they might breed real dogs? And Jesus, what was it like for Edge to grow up in that kind of environment? He might not be human, but his emotions and reactions seemed similar to everyone else’s.

  Then Edge exhaled loudly. “When we were grown, the boss bought us and took us here.”

  “Bought you. With money?”

  “I guess.”

  “So… Whitaker literally owns you.”

  “Yes.”

  Fuck. “That’s not legal, Edge. A person can’t—”

  Edge spun around. “Legal? Does the law even acknowledge that we exist? The boss could afford us, and there’s nobody to stop him.” Although he’d begun with a shout, he ended in a strangled whisper. “We’re just animals.”

  Terry, God help him, wanted to hold Edge tight, but he held his ground. “You’re not. Why don’t you just leave, Edge?”

  “No.” And he shuddered.

  “But there’s a whole big world—”

  “No!” In a single stride or two, Edge was right in Terry’s face. He was a little shorter, yes, but a lot more muscular. And possibly possessed of supernatural levels of strength. He snarled, showing his teeth. “I’m a good fucking dog. I’m loyal to the boss. That’s all.” He shoved Terry out of the way and stomped out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

  Well. That wasn’t the climax Terry had hoped for.

  Edge didn’t show up for breakfast. Terry thought about ordering for both of them and marching next door with the food when it arrived, but he didn’t. He used the house phone to request something light—last night’s chemical and emotional adventures had left his stomach slightly queasy—and ate his toast and grapefruit by himself. Then he rattled around for a while, listening to the radio and trying not to dwell on Edge’s story, because that wasn’t the mission he’d been sent on. But Jesus, images kept dancing through his mind of Edge as a youngster, treated as a beast and a commodity rather than a person. And Edge as an adult, collared and owned.

  Terry had just decided to change into gym clothes when two knocks shook the door and it immediately swung open.

  “Boss wants to see you.” Edge wore his usual black suit and white shirt, his usual blank expression. Terry could see the chain peeking from under his collar.

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dress code?”

  No response. Terry pulled off his tee and switched to a pale pink dress shirt and lightweight yellow blazer, both courtesy of Whitaker’s tailor, but he didn’t change out of his jeans. Edge showed neither approval nor disapproval before he spun around and led the way.

  The walk seemed longer than usual, the sun too bright. Terry worried whether Edge had told Whitaker about the previous night’s events. If so, well… the results wouldn’t be pretty. Terry wished he’d had the chance to retrieve his gun from behind the dresser.

  As they passed the pool, Terry very nearly grabbed Edge by the arm and begged him to leave the estate together that very minute. Between the two of them, they’d find a way out. But he knew Edge would refuse. And even if Terry managed to somehow drag him away, the mission—Terry’s mission—would fail. Terry didn’t yet have enough evidence against Whitaker, and he didn’t know if Edge had information that would help. Or whether he’d be willing to share anything with the Bureau. Fuck, what if the Bureau decided Edge was complicit in Whitaker’s wrongdoing and locked him up in that Nevada prison? That would be much worse than his current captivity.

  “God damn it!” Terry muttered just before entering the house. Edge cast him a quick glance but didn’t otherwise respond.

  They went to a room not far from the kitchen. It had an intimate feel, partly because it was fairly small but also because the walls and built-in shelving were the color of dark chocolate. Small abstract sculptures adorned the shelves. The room also contained a gray love seat, a pair of brown upholstered chairs, and a gold-painted coffee table that was all angles and corners, like a giant chunk of rock. The overhead light fixture had long arms and reminded him of a giant spider.

  Whitaker wasn’t there yet. Terry stood near the sole window, overlooking a little flagstone terrace, and Edge remained just inside the door with his legs slightly spread and his hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t look at Terry, and they didn’t speak to each other. Somewhere outside, an engine hummed—probably a lawn mower or hedge trimmer—but the inside of the house was as silent as a tomb. It felt like a tomb, despite the luxury of the surroundings. Terry had no particular fondness for his Culver City apartment, but he would have chosen it over this mansion any day.

  Almost half an hour passed before Edge stiffened; a moment later, the door was flung open. Whitaker marched in wearing another tennis outfit, lit cigarette in hand. “What did you think of my party?” he asked without preamble.

  “I appreciated the chance to meet so many influential people.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Did I make a good impression on them?”

  Whitaker laughed. “The important question is whether you made a good impression on me.”

  God, Terry hated this prick! His arrogance and his game-playing made Terry want to beat him to a pulp, even if he hadn’t known what he did to Edge. Or suspected what he might have done to a lot of other people.

  Terry conjured a slightly ingratiating smile. “Well, did I?”

  “You played your part well.”

  That wasn’t really an answer. Now Terry wanted to kick the bastard too. When Whitaker simply stood next to him, smoking, Terry decided to move things along. “So I’ve been here for several days now. I’ve done my best to show you that I’m worth your time. Have I succeeded?”

  Whitaker dropped the cigarette onto the tile floor and ground it under his heel. “Come with me.”

  Their little parade down the hallway—Whitaker leading and Edge taking up the rear—didn’t last long. A few doors down, they entered a miniature theater decorated in the style of a grand movie palace from the early twentieth century. Faux Egyptian paintings and statues decorated the walls, a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and a sumptuous velvet curtain hid the screen. Each of the twenty-five seats was an oversized armchair complete with drink holder.

  “Have a seat.” Whitaker pointed at the front row. Terry chose the center chair and Whitaker sat next to him, while Edge remained standing near the door. When Whitaker waved a raised hand, the lights dimmed, the curtain parted, and a movie began to play.

  No, not a movie, but rather a montage: scenes from dozens of films and TV shows. Some of them had come out years ago, when Terry was a kid, but many of them were recent. He recognized a few of the actors from the previous night’s party. Images flickered and voices recited lines of dialogue, but if there was any uniting theme, Terry didn’t catch it. For over thirty minutes he stared at the screen and wondered wh
at Edge was thinking.

  When the show finally ended, the curtains closed and the lights came on. “So?” Whitaker had slightly reclined the back of his chair and raised the footrest.

  “You represent all of them?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s impressive.”

  Whitaker snorted. “Every actor I sign—every single one—becomes a success. They see their names in lights. They watch their bank accounts grow. They read their names in People magazine. And they gain a sort of immortality too, you know. Fairbanks, Valentino, Lorre, Garland, they’ve all been pushing up daisies in Hollywood Forever for decades, but you know who they are, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Everybody does. Even yahoos from—where are you from, kid?”

  “Wisconsin.”

  “Even yahoos from Wisconsin. And do you know why?”

  God, Terry had faced some nasty monsters over the years, but none of them had tried his patience like this. “Because they were in movies.”

  “You got it. Once you make it big in the industry, you never really die.”

  “So what do I have to do to get fame, fortune, and eternal life, Mr. Whitaker? Just sign on a dotted line?”

  Whitaker laughed as if that was really funny. After lowering the footrest, he levered himself out of the seat with a little grunt and marched to the back of the room, where he grabbed Edge’s wrist. Edge neither protested nor changed his blank expression as Whitaker dragged him forward, but his face flushed a little. Whitaker either didn’t notice or didn’t care. They stopped in front of Terry’s seat.

  “Edge, tell Mr. Brandt what your life is like here.”