by H M Wolfe
Like the dutiful, loving husband he was, Tarquin happily complied, worshipping his lover's body with his hands and mouth while he picked up the pace of the thrusts. Soon, the two of them orgasmed almost at the same time, crying their sweet victory, eyes shining with the love they had for each other. After gathering enough energy, Tarquin went into the bathroom, cleaned himself, then performed the same ministrations on Daniel.
"For better and for worse." That is what they'd promised each other nine years earlier, and they were going to keep that promise no matter what. Together, he and his husband were invincible, a force of nature, Daniel thought, a small smile playing on his lips as sleep was taking him over.
For the fourth day, the white-haired kid was snooping around the base, looking for a way to get past the heavily armed guards and in through the massive gates. From what he'd heard on the streets, this place was the heaven of neglected, abused, and homeless children and teens. They were offered medical care, warm clothes, a comfortable bed, and warm food. Plenty of warm food, the boy thought, with an almost wild shine in his sapphire-blue eyes.
That was, of course, if he could get inside. He scratched the back of his head. Unlike the other children from that shelter or whatever it was called, no one had forced the teenager into that dire situation. He chose to run away and leave everything behind. He was tired of all the bullshit his so-called guardian, and the other one was piling on as the truth.
All he wanted was to find out the circumstances of his birth parent's death in that lab where monsters experimented on helpless young boys, doing horrible things to them. But the two had treated him like a child, despite him being almost eighteen, feeding him a bunch of lies and pretending they didn't know what he was talking about.
His guardian was the most persistent in hiding the truth and pretending he had no idea what his pupil was talking about, but the kid knew better. Sometimes, the man creeped the hell out of the white-haired boy, especially when he was undressing him with his piercing, intense-blue eyes, so much like his own.
That, combined with him not wanting to tell the truth about the nature of the experiments his father was subjected to, made the kid run away from the unwelcoming, cold place he'd never considered home. Living on the streets, permanently alert, rarely eating enough, without a thick jacket or a blanket to keep him warm, wasn't a walk in the park, but he felt safer than in the presence of his guardian.
The white-haired kid sort of got used to the life on the streets, but despite being occupied with getting his next meal or a place for the night, he didn't abandon his mission of finding out who was responsible for his father's death. One day, the kid eavesdropped on a conversation between two pimps, who were complaining about business going down since they couldn't include kids in their offer.
According to them, a group of fierce men known as The Crew was after those who trafficked children and teens for sex, and they had no mercy. They were taking the merchandise to a military base of sorts located outside the city and took care of them there.
Not having to worry about bare necessities would have offered the white-haired boy more time for his investigation, and he would finally be able to discover the one who'd caused so much suffering to so many innocent souls. After that, he would hunt the beasts down and kill them all, one by one.
That is if he could get inside the base, which had proved to be mission impossible during the last four days since he'd started his investigation. The guards were vigilant. They seemed to have eyes in the back of their heads, and the boy huffed in frustration. It was getting late, and he decided to try once more before getting settled for the night.
Suddenly, as the kid inspected the tall, brick, and barb wire wall, he saw it: an unguarded entrance wide enough to allow him to sneak inside without being noticed. The boy crawled the short distance to the point of access, scrambled back to his feet, and was almost in when he felt the weight of a big hand on his shoulder. It was too good to be true, the teenager thought, slowly turning around.
CHAPTER 5
"Jeroen. And I want to get inside," the answer came right away. "Who wants to know?" the kid continued, looking straight into the guard's eyes.
"Jeremiah, but you can call me Jericho; all my friends do." The guard tentatively touched the boy's white strands. "You look pretty skinny. Who brought you to this state?"
"It's a long, complicated story. How do I know you can be trusted? I can't be sure that you won't go to them and sell me down the river. They have a lot of money, while I have nothing and no one." Jeroen fell silent, lowering his gaze, but only for a moment, then raised his head, staring into Jericho's eyes.
"Who are those people? Who wants to harm you? Are you already hurt in any way? Let's get you to the infirmary, and after that, if you can and want to talk, I'll get the boss."
"I'm not hurt, only hungry." Jeroen shook his head, stopping the man from taking him in his arms. "A bowl of soup or a cup of tea would be nice. I'm not picky. Living on the streets has taught me to be grateful for everything I get, no matter how small and insignificant that thing is. First, I want to talk to the boss, though."
Jericho nodded in approval. "The office is over there; we don't have far to walk. While the two of you talk, I'll fix you a light dinner. How long has it been since you ate last?" Concern poured from Jericho's voice, as he examined the kid with worried eyes.
"Three or four days." Jeroen shrugged. "Tell me, did you hear something about a lab where young boys, in their early to mid-teens, were experimented on? Like, made to carry babies and give birth to them?"
"Where did you hear of such a thing?" Jericho stopped and turned around, gently putting his hands on the boy's shoulders. "Are you...were you among those poor innocent souls?"
"No, the one who gave birth to me was," Jeroen's answer came in a voice as cold as ice. "He didn't survive, and I want to find the bastards and make them pay."
Jericho nodded, a strange light appearing in his, until then, kind eyes, something so wild and ruthless, that it shook the kid to the core. However, it was only a split second, then the man's gaze softened back as he guided Jeroen to Ardan's office.
That poor boy was looking for justice, and he'd come to the right place, the deputy chief of security thought as he discreetly knocked on the door.
As he stepped inside, looking around the austere room, Jeroen was deeply disappointed by the man sitting behind the desk, with his thick-rimmed glasses and slim fingers dancing on the keyboard. He had a delicate, almost fragile appearance, totally opposed to how the kid imagined the leader of such a powerful organization would be.
The man raised his head, a small, encouraging smile playing on his pale lips. Gesturing with one hand, he indicated the chairs across from the desk while listening to whatever Jericho was whispering into his ear. Nothing gave away his reaction to the other man's words, not even the most subtle flinch of his facial muscles or a blink of the magnificent, turquoise eyes.
"So, my friend here told me you are interested in finding out more about the beasts behind the lab of horrors. Why is that?" The man's voice tried to sound neutral, but Jeroen could see the interest shining in those mysterious eyes.
"I have strong reasons to believe they caused the death of the one who brought me into this world, and I want to end their filthy lives for that, and for all the boys who ended up in the same situation," the white-haired boy answered heatedly.
"I see...May I ask how did you find out about that lab and the things that happened there? Are you sure this isn't someone's invention? You are still young; you may not understand the difference between a persuasive lie and the truth. I'm not saying you lack maturity or anything, sorry if..."
"I understand you, don't worry. I'm not offended." Jeroen shook his head, locking eyes with the man. "Six or seven years ago, I overheard my guardian talking with his main associate, a guy named Michael, who always scared the hell out of me. My guardian said that the other child had stained blood, and he was happy the baby died, and my
...parent survived."
"Why do you think he didn't make it after giving birth to you?" the man asked in a gentle, almost pained voice. "By the way, my name is Ardan. Please excuse my bad manners."
"Well, my guardian called me the little orphan more than once during that conversation. Then, the two of them started to talk about the lab and the babies who were sold to rich, barren couples or raised to become perfect killing machines. When I asked my guardian, he claimed I had a bad dream, and started to touch me in places." Jeroen shuddered at the memory.
"Did the bastard harm you in any way?" Ardan asked, the cold anger rising inside him, threatening to get out of control. "It's never too late to make him pay if he hurt you, especially since the bastard is also neck-deep in your birth father being experimented on," he continued.
"No, he didn't, just said that my job is to be an adorable child, and nothing would happen to me. Also, he said the bad dreams had to stop; otherwise, he would have to take care of them...and me. So, I kept a low profile until a few months ago, then started to ask around on the web, and someone got me in touch with T-Ball, the god of hackers. The guy is extraordinary, gave me information galore, but also warned me of the dangers."
Jericho, who had left the room sometime during the dialogue between Ardan and Jeroen, stepped back into the room, followed by two identical-looking boys, a little younger than the white-haired one. The man was carrying a tray with a bowl of soup and a plate with cheese and crackers, while each of the kids had a medium backpack.
Ardan stopped whatever he was doing, took the tray from Jericho, and arranged everything on the desk, inviting Jeroen to dinner with a broad gesture of his hand, the soft, kind expression back in his eyes. The kid happily obliged and attacked the bowl and the plate, eyes shining with hunger.
Once the first bites of solid food and spoonfuls of soup got into his stomach, he slowed down, enjoying the delicious taste of the homecooked meal and examining the man in front of him. After the talk he'd had with the boss, Jeroen wasn't so sure about the accuracy of his first impression. On the contrary, he started to think that Ardan was more than could meet the eye.
Somewhere, deep inside Ardan, there was a beast lurking in the shadows, waiting to be freed and wreak havoc through the monsters who were experimenting on children. However, the creature was harmless around the innocent, taking care of their needs and protecting them against anything and everything.
"Thank you very much. It was delicious." Jeroen rubbed his belly, much to Jericho's amusement. "You know how rich people when they go out to one of those fancy restaurants, say compliments to the chef."
"Soames will be happy to hear that. It was his turn to cook today, and we helped him a little," one of the two teens said, blushing a delicate shade of pink. "My name's Cian, this is my brother Lorcan, and we are volunteering here after classes are over."
"There's no open bed tonight at The Base, so we are escorting you to Ezra and Peyton's, to crash in the bed in their guest room," the other boy said. "Or you could take one of the beds in our room and keep Cian company, as long as you promise not to snore." He grinned.
"And where are you going to spend the night, young man?" Ardan frowned, making Jeroen swallow hard.
"Um...at Thorvald's?" Lorcan answered, scratching the back of his head. "Please, Pater?" he added, bringing the smile back on his father's face.
"Well, if that's the case, you better leave right now. Otherwise, Spitfire will unleash hell on you for not coming home in time for dinner, and on me for not sending you away earlier."
"Nah, he won't, the guy loves us too much." Lorcan waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "However, I want to help him with the twins before heading to Thorvald's." He smiled. "C'mon, guys, let's move our pretty little asses."
"This Spitfire fellow...who is he, and why does your father fear him so much?" Jeroen asked as the three of them were leaving the office. "I mean, your father doesn't look like someone who gets scared easily..."
"His name's Alasdair, and he is the best stepfather in the whole world, although we see him more like an older brother," Cian spoke warmly. "When the two of them met, Pater was in an awful place, but Spitfire took care of his body and spirit, healing him," the boy continued in a dreamy voice. "There, that's our home."
Jeroen looked in the direction the younger kid was pointing, but couldn't tell very much about the medium-sized building. The situation changed as soon as he and the twins stepped inside. A warm, welcoming atmosphere greeted Jeroen from the very moment he set foot into the discreetly lit hallway, where a red-haired young man, in his early to mid-twenties, waited for them.
Without a word, he hugged the brothers to his chest, examining Cian with a critical eye, then gently shoved all of them into the kitchen, where a pot filled with delicious stew still simmered on the stove. While the brothers went upstairs to change their clothes and wash their hands for dinner, Alasdair turned to Jeroen.
"My Ardan called and told me about you." He hugged the white-haired boy to his chest. "You are welcome here indefinitely, and you don't have to be afraid of anyone, ever again. We'll help you to find out the truth about what happened to your birth father and punish those who put him through that.
"How can I ever repay you?" Jeroen asked, his sapphire-blue eyes shining with tears of gratitude.
"By staying healthy and strong," Alasdair replied in a fake professional voice. "Speaking of which, dinner is ready, and a little bit of stew won't hurt. Doctor's orders."
Chapter 6
I t wasn't good; it wasn't good at all, Brennan thought, while he was bunking in for the night. Two weeks and he still couldn't figure out which car the black-haired guy used most frequently; he changed them like socks. His employer had started to become impatient, and it was understandable. He never stalled this much on a job, especially one as simple as this was.
To make things even worse, the clumsy fellow whom he bumped into just two days after settling into the shed wormed his way in Brennan's heart, which was wrong on multiple levels. Firstly, he didn't have a heart, other than the muscle pumping blood through his veins. Secondly, he didn't do affection, for two good reasons: people he felt something for died, and that little thing called love was bad for the business, too.
Since his mother and stepfather had been killed seven years earlier, Brennan avoided the happy memories of his childhood like the plague. The most significant people of his life died because they loved him too much, and he was accused of the crime and locked away like a wild beast. He'd been an innocent, scared, fragile fourteen-year-old, helpless prey to the sadistic rapists populating the juvenile detention center, inmates and guards alike.
Or so they thought because Brennan fought them tooth and claw with a desperation bordering on madness. His stepfather had taught him to defend himself and stand up for the things he believed in, and that was what the then-teen did; no matter how big the bruises, how deep the scratches or cuts were, or how many broken bones he got in the process.
Closing his eyes, Brennan ceased to fight against the memories that came to light from the dark corners where he pushed them all those years before. He surrendered to the images of his stepfather, a giant of a man with kind eyes and melodious voice, whose arms cradled him to sleep so many times, or wrapped around his tiny body like a cocoon of warmth and safety.
He treated his wife, Brennan's mother, with infinite consideration, care, and respect, never raising his voice or hand to her, never cursing at the woman for bringing a snotty bastard into their marriage, as other men in the same situation were doing. Looking back, the young man found it strange that his stepfather had never expressed the wish of having children of his own.
Another strange thing was that his mother and her husband never shared a bed during the time they were married, not even once. The love between them, although visible, was more of a brotherly type than the kind spouses shared, Brennan thought in retrospect. There were many unusual, curious things about their little family, like, for in
stance, the respectful voice his stepfather used every time he mentioned the boy's biological father.
Shifting restlessly under the covers, Brennan changed the course of his thoughts from his family to that Quinlan guy. He didn't know what to think of the grown-up man who acted most of the time like a lost, vulnerable child, while sometimes behaved like a scientist or an accountant, hyper-analyzing every variant of a given situation.
Other times, he was melancholic and defeated, aware of his many flaws, beating himself down for being stupid and retarded, a stain on his father's name. But no matter how the fellow acted or what state of mind he was in, Quinlan helped Brennan to calm down his demons. The man's presence induced in him a sensation of profound peace and serenity, like nothing he'd experienced before.
And that was not good at all, because feelings softened people like him, and, in his line of work, one couldn't afford to be soft. Any hesitation, any shake of the hand on the trigger, any delay, could make the difference between success and failure. In his profession, failures were unforgivable and unacceptable. The mission would be completed the next day, and then Brennan would move to the next one, as always.
Brennan couldn't wait until the next day. In the dead of night, he snuck on the property and into the huge garage. Once there, the young man had the same dilemma as ever: which car did the black-haired man prefer? He carefully looked around once more, trying to figure out the answer, and then he saw it.
Black, reliable, silvery accessories, excellent suspension, top-quality tires, and, most likely, a powerful, silent engine— just the type of car that man would drive, Brennan thought. He slid under the vehicle and started working on the brakes, paying close attention to the details as ever. The target wasn't supposed to survive the accident; the young man would make sure of it.