Close Protection (Blood Brothers #2)

by Manda Mellett

  My mouth drops open, how can he think that? My characters, my Doms always took care of their subs, never pushed them beyond anything they enjoyed. I have no idea how he could be so deluded to believe for a moment that I was writing about him.

  Ignoring my reaction, he continues, “But then you started describing me as a wannabe. I’m a Dom, bitch; I always have been. I was born that way. And for you to suggest I don’t know what I’m doing…!” His hand whips out and slashes me across the face, and blood trickles from my nose.

  “But I wasn’t writing about you!” I protest. If there’s a chance to somehow get through to him, I have to take it.

  “Who else were you describing them?” His voice is scornful. “I taught you everything you know. Every whip stroke, everywhere you had a cock inside you. There was only ever me. There was never anyone else after me, was there? I’ve been keeping an eye on you, so don’t tell me I’m wrong. I gave it to you so good, you never wanted another prick anywhere near your cunt.”

  “And your cohort. You weren’t alone.”

  “Pah!” He slashes his hand through the air. “That motherfucker doesn’t count. It was me you gave your virginity to bitch.”

  “I didn’t give it to you; you took it. You stole it from me!” I shout out in utter disgust.

  He throws me an incredulous look. “You were gagging for it! Waving your untried cunt in my face with your tight leggings, your sexy top.”

  I look away; I am not going to accept any responsibility. I’d moved past that years ago. The only person to blame is him. I didn’t think it was possible to hate a person as much as I do this man who abducted me. I’d kill him with my bare hands if I got the opportunity, without a moment’s regret.

  “Enough talking. Now it’s time we get reacquainted, bitch. But first, I want to see my pretty marks on you.”

  I want to fight; I’m determined to fight, but bound as I am, he’s left me few options. He moves in front of me again, and I take my chance, throwing back my head and bringing it down on his, smashing my forehead into his nose. It works on films, but it seems to hurt me a lot more than it does him as he just jumps back, clutching his hand to his face and rubbing it vigorously, then, he grins.

  “You’ve got more spirit now, bitch. I’m going to enjoy breaking that. You’re going to do exactly what I say, when I say it. You’re going to give me everything I fucking ask for.”

  Dragging me off the bed, he draws me to the spanking bench and pushes me over it, his weight coming down on my back, his fat shifting as he pushes against me, his flabby skin making me shudder with revulsion. As he undoes the handcuffs, I try to buck him off, but he’s so much heavier than me. I have no chance to evade him as he forces my hands into new cuffs either side of the bench. I prepare to kick out as he goes to undo the cuffs holding my legs together, and try to get one strike in, but he’s ready for it and jumps back quickly. My leg only hits air and then is encircled by his sweaty palm. Prising me into the position he wants, he puts the new cuff round one ankle before undoing the original, then holds tight to my other leg as he fastens it the other side. He seems to have a method for restraining me. Has he done this before? I decide he has. He’s set up a dungeon, and I doubt anyone would come here willingly. The thought is chilling. As he starts to turn a handle, all my thoughts return to my current predicament as the bottom cuffs separate, pulling my legs wide apart, far more than is comfortable.

  Then he stands still, for a while nothing happens. Twisting my head to one side, I try to see what his doing. He’s standing, just staring at my exposed parts, his zip part undone and one hand stroking himself through his jeans. I shudder, feeling sick that he’s going to rape me now. Please, no, not again. As I watch, he seems to come to a decision and steps away from the bench, walking across to the walls covered in the hideous, cruel implements I’d noticed earlier, and I turn, closing my eyes, unwilling to see what he is about to inflict on me. I survived once; I will survive again. That mantra is going around my head I let my mind drift back to Club Tiacapan, and try to imagine myself back there, with Jon wielding the flogger above me. I’m not here, I’m there, I’m scared, but Jon’s in control and has my trust. I know Jon wouldn’t hurt me, I know it’s going to be alright...

  I scream. Loudly. What the fuck is he using? When the second slash sends fire across my thighs, I realise he’s got a cane, and he’s not holding back. He lifts it again and again. I scream and shriek, my voice grows hoarse with shouting. I’m begging him to stop; the pain is excruciating. I’m sobbing and crying, I can’t even yell out anymore, I’ve stopped flinching, even ceased trying to move away as agony radiates through my body.

  Then, at last, he ceases, his calloused hands moving roughly over my skin, abrading the welts which I know will be raised and probably bleeding. My thighs, arse and back throb with pain. He squeezes my butt cheeks; I try to rise to get away as pain floods through me. He laughs loudly; it’s a gruesome sound.

  “Fuck, bitch, but you turn me on like that. You mark so well. I wish you could see yourself.” He slaps my bum with his hand again, making me jump and squeal. “The noises you make, fuck they go straight to my fucking dick.”

  He moves to my head and frees my hands. My body might feel like it’s on fire, but I’m not giving in. Fisting my hand I thrust it into his face.

  “Bitch!” he roars, his hand covering his eye. The back of his hand hits me across my face so hard I see stars. My small rebellion doesn’t get me very far. Taking advantage of my temporary dizziness he undoes the cuffs around my feet. He looks at me, cane in hand, assessing. As if deciding he isn’t bothered about further resistance; he barks out a command.

  “Get over to the bed, bitch. Crawl.”

  I slowly get to my feet, my eyes flicking everywhere seeking something I could use as a weapon. The rack of torture instruments are too far away. Trying to ignore my discomfort and refusing ever to get on my hands and knees for him, I pull myself to my full height and make my stand. “No.”

  Before I register what he’s about to do or take any evasive action the cane’s pulled back and viciously lands over my breasts. “Want more of that, cunt?”

  Gasping and wrapping my arms around me in a protective gesture I realise he’s taken hold of me again. Too impatient to wait for me to follow his instructions he’s hauling me over to the bed like contraption. Frantically struggling I attempt to break loose, but he overpowers me, his hands holding my arms so tightly he’ll leave bruises. When we get to the bed, he halts and tilts his head to one side. “Now,” he starts, his voice slow and considering. “Arse or cunt? Where to start. What a decision.” I turn a pleading look to him, but his face shows no mercy. His eyes seem to be glazing over in anticipation, and I realise he’s asked the question of himself, rather than me. The waiting fucks with my mind, and I have to bite my lips to prevent myself screaming out for him to just get on with it.

  “Hmm. On your back, bitch. I want you to feel those stripes.”

  He pushes me down firmly, so I lie awkwardly on the table. One kick, I’m thinking, one kick where it would really hurt him might render him incapable, at least of that. I try to pull back my leg but he’s ahead of me and in one swift movement tips me back, and has one of my feet strapped into one of the stirrups. The bruising on my back blasts me with new pain when I land on it, but I put it out of my mind, knowing if he gets the other foot in I’ll be helpless. I struggle, kicking out, moving my leg so it’s hard for him to catch hold but my puny attempts are futile, he catches my leg, easily takes hold of my flailing foot and straps it into the second stirrup. Then his weight, his flab is on me again, pressing me down as he tightens another strap around my torso. All fight leaves me as I realise he’s too heavy to push off. I’m completely powerless and have no way of resisting him as he binds my hands tight on either side.

  He’s standing between my legs, looking at the view. There’s drool on his mouth, and he wipes his hand over his face to remove it while giving me a predatory grin. He
looks feral and totally insane. He chuckles, the ghoulish sound echoing around the room. He steps away moving towards a chest I hadn’t noticed before. When he comes back, he somehow lowers the top end of the bed, and my head hangs down over the back. He’s got something in his hands, and he raises it to make sure I have a good view of it. I gasp and shake my head violently from side to side as the diabolical dental gag comes into view.

  “Remember this, bitch?” Spit flies from his lips and lands on my face. “Oh we had some fun with this, didn’t we?” His strong hand grasps my chin, holding me firm. I watch the gag descending. He forces my mouth open, inserts the implement then tightens the screws, so I’m open and ready for him. I hear him fully unzipping his jeans and pulling them down, freeing himself from his pants. I keep my eyes open, morbidly transfixed by the sight of his ugly penis, already engorged and dripping with pre-cum like oozing pus. With dread and trepidation rising fast I know he’s going to choke and suffocate me, and I can’t even plead or beg.

  Chapter 28

  Jon

  Six weeks ago

  The email was open before me, and it took all my willpower not to close it without reading and move onto the next. But I couldn’t leave it any longer; I had to respond. Just like I had to answer his call last week, and the one the week before, I’d run out of excuses to avoid talking to him. I knew what the contents of this new communication were, just by the heading. It was an invitation to Sheikh Nijad’s wedding; well, his official state wedding that was.

  Why didn't he blame me? Why didn’t accept it was my fault that he’d spent the last three years in exile? I was supposed to protect him, but instead, I’d let him down, he should never have been able to forgive me.

  Unable to avoid it any longer, I opened the attachment, it was a standard one, personalised but no different to those sent to any other guest. The invitation was just as I expected, I closed it, and at last focused on the email content itself, the personal message I’d wanted to avoid. I read through the typical salutations and then got to the words that fucked with my head.

  The last three years have brought me here, to this moment. We can’t rewrite our past or change fate, and where I am now is exactly where I am meant to be. I’ll forever thank you for the part you played in my destiny, my friend, my blood brother.

  With sincere wishes from us both that you’ll be able to attend our wedding.

  Yours,

  Nijad

  Finally, knowing he’s the bigger man, that he was able to forgive me while I was unable to find absolution for myself; I decided to reply. And accept.

  Present day

  Even though we’re approaching from different directions, I drive the McClaren through the open gates to the abandoned warehouse only seconds behind the SUV Sean and Ryan are driving. Ben’s throwing himself out of the sports car almost before I’ve come to a screeching halt, and running over to our colleagues. Yanking up the handbrake, but not bothering to shut the door, I sprint across to join them. They’re pulled up beside a white van.

  My phone buzzes. It’s Vanessa. “We’ve pulled the CCTV from the shopping centre. He’s driving…”

  “… a white van.” I interrupt her. “We’ve found it.”

  “Mia?”

  I hear her inhale as she awaits my response, but I’ve no good news for her, the back doors are wide open, and the interior is empty.

  “No. Pull up what everything you can about this name Hatcher.” Anything’s worth investigating at this stage. Though we’d luck out if it’s a fake name, I have to think we might just get a break and be lucky.

  “Already on it. We hacked into the club records this morning and found where he lives. Harry’s on his way now to the address we’ve got.”

  Ending the call, satisfied that back at the office they’re doing everything they can, I turn to see Ben picking up torn underwear, and, of course, the shoes that had concealed the tracker. He’s shaking his head and looking livid. Ryan waves me closer to the van, and looking inside; I see vomit smeared into the floor. Oh, God, Mia, what are you going through? My gut clenches in fear.

  Ryan’s watching me carefully. “No blood, Jon.”

  “She was drugged.” Sean comes up to us, his phone to his ear. “Nat’s at the shopping centre and found a cloth which smells of chloroform.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “We’re on it,” he assures me. “The police are on their way and are fully briefed.”

  Ben’s been looking at the warehouse. “No sign he’s been there, it’s all locked up, no evidence of forced entry, Jon. Reckon he just stashed a spare car here, and it was his plan to swap vehicles all along.”

  I call Vanessa again. “We’re pretty certain he’s changed vehicles. Any CCTV we can get into?”

  “Nafisa’s already looking, none in the immediate area. Oh, Jon, I’m so sorry.” She sounds gutted, more emotional than on a standard case.

  Why’s she sorry for me? Mia’s a client, just like any other. All of us will want to rescue her. It’s just my job to find her, and I’ve only the same level of concern as Ben and the others, exactly the same as we’d have for any other person we were supposed to guard. If I keep telling myself that I might fucking come to believe it, knowing I wouldn’t feel this wretched for anyone else.

  Ending the call without commenting further, I glance at my companions. We’ve nothing to do but mill around, unable to do fuck all. And somewhere Mia is going through hell. If we’re not going to be able to find the bastard quickly, there’s a small part of me that hopes she’s already dead. He’s ultimately going to kill her in any event, I’m certain of that, and I can’t handle the thought of her suffering any more than she has to. Mia, oh fuck, Mia! Where are you? What’s he doing to you? It takes all my effort to stay on my feet and not to sink to my knees in despair.

  I force myself to think professionally. I’m no use to anyone if I’m unable to focus. I’m confounded. This case has been a comedy of errors from start to finish, with me playing a significant role in our failure to protect one woman from her stalker. The blame doesn’t sit solely with Ryan or Sean; we’ve all made mistakes. Mine being the worst of all. I fucked her instead of keeping my eye on the ball. Shit, fuck, damn and bugger it!

  “What the fuck do we do now, Ben?” He looks as shocked as me. We’ve lost her. Fucking good advert for Grade A.

  My phone vibrates in my hand. It’s Vanessa again.

  “I’ve got info, Jon.” Immediately I put her on loud speaker and gather the guys around me. “Right,” she continues. “His name is Miller Hatcher. He’s twenty-seven years old and owns a small security company. He majored in electronics at Uni.” We all exchange knowing looks. Disabling alarms would be simple with that background. “He lives in Kent now, but formerly lived about two miles from Mia’s old home.

  “This is the interesting bit. Hatcher’s father died about ten years ago, but before that he had a small sawmill in the woods near to where Mia was originally abducted. No one has worked it as a business since; Google shows it looking run down and the surroundings are overgrown, but Hatcher’s still paying the water rates and electricity for it.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere, why pay the bills on a place that isn’t used? “Where is it?” I snap out.

  She gives me the coordinates, and immediately I start programming the car’s sat-nav.

  Ben leans forward, so the mic catches his voice. “Keep digging, Van. I don’t want us putting all our eggs in one basket. This could be a wild goose chase.” He’s right, but my gut is telling me we’re onto something.

  “On it! I’ll give the info we’ve got to the police so they’ll be on their way.”

  I don’t delay and wait for them, knowing they’ll be some time behind as the debacle at Mia’s cottage showed he’s in possession of a weapon and would wait to mobilise an armed response team. But it’s good to know back-up is on its way. The sat-nav tells me it’s going to take forty minutes to get to the sawmill without traffic delays. Forty
minutes too long in my opinion so I stomp on the accelerator and do a handbrake turn to get us on our way. A look into my rear-view mirror shows the boys are right behind me.

  “We’ll get to her, Jon.” Ben tries to reassure me.

  “In time?”

  He can’t answer that.

  “You okay?” He asks me.

  I’m concentrating on driving, and take a minute to formulate my answer. “Ben, she’s a client. Same as any other.”

  I hear him tsk. Well, fucking sod him if he doesn’t believe me.

  We catch traffic—of course, we do. I watch the time slip by and want to hit the bloody sat-nav as it cheerfully tells me there’s a five-minute delay, but I’m still on the fastest route. Despite my protestations to Ben, my heart’s pounding at the thought of what could be happening to Mia. When we come to a complete standstill, I thump my hand on the steering wheel in frustration. Shit, we’ve got to get there and save her!

  After what seems like hours, but I know in reality is only just a little more than the predicted forty minutes, we arrive at the start of a track. Vanessa’s helpfully been checking Google maps again so, following her suggestion, pull up the McClaren in a layby conveniently situated just up the road; Sean and Ryan stop behind us. My three colleagues gather around me.

  “There’s little doubt he plans to kill Mia,” I explain my thoughts, numbly; “If we rush in he could get spooked and just do it. We’ve got to proceed quietly and carefully. On foot from here.”

  They nod in agreement. Ben’s happy for me to direct the operation due to my experience in this type of situation.

  “We can assume he’s armed.” I continue, and point out needlessly, “We’re not.” To maintain Grade A’s impeccable reputation we strictly abide by the laws of the land. No handguns, knives, or even pepper spray. We’re all experts at hand to hand combat, though. The boys are already moving towards the boots of the cars where we carry body armour as standard practice. We take the time to prepare; only fools rush in as the saying goes. Even though my stomach churning at the thought of what Mia might be going through I have to do this right. A wrong move could see her dead. As we suit up, I calm; my heart and breathing steadying as my brain shifts into professional soldiering mode. My focus is on a successful extraction, a process I’ve performed many times and often in environments significantly more hostile than in the UK.