Blood Revolution (God Wars, #3)

by Suttle, Connie

  "I pretty much have so far." I stared at my hands. The Sirenali I'd killed on Bexari, well, I'd removed limbs, but there'd been no other option unless I wanted to kill innocents. The moment he removed his obsessions, he'd died painlessly.

  "But you didn't witness abuse when you killed. Did you?" Bill knelt in front of me and took my face in his hands. Jayson moved aside to give Bill more room.

  "No. You're right, I'd probably freak."

  "So we'll expose you to what you think of as abuse, even though it's not, in a controlled environment," Hank said. "We'll be around you, and we'll take care of you and get you used to this. You need your mind in good working order if you're faced with something like this someday, and it'll make me feel better if I can help you get through this without breaking down."

  "I don't want to," I whined.

  "Sweetheart," Bill stood and lifted me to my feet. "You don't know what you'll see, and let's face it, if Oscar Forde is involved with this new club in town, you may see things you didn't expect. Isn't that right?" My face was in his hands again, and brown eyes gazed steadily into mine.

  "Yeah." My voice wobbled, and that embarrassed me. Were they right? That if I didn't do something about it, I could fold up like a wet cardboard box if I came across something that disturbed me? That could get me killed. Even worse—I could completely lose control and go berserk. I didn't want to join the ranks of torturers—that was repugnant to me.

  "Jayson and I can go through some of the basics this afternoon," Hank rose to stand beside me. "We have some research materials, so you can prepare yourself."

  "This is horrible," I muttered and pulled away from Bill to hug myself.

  * * *

  "Boss, I just heard from Trace. He says Ace saw the same car go past our gate three times. Windows too dark to get a good look at the driver."

  William Winkler looked up from his laptop. He'd been tapping out emails at the breakfast table while he ate scrambled eggs and ham. His dark eyes studied his Second for a few moments while he chewed and swallowed a mouthful of food.

  "Get a tag number?" Winkler asked.

  Trajan Gibson, at nearly seven feet, shook his head in exasperation. "Boss, I know we look dumb, but most of the time we actually know what to do. Here." He passed a slip of paper to the Dallas Werewolf Packmaster. "Trace ran the plates. Car's from Oklahoma. Sold yesterday. No info on the buyer, yet. Paper tag removed, for some reason."

  "That doesn't raise suspicions or anything," Winkler sipped coffee. "If it comes by again, have it followed. Discreetly. And call Director Bill. Let him know."

  "Will do, Boss." Trajan left the kitchen.

  * * *

  Breanne's Journal

  "There are several types of piercings. These," Jayson pushed a book with photographs toward me, "use long, thin pins to pierce the skin. Sometimes cord is laced around the pins afterward, for a more intense sensation."

  I cringed at the photograph. A woman's labia had been pierced by several pins, which went through both sides. Another photograph depicted a woman's belly pierced similarly, with silk cord laced around the pins.

  "You do this?" I stared at Jayson.

  "No. I don't do piercings. People have specialties—things they like and are comfortable doing. I learned to go solo on fire play about a year ago," he stated proudly.

  "Unbelievable," I shook my head. "Please tell me you haven't set anybody on fire."

  "I haven't." He sounded offended that I'd mentioned it. "I saw what can happen, remember? I make sure the sub has clean, scrubbed skin and their hair is tied back and kept away from the areas in question. They ask me for this, Bree. Maybe once or twice a month I get asked. Their dom or master is there with them, just as they should be."

  "Have you burned yourself, then?" I asked.

  "I've been singed, and I don't have any hair left on my fingers," Jayson snickered.

  "Pyromaniac," I accused. Jayson laughed.

  "These next photographs," Hank pulled the book away and flipped forward a few pages, "are the ones I worry about," he said. The first one made me want to vomit again, and it wasn't the worst of the lot. A woman was lying on her belly, hog-tied. I freaked.

  * * *

  "Bill, this is Trajan Gibson," Trajan spoke over the phone. Bill, working on his laptop in a borrowed bedroom, had answered Trajan's call immediately.

  "Trajan? Something up?" Bill asked.

  "Maybe. We've had a suspicious car driving past the front gate all day. Paper tag missing, old tag registered in Oklahoma and sold yesterday. No info on the buyer."

  "That doesn't raise suspicions," Bill observed dryly. "Have you tried tailing it? You think somebody caught wind of the update Winkler's working on for the software?"

  "No idea, but that's the logical conclusion," Trajan agreed. "Had one of ours tail it after the last drive-by, and contacted the Grand Master, too. Since this is probably a human, there's not a lot he can do at the moment."

  "Understood. Look, I'll see if there's anybody in the Dallas office I can put on this, and have them contact you. I'm in the San Francisco area at the moment, so if this turns out to be more serious, let me know. I can get a flight pretty quick."

  "Will do, and thanks for the help," Trajan said.

  "No problem. Keep me informed," Bill said before ending the call.

  * * *

  Breanne's Journal

  "They really like it—being tied up," Hank stroked my forehead. I was on the floor, flat on my back, staring at the ceiling and gulping shaky breaths. "It's exciting to them to feel that helpless vulnerability," he said softly. "They trust the person tying them up," he continued. "Generally, unless it's some idiot who's experimenting without knowing what he or she is doing, the one doing the tying knows how tight and how long. Some even do intricate patterns and knots, as an art form."

  "Not helping," I struggled to draw enough breath to speak.

  "Breanne, both parties love this," Jayson settled on the floor on my other side. "Just like some people prefer to dress in period clothing, or corsets and fishnet stockings with stiletto heels. Some like scenes or scenarios—such as getting questioned by others posing as foreign police for a crime they didn't commit. They're handcuffed or tied to a chair. The costumes look authentic. It feels authentic. It's still a fantasy, so sex may figure into it, but at the end, it's all play. A good dominant or master is going to make it feel real by taking things in a direction the sub doesn't expect. Lots of people love that."

  "They wouldn't love it if it were real," I huffed out. "They wouldn't love it if their lives really were on the line. If the torture was real. If death weren't so close it was grinning in their face."

  "Bree, few people have gone through what you have and survived. Most don't come out of that without serious mental and physical issues. Mostly you're able to deal with this, but your circumstances and abilities are going to leave you in vulnerable positions. We have to desensitize you, so you can at least carry on without falling apart."

  Hank turned his head and looked away. At that moment, I wished I knew what he was thinking. Regretted—just for an instant—that I couldn't read those things in him. A trembling sigh escaped and I closed my eyes. His hand covered my face carefully. Bree, baby, do this. For me. Okay? You can do this. I love you. Bill loves you. Even Jayson loves you, and he's not used to that. Block it out when you see it, and any or all of us will let you fall apart in our arms later. Cry all over us. If we see those things like you say we will when we touch your tears, we'll wear sunglasses or a blindfold until it passes.

  I didn't know at first that Hank included Jayson in his mindspeech, but he did. Jayson lifted one of my hands and kissed it before stroking my fingers. Hank removed his hand and I blinked at both of them—their faces wavered in my vision as I accustomed my eyes to the light again.

  "Feel better?" Jayson asked.

  "Not really," I said.

  "You're going to see a lot of bondage tonight, so we need to go back to looking at photograph
s," Hank grabbed a hand and pulled me to a sitting position. "You'll sit between Jayson and me, and we'll talk you through this."

  * * *

  "You may get some looks for dressing like this, but it's okay for tonight," Hank rubbed the back of my neck as I slid my feet into turquoise ballet slippers. I wore jeans with a turquoise tank top, and a denim jacket over that. Not the normal costume for visiting a dungeon, I guess. I still didn't know how he planned to dress me for KingDom's, and didn't really want to ask.

  The other thing I'd learned after Hank and Jayson forced me to stare at photographs, was that Bill signed both of them up as Special Agents, working part-time for the Department. Their first priority, it seemed, was to keep me safe. The second was to help track Oscar Forde and associates.

  Everybody (except me) would be carrying concealed weapons. If you counted my claws and a few other talents, I guess I was armed as well.

  * * *

  "You will address me as sir," the receptionist pointed at me when I walked up to the front desk at the Sub-Mariner with Hank.

  "Have you been knighted by the Queen?" I asked, blinking at him in disbelief.

  "No. Why?" his voice was surly.

  "Then you haven't earned that title from me," I replied evenly.

  "Where's your leather?" The man eyed me speculatively before poking at me again.

  "I'm vegetarian," I poked back. "The cow is still wearing my leather."

  "Don't," Hank held up a hand as the guy seemed ready to backhand me into a wall. He nodded and stayed quiet as Dale Saylor walked up to us.

  "Dale, this is Breanne Hayworth," Hank introduced me to the man I'd only seen on the news before.

  "Breanne," Dale Saylor used my first name and nodded to me. I read him again briefly. He was bisexual; I knew that already from reading him during the news broadcast. He also considered me Hank's property and wouldn't touch unless Hank gave permission. I wanted to slap my forehead. I muttered pleasantries instead. Dale had read the book, just like anybody else might. The thing in his favor was that he found my torture repugnant, so I was polite.

  "We don't allow breath play, knife play, branding or mutilations," Dale explained as we walked out of his office later and down a corridor. So far, I'd only seen the reception area and Dale's office. When I caught the first sounds of leather slapping on flesh, I jerked.

  Opal's shifter hearing was sharp, although not as good as mine, so she didn't catch the sounds until moments later. My breaths were already ragged. "Bree, they're having a good time," she said softly.

  "Huh?" Jayson turned to us—he and Hank were walking ahead of us, Bill behind.

  "She has better hearing than a dog," Opal muttered angrily. "Just because she can't see anything right now doesn't mean she can't hear it."

  "Fuck," Jayson mumbled.

  "Bree," Hank turned to stand in front of me before pulling something from his pocket. "Do you want these?" He held out a small, plastic bag with foam earplugs inside. My lower lip trembled as I blinked at him.

  "What if I need my ears for something else?" I hunched my shoulders and dropped my eyes to the floor. Hank wore polished, black leather boots with the black leather pants he wore. I studied the boots for a moment, attempting to even my breathing.

  If Hank wanted, he could ride off on a motorcycle after we were done visiting the Sub-Mariner. It brought up memories of Kalenegar. That Larentii's reaction to my discomfort would be a mind blast and not earplugs, if he still harbored his previous disregard for me.

  "I'll get through this," I whispered, lifting my head again. Hank gave me a short, half-nod and stuffed the earplugs back in his pocket. Bill's hand went to the back of my neck and rubbed it gently before we continued our journey.

  Time. So much of mine had been spent enduring unpleasant things. The trick, I think, is just to keep walking. Life is putting one foot in front of the other, no matter how frightened you are or how hard your legs shake as a result.

  I witnessed all sorts of things inside the Sub-Mariner that night. Spankings. Bondage. Flogging. Piercing. Flesh hook suspension. Sex. The list was long. Even with the people around me reassuring me with mindspeech at every turn, I was still shaking when we were ready to leave.

  No, I didn't notice at first, because my head was lowered as I fought a battle with my inner demons. Her scent finally caught my attention. I jerked my head up. Janine—the same Janine from the deli who'd dumped my soup in the floor the last time I'd seen her, stood in front of me. Would it have helped if I'd read her before? Things would certainly be different, I know that much.

  Janine was dressed for the Sub-Mariner in a leather corset, stockings and a thong; it registered on my brain without any explanation. I dropped my shield automatically to see why that was. The images that swam through my mind nauseated me.

  Hank had never said who his last fuck buddy was. I was learning, through my reading, that it had been Janine. Yes, it might have been ironic that I was standing in front of his ex, because I was seeing the plot of nearly every romance novel I'd ever read race through my memory. Girl meets boy. Girl meets boy's ex. The plot thickens.

  There was a twist here, though. I not only read how Janine had kept tabs on me before; she'd recognized me in the deli—after more than two years. I also saw exactly how she and Hank had kinky fun—I was too stunned to slam the shield back up at first. No, he hadn't had anything to do with her for more than four years, but she still wanted him.

  "You bitch," Janine hissed at me. Hank stood there, his head swiveling from her to me and then back to her.

  "Is that the best you have? Calling me a bitch?" Suddenly, my anger was white-hot. Yes, she liked being dominated by Hank. Loved getting flogged by Hank, along with many other specialties he seemed to have. Another woman? Different story. Her claws were coming out. Well, she probably should have stepped back, because mine were longer and infinitely more dangerous.

  "I called you a bitch, bitch," Janine sneered.

  "I can call you the same thing—in any language you choose," I said. "If Hank still wants you, you're welcome to him," I snapped before stalking past her. No, I could never, ever compete with what she'd done for—and with—Hank. Well, they were welcome to each other. It was time for me to leave.

  "Breanne," Bill and Opal were right behind me. I didn't stop until I reached the sidewalk outside the Sub-Mariner.

  "Bill, I need a hotel room." I walked—stiff-legged and angry—down the street.

  "Bree, what happened? Who was that woman?" Opal gripped my arm and gently stopped me from walking farther away from Hank and Jayson.

  "That was Hank's ex," I said. "I didn't read her until now. I wish I hadn't. She was hoping I really was dead, like everybody thought."

  "You've seen her before?" Bill asked.

  "Yeah. She works at the deli not far from my house. The last time I saw her, she dumped the soup I ordered on the floor. I didn't read her then and figured it wasn't worth the argument, so I left. She's been stalking Hank—and me before I disappeared. Now I'm on her radar again. I'm not going back to Jayson's. He and Hank can do whatever they want from now on. I'm out."

  "Breanne, I don't think Janine matters to Hank," Opal said quietly.

  "Opal, that's not it. I saw what they liked to do together. I'm never going to do those things." I started walking again.

  "This is why you call it a curse, isn't it?" Bill said softly, keeping pace with me.

  "Part of it, yes," I swallowed with difficulty. Tears were threatening now, and Opal and Bill didn't need to be anywhere near them. "I just need a hotel room somewhere," I said before the sobs came. I misted away to keep Bill and Opal safe.

  Chapter 7

  My cell vibrated while I handed a credit card to the desk clerk. I'd refused to answer mindspeech, so they were trying their second option. This time, I hadn't put the stalker app on my phone and made sure nobody else could do it, either. That might not keep Bill from tracking me, but Hank and Jayson could go fuck themselves. Or fuck Janine.
I didn't care.

  "You're on the fourth floor," the desk clerk handed a key card to me while the phone continued to vibrate in my pocket.

  "Thanks." I got my credit card back and walked unsteadily toward the elevator.

  * * *

  "She can't read you, but she read Janine," Opal, her arms crossed angrily over her chest, glared at Hank. "Whatever she saw made her feel inadequate, and there is no way in hell that woman should feel inferior to anybody else. I don't care if good old Janine can fuck you upside down while playing Yankee Doodle Dandy on the accordion."

  "Janine is nothing to me," Hank raked fingers through his hair in frustration. "You say Janine's been keeping tabs on Bree?"

  "And on you."

  "I knew she kept showing up," Hank shook his head. "But every time she walked into the club, she always left with somebody else."

  "Trying to make you jealous, no doubt," Opal snorted.

  Jayson sat behind his desk, watching the exchange. He'd taken the others to his downtown office to discuss what to do about Breanne's disappearance. Bill sat on the sofa nearby, staring at his hands.

  "What worries me," Bill broke the ensuing silence, "is that Janine might place Breanne in danger. Let's face it—if she's approached by the nut jobs from those websites, she can point them in the proper direction. Can't she?" Bill lifted his eyes and studied Hank's face.

  "Yeah," Hank turned away. "Of all the things to happen," he sighed.

  "Janine's what they call a Velcro collar, and a SAM," Jayson offered. "She jumps from one dom to the next, and SAM means smart-ass masochist. She's always had a smart mouth, but while she was with Hank, that's the most subdued I've ever seen her."

  "So she wants more of that," Opal snapped. "Maybe you two deserve each other," she hissed in Hank's direction.

  "I informed Janine of the rules at the beginning," Hank began.

  "Really? Fucking men and their fucking rules," Opal tossed up a hand. "A woman is always more involved and way more invested in any relationship, and men are just too stupid to see it. Did you try the same shit with Breanne? No wonder she always looked as if she hadn't slept for a week whenever we worked together."