by Sykes, Julia
But he could take him from me if he killed him. He had killed Tucker for being with me. Why else would Smith be here if the Bastard didn’t intend to make him suffer?
He studied my determined expression and shook his head ruefully. “All of my hard work undone. I’ll have to break you in all over again.” His smile was hard-edged. “You’ll be punished for trying to run from me, fucktoy. And Agent James has to be punished for taking you from me. His death won’t be as easy as your husband’s.”
The chain that held me jerked as I lunged for him, my body instinctively seeking to hurt him, to mangle him. My pain and fury and desperation left me in a crazed shriek.
He stepped back and watched me with amusement as I writhed and screamed. He had killed Tucker. And now he was going to kill Smith. I couldn’t let that happen.
Mastering my instincts, I stopped fighting.
“I’ll do anything,” I forced out. “Anything you want. I’ll be your whore. I’ll be your slave. Just don’t hurt him. Please.”
“Don’t you fucking dare, Lydia!” Master snapped as he pulled against his chains with renewed ferocity. “You’re mine, goddamn it!”
The knife was back at my lips.
“Shhh,” the Bastard practically cooed. His eyes gleamed as he looked from Master back to me. “You think he’s your Master now, don’t you, whore?” The knife lowered, and his fingers touched the tourmaline pendant at my throat. I couldn’t help snarling at him as I jerked away.
He scowled. “That’s what I thought.”
The necklace’s delicate silver chain cut into my skin as he yanked down on it. The sound of it snapping was drowned out by my scream of pained protest. He flung it across the room, where it disappeared into the shadows. Although I was still wearing my dress, I suddenly felt as though he had stripped me naked. I was exposed, more vulnerable than I had been since Master had first taken me into his home.
“While your offer is interesting,” The Bastard said calmly. “I don’t need you to be a willing slave. But we might have fun seeing how far you will go to keep me from hurting him.”
Master’s inarticulate roar elicited a pleased grin. “He doesn’t like that at all, does he? You see, his punishment is to watch me break you. However long it takes is how long he will live. As soon as you call me ‘Master,’ he dies.”
“I will never call you that,” I hissed.
His sly smile was his only response. He reached over to the bondage table beside him and picked up an object I didn’t recognize. It was about the length of my forearm. The lower half seemed to be some sort of wooden handle, with a metal bar protruding from it. There was a thick, rectangular block of coppery metal at the end, and a long cord ran from the butt of the handle to an electrical socket in the corner.
Fear spiked in my gut as he lifted it to my face. I flinched, anticipating that he would strike me with it. But instead he held it steadily in front of my eyes so I could study it more closely. Artfully styled letters were embossed on the metal block in high relief, protruding from the surface by about half an inch: CM.
“It’s an electric branding iron.” The Bastard answered my unspoken question. For a moment, the horrific implication of the words didn’t quite penetrate my brain. “I’m going to mark you until you accept that I own you. Once you beg me as your Master to stop, you’ll get your reward.”
He flicked a switch on the base of the handle, and soft heat almost instantly began to pulse from the metal. The sounds of Master’s furious shouts and the rattling of his chains faded into the background as all of my focus honed on the terrifying device that was hovering only inches from my eyes, growing hotter by the second.
“I wonder how many you’ll take? I’d hate to mark up too much of your pretty skin.” The Bastard’s gaze roved over me, assessing.
A strangled cry shoved its way past the fear that crushed my windpipe as he reached up my dress and roughly grabbed my naked sex, pressing his thumb into the flesh above my womb.
“We’ll start here, whore. You’ll never again forget that your cunt belongs to me.”
My raw scream of terror clashed with a deafening crash. The Bastard’s eyes barely had time to widen in surprise when he was jerked back from me. A heavy chain was wrapped his throat, and Master’s hands gripped it tighter. The iron cuffs still encircled Master’s wrists, but the ringbolt that had held the chain to the ceiling was no longer embedded in the wooden beam. The Bastard’s restraints had never been tested on someone with Master’s strength.
The Bastard’s hands scrabbled at the chain, clawing at his own neck in a wild attempt to free himself. His face began to darken, rapidly turning from red to purple. When his body sagged, Master released him. He hit the floor with a gasp, but Master was on him before he could finish drawing his first breath. With a feral snarl, Master drove his fists into the Bastard’s face over and over again, every hit punctuated by a sickening crunch.
The Bastard’s body twitched, and blood gurgled in his windpipe with each desperate breath. When Master pushed off of him, his face was a gory, unrecognizable mess. Master pulled back only long enough to grab the branding iron where it had fallen at my feet. With a vicious, vindictive snarl, he pressed the metal into my tormentor’s throat. The Bastard’s agonized scream quickly died as Master applied pressure. The brand burned through his flesh, the metal disappearing as it carved a gaping hole in his neck.
Everything went silent and still save for Master’s ragged breaths as his chest rapidly rose and fell. The scent of charred meat permeated the room.
Acute fear and shock at the sudden, gruesome turn of events had immobilized my brain. My senses had absorbed everything that happened in sharp detail, but I had yet to process any of it. Now my mind moved sluggishly as my ability for coherent thought slowly coalesced. Disgust, relief, and vindictive pleasure all rose up within me at once, overflowing from my system in a harsh sob.
Master jerked at the sound, but he didn’t look at me. Instead, he fished a key out of the Bastard’s pocket and unlocked the cuffs around his wrists. As soon as they clattered to the concrete, he stood and strode purposefully away from me.
“Master?” I rasped his name questioningly as alarm tainted my relief.
He said nothing. Bending, he retrieved something from the shadows. When he turned to me, his eyes were wild with possessive fury. Any sane person would have shrunk away from that look, but it made my heart swell.
“It’s okay,” I said softly as he approached me, trying to soothe him. “I’m okay.”
He stopped before me, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he ground his teeth together. He lifted his blood-soaked hands to my throat. Silver and green flashed in the dim lighting. Master stared at the necklace intently as he knotted the broken chain together at the nape of my neck. Tracing his fingers along the line of it, he drew in a shaky breath.
When his eyes met mine, much of the wildness had faded. A sense of completeness, of safety, settled over me as well. The Bastard was dead. He could never hurt me again. Master had protected me, just as he always would.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He pressed his lips to mine briefly, and then he blinked hard, clearing away the last of his consuming anger.
“Let’s get you down, sweetheart.”
He reached up and unbuckled the cuffs around my wrists. As soon as I was free, I sagged against him, my shaking legs refusing to support me. He caught me up in his arms and eased me down with him as he sank to his knees. Keeping a supporting arm around my back, he reached back into the Bastard’s pocket and found a cell phone.
My gaze was drawn to the body. It occurred to me that the gory sight should probably make me want to throw up, but all I felt was a sense of peace. His mucky eyes were still open in his destroyed face, the sick light in them extinguished forever.
“Clayton,” Master said into the phone, his voice calm and steady. “Can you trace this call? I need you to pick us up. And bring a body bag.”
Chapter 28
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“We’ve finished searching the house and have run his details through the system.” There were dark circles under Clayton’s bloodshot eyes, but his voice was clear and steady. He had stayed up through the night casing the place where Smith and I had been taken. My prison had been in a basement under a house in a modest, quiet Yonkers suburb. It was hard to believe I had been so close to humanity and yet so far removed for so long.
It was six in the morning, and Smith and I had just been cleared from the hospital. I had some bruising on my cheek where the Bastard had struck me, but other than that I was physically unharmed. Smith’s wrists and palms were raw from where he had ripped at his chains, but it had been a fairly simply process to disinfect and bandage the areas where the skin had torn. Even though we were both exhausted, Smith had insisted that we get our debriefing over with as soon as possible.
Now he sat beside me on the couch in Clayton’s office, holding me close as we waited for him to tell us what information the FBI had gathered on the Bastard.
“His name was Carl Martel.”
Carl Martel.
It was jarring to put a name to the face that had haunted my nightmares. For so long, he had been almost an abstract concept, a remote, powerful being that held my life and my sanity in his hands.
I felt a surge of satisfaction as I pictured his ruined face and blank, unseeing eyes. Carl Martel was just a man, a mortal. And he was dead.
“He spent six months at Lyndon Field Psychiatric Hospital at the age of sixteen for arson,” Clayton continued. “After that, he barely exists on the public record. We’re checking his financials, but we haven’t found anything unusual. He seems to have inherited enough money to live off of when his parents died when he was eighteen. He never went to college, never held a job, and he bought his house in cash. His only other asset is a white GMC van, and forensics are checking that over now to see what more we can find. We suspect that’s how he transported you from Chicago to New York, Lydia, and we might recover more physical evidence on the other women’s cases from trace evidence in the vehicle.”
“Other women?” Smith asked.
Clayton’s lips twisted in disgust. “We found video footage and locks of hair in Martel’s house. Eight women. We’re trying to identify them now to notify their families. Hopefully their cases will help us get new leads on Martel’s Mentor. We’ve come up with nothing so far, but with Martel’s limited resources and lack of education, it’s seeming more and more likely that his accomplice was heavily involved in facilitating Martel’s crimes. He probably helped manipulate the tech to abet in Tucker’s murder.”
My heart sank. “So you don’t have anything on the Mentor?”
The man who had tortured and imprisoned me might be dead, but the man who had taught him how to do it was still out there. He might still be hurting other women. And he was going unpunished for his part in Tucker’s murder.
“No, we don’t,” a voice answered from the open doorway.
An unfamiliar man strode into the room. He was tall and heavily muscled like Smith, and he had the same confident, powerful bearing. His salt and pepper hair suggested that he was a few years older, but his green eyes were keen and youthful. I suspected who he was before he even introduced himself.
“Mrs. Chase.” He extended his hand for me to shake. “I’m Kennedy Carver, section chief of the New York office. I just wanted to say that I’m very sorry for what you’ve been through, and I assure you that the FBI is doing everything in its power to find Martel’s accomplice. That being said,” he turned his attention to Smith, “our investigation has been considerably hampered by Martel’s death. His very violent, very thorough death.”
Kennedy extended his hand to Smith. “I saw the crime scene photos. Off the record: Good work, Smith.”
Smith shook his hand, but he watched his boss gravely. “And on the record?” He asked pointedly.
“You’re suspended for a month. With pay. And you’re going through a psych eval before you come back.”
Smith scowled and opened his mouth to argue, but Kennedy cut him off with a level look. “You can’t strangle a man with a chain, beat him within an inch of his life, and then burn a hole through his neck and call it self-defense. You’re lucky I’m not doing more than suspending you. Clayton will keep heading up the investigation in New York, and I’m sending Miller to work with Agent Byrd in Chicago. You’re going to have to sit this one out, James.”
That suited me just fine. If the Mentor had been involved in killing Tucker, then he might still come after Smith. I leaned into Smith and squeezed his hand, calling his attention to me. As soon as he looked down into my silently pleading eyes, his furious expression melted.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered, knowing he had lost. He wouldn’t leave me to go out in the field if doing so was going to cause me distress. He turned his attention back to Kennedy and Clayton. “I’m taking Lydia home now. You’ll keep me in the loop.”
“Of course,” Clayton answered, even though Smith hadn’t phrased it as a question.
Kennedy jerked his chin at me, but he kept his eyes on Smith. “Take the time to look after your sub, James. We’ll contact you when we find something new in the case.”
I blinked at him, my mouth falling open slightly. Had he really just casually referred to me as Smith’s submissive? Smith had told me his boss was in the lifestyle, but for him to tell Smith to take care of me as though I was incapable of taking care of myself was galling. And right in front of me, no less.
Smith laughed at my shell-shocked expression. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s get you to bed. I’m sure when you’re well-rested you can come up with plenty of cutting remarks to put Ken in his place.”
I sighed, inwardly admitting to myself that I was far too exhausted to formulate a snappy retort. “Don’t think I won’t,” I said with a pointed look at Kennedy. His answering grin held a taunting edge, daring me to try it.
I rolled my eyes. Doms.
Smith chuckled and kissed the top of my head. “That’s my girl.”
Late that afternoon, I awoke to a soft tapping sound. Choosing to ignore it, I kept my eyes closed for a few minutes and savored the feel of Smith’s hard body. My arm was draped across his ripped abs, my head resting on his defined chest. The steady beat of his heart below my cheek was one of the most beautiful sounds in the world. He was safe. That Bastard – no, Martel – was dead, and he could never hurt either of us ever again.
Needing to look into his eyes, I opened my own. I immediately understood what the tapping sound was. He held me against him with one arm, but his other hand held his phone. A thin layer of bandages was still wrapped around his palm, but it didn’t seem to be hampering his dexterity. Intent on whatever he was doing, he didn’t notice me staring at him.
“What are you doing?” I asked curiously.
“Booking a flight,” he replied casually.
“What?” My heart stuttered. He was leaving me? “Where are you going?”
“We’re going to Paris. Tomorrow afternoon. Until they catch the Mentor, I’ll feel safer with you on another continent.”
My mouth opened and closed a few times as my mind processed that information. He was booking a flight for me? To Paris?
“You can’t do that!” I finally managed.
He looked at me levelly and turned the phone so I could see the screen. His thumb hit the “Purchase” button definitively.
“I just did,” he informed me.
“I can’t go to Paris! What about my school applications? What about my parents?”
He seemed completely unfazed by my concerns. “The colleges will still be here when we get back. You can work on your applications while we’re abroad. All of the artistic culture you soak up in Paris will give you more of an edge. And things have smoothed over with your parents, so I see no reason why they should factor into this.”
Well, that was true. My parents had called me and made it clear that they didn’t blame me for Tucker
’s death. They wanted me to come home to Chicago, but they had reluctantly accepted my decision to move to New York. But there was a difference between moving to New York and gallivanting off to Europe at a moment’s notice. My parents wouldn’t think it a responsible decision.
And there was another – much more significant – problem with this plan.
“Smith,” his name was a firm protest. “You can’t spend that kind of money on me. It’s too much.”
His brows rose. “It’s done now. Airlines don’t give refunds. Besides, what’s mine is yours.”
“It doesn’t work that way, Smith. I’m your submissive, not your wife.”
He shrugged. “You will be.”
I gaped at him. “Is that…” I heaved in several gulps of air, torn between annoyance and sheer joy. “Is that a proposal?”
“No. It’s a fact. I can promise you the proposal will be much more romantic.” He grinned in the wake of my stunned silence. “Do you have any idea how tempting your lips are when they’re parted like that?”
Without waiting for me to answer, he took advantage of my open mouth, pressing his lips to mine. He took my surprised gasp as an invitation to explore further, and his tongue stroked in to tame mine. By the time he relented, my head was spinning and my clit was throbbing.
I opened my eyes to find him smiling at me gently.
“I have something for you. And before you protest: it’s something else that I can’t return, so you’ll have to accept it.” He kissed me swiftly. “Wait here.”
I wanted to question him, but I recognized my Master speaking to me. I decided to wait and see if it was worth arguing over whatever he had gotten me.
He left the bedroom, and I heard the sound of a box being opened in the kitchen. A package had been waiting for us when we arrived at the apartment, but I had been too exhausted to care about what it contained. Now my curiosity burned hotter with every second that I waited for him to return.
When he appeared in the doorway, I couldn’t help sucking in an awestruck breath. Every inch of his sculpted naked body was perfect, but it was his eyes that entranced me most. They glowed with an intense, fervent light. My soul instantly responded, opening to him, ceding my body and mind.