Empty with the exception of a contraption made of metal and leather.
In the pale space, the one piece of furniture was like a giant black spider crouching in the middle, its legs attached to the floor with thick screws, open cuffs dangling off the thing. It took Clover’s brain all too long to recognize the rig for what it was. He’d seen something similar in a catalogue he’d looked through with Drake.
A spanking bench, only a heavy duty one, with traces of use on the leather.
“What’s your name?” came from a speaker in a pleasant masculine voice made eerie by the creaking sound that followed.
His brain emptied. Should he keep that a secret? Was there a need for it at this point? “I… I—”
Crooked slapped the back of his head, sending him two steps forward. “Answer the fucking question.”
“Clover,” he choked out.
Big Nose closed the door that had no handle on this side, just a metal grip meant for pulling, and the finality of the gesture made Clover’s stomach drop. He’d be raped here. Why hadn’t he listened to Tank? Jerry’s successful killing had muddled his mind and given him far too much confidence in his skills. Between these white walls, stripped naked, he could see how miniscule they were all too clearly. He wasn’t strong enough, nor fast enough. He hadn’t even been smart enough to run and call for Tank’s help when he’d still had the chance.
Boar had been right. Drake hadn’t been thinking straight, and Clover should have tried to stop him instead of following his lead in that moment of madness.
He searched for the speaker, only to find it mounted above a large window. His heart might have stopped before speeding up into a frantic gallop when he saw Apollo on the other side. The man wore a mask that covered the upper half of his face, but it was the same person Clover had seen at the zoo. Seated in a comfortable chair, he drank wine from a crystal glass, but he wasn’t alone. Four other people were in the dark space on the other side of the glass, their own masks glowing in the clinical light shining above Clover. Each was the same plain oval with slits for eyes, as if they had been offered to wear them for the occasion.
What the hell was this?
“And who might you be, Clover? Who do you work for?” Apollo asked, and drank more wine.
Were the others being questioned now too? What would Drake have done? Or Boar? Clover knew one thing—neither of them would have given up Tank and Pyro.
“I work for myself,” Clover uttered.
One of the goons behind him snorted. “This will be fun,” he whispered to the other.
Apollo tut-tutted and pointed to the contraption. “You didn’t come to that zoo on your own, so why would you say something that stupid?”
Clover didn’t get to speak before two pairs of strong arms dragged him toward the spanking bench as if he were a puppet. Fire burned through his veins, and he kicked one of his captors without thinking, but the man’s elbow clashed with his mouth so hard the room spiraled around Clover even as he felt cool leather touch his chest and gravity pull at his limbs.
“Don’t make this harder on yourself than it needs to be,” Apollo said as if he were calming a toddler.
Clover’s heart was beating faster by the second, and he cried out in pain when Big Nose pressed him down. Crooked grabbed Clover’s hands and fastened them to the bench with metal cuffs that felt nothing like the soft leather Drake had used for their pleasure.
“I’m sorry,” he uttered. “I meant that we work alone. Not for anyone else.”
Clover clenched his teeth when Big Nose spread his legs as if Clover weighed nothing, and he proceeded to attach his ankles to the bench as well.
A year since Jerry had sold him to Riggs, captivity felt just as daunting, and Clover was as powerless as he had been back then. But this time, it wasn’t only fear that drove his speeding thoughts. Guilt ate into his brain, rotting all positive thoughts, all hopes. He was here because of stupidity. Not only had he not stopped Drake from a fatal decision, but he’d also drawn Boar into this. Sweet, loving Boar who’d come with them because he worried for their safety.
What had he done?
“Stop lying, Clover. You are going to tell me the truth, so you might as well make it easier on yourself,” Apollo said from behind the glass, watching him through the pale mask.
Clover flinched when a hand glided up the sensitive skin on his inner thigh. He hated the touch with so much intensity he was becoming nauseated. These men toyed with him as if he were a pretty object, a sex doll they’d get to come into. They would make him cry, he had no doubt. They would give him STDs, rip him apart. Then again, would he even live long enough to care about future sickness? Right now, his body screamed to be free of shackles, and he was desperate to cover up from the predators who would abuse him.
“Shall I get the cane, sir?” asked Crooked with a mean smile present in his voice.
“I’m not lying,” Clover said, forcing out words through his clenched windpipe. “There is no one above us. Our attempt was personal.”
“And how would you have known I was the one looking for you, little boy? How did any of your friends know?” Apollo asked, his voice followed by a swish of the air behind Clover.
Even without seeing the cane, Clover tensed and pulled on the cuffs as his heart came up to his throat, pulsing furiously. But there was no pain. Crooked must have swished it through the air to scare him.
“Where are they?” Clover asked, desperate to at least get as much.
“You don’t have to know,” Apollo said in his deceptively pleasant voice.
Clover clenched his eyes and lips, wishing to vanish. For his heart to stop and for all of this to end, because there was nothing good in his future.
He was brought back to reality when the next swish ended with the cane hitting his back. He screamed in pain, pulling on the restraints as pure agony spread through his skin. This was nothing like even the harshest of Tank’s spankings. He saw white and went so rigid his calves screamed out from the sudden cramping
“How did you know, Clover?”
He shook his head, searching for an excuse, but that wasn’t needed. He had a half-truth to sell before the cane cut into his flesh again. “Jerry… J-Jerry. I used to live with him, and we came for him, because he was the one to sell me in the first place. H-he told us about his meeting with you.”
“Oh, Clover. I see we have a long night ahead of us. Five,” Apollo said, and Clover heard a chuckle from one of the masked guests who watched his torture as if it were only a performance.
The cane hit his thigh, then the other, making him scream and thrash. Pain burned into his flesh like needles breaking skin, and his cheeks were hot and damp after just three strikes. Crooked pulled up Clover’s head by the hair and presented his face to the people on the other side of the glass. Shame licked Clover’s skin over how little he could take, how he was already on the verge of begging for mercy despite knowing he couldn’t expect it from these people.
“There’s nothing else,” he whimpered. “I swear!”
But the strokes kept coming, and each time the sharp swish was a prelude to a world of pain. He felt like he was being tenderized for cooking while still alive.
He would die here. There was no way out of this. One stupid mistake, and the family he’d chosen had been torn apart forever. He didn’t want to even imagine what would happen once Tank and Pyro realize what had occurred, but he was feeling sick already.
The cane must have broken his skin because he felt several drops of hot liquid drizzle down his thighs. His brain was mush when he heaved, awaiting another strike, helpless in the bindings and open to any torture these people wanted to inflict.
He let out a sob, unable to feel shame over it anymore. He was only human, and so, so weak. He used to consider himself a rock, yet under the heat of torment, he turned out to be barely an imitation made of chocolate, and melted into a helpless lump of bleeding flesh. How could he have ever been conceited enough to think he ha
d the balls to stand up to people like Apollo?
When the cane hit his feet, he cried out again, curling his toes despite knowing it wouldn’t help him. Sharp stabs of pain shot up all the way to his thighs, transferred through bone and ligaments, but when the cane swished again, and he braced himself for impact, Apollo’s voice came through the speakers, stopping the torture like a physical barrier between Clover and the goon.
“Bring in the marked one. Now.”
One of the torturers, Clover didn’t even comprehend which one anymore, left, while the other ran his fingers up Clover’s thigh, dipping them in his blood. He reached between Clover’s buttocks, to his desperately clenched hole and teased it with the damp finger.
“May I, sir?” rasped Crooked, and Clover gagged, helpless against the bout of nausea flooding his body.
“Not yet,” Apollo said, bringing no relief, because ‘yet’ meant that Clover would be raped. He’d be caned, tortured, torn apart inside and out, left without dignity for the pleasure of the audience behind the glass. As if he wasn’t even a real person but a character on a perverted TV show.
The big hand lingered, rubbing Clover’s hole in a promise of even more horror, but at least it didn’t bring any more pain. The places brutalized with the cane didn’t burn. They weren’t on fire. They felt as if they’d been chewed by vicious teeth and spat out, but as heat turned into an oddly cold sensation all over the bruised skin, the door opened again.
Clover looked up, choked up at the sight of a familiar face. The lock slid into place, but all Clover could see through the haze on his brain were Drake’s bruised features and naked chest. They expressed nothing, like the blanks masks of people behind the glass. Until Drake spotted Clover, and he came alive, eyes wide, cheeks flushing.
“Motherfuckers!” Drake yelled and bared his bloodied teeth.
Clover shook his head. “Don’t, Drake. Please,” he uttered, realizing his own voice was raspy from screaming.
Tears had given his vision a blur, so when Drake moved, he turned into a whirlwind of flesh and black hair. He grabbed the cane and kicked Big Nose, ripping it from his grasp. Clover screamed when Crooked reached for the knife at his belt, but Drake was on top of him already, screaming like a banshee. The cane went down like a blade, through the bastard’s eye, and deeper. Crooked gave a raspy scream, and his feet broke into uncontrollable shudders. Then, with a twist of Drake’s back muscles, he went silent after a creak that resonated between the tiles.
Clover couldn’t even breathe. Everything happened in slow motion.
Drake and Big Nose got to their feet in the same moment, but as the goon touched Clover’s thigh, Drake threw Crooked’s knife, and the intrusive fingers were gone, followed by the dull thud of a fallen body.
The silence was interrupted by both of their heaving, and Clover looked from one of his rapists-to-be to the other, unable to comprehend just how quickly Drake had disposed of the threat.
But would that save them?
The sudden clapping from behind the glass made Clover stiffen. Drake stood over Crooked’s dead body, his gaze shooting straight to Apollo, as if he hoped to break the glass and pierce his heart with the force of his mind. Teeth bared, Drake dashed at the window but it wouldn’t budge and sent him back to the floor.
Some of Apollo’s guests flinched at the impact and that cut the applause short, but even Drake couldn’t break through the thick barrier.
“Impressive. Where have you gotten your mark?” Apollo asked in a steady tone.
Drake punched the glass again, scrambling to his feet. “I will kill you for this, you cunt!”
Apollo turned around, and only then Clover noticed that there was a man in the shadows behind Apollo. “Check the catalogue. This is getting more and more interesting.” He turned back to Drake. “Must have been quite a while ago that you got the brand, because I would have remembered you, I’m sure.”
Drake was struggling to keep his cool, hands balling into fists as he looked at Apollo, a trapped animal unable to bite into the throat of its oppressor. “Fuck. You,” he said through clenched teeth before gravitating toward Clover.
Stuck in a world of constant pain, Clover struggled against the tears welling in his eyes the moment Drake touched him with the gentle, careful hands he so completely trusted. His limbs shook, but the familiar scent of his lover’s body was a promise of safety, even in this house of horrors.
Apollo’s laugh crackled in the speaker. “The boy refused to tell me anything, but now I’m compelled to think it really is a personal thing for you. Did I know you as Drake when I had that mark put on you?”
Drake stepped toward the glass and spat at it before grabbing the cuff on Clover’s wrist and searching for ways to unlock it. His black eyes met Clover’s, and no words were needed to communicate the depth of guilt hiding behind that gaze. They could have entire conversations without anyone here understanding a thing. But as Drake fumbled with the cuff, Apollo spoke again.
“Pick up the cane.”
Drake shook his head. “In your fucking dreams, psycho.”
Apollo stood up. “I said, pick up the cane. You killed the man, so you have to finish his job now, Drake.”
Drake studied Clover, ignoring Apollo’s voice. “I’ll search them for keys,” he whispered before stepping toward the two corpses.
“If you don’t do as I say, I’ll tie him up naked and let all my staff do whatever they want to him. Or I could give him to Mr. Arnie,” Apollo said, and Drake stumbled over his own foot, instantly tense. “Ah, so you do know him. You wouldn’t want that, Drake, would you? Is he your boyfriend? Or the other one?”
The mention of Boar made Clover look up, but was he to ask this monster if Boar was okay? He surely wasn’t. If Boar was lucky, he’d have been ‘just’ beaten up. Clover dreaded to imagine what else could’ve been happening to him this very second.
Apollo spread his arms. “I’m confused, boys. Is this a thruple situation I’m dealing with here? Doesn’t matter. The cane, Drake. You will hit the boy, or see worse done to him, knowing it’s your fault.”
A visible shudder went through Drake before he glanced Clover’s way, his face a mixture of fury and grief. There was no way out. The door was locked, the glass wouldn’t break, and Drake’s proficiency at killing couldn’t help them without an opening.
Clover’s lips were parched, but he gave Drake a gentle nod despite hating even the concept of that cane. “It’s okay,” he whispered, even though Drake looked as if he might cry any second. None of the people watching would have noticed, but the raw emotion in Drake’s black eyes didn’t escape Clover.
They would get through this somehow. Together.
Drake swallowed, drifting off to the fallen body and the cane that stuck out of it like a leafless palm tree. He stepped on the goon’s face and yanked out the tool with the same swish that had Clover’s insides shrinking in fear.
His footsteps were slow, as if he wanted to put off the inevitable, but there was no escaping their fate.
“What were you used for, Drake? Was it sex or something else?” Apollo asked, watching them while someone filled up his empty wine glass. “You seem very capable. Such a riddle. I’m loving it. All this time I thought the attack was revenge for the albino, but I see there’s so much more at play.”
The faceless people observed it all without a word, soaking up the brutality in front of them. Clover imagined they regretted that they couldn’t smell the blood the room reeked of. A few red droplets fell to the white tiles from the cane Drake held.
“Go on, Drake,” Apollo said. “Hit him. Twice. For the two men you took from me. But I want to see blood.”
“Don’t you have enough of it already?” Drake asked, and Clover shut his eyes when he met Apollo’s piercing gaze through the glass, powerless to flee, to argue, to do anything at all.
“It’s either you or Mr. Arnie. Your choice.”
Silence lay on Clover’s back, until it became too much, an
d he could hardly breathe. The swish of the cane was almost a relief. Almost, because then it descended on his abused flesh and tore a scream out of his lips.
He promised himself that he wouldn’t stab Drake with his agony and keep silent, but even as he bit his tongue, preparing for the next strike that split his skin, he still cried out when the cane hit him. When Drake hit him.
He sobbed even as Drake dropped the bloodied implement to the tiles. Clover’s whole body throbbed with an intense ache he’d never known before. His heart resonated with the wounds, creating pain both mental and physical. He should have stopped Drake from going after Apollo. Shouldn’t have pressured Boar into coming. Maybe he deserved this, but his men didn’t.
Apollo’s laugh was like the voice of an omnipotent being, and Clover hated just how accurate that was.
“See, you should have just enjoyed your freedom. You should have never laid a hand on my sister. What’s happening to you now is your own damn fault, Little Vampire.”
Drake stepped back, and through the haze of pain and numbness that replaced rational thoughts in Clover’s brain, he heard the first chords of a popular old song, followed by Julie Andrews’ voice. It was a happy song from a bittersweet musical, and the list of lovely things it presented clashed with the white walls, with the blood drops on the floor, with the corpses, and with the pain resonating throughout Clover as if his flesh might never mend.
But Drake howled.
He howled like a wounded animal, put his arms over his head and scooted, as if he wished to curl into a ball and hide from the world around him.
Clover’s heart broke, and even the pain all over his body disappeared. Tears streamed down his face because he was bound and unable to join Drake and hug him. He’d always known Drake had a soft centre, but now, despite the position Clover was in, he wished to protect him. To take a hundred more strikes from a cane just to be able to crawl to Drake and close his arms around him.
Four Mercenaries - The Complete Collection Page 42