Page 17

Louhi

I miss my flat and my cozy bed with all the blankets and my favorite pillow. I pout as I think about that bloody pillow. It took me years to find that perfect pillow, but when I finally found it, it was game over . I never slept anywhere without it. The damp concrete floor of this inhospitable cell is a far cry from that plush bed in Boston.

Thoughts of Boston remind me of Martin, the owner of the upscale, exotic wine market down the street from me. I’d buy a bottle a week from him, sometimes two or three, just because I loved listening to him talk about the grapes. I smile to myself as I meditate on if Martin wonders what happened to me. Did the older sommelier notice when I stopped showing up, pestering him with questions?

Outside of my brother, Martin is probably the only person I’d consider an actual mate. There’s still Viktor and Conall, but can you really refer to the heads of the Bratva and the Irish mafia as friends ? Well, perhaps.

Actually, I know for a fact that you can.

I’ve known Viktor for as long as I can remember, our thirteen-year age difference meaning nothing to each other. While Viktor likely would’ve had more in common with my brother, it was me who he spent his time with, choosing to play with me while our fathers and his grandfather worked.

While we don’t see each other as often as I see Conall, due to proximity, we’ll pick up wherever we leave off. Will Conall reach out to Viktor about my whereabouts now that I seem to have dropped off the map?

I wince as I move. Everything hurts. My fingers need to be splinted and the smell of my burned flesh reaches my nose when I breathe too deeply. I was a little surprised when Digs never showed up to administer a dose of his aftercare. I’m still not sure what’s behind the bizarre form of treatment Digs provides either. Is it because he feels guilty about what he’s done? Or is it because he wants to check on me out of concern? Why would he care what happens to me? And why did he stop?

Hunger scrapes its talons along the inside of my stomach, and I’ve been dreaming of my first real meal when I escape this place. The contents of that meal change on a daily basis, but today, it’s a fat glass of dry red wine paired with a prime, medium-rare steak with a fresh chimichurri sauce and something bright green on the side, because I would kill for a vegetable.

I’m itching to get out of here. I’ve cursed myself a thousand times for not demanding a more certain timeline from Mercer other than his cryptic “before the anniversary,” for precisely how long I’d be stuck here. Instead, I simply vowed that I’d try to behave. I’ve kept that promise, generally, so I give myself pats on the back for that.

Groaning, I shift, and though I’m not freely swinging from the eyebolt in the ceiling, it’s no less uncomfortable. My wrists chafe, the noisy iron chain digging into my skin hard enough to bruise, as I push higher on my tiptoes to relieve some of the pressure placed on my joints. I’ve long since given up forecasting what fresh hell each new position I’m left in will bring, so I haven’t bothered analyzing my current predicament.

My shoulders scream in pain by the time Digs saunters into the torture room, dragging a chair noisily behind him. Positioning the chair against the wall that faces me, he begins to pick at his un broken fingers with his knife as I contemplate how good it would feel to slice him open with it.I’d be willing to bet that his blood would spill prettily.

“Get on with it, then,” I huff impatiently. I’d rather skip to the end of this bullshit. I’m losing patience with everything these days. I want my damn pillow and my decadent wine. I want to slip my feet back into my black stilettos, or combat boots, depending on my mood. I want to tug on my leather jacket and slide onto my bike, sans helmet, letting the night wind dance wildly through my hair as I pick up speed.

Most of all, I crave to get back to work. It keeps me sane. The bloodletting of that guard has hardly soothed my fraying nerves, but it’s been enough to keep me somewhat tame…for now. How long that will last is anyone’s guess, and Mercer should know better than to leave me here for an extended period of time. I’m patient, but there are limits.

“Get on with what, exactly?” Digs questions without even glancing up.

“Whatever it is you’ve planned for today.”

“What is it that you think I have planned?” Lovely, he wants to play games.

Just then, the lightbulb above my head flickers, casting the room in an eerie ambiance that makes me roll my eyes. He probably loosened it before I arrived.

“I won’t presume to understand the mind of a sadist.”

His head snaps up, shock momentarily turning those watery blue eyes to icicles, and I grin. Nailed that diagnosis, not that it’d take a genius.

“A sadist, hmm?”

“No need to feign ignorance with me. I’ve seen the way my pain makes your cock grow. ”

Not responding, he pushes to his feet and crosses the room, only stopping a hair’s breadth from me. He leans forward until his masked mouth is next to my ear, and I inhale his musky, masculine scent. He smells amazing. Clean.

“Would you like to see that now, Lou?”

His words send a shiver down my spine that I don’t suppress, wishing I could have felt the way his breath would have breezed over the shell of my ear when he spoke.

When I don’t answer, he pulls back, scantily cocking his head to the side as he demands, “I asked you a question. I want an answer.”

“We can’t always get what we want, can we, Diggory ?”

A rippling sound is all the answer I get as he cuts through the entirety of my clothing with his knife, leaving me with an obvious sense of déjà vu. “You should really stop doing that.”

His head tilts and his eyes widen a fraction in an expression that wordlessly asks, why’s that?

“I’d hate to get spoiled with all these new clothes you’ll inevitably provide.”

In answer, he brings the blade up to my face, spinning it around in a failed attempt at intimidation. My eyes track his as the cheek of the blade skates across my bottom lip before pressing the tip into the tender flesh, pricking the skin. Blood bubbles and my tongue darts out to catch it, capturing his attention.

“I had something else planned for you today, but now I want to test a theory.”

What theory?

He disappears through the door opposite the one he came through as I realize that I’ve never seen him access that door before. When he returns, he’s carrying a small black box that he places on his chair. Through his T-shirt, the muscles in his back pop and strain as he digs around in that mystery container. When he spins around to face me, he’s holding a needle. Bloody great.

He prowls forward like a single-minded predator, my breath catching as his hand darts out to pinch my right nipple forcefully between his thumb and forefinger before he plunges the needle into the sensitive nerves. What the fuck?

I hiss, pulling my open-mouthed gawp from the scene unfolding at my chest to Digs’s masked face. There’s something swimming in his intense gaze now that wasn’t there earlier: something both icy and hot; hungry yet sated.

He repeats the process on my other nipple before taking half a step back and his mask pulls slightly as his obscured face stretches into what I can only presume is a smile. What I would give to see the deranged madness on display right now.

I have no idea what I’ve been injected with, why he had to depress the needle into my center of my nipples, or what this wanker has planned for me, and I’m most interested in checking out his smile . Jeesus Kristus , I’m fucked in the head. If I could send an SOS signal, I would.

Packing the needle back into its box, he vanishes behind that secret door again, where he’s gone for several minutes. He must not have been lying about having pivoted from his original plan for this torture session, because this time he comes back with a mid-sized bin that he positions on his chair.

My nipples are beginning to tingle as I survey him removing the lid and pulling out…an ice cube? Bloody hell?

He saunters forward, the ice in hand, and grazes my distended nipple with the small frosty block. I gasp, holding my breath. When I finally let it out, a moan escapes with it.

What the hell did he inject me with? Shit, fuck.

The pain is excruciating, but there’s a faint thrum of delicious pleasure that filters through periodically, like swimming in a warm lake and encountering a pocket of cooler water that’s drifted up from the bottom. The sensation is nearly overwhelming.

I’ve experimented with temperature play before, but not like this. Whatever he shot into me has the stimulating thrill sparking to life as if it’s an all-consuming fire feeding on whatever he injected into me like its oxygen.

Right now, I’m cursing my already sensitive breasts. He glides the cube over both and the searing, painful pleasure is somehow worse than the blowtorch. The sensation shooting through me with every pass of the ice is nearly indescribable. I can feel the hardness and unbelievable responsiveness of my nipples like I’m having an out-of-body experience that only seems to be connected to my breasts.

Panting, my chest expands haphazardly as I study his face. Nothing about his shadowy blue eyes has changed, but his attention hasn’t deviated from his task. I whimper on his next pass over my nipples just as wetness pools between my spread legs.

The stinging, white-hot pain shouldn’t be doing this to me, should it?

After what feels like forever, the ice has mostly melted. With the drops of water trailing down my exposed skin, he shoves the cold remnants between my parted lips, his fingers slipping into my mouth as well. I close my lips over his three fingers and swirl my tongue around the oral invaders. When his eyes flash, I suck harder. He spreads his fingers apart inside my mouth and then pulls them out a fraction before thrusting them back in more forcefully. He does this a few more times, and when I think he’s grown comfortable, I smile around his fingers and bite down, hard. He hisses as he yanks his fingers free. Attempting to conceal my obvious arousal, I wink at him before he retreats to the bin on the chair.

This time, he returns to me with clamps, and I know before the metal ever bites into my skin that this is going to be severely unpleasant. He attaches them both and I seethe, muttering curses, but he only chuckles. In an effort to combat the agony of my chest, I grit my teeth so hard I wonder if I’ll crack a tooth.

?iti kusip??. Mother arsehole, it hurts.

Next, he stuns me by unclipping the chain around my wrists from the ceiling, bringing my bound wrists down in front of me and detaching my spread legs from their captivity completely. As I’m jostled, the chain connecting the nipple clamps swings gently with my movements, reminding me of its growing presence.

Does he realize how dangerous this is?

I gain my bearings enough to mask my shellshock of being released as Digs towers over me and threads his massive hand through my dirty hair, tugging my head back to look up at him. As I stare up into his dark and dangerous blues, it hits me between the eyes like a gunshot.

I fucking like Digs. Fuck, when did that happen?

It’s why I haven’t really fought him, I realize. It’s why I haven’t allowed myself to consider what will happen to him when I escape. It explains why I find myself looking forward to my sessions with him, however unpleasant. My inner beast calls to his. It’s why I’m not afraid of him, despite our dynamic.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d still like to get a couple— fine , more than a couple—hits in, and I want to cut him open and watch him bleed a little. Yet I don’t want to kill him, and that tells me everything I need to know regarding my mental state where this guy is concerned.

I could fight him now. I could likely even kill him and end his life right here, but I don’t. Instead, I allow him to explore my face with his hand, relishing the feeling of his warm, rough skin against my cheek as he brushes the pad of his thumb along the bone. He brushes over my still-angry bottom lip as I blink up at him.

“Let’s talk, Lou.”

I focus my attention on my breathing, and when I don’t reply, he tugs on the chain attached to the clamps, making me squeak. “When is the next attack?”

When I don’t respond, he yanks harder on the chain, spearing me with pain, and I grit my teeth to prevent another yelp from escaping. Whatever he injected me with is exacerbating the agony, and all I want to do is scream or rip my breasts from my body with my bare hands, probably both. Somehow, I manage to hold it inside.

“Where is the next target?”

I lose track of how long we do this song and dance for, and my nipples are stark raving mad by the time he chooses to change tactics.

Digs points to the floor before him, indicating that I should kneel, and I haven’t a clue why I do it without question. Curiosity, perhaps? We’ll go with that.

Kneeling before him, my breaths are ragged, and I can nearly taste the tension emanating from him. I didn’t notice it earlier, lost in my own chaotic mind and the pain lancing through me, but now that I’m opening myself up to the moment, it’s obvious.

There’s something deeply formidable about being on your knees before a man. It may seem like he’s the one in charge, but I can assure you that I’m the one with the power in the palm of my hand. In spite of my discomfort, I smile up at him, daring him to follow through with whatever he has planned. The fitted mask allows me to make out the flutter in his tight jaw, and I feel nothing but satisfaction.

“Take off my belt,” he commands, his voice gruff.

I don’t move. I’m not remotely compliant by nature, but I have a feeling that he doesn’t want me to be docile or amenable, not that I’d even know how. He grips the back of my hair and yanks my head back roughly, this time growling, “I said, Take. Off. My. Belt. ”

Again, I make no move. His hold on my hair tightens, and I swear he rips some out, which makes me smile a little.

I’m not a true masochist. I don’t derive pleasure from pain. What I do derive pleasure from, however, is seeing Digs’s wild side come out to play. I’m getting off on watching him become someone else entirely. A lowering man capable of making the darkest fantasies a reality. And that’s something I’m very interested in seeing more of. There’s something hypnotic about watching him transform.

“Now, Lou,” he commands, his eyes hyper-fixated on me. Deciding that I’ve pushed far enough for now, I reach up and unfasten his belt, keeping my attention locked on his masked face.

“Unzip me,” he orders, as if I were some bimbo oblivious to what’s clearly on the agenda here.

My eyes are halfway through their dramatic roll when, lightning fast, he clenches my jaw tightly and squeezes. Holding my gaze, his voice is lethally calm as he states simply, “I will crush you. I will crumble your soul, your spirit, your body. Do not underestimate me and absolutely never disrespect me. Unzip me.”

I narrow my eyes into slits as he releases my chin with a jerk, and I nearly fall back, but he tugs on the chain attached to the clamps. Squawking in pain, I pin him with a nasty scowl. My nipples are screeching, but considering the little speech he just gave, I opt to play it safe and unbutton his trousers, freeing him.

I tug his cock loose from the confines of his boxer briefs and sigh. A micro-penis would make this whole I’m attracted to him thing I’m currently wrestling with much easier to squash. Alas, I’m not that lucky. His massive cock matches his powerful body, and it’s nothing short of glorious.

My mouth waters as I stare down the first real piece of this man I’ve been privy to, and I can only hope that the rest of him looks as incredible as his dick.

Subconsciously, I think I knew the moment Digs brandished the needles that this session was going to be new territory for us. I want to be mad, furious that he’s taking advantage of a prisoner in this way, and while I’m mildly put out by the situation, a peculiar curiosity mixed with a startling amount of arousal—that I’m blaming on the bloody drugs—keeps the flame of anger at bay, preventing it from taking on a life of its own. Still, how far is he willing to take this?

The iron chains binding my wrists clank softly like violent wind chimes as I bring my joined hands up to coast a fingertip down the soft skin sheathing his solid erection. Jerking me back by my hair, he stops me. “Your mouth. Only your mouth. If you aren’t going to open your mouth to talk, I’m going to fill it.”

My eyebrow arches and my lips curl into a sneer, but I lean forward nonetheless. It’s not as if I’m not dying to get my mouth on him. He sucks in a sharp breath as I wrap my lips around his thick head, swirling my tongue. I flick my eyes up to meet his, and he stares down at me with an unreadable flicker in his eye as he shoves my head down, clearly impatient.

Calm down, mate, I’m getting there. Instead of saying that, though, I follow his silent instruction and swallow more of him, sucking his cock into my mouth until he hits the back of my throat. Without warning, he thrusts, ramming himself past the point of comfort, making me gag as I sputter. Breathing through my nose, I attempt to acclimate so that I might take more of him. A bright burst of surprise bubbles through me when he allows me to pull all the way back, but the feeling is short-lived when he slams my mouth back onto his cock roughly and begins to fuck my face.

If I was able to use my hands, I’d drag a finger over his balls before cupping him, interested in learning all the little things that might make this man tick.

When he tugs my head back again, tendrils of saliva drip down my chin onto my bare chest, and I nearly gag again as he slams back into my mouth, battering against the back of my throat like a loose shutter in a windstorm. Tears track down my face as I choke on his cock for what feels like hours. He tastes like a delicious poison, one that I can’t seem to stop guzzling down, but that I know might kill me. When I finally glance up through watery lashes, I find him glowering at me.

What could you possibly have to be sullen about, Digs?

He’s getting his dick hoovered, and based on the fierce grip he has on my hair and the erratic cadence of his chest, his heavy breaths filling the air like a chorus of wordless praise, I’m doing a damn good job .

Digs’s body locks up, his posture going rigid, and I know he’s about to come. For the briefest of moments, I contemplate clamping my teeth down around his flesh, taking a bite of him like a delicious snack, but decide against it as the urge to taste his cum overwhelms me.

“Swallow, Lou.”

My vision narrows in defiance as his body vibrates slightly with mirth. “Do as you’re told. Swallow.”

Hot streams spill down my throat, and I swallow greedily. I would’ve swallowed, regardless of what he demanded of me. I’ve never been a spitter—at least not in this capacity—so when he slides from my mouth, I lick my lips, savoring the way he tastes. Like salty, powerful masculinity.

“This is where you say, ‘thank you, Louhi, for blowing my mind,’” I taunt him with a smirk while I stagger to my feet as he tucks himself away. His gaze flicks to mine and the stoniness there tells me that any gratitude is out of the question.

Reaching up, I move to unlatch the alligator clamps assaulting my precious nipples, when he catches my wrists. I eye where he’s gripping me, then drag my eyes up achingly slowly to meet his and tilt my head, my expression both a warning—or a dare—and a query.

The sharpness of his gaze never dulls as he simply grunts, “Don’t touch those.”

He quickly snatches the chain dangling from the ceiling, restraining me. Back to square one .