Page 28

CHAPTER 28

M atthew

I sipped my coffee, letting the bitterness bloom fully onto my palate before I swallowed, as I opened the latest report from the Guard’s surveillance of étienne Beaumont, codename Leopard. I’d been following Beaumont’s movements closely for the last few months. He hadn’t justified my time yet, but I’d kept going, checking on his activities as reported by our deep cover Miles every few days.

I wasn’t the only senior analyst in the New York Mithraeum who felt sure that the French trillionaire would eventually give us something actionable. The other leones who worked in this control center deep below the streets of Manhattan didn’t share my conviction about the specific, vital importance of Beaumont’s efforts in one particular area, though.

I knew in my bones—in the face, too, of my colleagues’ skepticism—that the magnate would soon close a very important loop. Groupe Synergistique and a certain bunch of Russians who had a vise grip on a crucial asset had been flirting with one another for months. These Russians, led by a warlord named Georgy Horakovsky, codename Ashcan, happened to control a very substantial power grid in Eastern Europe. The grid supplied a sizable territory there that the Guard—returning to older place names in the current geographic disorder—called Pomerania. I felt confident in my prediction that the two parties stood on the verge of a deal to divert an amount of power that would cripple local infrastructure, a development the Guard absolutely had to disrupt, if it did occur.

I didn’t have any hard evidence, though. The only thing that backed up my instincts was a brief report from the Miles , Jean Gisard, that provided a few snippets of some overheard conversations Beaumont had had on an encrypted phone. I had to admit to my fellow leones that Beaumont could have been talking to anyone.

I knew , though, that someone from the Pomeranian group had been on the other end of the encrypted line. I knew it with the same kind of unshakable confidence that my colleagues at least had to admit had led to more than one intelligence breakthrough in the past.

I leaned back in my chair, my eyes scanning the report on my monitor. The familiar surroundings of the control center faded into the background as I focused intently on the information before me.

The report detailed the transfer of two young women, Mary O’Toole and Camille Dubois, from known sex traffickers Sven Hallstrom and Erik Thorvaldsen to Beaumont. My heart rate quickened slightly as I absorbed the implications: the break I had waited for might have just fallen into my lap.

Gisard, it seemed, had clocked the new girls’ arrival and alerted the Guard to trace their previous movements. I scrolled through the details our algorithms had found through our surveillance resources, my mind racing.

Mary O’Toole, eighteen years old, a redhead with striking green eyes. Camille Dubois, also eighteen, dark-haired and exotic. Both students at the University of Rouen before their abduction. Mary, an American, had even come from a Selecta college, which meant I could find a lot of data on her in the Guard’s files—notably including her submissive sexual orientation.

The report also included high-resolution images captured by surveillance drones. The first few of these showed the girls being brutally disciplined by Hallstrom as Thorvaldsen filmed, presumably for Beaumont’s benefit. Then, immediately after making the video, it appeared from the time stamps on the images, the men had fucked the girls over a hay bale.

The dominant style of the traffickers’ enjoyment, their idea of putting Mary and Camille head to tail, made my cock harden against my thigh. My analyst instincts kicked in even more strongly than my sexual ones, though. I scrolled through more images, showing the men putting the girls in a white van and, later, their arrival at Beaumont’s chateau.

Then, the note from Gisard that I had somehow known I would see.

Subject A (Gisard meant Mary, according to established comms protocol) was present at a meeting between Leopard and Ashcan. Will attempt interrogation.

* * *

Mary

I only truly understood the importance of our mission when Monsieur Beaumont discussed the deal for the power grid with the man he called Georgy, while I knelt in front of them, sucking their cocks.

“She’s good, isn’t she?” Beaumont asked, in English—thankfully the only language that both he and Georgy felt comfortable in.

I felt Georgy’s hand tangle in my hair, yanking my head back roughly. My jaw ached from the stretch of accommodating his thick shaft, but I didn’t dare complain.

“She is skilled,” Georgy agreed, his thick Russian accent making the words sound harsh. “But I want to see how her cunt feels before I make any judgments.”

Beaumont chuckled, a sound that sent chills down my spine. “Of course, my friend, of course. In good time.”

As Georgy guided my mouth back to his member, I tried to focus on the conversation happening above me. I told myself, probably for the millionth time in the past three days, that my mission depended on gathering as much information as possible, even as my body was used for these men’s pleasure.

“Now, about grid nine two eight,” Beaumont said, his voice casual as if discussing the weather rather than a deal that would affect millions of lives. “I trust everything is in order on your end?”

Georgy grunted, thrusting deeper into my throat. I fought against my gag reflex, tears springing to my eyes. “Yes, yes. My men are in position. We can divert power to the target areas within hours of receiving payment.”

“Excellent,” Beaumont replied. His hand reached across the foot or so between the half naked men and stroked my hair almost tenderly, a stark contrast to the brutality of his words. “And you’re certain there will be no way to trace it back to us?”

“Of course not,” Georgy scoffed. “We have taken every precaution. The local authorities will blame it on infrastructure failure. By the time they realize it was deliberate, months from now, the trail will be cold.”

My mind reeled at the casual way they discussed such a devastating act. I redoubled my efforts on Georgy’s cock, hoping to keep him distracted and talking.

“Tell me more about the diversion,” Beaumont urged, a note of excitement creeping into his voice. “I want to be sure we’re getting our money’s worth.”

Georgy laughed, a harsh sound that made me flinch. “Oh, the diversion will be a thing of beauty, my friend. The big hospital in Szczecin alone… they overpower that facility shamefully. Why should weaklings be kept alive at the expense of those who pay?”

I felt my stomach churn at his words. Hundreds of lives, snuffed out so casually. And for what? Profit? Power? The enormity of what was at stake hit me like a physical blow.

“Mmm, yes,” Beaumont purred. “May I?”

“By all means,” Georgy said.

I felt my owner’s fingers tangle in my hair, pulling me off Georgy’s cock so that he could force my mouth down on his own. His hips jerked slightly as I worked my mouth on him, desperately trying to give the pleasure that seemed to keep me from being noticed as anything more than a piece of furniture.

I wished suddenly that Camille were there, so that we could confer later about what Beaumont and Georgy were saying. Beaumont had brought both of us to his bed the night we arrived, but after he had used us we each had been put in separate bedrooms—cells, more like, which must once have been maids’ living quarters—on the floor above the master suite.

Jean, the guard who had brought us to our rooms, told us that we would be kept separate so that when Beaumont gave the guards permission to use us, it would be easy to fuck one of us at any time without waking up the other—or disturbing a colleague who was already fucking the other girl.

The first night, in Monsieur’s bed, Beaumont had made Camille and me kneel before him as he sat on the edge of the massive four-poster. The silk sheets had rustled beneath him as he spread his legs, his thick cock already hard and glistening at the tip.

“Show me how well you work together, little whores,” he had commanded, his voice rough with lust.

Trembling, Camille and I had leaned in, our tongues meeting on the underside of his shaft. I remember the salty taste of his skin, the musky scent of his arousal filling my nostrils. We licked and sucked in tandem, our mouths occasionally meeting in a perverse kiss around the head of his cock.

Beaumont’s hand had tangled in my hair, forcing me to take him deeper. I gagged slightly, tears springing to my eyes. Then he had yanked me off, pushing Camille down instead. We alternated like that for what felt like hours, our jaws aching, lips swollen and slick with saliva and pre-cum.

“That’s it,” Beaumont had groaned. “Such good little cocksuckers. Now, open your mouths and stick out your tongues.”

We had obeyed, kneeling side by side, faces upturned. Beaumont stroked himself furiously, his breath coming in harsh pants. With a guttural cry, he had come, thick ropes of semen splattering across our faces and into our waiting mouths. The taste was bitter and overwhelming, making me want to gag, but I forced myself to swallow.

“Beautiful,” Beaumont had murmured, using his softening cock to smear his cum across our cheeks and lips. “Now, up on the bed. I want you on either side of me.”

We had climbed onto the luxurious bed, the silk sheets cool against our heated skin. Beaumont had lain between us, one arm wrapped possessively around each of our waists. His fingers had idly traced patterns on our skin as he drifted off to sleep.

Since that first night, though, Beaumont hadn’t used us sexually again. It puzzled me and, if I were honest with myself, unsettled me a little. Not that I wanted him to use me, of course. Or… I told myself that, anyway. But it seemed strange that he would go to the trouble of acquiring us only to ignore us.

As I knelt here now, my mouth working over Beaumont’s cock while Georgy waited his turn, I couldn’t help but wonder about the reason for his restraint. It must have something to do with his alliance with the Sons of Odin, I thought; perhaps he feared and respected Sven and his brothers too much to do more than keep up the appearance of using their bed thralls.

Here, though, in a meeting with a Russian warlord, Beaumont obviously wanted to give the impression that his captive concubines were eager fuck toys, available to honored guests. My naked body’s reaction troubled me: after two days without stimulation I could feel my pussy respond with an excitement that seemed a humiliating confirmation of what my Herra had said about my need to serve the lewd demands of men I didn’t know.

I worked my tongue along the underside of Beaumont’s shaft, trying to focus on gathering information rather than the shame burning through me. My body betrayed me, though, a familiar heat building between my thighs. I longed desperately for another vision of Yggdrasil, for some mystical insight that might make sense of this madness.

“Mmm,” Beaumont hummed, his fingers tightening in my hair. “Such a talented little whore.”

Georgy grunted in agreement. “Indeed. But I think it’s time I sample that sweet cunt of hers.”

My stomach clenched at his words, a confusing mix of revulsion and anticipation coursing through me. As Beaumont pulled me off his cock, I caught a glimpse of Georgy’s massive member, angry and red with arousal. I swallowed hard, steeling myself for what was to come.

But before Georgy could make a move, an idea seemed to strike him. His eyes lit up with a cruel gleam that made me shiver.

“You know, my friend,” he said to Beaumont, his accent thicker with lust, “I have a thought. Why don’t we seal our deal properly? Let’s fuck this little slut together.”