Page 295 of Phobia

“Dom,” Frank sighs. I can picture him now, the blank expression he wears that hides the danger lurking beneath. “It’s going to take that certain level of charm you bring to get him to speak. He’s in deep. Fucked if he does and fucked if he doesn’t.”

Yes, Oscar is fucked, and there’s no point talking if you’re dead either way. The problem is that I very much need him to talk. “When will you be here?”

“I’m in your kitchen. Fancy a brew?”

“No.” Locating last night’s trousers, I pull them on and grab a black T-shirt and hoodie from my wardrobe. Opening the door as quietly as possible, I leave Naomi sleeping and run down the stairs.

Frank’s sipping his tea in my kitchen, with Billy sitting at the table playing on his phone. He jumps up when he sees me. “Morning, boss.”

“I want this done quick,” I tell Frank. “No fucking around.”

He shrugs, knowing the task is on my shoulders, not his.

“You…” Glaring at Billy, I point to the stairs. “My guest doesn’t leave.”

Billy's eyes follow mine.

“You make her a breakfast fit for a queen, you be nice, and you keep your hands off. Got it?”

Billy nods and jumps up. Walking to the fridge, he pauses and turns to me. “Does she have any allergies?”

Is he fucking serious?

He stares, waiting, so I guess he is. I should be happy with his diligence, but I’m too pissed off to acknowledge him. I had breakfast plans of my own this morning, and they didn’t require food.

***

Slamming the passenger door shut, I stalk towards the warehouse with Frank trailing behind me. The adrenaline is pumping, the anger burning, images of what I’ve left in my bed and what I may no longer get to do, taunting me.

Taking the steps to the basement two at a time, I charge through the door. Straining against the hinges, it slams into the wall, alerting everyone that the Devil is here to collect.

The air is charged, yet my men look knackered. Torture isn’t easy. Applying the right amount of pain—enough to invoke fear but not to make them pass out takes practice.

Unconscious people can’t speak, after all.

As I get closer, my men stand tall, holding their nerves. Calling me out for this is not something they’d have done lightly—they were expected to own it.

I don’t even look at them, my sights set on the bleeding git tied to a chair, his head resting against his chest.

“Good morning, Oscar,” I say brightly, and his head snaps up, his eyes wide with fear, realising who’ll be taking over.

“Judging by the fucking state of you, my boys have had quite the night, and yet, you still won’t talk.” I drag a box over and sit in front of him. “Is that right, Oscar? Am I up to speed?”

“Dom… I don’t-”

“That’s the problem, Oscar, you do,” I grind out. “And unfortunately for you, you’ve ruined my fucking morning.”

Even with all the dried blood covering his face, I see him pale.

“This isn’t going to be pleasant,” I warn. “I can read you. I see how scared you are of me, of what I might do.” Standing, I move the box closer, ignoring his piss-stained trousers and the stink they’re giving off. “Do you know what else I know? Greed is more powerful than fear.”

He chokes as he swallows—he’s afraid of me, but he’s being paid enough to take the edge off. To give him a reason to hold out.

“Strip him and hoist him,” I order, and my men jump to action.

There are too many for Oscar to fight, but still, he pleads innocence. “You’ve got it wrong, Dom. I swear!”

Ignoring him, I watch as his naked body is dragged, and his wrists and ankles are attached to chains hanging from the ceiling. Barely a minute later, Oscar’s hanging in the air, facing the ground, his dick and balls swinging freely.