Page 35

URIEL

I leave the room cursing under my breath.

My dick remains soft inside my pants. Tonight, I came to the club with one thought inside my head: release.

I quickly found a person interested in my sadistic scene, and I went at it as usual.

I tied the person up, gagged them, and started to deliver some pain.

It usually turns me hard as a rock—the muffled cries, the shivering body, the teary eyes begging for more while red marks appear on their skin.

Tonight I just couldn’t enjoy it. Not even a little. Because the person bent in front of me wasn’t Sari. It was a fraud, a pathetic impostor. Now I know what the real deal feels like, against me, crying my name, with his soft, smooth skin waking all sorts of dark intentions.

All the meaningless, faceless encounters I had in the past became a senseless blur.

I got off, they got off, but I wasn’t really present in the moment.

Sari’s sweet face was the one I always saw as I chose them and gave them pain, and when I felt really pent up, railed them. They were all pitiful imitations.

But tonight I couldn’t go along with the pretense anymore. I know how fragile the slender line of his neck is, how delicate the curves of his hips feel, the exact red shade his skin turns when I touch him, the softness of his long hair between my fingers, the plumpness of his ass in my hands.

My cock twitches, and I feel a tingle under my restless fingers imagining Sari restrained and screaming under my hands.

“Argh!” I let out an angry growl as I walk barefoot to the main room again.

As soon as the manager sees me, he hurries my way. Fuck!

“Mr. M.,” he addresses me in a whisper. “Your pet?—”

“Not my fucking pet.” I signal the bartender, and he nods, already knowing my usual.

“The…person who was with you in room three came to us to complain.” He looks down at the tablet in his hand. “He claims you released him a few minutes after starting your session and stopped without an explanation.”

“And?” I left my gun in the trunk of the Land Rover. Two minutes to reach the underground garage. Two more to get back and paint the floor with this fucker’s brain matter. I finally get a boner tonight from the mental image.

“Well, this is not the way we do things at Madame Claudette’s,” he affirms with a haughty tone. He’s a fucking ass.

“I didn’t fucking break any rules. One of BDSM’s consent rules states that either of the partners can stop a scene at any point.

” I grab the glass of bourbon and take a couple of sips before adding, “I’m sure he’ll find another dom very easily—owner or whatever the fuck you call it.

” He came to me all flirty and shit, clearly had a lot of experience, knew exactly what he wanted and what his limits were.

“Even so, upsetting a client like this is not very smart.” And upsetting me is?

I fucking hate this weasel. All he does is lick asses and order the staff around.

“Listen very carefully,” I snarl, getting nose to nose with him. “I own half of this fucking club plus 1 percent, which means I have the power to fire whoever the fuck I want. Right now, I think you’re unnecessary to the profitability of this establishment.”

The realization and then the deep fear filling his eyes already makes me want to keep him just to fuck with him.

“You have thirty seconds to change my mind. Starting now.” I move back to grab my bourbon.

He’s panting, all red in the face, eyes frantically flickering. “You-your guest, he-he arrived fifteen minutes ago or so. I wasn’t notified in advance, but I-I let him in anyway, since you are?—”

“What guest?” I ask in a bored tone.

“Bear-Stone,” he replies quickly.

“Raphael?” He is a member, not a guest.

“N-no.” He looks down at his tablet. “A Sariel Bear-Stone.”

“What?” I slowly growl out. An eerie feeling crawls down my body as every muscle in me tenses. I abruptly grab the manager’s stiff shirt and snap, “Where the fuck is he?”

The manager shivers with terror as the bartender answers for him, “He went toward the rooms, alone.”

“Which room?” I snarl at the manager. There’s no cameras inside the rooms, but there are three in the corridor. I swear to God if someone touched him, I’ll cut off all their fingers and make them eat each one.

The manager checks his damn tablet again, lifting it in the air on the left as I’m still gripping the front of his shirt. Finally he gasps a seven.

I know who usually books that room. The fucker Madame Claudette almost kicked out after he went down too heavily on his partner. He was here before. I saw him. Motherfucking shit!

I shove the manager away and rush toward the corridor. Sari’s body belongs to me. He might be sauntering around with it, but it’s mine. And I’ll turn that body into one that can’t feel anything unless he’s with me.

I finally reach room seven, and keeping my foot flat, I give a hard kick just above the wooden door knob. As the door bangs open, I storm inside, and what I find turns my blood cold.

Sari is on his knees and elbows on a bed, body trembling, wrists tied up, wearing only a lace bra and matching thong.

His left ass cheek is red, and his lower lip is split, a bruise forming on his chin.

His braid is half loose, and the mix of pleasure, fear, and sorrow in his teary eyes is instantly replaced with shock as soon as his gaze focuses on me. It guts me.

“What the fuck?” I hear an annoyed voice.

My gaze fixes on the dead man holding a wooden paddle, his arm outstretched over his head, ready to strike again what’s mine. I can clearly see the hard bulge tenting his silk underwear as he glares at me. It thwarts the chill inside, making my insides boil with rage and very malicious needs.

“Get the fuck out! We are getting to the good part here.”

The edges of my vision turn red. Blood red. Sanguine. He signed his death certificate the moment he touched my Baby Blue.

First, I sock him in the left cheek, dislocating his jaw, and employ an elbow block as he attempts to hit me with the wooden paddle.

I yank it out of his hand and shoot it straight at his throat, bruising his vocal cords and stopping the screaming.

I crack three of his ribs with a knee hit and block his pathetic left hook by grabbing his swinging wrist. Then I place his left hand flat on the table and swing the paddle down on it over and over, relishing the sharp sounds of bones breaking.

I raise my elbow and get him right in the nose, fracturing it.

The blood that starts dripping down his chin doesn’t stop me.

I drop the paddle and use my fist to beat his face.

I no longer see the cockroach in front of me, only my vengeance.

Thinking of him making Sari cry, giving him pain, giving him pleasure, stealing moments from me, more first times that should have been mine. All mine.

My homicidal behavior is fucking justified. My bloody knuckles wrap around the cockroach’s neck, and I slide him up the wall.

“Let him go.” I grit my teeth at the familiar, trembling voice.

“Uri, put him down before you kill him.” Sari tries again, his words less shaky.

I tighten my fingers around the cockroach’s throat instead, enjoying every single gasp and wheeze as his face starts turning red.

I shift my eyes toward Sari. They fall on his busted lip. “No one makes you bleed but me. Only. Me,” I growl menacingly.

His little Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Uri, there’re eyes on us. Please, let go.”

In my peripheral vision, I see the manager with one of the guards stopping on the room’s threshold, shock and horror painted on his face at the sight of the bloody mess I turned the cockroach into.

Fucking fuck! I hate to be interrupted when I’m about to off someone. It deeply vexes me, like ants crawling under my skin. But I can’t get caught killing; I already lived in a cell and don’t want to experience that ever again. Nor do I want to leave Sari unprotected.

So I lean down to the cockroach’s ear and whisper, “This is not a goodbye, but a see you later.” I reluctantly pull my right arm back and release him from my grip.

I don’t watch his body drop to the floor, but I turn toward Sari, and after pulling half of the sheet off the bed, I shield his body from the other men’s eyes.

“Throw this fucking piece of shit out!” I tell the guard. He looks at the manager, who sends a look Sari’s way, noticing the bruise and blood on his mouth.

“Do what he says,” the manager orders, giving me a nod as the burly guard lifts the unconscious man over his shoulder and leaves. “What do you want me to do with him?” he asks me. Does he finally understand his place?

“Throw him on the street.” I’ll deal with him later. I’m sure Rami will find other people he hurt in his past. Not that it matters. I’ve already got the green light to get rid of him.

“I’m immensely sorry about what happened.” The manager is addressing Sari, looking all obsequious and apologetic. “Whatever you need, please?—”

I cut him off. “I’ll take care of him. OUT!” I snap.

He jumps back; wide-eyed and looking like a bobblehead doll, he nods as he hurriedly exits the room. It takes him three tries to close the door—since I broke the lock when I busted it open— but somehow, he manages in the end.

I take a step closer to the bed. Sari scrambles back, away from me; the rope still restraining him pulls at his wrists, halting his movements and stealing a hiss out of his lips.

He always looked at me with warmth in his aquamarine gaze. There’s no trace of it now, only sorrow and anger—so much anger. Still, his doesn’t match the depth of my fury. There’s a clear message in those pools that says, don’t come near me.