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“Boss,” the piece-of-shit security guard says. “Want me to call the cops?”
“Where is she?” I holler as Rider springs the lock.
He doesn’t waste time with words. “Come on.”
The guy spent half his life as an elite athlete, but I match him step for step as he sprints up the stairs. No time for the fucking elevator.
Club members scatter in front of us. A waiter whirls out of the way, losing his balance and sending a tray of crystal champagne flutes to the floor. Three security guys fall into line behind us, but they lose ground as Rider pounds down the tunnel.
A crowd has gathered outside one of the rooms. A woman’s crying, mascara ruining her daisy-covered mask. The guy she’s with keeps patting her back, like that ever does any good.
Other people push forward, resting their hands on shoulders, trying to get a better view. A pair of guards keeps the crowd at a distance, fists on hips, arms akimbo to show they mean business.
Aside from the crying woman, the group is nearly silent. That makes sense, I guess. Everyone knows you don’t interrupt someone else’s scene. Breaking a Dom’s concentration can fuck with his carefully calculated restraint. Screwing with a sub’s mental and emotional balance can be a hell of a lot worse.
Rider shoulders his way into the room like he’s fighting for a puck in the crease. I follow before the crowd can close again.
“Get off her, you cocksucker!” The words are out of my mouth before my brain processes everything I see. My shout is loud; I want it that way. But it sounds like a fucking freight train, because everyone behind me is goddamn silent.
Jonas Herzog has his cock halfway down Alix’s throat. His fist is twisting her mask, ripping off one of her pointed little cat ears. He’s stretching her neck, fucking her face, even though she’s gagging like she’s about to puke.
I lower my shoulder and hit him at speed, like he’s a football sled and I’m determined to shove him off the end of the world. I feel the rush of air as my momentum crushes his lungs. I hear his cock slide free, wet and sloppy. I knee him in the crotch, hoping I can drive his balls through what passes for his brain.
Before he can drop, I whirl on the other motherfucker. He was crouching over Alix’s ass like a dog humping someone’s leg. Now, he’s cowering by the couch, his hands over his head like he’s afraid I’ll kick his skull in. His right palm is slimed with spit, and my overclocking brain realizes Ansel was just lubing up. He hasn’t fucked her. Yet.
I shift my balance, drawing back a foot to kick his balls all the way to Staten Island. Before I can land the blow, though, a redwood tree falls across my throat. I’m dragged back three full steps, my feet scrambling for purchase on the floor. I try to jackknife, try to throw an elbow, try to turn into the neck hold and throw the motherfucker, but Rider’s security guard knows his fucking business.
Instead of keeping up the fight, I try to talk to the only person in the room who matters. “Alix,” I say.
She doesn’t answer.
She’s strung up like a fucking turkey, jute rope tight enough around her wrists to turn her fingers blue. I’ve never used anything that rough on her; she’ll have fibers trapped in bruises for days.
Her arms are suspended above her body like she’s a display in a medieval torture museum. I pray to God the fucking Herzogs knew what they were doing because if they didn’t, her shoulders might be dislocated.
They’ve got her in an O-ring gag, the type she hates. I don’t know what they gave her, but she looks stoned out of her mind. She’s staring straight ahead, like I haven’t just come close to killing two fucking excuses for men to get to her. I haven’t seen her blink yet.
“Alix,” I say again. “Princess.”
She flinches at that. But she still doesn’t blink. And she doesn’t turn around, doesn’t look at me, doesn’t acknowledge I exist.
“Dammit, Rider!” I shout, when I can’t break free of the goon who’s holding me. “Cut her fucking loose.”
He does better than that. He crosses to the tie off, the anchor where the rope is secured against the wall. He unwinds the lashing, then cautiously adds some slack to the line from the pulley to Alix’s wrists. He’s lowering her arms slower than I would. Giving her a chance to adapt. To adjust. To save her fucking tendons and ligaments and whatever else the stress position was designed to destroy.
When her hands rest on the small of her back, Rider starts to step forward, to unwind the goddamn hemp. Alix bucks like he’s hit her with a cattle prod. Swearing something under his breath, he stops. Glancing behind me, he signals to someone out in the hall.
A guard steps forward. She’s uniformed. Built like a pro wrestler. Hair pulled back tight enough that it might cut off blood to her brain. She kneels beside Alix, putting one hand on her shoulder to brace her, to steady her. With the other, she unwinds the rope, moving with maximum efficiency and minimum emotion.
“Can you stand?” the guard asks.
Alix doesn’t answer. But when the uniform climbs to her feet, Alix copies her. My princess sways hard enough on her high heels that the guard has to steady her with a hand under her elbow. At the guard’s silent urging, Alix sits on the black vinyl couch. The guard fetches her a bottle of water.
It’s the first time I register the stripe across her chest. The wound is weeping beads of blood and I swear to God if those fuckers scarred her incredible tits, I’m going to rip off their cocks and make them eat each other’s balls.
In fact, I might be halfway there already. The cumwipe, Jonas, is still moaning on the floor, hands tight between his legs, where I kicked him. Rider snaps out a command to his staff. “Get them medical attention.”
And then he raises his voice to reach the people behind me. “Everything’s fine, people. The scene just got a little out of hand.”
