AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Travis is going to—it’s—” He looks away from me, hands clenched tight at his sides. “He’s going to use Carter’s mouth.”
I close my eyes, vomit crawling up my throat. My brother has had to do so much fucking worse, but that doesn’t make it any easier. And how am I going to survive watching it this time?
There I go being selfish again.
This isn’t about me.
“They think that’ll be enough time?” I ask, hating how hoarse my voice has suddenly gotten. “If it’s not, tell Travis he should do something with me. No one has whipped my front yet. It’s a perfect canvas.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I force myself to look at him. He’s looking back at me. His expression is carefully blank, once again showing just how good he is at his job, just how good he is at pretending. “If it’s not enough time after the blowjob, Travis is going to invite guests to come use Carter’s mouth afterward.”
“No! No fucking way. No.”
“It’s not your decision, Mais.”
“No. You hear me?” I roll to my knees, ignoring the aches and shooting pains. I grab the bars with both hands and shake them as hard as I can. It’s a damn good cage. I wouldn’t be able to break out. Panic whips through me as that realization kicks in. I didn’t fucking care before, but now—now they’re going to—and I can’t— “No, Jake. Please. I—” My voice cracks. My eyes burn. “Please. Hurt me instead. Hurt me.”
He looks away again, his hands pulsing at his sides. “You’re the one who wanted Carter to choose. He chose.”
“No.”
“I’ll bring you some water.”
“Jake, I said—”
“Enough!” He kicks the cage hard enough to send vibrations down to my fucking bones. Rage is etched into every inch of his face. “It’s the last fucking day, Maison. Ten years, we’ve been doing this. Ten fucking years. You can do this for another twelve hours. If not for any of us, then for Carter. Keep it the fuck together.”
I rest my head against the bars, a sob catching in my chest. “It’s supposed to be me. I’m the big brother. It’s supposed to be me.”
“None of this was supposed to happen, bud.” He squats again, hooking his fingers on the bars beside mine so we’re touching. His blue eyes are full of agony. “But we’re in it now. We all have our parts to play. Can you play yours, or do I need to actually secure you to that chair tonight so you can’t fight even if you want to?”
Shame bubbles up inside of me.
I’m so goddamn selfish.
“I’ll play my part.”
Chapter Two
Nolan
I’m trapped in darkness when the chaos erupts. My tormentors had been enjoying my holes a minute ago, my body laid out for them on a leather bench, nipples clamped, cock caged, a shimmery gold blindfold secured over my eyes to match the accents of the party. They have taken a break to listen to Master Roarke’s toast. Everyone at the party is here to celebrate the capture of this trafficking ring’s number one enemy, Maison Beckett, and Master Roarke is on stage, gloating. Of course he is. He just recently took down the last of his competition, securing his place as the top man in the region. He has a house full of loyal men and slaves—including me—at his disposal. He even got his hands on Maison’s little brother, Carter, weeks ago, using him as his own personal slave to taunt Maison. And now he’s got Maison trussed up on stage for all to see. He’s king of the world.
But when the chaos starts, the king of the world’s voice is nowhere to be found.
My heart starts racing after the first scream, pounding a rhythm of panic in my ears. It’s not loud enough to drown out the sound of gunfire. Of bodies hitting the floor and chairs and tables. Of things clattering and shattering and breaking. Of slaves screaming and crying.
Of a voice on the microphone—calm, steady, in such complete control that it’s hard not to believe him even when his promises of freedom feel impossible. I writhe on the bench, almost certain that the men who put me here are no longer around to punish me. But the leather straps are too tight. I feel them dig into my skin, threatening to draw blood.
I switch tactics, rolling my head to the side to rub it against the bench in the hopes I can loosen the blindfold. When a gunshot goes off so close to me that my teeth clack together and my ears fill with gauzy sounds, I scream for help.
No one comes.
No one is coming.
And then someone does.
The hands are warm, calloused, big. They run along my right arm, past my wrist, grabbing my fingers and giving them a gentle squeeze. Breath passes over one of my still-ringing ears. I can’t make out what the person says, but the voice is rumbly and low, like the off-in-the-distance thunder of a looming storm. I always did love thunderstorms.
