Bound By Thorns (Squad Six #2)

TWO

Kaylan

Not here. Not now. Not yet.

That wince must have given me away. Not to Logan, but Noel. His eyes always lingered too long, scrutinizing my every move. Usually, I was stoic, my face a mask of indifference while tending to the wounded. But Logan shattered my composure, and made my practiced apathy crumble. Every act, every mask, obliterated.

I needed to control myself in front of Logan. I remembered the day they brought him to Ravenrock Hall. I was so disoriented that I almost gave away my facade. I fought the urge to run to him. I wanted to ask him about his squad. I wanted to ask him how Brewer and Pedro were doing. But I shut myself up and erected these walls around myself to not let anyone inside.

Beyond the personal horrors Garret could unleash on me or Logan, I believed he had the power and spite to dismantle Bridgewood, to crush the Alpha Program entirely.

I settled down on my bed, closing my eyes to remember the days when Logan’s gaze didn’t contain the animosity as it did now.

???

When Officer Mercer dismissed us with the announcement that each Bridgewood squad would be relocated to their respective training locations within the next two hours, curiosity prickled at the edges of my mind. I wanted to know more about my newly minted team.

I knew Lancaster Brewer from my Iraq deployment—briefly, but enough to trust he wasn’t useless. The rest? A complete mystery.

I made my way toward Lan, weaving through the dispersing crowd, but my path was suddenly blocked. My gaze landed at neck-level—broad and solid, too close for comfort. I took a step back, craning my neck upward, and my breath caught.

I was instantly taken hostage by the most striking pair of blue eyes I’d ever seen.

Internally, I was wrestling for control, the sheer force of his presence unsettling. But outwardly, I kept my composure. Calm. Unflinching.

“Alpha Squad Two?” I asked, my voice steady.

He gave me a half-smile, one corner of his mouth tugging upward in a way that felt annoyingly disarming. “Logan Carlton. Alpha Squad Six.”

His hand extended toward me, and I glanced down, distractedly shaking it.

“I suppose introductions are unnecessary, then,” I said, arching a brow.

His grin widened, and suddenly, the room felt smaller. His light stubble framed his face perfectly, and my fingers itched with an irrational urge to run through it.

What the actual fuck is wrong with me?

“I think we can still get to know each other,” he said, his voice warm, playful. “Don’t you think?”

“You’d probably be dead in three months.”

“Ouch! I thought you’d have faith in me, sweetheart.”

I tilted my head, pretending to search the room for an answer. When I met his gaze again, there was a flicker of confusion—an adorable, furrowed-brow kind of confusion—that I almost hated myself for finding endearing.

“Am I wrong to assume this is a Bridgewood meetup and not a singles event?” I quipped.

A rich, genuine laugh escaped him, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“Kaylan, you’re—”

But before he could finish, a hand landed on his shoulder, effectively silencing him. An annoyed sigh escaped Logan. The hand’s owner was a dark-haired man whose expression suggested a persistent scowl.

“Let’s go find Max, Gunner,” the newcomer said, his tone clipped and impatient.

Logan rolled his eyes with an exaggerated sigh before giving me one last look, his soft blue gaze lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

“In another life, Kaylan,” he said, his voice teasing as he turned to leave.

And just like that, my blue-eyed stranger was gone.

???

I startled awake at the ominous sound of my door unlocking. That metallic clank, laden with dread, heralded Garret’s nightly ritual. Finished with his cigar and brandy, he sought out his version of dessert.

To him, I was just that—a dessert.

The door swung open and collided harshly with the wall next to it. Garret held the door open, a steely look on his face. His eyes were calm, but I knew too well what that calm insinuated on days Logan and the others wouldn’t give too much information.

I would’ve had the same fate as Logan, but for some reason, Garret decided that my body was too beautiful to torment and slaughter.

And he was selfish enough to not sell me either.

He’d rather fuck me than let me die a gruesome death or live a miserable existence. I thought I was relieved about that outcome. One week in, I realized how wrong I was.

Garret hastily took his shoes off, stumbling over the carpet, and walked up to the locked drawer in which he kept his equipment.

Even though I was screaming internally, I maintained the facade of calm and curiosity on the outside. One mistake and I knew he would destroy each and every person in my family.

A disgusting wet laugh escaped him as he grabbed a few things from the drawer, “You will like what I’ve planned for you tonight, darling.”

I let out a quiet, ragged breath as he stalked towards me. His hands flexed on a whip and handcuffs.

Unlike any other time I’d have thought about handcuffs, I wouldn’t have been able to imagine this particular outcome. I wasn’t just shackled—I was stripped of my voice each time.

“Lie down and take that damn red dress off. It’s pissing me off,” he barked out.

Nodding numbly, I did as I was told and waited for the nightly horror. I wasn’t always ready for his designed torture. He usually saved the bruises and pain for places that would disappear behind a sleazy dress.

His eyes gleamed in the faint yellow light of the room. Words clogged my throat. Words I’d tried to voice initially. But they’d just spurred him on.

Please stop.

But he hadn’t.

I’m not wet.

But he’d use lube.

I can’t anymore.

But he was relentless.

Here I was, stolen away, and kept as a madman’s whore until I was so used up that he wouldn’t want to fuck me.

Oh, how I waited for that day with desperation.

???

I woke up alone, as usual, with a stark pain in my lower abdomen and a fit of nausea that was almost blinding. The pain wasn’t new. It had been happening for a few weeks. I suspected an infection. But the nausea hit me like a truck on a freeway. I knew all too well what it was. I ignored it yesterday. But even without my medical training, I would know, considering this was the second time it had happened in the past two and half months I had been here.

I ran to the attached bathroom and hurled the contents of my stomach into the toilet.

Fuck, they will do it again, wouldn’t they? They will rip me apart again.

I wiped my mouth and quickly washed my face before heading to the bed again. It was still dark outside. My window had a bland view of the Ravenrock estate’s backyard. It would be a shame to call it that, though. Acres of land with a million gazebos and its own beautiful forest land.

I tried to nap again until the sun rose but my brain wouldn’t stop thinking. I kept thinking about odd things. But a constant guest in my head was a certain someone called Logan ‘Gunner’ Carlton.

Even bruised and battered, he looked handsome. I had never seen a man with a face so perfect. His blue, piercing eyes were almost perceptive enough to unearth all my secrets. But the blue-eyed stranger was gone. I knew he hated me. He had to. He was supposed to.

I should be happy that he did. At least he wouldn’t blow my facade. But it hurt every time he would watch me with disgust filled in his eyes. Every. Single. Time.

Before long, the sun rose and I headed to shower for the day. The fresh bruises that had started forming near my inner thighs and abdomen had started to hurt a little with every step, but it was better than having tic tac toe played on my back with a knife, I reckoned.

My heart hurt for Logan. He was suffering. Garret was harder on him than anyone else. Naturally, Logan had more information to dispense than all the prisoners combined.

After my shower, I dressed up in a plain white T-shirt and a pair of gray shorts. It was my staple for the day. I only wore a dress or something appealing when Garret was around in the evenings.

I went downstairs to the secondary kitchen and sat at the counter watching Martha cook breakfast.

“You’re early again.” She said.

I scoffed, “Just trying to get an early day once in a while, Mar.”

Her shaky hands were busy whisking a large bowl of something. I knew she had to prepare food for more than two dozen workers here. The residents–or prisoners, how everyone would call them–were fed canned food. I wondered whether Logan missed the regular awful food versus revolting food here.

“How was today? Did you vomit agai–”

“Martha…” I cut her off, my eyes darting everywhere in the empty hall.

“I’m just concerned.” Her eyes were downcast as she continued. “Would you tell him this time?”

Martha was an old lady who cooked for the staff. Garret had his own private chef. But Martha had quickly become a confidant after my early days here. She also helped me with my first pregnancy and abortion procedure. She knew too well that it was happening again.

“I’m fine,” I said curtly.

“It will only hurt more if you keep waiting,” she raised her brow.

I nodded absentmindedly and grabbed a cup of coffee she slid towards me.

Then she took her usual gossip stance, leaning over the counter towards me.

“How is that man? 424? Is he a fool for you yet, like everyone else here?” She whispered with glee.

I rolled my eyes and chuckled, “Keep your head out of it, Mar. He hates me.”

She shook her head pouting, “No one can hate you, Kaylan. I think even Garret loves you a little.”

I swallowed hard.

My oblivious little Martha. I was too scared to tell her about Garret’s nightly routine. She liked to live in a fantasy world, thinking she was helping serve a rich family, instead of a group of sick men.

Is it time to tell her about her boss’s extracurricular activities?

“I’ll go rest for a bit before they start with the day.”

I snagged my cup and left. I didn’t have the energy or even the physical strength to talk to anybody, let alone explain to this seventy-year-old woman that her life is a lie.

Walking around, I halted near the door that took us to the basement. Basement was a rather civilized term for what it was.

Who am I kidding? It’s a fucking dungeon.

That’s where approximately 112 prisoners resided. One of them was Logan. I eyed the locked door, the key to which was with Tyka and Garret. It was usually unlocked between the hours of 8 AM to 8 PM like it was office hours for them to torture ex-military.

Another hour and I could go and talk to 241. She was a former CIA, in her forties. Her real name was Ingrid ‘Knifer’ Lowel. But she had been 241 for three years now, and with all the attention she had gotten, she forgot her name. I suspect retrograde amnesia, but it could be a mental health issue as well.

The hour went by fast. I finished my coffee on my stroll, and had breakfast brought up to my room by Martha a few minutes later. A quick walk later, I was heading down two stories to reach the fucking dungeon. Thankfully, I didn’t need to pass Logan’s cell to reach Ingrid. I wouldn’t do it otherwise.

When I reached her cell, it was empty. I frowned with confusion but surely a second later dread filled my eyes.

No!

I ran back to the guard I saw while entering. Panting, I asked, “Where’s Ingrid?”

He grimaced in disgust, “Who?”

“241!” I shouted, “Where is she?”

He lazily checked his sheet of morning attendance and rolled his eyes.

“She is dead,” he said dryly. When my face twisted in horror and pain, he laughed. He fucking laughed in my face.

“Relax, whore. She’s been moved to cell number forty-six. Her cell is being prepped for someone else.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived. To reach cell number forty-six I would have to walk through cell number twenty-nine, where 424 resided, aka Logan.

Fuck me.

I started my journey to Ingrid’s cell with a shudder. Walking through the narrow aisle, I crossed many residents. Yes, that’s what they were called. Residents .

Not prisoners, not inmates, not people. Residents. How respectful. The faint clinking of metal plates and incoherent murmurs, and random screams of the residents filled my ears. It was always damp in here, and the lingering smell of sweat and blood was a constant shock to my nostrils.

Twenty-one.

Twenty-three.

Twenty-five.

Twenty-seven.

There it was, twenty-nine. I could see the cell’s space was barely utilized. But surely enough, I would see him. Either sleeping, or doing something. I didn’t know what he did during this hour. I had never encountered him during this time. God, I hoped he was sleeping.

I didn’t expect to see him today, so I was severely unprepared. My mask had slipped. I was here for a chat with someone I considered a friend. Now, I was going to face someone who considered me their enemy.

As I slowly trudged by, I saw him face down, doing pushups. His back looked better than last night. He hadn’t still removed the bandages I put there. I could see his masterful shoulder blades moving with each pushup.

God, this man was beautifully sculpted.

Why couldn’t I separate this man from the Logan I saw seven years ago? He definitely could.

When he saw my cushiony slippers, his gaze began to climb up. My breathing became erratic and I was sure I was trembling. I paused and couldn’t move past his cell.

He was now looking up at me. Without hesitation, he settled his knees down and sat up to get a good look. His face was blank, but I could see fury raging in his eyes. Those piercing blue icy eyes.

I forced my face to relax and not show the emotions I was feeling. Dread, regret, longing.

But when my gaze dropped to his chest, half of which was covered in burn scars, I gasped. I drank him in. His chest now had a tiny bit of hair growing on it, and his sweat was beading down from his neck to his torso. I kept wondering how he still looked incredibly rugged while being tortured for half a day.

The bead of sweat traveled enticingly low and reached his abs. Those beautifully crafted ridges, that a woman could taste and feel content after. Then the bead disappeared at the band of his white boxers. Before my eyes dropped further, I forced myself to look back up, only to find a faint smirk painting his face.

It wasn’t a walk. It wasn’t a lazy stride. I nearly sprinted out of there. I ran back upstairs abandoning my plans to meet Ingrid, until I was back in my bed, with my panties damp.