Don’t You Pucking Dare (The Blackridge Reapers #2)

Chapter 26

Lola looks small in the cell, curled on her side like a broken doll. Something twists in my chest watching her—something that has no place in tonight's performance. The Reapers are watching through the cameras, evaluating every move. I can't show weakness. Not now.

I check her breathing for the third time. The chloroform might have been too much for someone her size, but backing out wasn't an option. Not with Rick Kemper making his own moves, sending those photos of her mother. He thinks he's ahead of the game. He has no idea what's waiting in this chamber.

The monitors cast blue light across her face. Even unconscious, she's got that stubborn set to her jaw. That's what drew me to her first—not just her beauty, but that quiet defiance. The way she surrendered in the garden maze but kept that spark of fight. The way she let me claim her in front of the Reapers but never fully broke.

My little Duchess. Who would have thought she'd become more than just bait?

I've orchestrated everything perfectly—using our connection to lure her here, playing the possessive lover to hide my true purpose. The Reapers want Rick Kemper's blood. I want his suffering. But Lola... Lola's become the wild card I never expected.

She stirs, a soft sound escaping her lips. I straighten in my chair, hidden behind the two-way mirror. She'll be disoriented at first, then angry. Then terrified when she realizes where she is. The same chamber where she watched me torture Jack.

Part of me hopes she'll understand once it's over—that this was the only way to protect her from what's coming. Rick Kemper's games are more dangerous than she knows. But another part, the darker part that comes alive when she submits to me, wants her to enjoy this. To embrace the monster she's been dancing with.

A groan echoes through the speakers. Showtime.

I just hope she's strong enough to survive the truth about her father.

We secure her to the chair before consciousness fully returns. Each strap feels like a betrayal, but the Reapers are watching. Everything has to look real.

"Brody?" Her voice cracks as awareness returns. She fights against the restraints, anger cutting through the drug haze. "I trusted you! Show yourself!"

I step into the light, masked and silent. Everything about this moment needs to be perfect—for the cameras, for the Reapers, for what comes next.

"Quiet." My voice carries authority she hasn't heard before. "No names in here. Understand?"

She studies me through clouded eyes—black shirt, dark jeans, mask hiding any trace of the man she knows. Any sane person would be terrified. But my Duchess just watches, calculating even now.

Her hands tremble against the restraints, but it's from the chamber's cold, not fear. Everything in me wants to protect her from what's coming, but that's not what the Reapers want to see.

I lean close to the bars, voice dropping to barely a whisper. "Be compliant. I'll get you out of this. Trust me."

The slight tilt of her head tells me she understands. This is bigger than us now. If I wasn't the one doing this, it would be someone else. Someone who wouldn't care about keeping her safe.

She looks otherworldly in the chamber's harsh light, defiant even bound to the chair. I turn to the table of implements, making a show of selecting tools. "What comes next... you won't enjoy it."

The weight of my brother's broken body haunts every move. This initiation, this performance—it's all for him. For justice. But watching Lola's defiant eyes, I wonder if there'll be anything left to salvage between us after tonight. I pick up the first tool of torture.

"They think you're hiding something." I let the riding crop trace her legs.

She hisses at the first strike, still fighting through the drug haze. Even now, she's calculating, adapting. My perfect match in this twisted game.

I circle her like a predator, letting the leather tails whisper across her skin. Each touch is a message—hard enough to satisfy our audience, gentle enough to keep from marking her permanently. When I strike her face, it's all theater, no real force behind it.

"If it wasn't me," I breathe, close enough that only she can hear, "they'd show no mercy."

"Just keep me alive." Her whisper carries steel beneath the fear.

I force her legs apart, making a show of dominance for the cameras. She grabs the bars, knuckles white but spine straight. Even bound and exposed, she maintains that quiet dignity that first drew me to her.

The implements laid out on the table tell a story of pain, but I choose them carefully. Everything has to look worse than it is. Someone's streaming this to Rick Kemper right now, showing him exactly what his games have cost his daughter.

I catch the camera's red eye, making sure they know I see them watching. This performance isn't just for the Reapers anymore.

"Give Daddy a good show." The voice modulator makes me sound inhuman. Perfect.

The taser crackles to life in my hand. It'll hurt, but not permanently damage. Just enough voltage to make her scream.

Just enough to make Rick Kemper believe.

The taser's first kiss leaves an angry red mark on her stomach. Her scream echoes off the chamber walls, and something dark stirs in me—a mixture of horror and unwanted arousal that makes me hate myself. This is the first real mark I've left on her. There's no taking it back.

Blood trickles down my hand where her nails caught me. I shake it off, adjusting the voltage. This has to look real, but I can't risk—

Her next scream cuts off into something worse. Her body convulses against the restraints, and then she's retching, violent and endless. Fuck. The drinks and drugs in her system, the electricity—it's too much.

"Fuck!" The curse isn't part of the performance. I wrench the chair upright, tilting her head to the side so she doesn't choke. My hands want to sweep her hair back, to comfort her, but the cameras are still rolling.

This wasn't part of the plan. She's strong, but she's still human. And I'm still the monster hurting her.

Movement catches my eye—a black-gloved hand signaling from the shadows. I pretend not to notice immediately, maintaining my performance for the cameras. But the message is clear: enough. I back away from Lola, leaving her slumped in that metal chair, the acrid smell of vomit hanging in the air. Each step feels like betrayal.

The control room hits me with the blue glow of dozens of monitors. The Reapers stand like dark sentinels, their red masks reflecting the screens where Lola's broken form plays from multiple angles. The footage is already streaming to Rick Kemper. Now we wait.

"It's done." Noah's voice carries satisfaction. "Let's see how fast daddy comes running."

Her phone sits on the center console, screen dark and silent. The sight of her vomit-soaked clothes on the monitor makes me feel sick. The things I'll need to do to make this right—if she ever lets me is beyond any repairing I know how to do.

Minutes crawl by. Each monitor shows a different angle of her suffering. The security feed outside stays empty. No sign of Rick Kemper.

"We need to clean her up." My voice comes out rougher than intended.

"No." Noah doesn't look away from the screens. "Let him find her like this. Let him see exactly what his games cost."

An hour passes like torture. She hasn't moved, hasn't made a sound. The vomit dries on her clothes, her skin. My hands itch to help her, to undo the restraints, to wash away what I've done.

"I'm getting her out."

"Touch her," Noah's mask turns toward me, light catching the intricate blood-red patterns, "and you can forget about ever wearing one of these."

I storm out of the control room, away from the monitors, away from the sight of what I've done to her. The red mask was supposed to be everything—revenge for Jackson, power, respect. When did Lola Kemper become something more important? That’s why every footstep takes me away until I see activity in the front.

Dawn breaks over the mansion just as black SUVs start flooding the grounds. Something's wrong—this isn't just Rick Kemper arriving for his daughter.

I sprint back to the control room. The Reapers crowd around monitors showing feeds from every angle. Rick Kemper emerges from a tunnel we didn't even know existed. Of course he'd know the underground network better than us.

He approaches Lola in the chamber, his expensive suit out of place in this dungeon. She lifts her head, recognition and hatred flashing in her eyes.

"You." The word carries years of abandonment. "Where's my mom?" Lola strains against her restraints, voice raw from screaming.

Rick strokes her hair, avoiding the mess we made of her. "Good girl. You played your part perfectly. Your mother's safe."

Noah's hand rises, commanding silence. We need to hear this. Caleb catches my eye, tension rolling off him in waves. Jack just glares, probably wishing he'd been the one to hurt her.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are." Rick's voice carries through the speakers, taunting. He knows exactly where we are.

The Head Reaper—the one who also has beef with Rick Kemper—steps into the chamber. Noah gives me a single nod. Whatever's about to happen, we're ready.

The gunshot cracks through the speakers. The Head Reaper crumples, red spreading across his chest. Noah's scream fills the control room.

Rick starts picking off cameras, each shot taking out another eye we have on the situation. Lola thrashes in her chair, either trying to escape or warn us—I can't tell which.

Noah's on his phone, barking orders while pacing like a caged animal. Me, Caleb, and Jack can only watch. We're just pledges in a war between giants. The rest of the Reaper pledges are scattered across campus, clueless about the bloodbath about to start with whoever the fuck Rick Kemper truly is. It’s clear that this man is a psychopathic maniac. I see with my own two eyes that he doesn’t give a fuck about Lola.

A dozen armed men flood the chamber, moving with military precision. Rick Kemper walks straight to the nearest camera, his smile all teeth and malice.

"Good morning, Reapers." His voice carries the casual menace of a man who orders deaths over breakfast. "You made a critical error dragging my flesh and blood into this. See, the Kemper name isn't just for show. My daughter proved quite useful in getting us inside. We've been here all night, boys. You just didn't know where to look."

Noah's eyes find me, accusing.

"An eye for an eye." Rick continues, elegant even in this dungeon. "Your precious Jackson Black destroyed something irreplaceable of mine. But he made me an interesting offer—another life in exchange. Brody Black." His smile widens. "Come say hello."

Lola's scream cuts through me like a blade. My brother sold me out?

"You believe this psychopath?" I snarl, but the guys hold me back.

"Don't." Noah's command carries steel. "My men are coming."

"Tick tock." Rick approaches Lola, hand cracking across her face. "And you—just like your whore mother."

Jack stops me in my tracks when he offers, "Let me go out there."

Rage fills me as I slam him against the wall. "What the fuck did you just say?"

"I'll be you." His eyes hold something I can't read. "I know Kemper's compound. I can protect her."

"She's not yours to protect." I almost break my teeth.

"If you go out there, you're dead." Jack's voice drops. "My redemption for being on probation."

Noah nods and unlocks the door. Jack slips out of my hold and walks out before I can stop him.

Through the remaining cameras, we watch them beat Jack to his knees and put a black hood over his head.

"I know who your father is," Rick Kemper chuckles. "Quite the corrupted politician. Dirtier than you would ever know."

I flinch, wondering what the fuck he’s talking about. My father is in politics to make a difference. Yes, not everyone agrees with his views, but it’s impossible to please everyone with such a powerful position. My dad always said that difficult decisions need to be made daily, and he does his best.

"Let Lola go," Jack demands, which is an interesting turn of events.

Rick Kemper tilts his head and then his guys beat him as Lola’s curdling screams fill the room. Then he flicks his head at his struggling daughter. His men remove her from the tight straps I had on her.

When they release Lola, they force her to her knees. Rick Kemper pulls the gun from his back and points it at Jack’s helpless face. Lola screams and automatically throws herself over Jack, shielding him with her body.

"Don't you fucking dare!" Her scream echoes through the speakers. "Don't you fucking dare!"

Rick lowers his gun, disgust twisting his features. "Take them both."

"No!" I shout.

"Hold," Noah orders his men.

"We're just letting them go?" My rage makes the control room feel too small, too confined.

Noah grabs my shirt, slamming me against the wall. "Shut your fucking mouth. This isn't your game anymore."

He releases me, turning to his phone. "Now!"

Footsteps echo down the stone stairs, deliberate and unhurried. Nico appears like death personified—Noah's brother, the man even Reapers fear. Rick's men swing their weapons toward him, but he doesn't flinch.

"Quite the entrance, Kemper." Nico's voice carries the calm of a practiced killer.

Rick turns, his composed facade cracking for the first time. "Nico."

I catch Noah's slight smile. This was the plan all along.

The gunshot comes from nowhere and everywhere. Rick Kemper—the untouchable crime lord, the monster who broke my brother—drops to his knees. Blood bubbles from his lips, staining his perfect suit.

"Oh, fuck!" The words escape me as Lola's scream fills the chamber.

She runs toward her father as hell breaks loose. Gunfire erupts from every direction—Rick's men caught in a crossfire as Nico's soldiers emerge from the tunnels they thought were escape routes. Bodies fall like dominoes, blood painting the stone floors.

Jack pulls Lola back from her father's body, sheltering her from the carnage. It should be me there. It should be my arms keeping her safe. Instead, I'm trapped watching through screens like a coward.

When silence falls, it feels absolute. Nico kicks Rick's corpse, confirming what the growing pool of blood already tells us. The great Rick Kemper, ended with a single bullet.

"Noah!" Nico's voice bounces off the walls.

We emerge from our hiding place into the aftermath. The metallic stench of blood mixes with cordite, making my stomach turn. Bodies litter the ground like fallen chess pieces in a game I never understood.

Lola sits in the corner with Jack, her face blank, eyes fixed on nothing. When I reach for her, she lets me help her up, but then shoves me away like my touch burns.

"Don't you fucking dare." Her voice cracks. "Don't you fucking come near me!"

"Lola, please." I hear the desperation in my voice. "I told you it would make sense—"

"Fuck you, Brody!" She runs for the stairs, leaving me in this tomb of her father's making.

Behind me, Nico and Noah discuss their victory like this was all business. But Lola's rejection cuts deeper than any bullet. I have to follow her, have to make her understand that everything I did—the torture, the manipulation, all of it—was to protect her from something worse.

I chase her up the stairs.