Chapter 31
Thirty-One
I sobel woke to the sharp, metallic taste of blood on her tongue. Her head throbbed, the remnants of whatever drug had knocked her out still pulsing through her veins. Slowly, she became aware of the cold air against her bare skin and the painful constriction around her chest. Panic surged as she realized she was bound to a chair, her wrists tied tightly behind her back. Her legs were forced apart, strapped to the cold metal legs of the chair, and a chain collar around her neck was pulled taut, pulling her head upright to the ceiling.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, her body trembling against the unfamiliar pressure of a corset strapped too tightly around her torso. The lacing cut into her skin, and every shallow breath felt like a struggle. A flimsy thong was the only other thing she wore, leaving her feeling utterly cold, exposed and vulnerable.
She blinked through the haze, trying to make sense of her surroundings. The room was dark, except for a single dim light hanging overhead, casting long shadows across the bare concrete walls as it rocked in a faint breeze. The oppressive silence echoed around her, save for the clink of the chain every time she shifted.
And then she saw him—Malcolm Hale.
He stood in front of her, shirtless, his muscular torso gleaming under the dull light. His black leather pants clung to him, tight against his skin, exuding power and control. His gaze was predatory, like a wolf staring down its prey. In his hand, he held a coiled leather whip, the tail of it brushing lightly against the ground as he moved, savoring the sight of her in this helpless state.
"Awake at last," he said, his voice low and mocking. "You know, I’ve waited a long time for this moment."
Isobel’s throat tightened, fear clawing its way up her spine. Her skin crawled under his gaze, the chain around her neck pulling uncomfortably whenever she so much as tried to shift away. She stayed silent, forcing herself to remain as still as possible, though her heart raced. Hale stepped closer, his boots making dull thuds against the concrete floor. He ran his fingers along her cheek, and she flinched involuntarily, the revulsion in her body uncontrollable.
"You’re so fragile, aren’t you? You thought Brad Killian could protect you from me. Thought you could hide behind him. But now..." His fingers trailed down her neck, grazing the metal of the collar. "Now you’re mine."
Isobel’s heart pounded harder, but she didn’t speak. She refused to give him the satisfaction of her fear.
"Let me explain how this works," he continued, his tone dripping with malice. "You see, I know Brad taught you about Dominance and submission. But he showed you the gentle side, didn’t he? The side that makes you feel safe, even when you’re vulnerable. What we’re going to do here is different. So much more… raw."
He smirked as he walked behind her, the whip trailing along the floor. She couldn’t see him anymore, only hear his footsteps echoing in the dark space. Her breathing became more erratic as she braced herself for whatever was coming next.
"I’m going to break you," Hale whispered in her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "Piece by piece. Until there’s nothing left of you but the need to beg. You’ll beg for me to stop, but I won’t. Not until I’ve taken everything."
He snapped the whip lightly against her shoulder, not hard enough to hurt—but enough to make her jump. Isobel clenched her fists behind her back, her nails digging into her palms as she tried to hold on, tried to push away the panic threatening to overwhelm her.
She forced her mind to drift, to escape from the cold terror of the room. Her thoughts went to Brad, to the warmth of his hands, the steady comfort he always gave her, even when he spanked her. She could almost hear his voice in her mind, calm and commanding, guiding her to breathe, to focus.
You’re stronger than this, she reminded herself, hearing Brad’s voice echo in her memory. You don’t have to give in.
She thought of the nights spent in Brad’s arms, the way he held her after a long day, his lips brushing softly against her forehead. When he whispered how much he loved her. Those moments of trust, of connection—they were real. And this? This was a twisted mockery of everything Brad had shown her. It wasn’t power. It wasn’t control. It was cruelty.
Hale snapped the whip again, harder this time, the sting of leather biting into her skin. Isobel’s body jerked with the pain, but she refused to cry out. She closed her eyes, letting herself drift further into her memories of Brad, pulling strength from their bond.
"Don’t think of him," Hale snarled, his voice darkening. "He can’t save you. He’ll never find you."
His words sent a jolt of fear through her, but she shoved it away. Brad will find me .
"You want to scream, don’t you?" he taunted, moving in front of her again, his eyes narrowing as he searched her face for any sign of weakness. "But you won’t, will you? Not yet. Not until I make you."
His hand wrapped around her braid, a braid he’d woven, tilting her chin up so she was forced to look at him, the chain around her neck pulling painfully as she met his cold, sadistic gaze. "I’m going to break you, Isobel. You can’t run from it."
But instead of fear, something else surged within her—defiance. She stared back at him, her heart steadying, her mind anchored in the strength of her connection with Brad. No matter what Hale did, no matter how hard he tried to tear her down, he would never touch the part of her that belonged to Brad. That part of her was untouchable.
"You won’t break me," she whispered, her voice steady and low, surprising even herself. "You’re nothing but a sick man. You’ll never be what Brad is to me."
For a moment, Hale froze, his expression flickering with something like fury. His grip on her chin tightened painfully, but Isobel didn’t flinch. She held his gaze, letting him see that no matter what he did, no matter how far he went, she would not give him the satisfaction of her submission.
In her mind, she clung to the image of Brad searching for her. She wouldn’t give in to this monster. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of her fear.
Hale released her with a sneer, stepping back, his eyes dark with rage. "We’ll see about that," he said coldly.
But Isobel knew the truth. She had already won.
In the darkness of that room, stripped and vulnerable, Isobel realized her strength wasn’t in the absence of fear. It was in her ability to face it—and rise above it. Brad had given her that strength, but it was her own now. And no matter what Hale did, he would never take it from her.
The tension in the car was suffocating, even as the wide expanse of the highway stretched before Brad and Larson. Pierre disappeared in the rearview mirror, but what they had learned from Mistress Raven clung to them like a shroud. The traffic ahead slowed to a crawl, brake lights glowing like malevolent red eyes in the dusk.
Larson drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, his jaw tight. “You believe her?” he asked finally, breaking the silence.
Brad stared out the window, his knuckles white as he gripped the armrest. “She didn’t have a reason to lie. Her business is already under scrutiny. Talking to us puts her at risk.”
Larson nodded slowly. “Still doesn’t make it easier to hear.”
The words echoed in Brad’s mind—too dangerous for even her clientele. Mistress Raven’s voice had been calm, collected, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of unease as she described Malcolm Hale’s depravity. He was a man who thrived on fear and pain, who had turned the darkest desires into something monstrous.
“She banned him from Hot Shots,” Brad said aloud, his voice low. “Think about that. A place that caters to people willing to push every boundary, and even they couldn’t stomach him.”
Larson exhaled through his nose, his frustration palpable. “That’s saying something. Fire play, asphyxiation, needles, bloodletting… the man’s got no limits. And those groupies Raven mentioned.” He shook his head. “How does someone like that attract people?”
“Think about those men in prison getting fan mail—there’s a sick appeal.” Brad closed his eyes briefly, images from their conversation with Raven flashing through his mind. She’d described Hale in chilling detail: an attractive, well-built man with no hair on his body, a veneer of control masking the chaos within. Women were drawn to him, not in spite of his darkness but because of it. Women who craved pain, degradation, and the razor’s edge of danger, rewarded with what Raven had called “incredible orgasms.”
“It’s not attraction,” Brad said finally. “It’s manipulation. He knows how to use people—what they want, what they’re afraid of. He’s a predator.”
“And the circuit,” Larson added. “The fact that there’s an entire underground network protecting people like him…”
Brad’s jaw tightened. Raven had spoken of this “circuit” with a mixture of disdain and fear. The wealthiest, most powerful participants in the darker side of BDSM, shielded by their money and influence. Yet even among them, Hale was burning his bridges. Raven’s parting words haunted him: “Death contents him.”
Larson glanced at Brad as the car inched forward. “He’s out there right now. Doing God knows what. And we’re stuck in traffic.”
“We’ll find him,” Brad said, his voice harder now. “We have to.”
The rest of the drive passed in grim silence, the glow of streetlights casting long shadows on their faces. When they finally pulled into the hospital parking lot, the day pressed harder on Brad’s shoulders. He stepped out of the car, his legs stiff and his chest heavy with dread.
Inside the lobby, Charlotte Everhart and Alex Marcel were waiting. Charlotte’s face lit up with a small, weary smile as she saw them approach.
“Brad,” she greeted him softly. “John.”
Brad’s first question tumbled out before she could say more, “Molly. Is she okay?”
Charlotte hesitated, then nodded. “She’s in the ICU. She lost a lot of blood, but she’s stable. And… she and Ethan have a baby boy. Eight pounds, healthy. They named him Wyatt.”
The news should have brought relief, even joy, but something in the set of Alex’s jaw made Brad’s stomach churn. He caught the look exchanged between Alex and Charlotte, the unspoken tension radiating off them.
“What’s wrong?” Brad demanded, his voice sharp. “What else happened?”
Alex swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he struggled to find the words. “Brad…” His voice cracked. “Hale has Izzy.”
Brad’s knees buckled slightly, but he forced himself to stay upright, locking his legs against the wave of dizziness that threatened to take him down. “How?” he rasped. “When?”
Alex took a deep breath, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “It happened here. At the hospital. Dillon tried to stop him, but Hale had an accomplice. Dillon’s in surgery now—they’re trying to stop a brain bleed. Riley…” He paused, his voice breaking. “Riley didn’t make it.”
The words hit Brad like a physical blow, stealing the air from his lungs. He staggered, his hand shooting out to grab John to steady himself. “No,” he whispered, his mind reeling. “No. This can’t—” he broke off, his voice failing him.
“We’ve already set up a command center,” Alex said quickly. “It’s at Sophie and Tristan’s house. Every resource we have is being mobilized. We’ve started a statewide search.”
Brad barely heard him. His thoughts were consumed by one image: Belle. His Belle, in the hands of a monster. Suffering. Terrified.
“I should’ve been here,” he muttered, his voice thick with self-recrimination. “I should’ve?—”
“Brad,” Charlotte said firmly, stepping closer. “This is not your fault.”
He shook his head, his fists clenched. “I knew he was dangerous. I should’ve done more?—”
“You couldn’t have known,” Alex interrupted. “And now, we do everything. Everything, Brad. We’ll find her.”
Brad’s head swirled, everything pressing down on him: the loss of Riley, Dillon fighting for his life, and Belle—his Belle—missing, taken by a man who embodied cruelty and death.
“Where do we start?” he asked finally, his voice low and determined.
Alex placed a hand on his shoulder. “We start by getting you to Sophie and Tristan’s. Hale’s not going to slip through our fingers.”
Brad nodded numbly, his mind still racing. But, beneath it all, a fire ignited in his chest. Hale had taken the woman he loved, and he would stop at nothing to bring her back.
Isobel’s world had become a blur of pain and darkness. The low light above flickered, casting shadows across the dingy room where she was being held. Her body was bruised and battered, and the tight corset dug painfully into her ribs, making every breath a struggle. The leather straps binding her wrists and ankles cut into her skin, the pain a constant reminder of her captivity.
Malcolm Hale stood in front of her, his sadistic smile widening as he watched her flinch under the harsh light. He had upped the intensity of his torment, both physically and mentally, trying to break her in every possible way. His shirtless torso gleamed with sweat, and his leather pants creaked as he moved toward her, whip in hand.
“You’ve been so quiet,” he sneered, the whip cracking near her feet. “I thought Brad would’ve trained you better than this. I thought you’d be stronger. But you’re breaking, aren’t you? You can feel it. Just submit, Isobel. Stop fighting.”
Isobel gritted her teeth, her heart pounding in her chest. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her break. Not now. Not ever. The more Hale tried to destroy her, the more she fought back in the only way she could, by refusing to give him the one thing he craved: her submission.
She closed her eyes, drifting away from the present moment, forcing herself to think of Brad. He was still out there, fighting for her. She could almost hear his voice in her mind, steady and strong, reminding her to focus, to hold on. He had taught her about control, about how to find it.
“You think you can break me,” she whispered, her voice hoarse but defiant. “But you can’t. You’ll never have my submission.”
Hale stepped closer, his expression darkening with fury. “You think you’re smart, don’t you? Think you’re in control here?”
Isobel let a small, bitter smile touch her lips, even through the agony. “You’ll never be what Brad is to me. You can torture me, but you’ll never have my mind.”
Hale’s nostrils flared in anger, and the whip cracked across her shoulder, sending a fresh wave of pain through her body. Isobel’s breath caught, but she refused to scream. She wouldn’t give him the pleasure. She let herself drift again, back to Brad, to the warmth of his arms, to the strength she drew from his love.
Her only way to survive this was to outsmart Hale, to outlast him. If she broke, she would die. If she held on, there was a chance. And she knew Brad would be fighting just as hard to find her, to save her.
“I’m stronger than you think,” Isobel whispered.
Hale stepped back, frustration evident in his eyes. He had underestimated her resilience, and that clearly enraged him. But she didn’t care. Her only focus now was surviving long enough for the man who loved her to find her.