Chapter 31
CHAPTER 31
NORTH CAROLINA
B ryson couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that he was missing something.
He knew what he saw.
Adria’s body curved up against Jonathan’s. If hell was real, Adria was the devil, and Jonathan was its CEO.
But Adria’s face after he accused her of sleeping with him told a different story. There was hurt, rage, shame, and something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Whatever emotion it was, it had him wanting to run after her.
He tried to shake it off.
Everything was going as planned.
Plastering a pleased smile onto his face, Bryson stepped into the dining area. Kaydon and Seth were already there.
Kneeling. Each at a separate end of the table. Moving to an open seat, Bryson slid in beside a woman with pale pink nails.
She was young. Pretty in that delicate, manicured way.
He caught her gaze—and winked. A soft flush crept up her neck, her fingers twitching against her wine glass .
Bryson smirked.
Maybe, for his final act of treason, he’d fuck this girl in front of everyone. If that didn’t get the Triune’s attention, he didn’t know what would.
A voice sliced through his thoughts.
“It seems our host has been held up,” Jonathan said.
Bryson’s focus snapped to the man at the head of the table. Jonathan’s sharp gaze flickered toward the kitchen doors, expectant and waiting.
When Adria didn’t magically appear, a shadow crossed his face and his lip curled, ever so slightly.
“Allow me to keep the evening’s festivities on track,” he said smoothly, snapping his fingers.
A ripple of unease brushed through Bryson.
“Eric, would you be so kind as to escort one of the slaves to the stage?”
Bryson noted the flicker of surprise in Eric’s features before the man masked it.
“Anyone in particular?” Eric asked carefully.
Jonathan surveyed the room, his gaze hunting.
A tingle crawled up Bryson’s spine.
“How about the bigger one?” Jonathan’s voice took on a mocking lilt. “The brute scaring off our guests.”
Across the table, Kaydon sat alone.
Two empty chairs on either side of him, a quiet testament to how many people he had, in fact, scared off.
Bryson’s muscles flexed.
The room was split.
At the center table, the players. Alessandro. Helen. The Triune.
Watching. Waiting.
On the outskirts, the audience. Regular club patrons sipping expensive wine, oblivious to the shift creeping into the air.
But Bryson saw it.
Felt it .
The Triune’s table was watching with keen interest, and Jonathan’s fingers snapped again.
His hulking bodyguard, Crest, stepping forward, carrying a leather bench.
Bryson’s jaw locked.
Kaydon didn’t resist as Eric led him to the front.
Didn’t fight.
Didn’t speak.
Kaydon’s wrists were shackled to the top of the bench, his ankles secured at the base.
His body doubled over. Ass facing the dinner guests.
Bryson’s nails bit into his palm.
Nice manners, Jonny. Real fucking classy.
Jonathan went to a nearby drawer and drew out what looked like a metal ring. Hallow in the center it was designed to hold a person’s mouth open.
“I understand you were disowned due to your aggressive nature. I’m here to assure our guests, and help them understand, that behavior is easily remedied.”
Bryson hated Jonathan’s proximity to Kaydon. Especially with Kaydon shackled and helpless.
“Open, slave.”
Kaydon shook his head. Jonathan gave a nod to his goon. Crest had always been inhumanly large, but seeing him next to Kaydon, the size difference was startling. Bullwhip in his right hand, Bryson watched in horror as Crest raised the handle above his head. The belly of the whip falling behind him. With a full pull of his arm, Crest brought the weapon down, delivering a punishing blow to Kaydon’s back.
The sound was deafening, and any patrons still talking were now jolted into a forced attention.
While the first hit had to have felt like a knife to the chest, Kaydon did not cry out. Bryson had to bite down onto his tongue to keep himself from speaking when the second slash was delivered .
And then a third.
Bryson tried to catch Eric’s eye, but it seemed he was no longer in the room.
On the fourth strike, the sound of Kaydon’s strangled voice filled the room. It was less of a cry and more of a moan. A sound of distress and pain. Bryson’s body broke out into a sweat.
Jonathan was fast, shoving the device in Kaydon’s open mouth. Bryson watched as the object was secured with deft precision.
Bryson moved, or, he tried to; cold steel pressed against his temple, halting him.
Click.
“Not another move, slave.”
The girl with pink nails gasped softly, pushing away from him. Murmurs stirred around the table, uneasy ripples spreading through the gathered guests. It was, Mathew, one of Jonathan’s enforcers. But Bryson barely heard them. His ears were ringing.
Jonathan was unzipping his pants.
Kaydon was thrashing against the restraints, saying things that would probably get them all killed. But thankfully the gag seemed to swallow the worst of it.
Jonathan’s voice was casual. “With this device, you can have total control—without the fear of retaliation.”
Bryson’s vision blurred at the edges. His eyes found Seth’s across the room.
A gun was trained on him, too.
Bryson gave a single, sharp shake of his head.
Don’t do anything.
Seth stilled—but for how long?
For how long could he stay still?
Then Jonathan moved—and Bryson’s reality shattered.
Kaydon gagged. Jonathan rocked into him mercilessly, forcing himself down Kaydon’s throat .
Bryson’s fingers curled into fists. His chest ached. Kaydon was struggling, choking, his body convulsing against the restraints.
Relax , Bryson begged silently.
Just relax, Kaydon. It'll be easier if you relax.
Jonathan’s eyes found his. And Bryson understood. This wasn’t punishment for Kaydon.
It was for him.
The rage inside him burned like a dying star, collapsing into something deeper—darker. Adria’s words echoed in his head, “ You are going to get us all killed.”
He had asked his brothers to do this. He had told them it would work.
He had wanted to win.
He hated Adria.
Despised her.
But—she had never done this to them. His brothers had enjoyed their time with her.
And now, watching Jonathan’s bony fingers dig into Kaydon’s neck. The reality slammed into Bryson with the force of a gunshot. This could be their fate for the next year.
When Luca had died, their father had openly wept at the funeral. Tears had streamed down his face during the eulogy.
For Bryson, there would be no tears.
His father had signed him up for this. Thrown him away like a bad bet.
And hadn’t looked back.
Jonathan nodded once—and the whip cracked.
Kaydon convulsed.
Blood splattering across his back, painting his pale skin in jagged streaks. Bryson’s body twitched, his instinct screaming to move—but he couldn’t.
The Glock at his head ensured that. Would a bullet to his head help Kaydon ?
Would his death keep his brothers safe?
Bryson had spent the last few months under the illusion—the delusion—that he had control.
That he could win.
Now, reality was crystal fucking clear.
He had never been in control.
Not for a single second.
The whip began its descent.
Bryson’s body vibrated. He couldn’t stay still. Not for another second. But instead of a crack—there was a thud.
Bryson blinked through his blurred vision, barely comprehending what had just happened.
Adria.
She stood beside Kaydon, her outstretched fist clenching around the whip’s tendril.
The leather wrapping around her fingers like a venomous snake, its bite cutting deep into her skin. Blood welled, slipping down her wrist.
But she didn’t flinch.
Didn’t acknowledge the pain.
She just stood there—stoic, solid, and utterly unshaken.
Bryson had never been so happy to see anyone in his entire life.
A stunned silence settled over the room.
“What exactly is going on here?” she said. As usual, her voice commanded attention.
Crest tried to pull his whip back, but Adria did not let go. With a subtle flick of her wrist, and a turn of her body, the handle flew out of his hand and ended up dangling from her grip.
“These slaves need to be taught a lesson. We are helping to facilitate this,” Jonathan said, pulling out and stuffing himself back into his pants.
His voice was soft, but his face was not. Grown men would have prostrated themselves under that gaze, but Bryson watched Adria stare him down, positioning herself between Kaydon and his attackers.
“Indeed,” she said. “But might I suggest we punish the ringleader, not the lackey?”