Chapter 32
CHAPTER 32
NORTH CAROLINA
A n electric thrum radiated through Adria’s entire body. She rested her palm on the side of Kaydon’s face. He would not look at her, his bravado siphoned away. Eric came to her side as she unhooked the device wedged in his mouth.
“Bring him upstairs to my room,” she said to Eric in a hushed tone.
Fury pulsed through her as she watched him put an arm under Kaydon, steadying him as they left.
In a perfect world, monsters would only go after other monsters, but Adria knew first hand that was not true.
Monsters went after people like Kaydon. People who were good, who saw the best in others. The type of person who made you think you could change.
In her world, death wasn’t the worst thing that could happen.
It was decay.
Slow fractures, separating the treasured pieces of you. Leaving a slow death of everything you held dear, slowly decaying, losing the bits of you that gave people hope.
Adria wasn’t ready to lose Kaydon to decay .
The grand mahogany table stretched long before her; its twenty-six occupants frozen in a tableau of unease. Even the submissives at their Masters’ feet shifted uncomfortably.
Jonathan had done exactly what she didn’t want. He had dragged his world—her world—into this place.
Her stomach twisted as her gaze caught Alesandro’s eyes. Alesandro’s piercing stare held hers, his expression was clear.
Get them in line, or suffer the consequences.
A cold sweat prickled along her spine.
Her mother’s death.
Her death.
She forced herself to breathe.
Jonathan sat to Alesandro’s left, his gaze slicing through her like a razor. She felt it in her bones, in her marrow—the way he still saw her as that scared little girl.
The little girl he had ruined.
Her father and Jonathan had been close.
She had been eight years old when they invited her into the office—her father’s inner sanctum. A place where business was conducted, where men spoke in hushed voices over crystal glasses of liquor. She had never been allowed in before.
And she had been so happy.
She had thought it was because she was special. That they were finally seeing her.
It had started with a touch.
A knuckle grazing her knee.
A hand resting too long on her thigh.
A whisper in her ear.
The brush of fingers against the waistband of her skirt.
And just like that, her world fell apart.
A shattering, violent destruction. A girl ripped open at the seams .
Now, standing across from him all these years later, she wanted to run. Her body screamed at her to hide, to fold in on itself and disappear from his gaze.
But then she saw Bryson.
And everything changed.
She wanted to hate him. To blame him for the day’s events. But when he lifted his head—when his hollowed-out eyes met hers—she saw it.
That same pain.
That same familiar shattering.
A piece of herself reflected back.
The pull between them inevitable. Like a pendulum swinging. Like a foot slipping off a mountain’s edge. Like gravity itself had decided they must collide.
She moved without thought. Without hesitation.
Adria framed his face in her hands. His skin was fever-hot beneath her fingertips, damp with rage. Bryson inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths.
Her heart thundered as she leaned in. Like a magnet drawn to his pain, she breathed it in.
And then she kissed him.
Lips pressing against his, she stole his agony—consumed it—until there was no line between them, only a tangle of breath and heat.
A tear slipped down the side of his face, and before she could stop herself, her tongue darted out, erasing it.
She wanted more.
She didn’t just want to take his pain. She wanted to own it. Wanted to make it her pleasure. To meld their dark and light together and create something else entirely.
He trembled in her hands, and the soft murmurs and clangs of cutlery drifted away.
“I won’t need to restrain you, you can do this,” she said .
His face felt warm in her hands, and she found herself really looking at him. She said it again, softer and just for him. “You have this.”
After he was settled on the bench, Adria ran her finger along the spider tattoo he had on his left shoulder blade. His brothers bore matching marks, and she wanted to remind him of who he was doing this for.
If Jonathan didn’t feel satiated, there was no telling how far he would take things.
Moving to the implements wall, she picked a woven leather-gripped flogger. She gave it a throw, listening to it whistle as it moved. Her second choice was a one-inch wooden dowel. She was aware Bryson needed pain to move into subspace. Today, she wasn’t going to force him, she was going to guide him in.
She traced his curves and folds with the wooden dowel. Giving him a few test hits, she warmed him up. The dowel was thuddy, and his flesh would become tender from the inside out. She picked up her pace until she saw him squirm under her hand.
Switching to a flogger, she rained down hits, and watched as he shifted on the bench.
“Moving already. I thought your pain tolerance was higher.”
At the challenge, he stilled.
The leather handle was light in her hand, and the tendrils rotated and slapped into his flesh with devilish accuracy.
After several minutes, a noise came from his lips, and he tensed. Clenching his fists, he hunched his shoulders, trying to endure. She moved to his upper back, beating the area flat with the flogger, forcing him to hold the position.
She was laser focused on Bryson. His breath, the color of his skin, the tension in his face and eyes. The pull and connection was so strong she got lost in it. When she finally came up for air, his shoulders were a deep pink and his ass was red.
Adria had only a vague awareness of her audience. Her attention fixed on Bryson.
Brushing her finger along his bottom lip, she felt a rush of warmth as she pressed her thumb into his mouth, savoring the sensation of his gentle suck followed by the graze of his teeth. A symphony of sounds surrounded her as his eyelashes fluttered open, revealing his beautiful brown eyes.
A loud clattering from the table and the room came to abrupt focus.
She looked up. Jonathan was fuming. His hands balling into fists on the table. His face tight and red. His control was slipping. His eyes narrowed in on her, and he wordlessly ordered her to stop.
From deep inside herself she found the strength to look back at him. She was not the girl he remembered.
Moving to her bag, she pulled out the one item she never thought she would use with Bryson.
Adjusting the leather clasps, like a well-worn coat she moved easily into her harness.
Jonathan’s face told her to stop, but the fear he once held didn’t touch her.
She had the option to choose. She could have run; she could have remained silent. But she had chosen to protect them. The three of them were actively working to harm her, and she had stepped between them and her worst nightmare. Because they were her submissives, and that was who she was.
It might look like she had chosen them, but in that moment, she had chosen herself. She hadn’t decayed like her father. When push came to shove, she protected. And that made her better than her father in every way .
The realization was freeing.
Strap-on in place, she abandoned the leather flogger, opting instead for an intricately woven dragon tail whip. Bryson’s thighs clenched together as she took turns hitting a spot under his butt cheeks. The sweet spot, as it was known in the BDSM community. Red welts bloomed beautifully with each hit, and she put more power into the final two.
Bryson’s shoulders heaved onto the bench, and his eyes squeezed shut.
Putting some lube on her thumb, she pressed into his tight hole. He was rock hard, but his body was tight against hers. She rubbed his anus with the pad of her thumb until his muscles relaxed. She continued until he was pushing against her. Silently begging her to go deeper. Adria pressed into him up to her knuckle.
“Spread your legs.”
His feet moved apart.
“Wider.”
He moved again, and she rewarded him by pressing her finger deeper. A soft breath fell from his smart mouth.
She teased him, fucking his hole with her thumb until he was dripping in front of her. Moving to his side, she tapped the back of his balls with the dragon tail’s handle.
“How many do you think you deserve for your behavior today?”
He shook his head.
She smiled, knowing how much he desperately wanted to say something smart.
“Pick too low and I’ll double it,” she said.
“Fuck,” he hissed.
“How many?” she said again, louder.
“Twelve.” His voice was firm.
She tilted her head to the side. Twelve was a lot. She could work with it, but she would have to get creative .
Stepping to the side, aiming, she said, “Okay, I accept. Count.”
The first blow whistled through the air, hitting his inner thigh.
Bryson was quick. “One.”
The second was just above.
“Two.”
The third and fourth mirrored the first, on the other side.
The fifth one was right on his taint.
“Fuck, fuck.”
“Fuck is not a number; we’ll have to do that one again. Try to get it right this time or we’ll have to start over.”
She managed to hit the same spot, and Bryson’s voice cracked. “Five.”
With a flick of her wrist, she gave him two, back to back, on the right ass cheek.
“Six, seven.” Bryson pressed his face into the bench.
Adria did the same on the opposite cheek. “Eight, nine.”
Three left.
This one hit his left testicle, and he gasped for breath while choking out, “Ten.”
Her legs were slick with wetness, and she felt a heat radiating in her core.
Moving her body, she aimed and hit the right testicle this time.
It took him longer to catch his breath, but finally he breathed out, “Eleven.”
It was weak, and she knew she had to make this last one count.
“Spread your ass cheeks for me.”
His hands came back shakily, and he spread himself open for her. Seeing him obey her, expose himself for her, hurt for her, she nearly came right then. Her arm wound back, and the tongue of the tail hit the bullseye.
Bryson nearly levitated off the table and shouted twelve into the room.
Adding some lube, she moved close to him and pressed the tip of her appendage into the newly abused asshole. The lube would feel cool against the newfound heat.
He moaned as she entered him; and her knees buckled. She pressed her hand into his back, steadying herself. Moving in and out, she felt the power in her body grow.
He was hers.
He took everything she gave him.
Normally, she went slow, but down into her core she knew he could take it. He could take the pain; he could take her.
She moved faster.
And faster.
Pounding into his backside, he rocked with her. The harness pressed into her clit as she crashed repeatedly into him, chasing her release.
Bryson bucked under her, not in pain but from pleasure.
The painting of the angel and demon entered her mind. The angel’s robes billowing like a river caught in an unexpected storm, twisting with the invisible currents. The demon was so close to wrapping its arms around the angel. Its murky outline cursed to—forever—be reaching.
An infinity of failures, a lifetime of coming up short.
Adria stood tall, feeling the power beneath her.
The wind hit her face as the two of them fell together.
He wasn’t a demon, and she was no angel—but they were two broken people, falling together.
Doubling over, the orgasm continued building. Tightening within her until it rocketed into her. Through her. Pressing into all sides.
Her entire body cried out. Bryson moaned into the room, and the two of them settled into perfect stillness, except for the sound of their breathing.
Adria opened her eyes, and the room erupted into applause.
It took a moment to remember where she was.