Chapter 9
LOCATION UNKNOWN
Bryson woke up to the soft murmurs of his brothers talking. His body was sore from the contorted sleep the cells forced him into. Head resting on the concrete, he acknowledged a pounding headache, but Kaydon’s voice was his Advil.
He missed Kaydon and Seth’s touch more than he could ever articulate.
It hurt even more that he had to keep them in the dark, but he only needed to keep them waiting just a little longer. If the timing lined up, Jonathan would be here any day, and Bryson needed to have him on site in order to execute his plan.
“He’s pretending to sleep,” Bryson heard Seth say behind him.
“Just let him rest,” Kaydon retorted.
“Worried I’m sleeping too much, Killer?” Bryson asked, willing himself to sit up without vomiting.
He had eaten little and barely drank. That, paired with the mental stress of dealing with Regan, was a debilitating combination.
“You good?” Seth said, trying to catch his eye line.
“So good,” Bryson said. “You?”
The three of them laughed.
“What are we doing, Bryce? How much longer can you hold on?” Kaydon asked him.
Pleading.
Bryson shook his head. It was a slight shake, so small he hoped Kaydon was the only one who noticed it. He wasn’t na?ve enough to think that this room didn’t have cameras or microphones. Regan was a control freak.
A next-level control freak.
Ever since the altercation in his cell, Bryson hadn’t laid eyes on Sabin. Sometimes he wondered what happened to him. But then he remembered he didn’t give a shit.
Kaydon got the message, although he looked like he wanted to argue.
Bryson said, “Do you remember Mavric?”
Kaydon shot Seth a look, and they both frowned their brows in unison. Bryson just stared at them, willing them to put it together.
“I remember him,” Seth said.
Good boy.
“What about him?” Kaydon said, hesitantly.
Bryson leaned his head against the bars, looking at the iron-lined ceiling. “He was such a hard fucker to get into a room with.”
After Bryson’s father had orchestrated the sanctioned attack on his sister because she was pregnant, Bryson and Kaydon had gone to meticulous lengths to ensure each of the five men in that room met their maker.
Killing them would have been easy, but they had the added complication of needing it to look like an accident. Mugging. Hooker gets revenge. Insulin overdose. Car accident.
It took five years, but they got it done. All except Mavric.
Mavric was one of his father’s favorites. And for some reason, they never could get him.
At first, Bryson thought he was on to them. But in the end, it was more simple than that. Mavric was just a homebody. He never left. He didn’t party, he didn’t date, and he never needed anything that the manor didn’t provide.
It took Bryson months of watching him to learn his one weakness.
Bryson.
“But you two never got a chance to get close,” Kaydon said, leaning into the bars, hands clinging to the metal.
Two dates and Mavric invited Bryson back to his place.
The audacity.
The man who had raped and attacked his sister thought that he would bring Bryson home for a romantic encounter. Bryson didn’t feel the least bit bad when he wrapped the belt around Mavric’s throat and tied it to the bar in his closet.
He had knelt down in front of the man. Watched his breathing slow and his eyes bulge. Bryson enjoyed the few moments of clarity that hit Mavric right before his eyes dimmed and he slowly ran out of air.
It wasn’t as painful as Bryson would have liked. He had to drug Mavric in order to make him pliable enough, but it was still satisfying to see a monster like that take his last shuddering breath.
Erotic asphyxiation gone wrong.
“It never would have worked anyway,” Bryson said, looking at Kaydon.
Kaydon leaned closer, pressing his face against the bars, his eyes filled with tears. “Brys—”
It was all he got out before the deadbolt latch clicked.
Bryson’s eyes followed Regan as he paced around the room.
“He always does this shit. Says one thing and then does another,” Regan said, hands waving in the air.
He certainly was in a chatty mood today.
Regan continued to rant and say things that Bryson didn’t quite understand.
“I gathered everything he needed, did exactly as he asked. I even pulled together a team for him. But does he want me there?”
Regan looked at Bryson, seeming to expect an answer.
Bryson, however, was at a loss for words. He tortured Regan; he didn’t comfort him. They didn’t talk. Or at least Regan had never asked for that, and Bryson wasn’t sure he had it in him.
“No, the answer is no. Of course he didn’t. Hand picked Sabin, and I get to stay here.”
“Who wanted Sabin?” Bryson asked, trying to get a handle on the conversation. Regan was clearly in a manic state. If he wasn’t careful, this could get unstable.
At the sound of Bryson’s voice, Regan zeroed his gaze towards him.
Too late.
“Why? Do you miss him?” Regan said.
Bryson was genuinely lost.
Regan slammed Bryson against the wall, pressing his forearm into his neck, his breath filling the surrounding space. “Did you want to fuck him?”
Bryson’s mind glitched as he tried desperately to get a handle on what was going on.
“You’re just like him, always looking for something better,” Regan spat. “I should have turned him off when I had the chance.”
Something in Bryson’s brain clicked. He felt stupid for not seeing it sooner. Regan was jealous. The non-feeling sociopath didn’t enjoy sharing. It made total sense.
While Bryson didn’t deal with jealousy regularly, he was familiar with the feeling.
Bryson reached up, putting his hand around Regan’s neck, squeezing.
“Sabin got punched in the face, because I despise him,” Bryson said. “If you feel left out, all you have to do is ask.”
Regan visibly relaxed and released the pressure on Bryson’s neck, taking a step back.
Bryson took the moment to gain the upper hand. At no point in Regan’s presence could he afford to lose it.
“Since you seem so keen on moving that fuck-worthy mouth of yours, why don’t you get on your knees and put it to good use,” Bryson said, following Regan, crowding him.
Regan’s cloudy vision seemed to clear, and a wicked grin spread across his face.
Dropping to his knees, he took Bryson into his mouth.
Bryson did everything he could to stay hard. Even though his skin protested with every flick of Regan’s tongue.
It felt wrong to imagine Seth or Kaydon at his feet, so he resorted to other darker fantasies to get the desired result.
Pain that didn’t hurt. Pain that filled his dark spaces rather than expanding them. Things he never dared speak out loud. Places only Adria had ever reached.
When he was close, he shoved Regan back. He wanted to orgasm as far away from Regan as possible.
Fisting his dick over Regan’s face and shooting cum all over his sharp features. Regan moved to get up, but Bryson rested a hand on his shoulder. “I want you down at my feet, cum all over your face, while you tell me what the fuck is going on that has you agitated.”
Regan’s pupils dilated. He liked depraved games, and it was clear, in his very sick way, he liked Bryson.
“My father was going to come here today,” Regan said, and Bryson had to hide his sudden interest. “He was going to come and then that bitch got in the way.”
Something painful caught in Bryson’s chest.
“And then he was going to have me take care of it. Had me get a team together and everything,” Regan continued, focused on his own loss rather than the subtle shift in energy that was happening above him.
“Why is she in the way?” Bryson asked, hoping, praying that they were not talking about who he thought they were talking about.
Regan laughed, the cum still sticking to his stupid face. “It was only a matter of time before she started asking questions. But I don’t think my father expected her to zero in on him so quickly. He’s always had a blind spot for her.”
Bryson held his breath. Regan was talking without prompts and he didn’t want to break the spell.
Slowly.
Casually.
Bryson reached out, grabbing a hold of his neck. His fingers dug into the sides of Regan’s flesh as he said, “And your father took your team for himself and left you behind.”
Regan nodded, looking up into Bryson’s eyes.
There was something in them. Something that made Bryson feel sick.
Bryson had done this. He had opened the door to Regan’s darkness, and now the darkness was smiling back.
“The joke is, he doesn’t even have to go to her. She is coming to him.” Regan laughed, and a chill shot down Bryson’s spine.
Regan and Bryson were darkness, but Regan underestimated Bryson.
He would never see it coming.
Not because what Bryson was about to do was crazy, stupid, reckless and completely insane, but because Regan only knew how to love himself.
He didn’t know what it meant to love another. How that feeling could focus the darkness into something good.
All Regan knew was hate and pain.
Bryson increased the pressure on Regan’s neck, and at first Regan leaned into it. But when Bryson leaned down, pressing his body into Regan, clarity reached Regan’s eyes. He saw what he had missed before.
“You won’t get there in time,” Regan whispered as Bryson put his weight on top of him.
Bryson ran his tongue along the edge of Regan’s face. The taste of himself and Regan mingling in his mouth. “You don’t know us. What we can do when we put our minds to something.”
Regan smiled. It was a sickly sight. He didn’t even struggle against Bryson’s hand. Bryson thought of Mavric and how he needed a full dose of Fentanyl in his system to go quietly. But Regan seemed so calm.
Alarm bells rang in Bryson’s mind just a second too late.
Pain erupted on his left thigh and before he knew it, he and Regan were struggling together.
Bryson brought his left arm to his side. Regan’s fingers were still curled around the knife that he had buried into Bryson’s upper leg.
Red blood dripped from Regan’s fingers, and Bryson felt hot liquid pouring from the wound.
“I knew from the first moment I saw you. In that bitch’s kitchen. That one of us would end the other,” Regan said, bringing his knee up and connecting with Bryson’s opposite side.
Bryson rolled the two of them, holding tightly to Regan’s hand—the one still gripping the knife buried in Bryson’s thigh. The two fought, and Bryson desperately tried to get Regan to let go of the blade. Pain lanced through him as the knife twisted deeper with each motion.
Regan moved his body, gaining leverage, and the two switched places on the floor. Suddenly Bryson was on his back beneath Regan. Regan’s right forearm pressing into Bryson’s neck as he tried to free his left hand from Bryson’s grasp.
“It’s not very often you meet your equal,” Regan said. “I knew in that moment I had to have you. Knew you were a monster just like me.”
With his free hand, Bryson punched Regan twice in the face before Regan pressed his head closer to Bryson, protecting himself. “My father was supposed to kill you. I suppose I can at least thank him for this one small thing,” Regan said, his cum-soaked face rubbing against Bryson’s cheek.
Warm liquid pulsed out of Bryson’s thigh, and he felt lightheaded. He instinctually knew he didn’t have much time.
Pushing weight into his feet, he pressed his middle into Regan, effectively flipping him up and over. Regan went flying over his head, and the knife ripped from Bryson’s body. Sharp warm pain followed, but Bryson ignored it.
The two scrambled to get up, and Bryson waited for Regan to scream or alert his help. But instead Regan just stood, bloody knife in hand. Bryson watched in horror as Regan brought the blade to his lips, licking the blood away and wiping the residue with the back of his hand.
“You better decide your next play. That wound isn’t closing anytime soon,” Regan said, delight in his eyes. “I’m going to fuck your body as it exsanguinates on my bedroom floor. It’ll be a glorious end to this little game of ours.”
Regan’s eyes were alight with arousal and promise.
Kaydon and Seth’s faces flashed in Bryson’s mind. If he died here, so would they.
Lunging, Bryson ran full force into Regan. The two tumbled to the ground, and the clang of metal against the floor was music to Bryson’s ears.
The pair exchanged blows, scrambling on the now blood-soaked floor. Physically, they were evenly matched.
Regan snuck a knee strike into Bryson’s side, and there was a sickening pop with pain detonating under his ribs. The air from Bryson’s lungs rushed out, and he struggled to take in another breath. Regan rolled easily on top and pressed both hands around Bryson’s neck.
Bryson could feel Regan’s hardening cock between his legs. Black spots appeared in his vision, and his left hand reached out wildly, trying to find something, anything.
When his fingers curled around something hard, Bryson brought his hand back with as much force as he could muster.
The blade punctured Regan’s neck and came out of the other side. Bryson tore it free with a crackling ripping sound.
Wet gurgling came from Regan’s mouth as he released Bryson.
Bryson crawled to the toy box at the foot of the bed. Desperately trying to take in air, as Regan was choking on his own blood behind him.
His chest burned, every breath jagged and useless. The knee Regan had driven into him felt like it had cracked something open inside. Air scraped at his throat but never seemed to reach his lungs. His vision tunneled.
Collapsed lung.
His fingers closed around the breathing hose in the toy box. There was no time to think, only to act.
The knife shook in his hand as he pressed the tip just under his collarbone, between the ribs. Who said watching survivalist YouTube was a waste?
Before Bryson could change his mind, he hit the knife’s hilt, piercing the space. Pain lit up his nerves, and a hiss of air escaped.
Before he lost consciousness, he shoved the breathing tube into the hole that he had created in his chest.
Immediately, his lungs gasped for air and he felt the pressure stabilize.
Falling onto the floor, Bryson savored the oxygen moving in and out of his lungs. He was vaguely aware of Regan floundering like a fish nearby.
With new breath in his lungs, Bryson’s mind told him he wasn’t out of danger. He was still bleeding out. Crawling to the fireplace, he pushed the poker deep before collapsing at the edge.
Bryson pushed his hand on the knife wound, trying to staunch the bleeding, but blood just poured all around his hand.
Clinging to consciousness, Bryson waited until the poker had been in the flames long enough, then he brought it close. Taking a shirt, he stuffed it into his mouth before pressing the iron into his thigh.
Pain screamed all around him. It was inside him, covering him, filling him. It was the type of pain he could never escape. The room swam, and darkness swelled.
Bryson took one final look at the ornate ceiling before he was consumed in blackness.