Chapter 1 #2
He’s a decent shot, follows orders pretty well, can read a map, and is very calm.
And he’s also not an idiot. And maybe that’s better than some of the other guys, but the one thing he’s apparently great at is dominance.
This is what he’s been told. He’s got a hell of a lot of dominance and most people don’t know it if he doesn’t want them to.
Which is rare. And, admittedly, not how most Dominants move through the world.
He’s had whole conversations with submissives who didn’t realize what he was until they were told.
He’s oddly proud of the fact and the military certainly seems to think it’s interesting, but this is the first time they’ve pulled him out with the intention of using his designation for something.
And they’ve sent him over to some quasi-military private contractor company that probably has a few offices in the Pentagon, they’re so closely intertwined.
His best guess is that they have an uneven or traumatized submissive they want him to meet. He wishes he could clean up a bit first, but when he asks to go to the bathroom he’s told to stay put. Maybe a very high-level submissive they want to sort out rather than stick in the freezer?
And they want Colton, but why? Because he’s military and they can ensure he keeps his silence? Or because whoever they want him to meet has a high designation and isn’t submitting for anyone they have on their payroll?
He’s just about getting to a point where he might start asking some questions when he sees through the window in the door that the doctor has returned.
She stops in front of the man he’d met in the lobby and gives him a few printed pages.
He scowls over them. Then he nods and comes back into the room.
“Private, do you know where you are?”
“Absolutely not, sir.”
The door opens again and a tank of a man with dark brown hair, hazel eyes, and a close-cropped beard steps into the room.
He flashes Colton an easy smile. Dominant.
Very even-tempered. Colton likes him instantly, and that’s probably a part of his dominance, some strange charisma.
Or maybe he was just a really good guy before becoming enhanced and he kept that.
Colton would bet a hundred bucks this guy has a line of subs wanting to call him Daddy. He looks Colton over.
“We’re back. Injuries are minimal. Knox is down, as expected.” His voice is low.
The man in charge nods. “Thanks, Mack.”
The Daddy Dom closes the door as he leaves.
Well, fucking hell. The way he said “down” does not sound good. If he isn’t physically injured, it has to do with his designation.
“You know that anything you see, hear, or experience in this facility is confidential, don’t you?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Good. Then why don’t you come with me,” he says.
The man who drove him here makes a sound of protest. The boss stops, giving the driver a glare.
“It either works or it doesn’t. What’s the point in having some long conversation about it if it’s impossible?
Tell your men to be on standby and make sure they know they are to intervene if it looks like the private’s life is in danger. ”
“I appreciate that, sir,” Colton says and keeps his expression blank.
The boss shoots him a glare.
But Colton is getting a little bit annoyed at being quite so left in the dark.
They’re sending him into an unknown but volatile situation.
Colton makes it to the elevator without questions, but once the doors are closed, he has to ask.
“To clarify, I’m the private you’re discussing, correct? The one whose life might be in danger?”
The boss only nods. “I made a phone call to the general and he sent you over right away.”
Colton nods in understanding. He is disposable compared to whoever this submissive is.
The doors open and he doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t a massive gym. Rhythmic pounding raises the hair on the back of Colton’s neck. It’s a familiar sound but magnified. Fists on a punching bag and a vibration he can feel under his feet. The power of those punches is unbelievable.
And it’s only coming from one person. He’s huge. He’s probably two of Colton and seventy-five percent muscle, too packed with muscle.
The punching continues. Colton can feel it in his throat and chest. The man’s breath comes in heaving pants that echo around the room. Colton can only see the back of him, but fuck is he an incredible specimen of genetic engineering.
He has a designation. That part is obvious. His shoulders are unbelievably broad, and the way his muscles bunch and release when he hits the bag is hypnotizing.
Other details become apparent. He’s trembling visibly, like a horse that’s about to drop dead at the end of a race. His breath is heaving in and out unsteadily. His shoulders are hunched. Clearly, he’s in severe distress.
And Colton has to brace himself so he doesn’t take a step forward and force the man to stop hitting that fucking bag.
All the normal soldiers like TRX and weight training. Soldiers with a designation like to hit and be hit. They like the pain, the rhythm and endurance. They’re like moths to a flame—see a punching bag and start hitting.
It’s ridiculous.
This guy might be the most ridiculous. He’s punching the bag the way an alcoholic attacks a bottle of whiskey. His hair is blond, thick, and darkened with sweat.
He’s still wearing some of the clothes he wore on whatever mission he just came from. A black tank top, black tactical pants, and boots that are better than anything the military would buy. A black sweater is on the bench. There are no distinguishing markers on anything he’s wearing.
Colton puts all the pieces together to reach the only conclusion—even if it is fantastical.
This man is a submissive.
He is dropping after a mission and no one can help him. He must be very high level indeed. Important. What’s his special skill, Colton wonders?
Besides hotness and strength?
The submissive’s dysregulation prickles against Colton’s skin as he gets closer.
This is definitely why Colton is here. Either this submissive is so far to the end of the scale that they’ve gone searching through military databases to find someone who might be able to help even him out, or he’s rejected everyone else he’s met.
The number of people who have designations high enough to warrant this sort of intervention and that are important enough to get matched rather than decommissioned and frozen is incredibly low.
Colton’s own designation is rare and odd. If it wasn’t for the blood tests that say he’s dominant, no one would guess.
There’s a sound like a firework exploding, and the punching bag snaps off the hook and flies into the wall. The submissive sways where he stands.
The higher the designation, the harder the drop.
His head turns and Colton gets to see his profile. He’s a statue come to life. Sharp jaw, perfect angular nose, high cheekbones.
But his cheeks are pink, as if he’s ill with fever. If he can’t get the submissive hormones out, release the buildup, then it is akin to having a fever. A poisonous accumulation in his blood and body.
Colton stops himself from taking a step back. This man is very unwell. His designation is killing him, Colton thinks, and turns to the man beside him.
His expression is cold. He won’t look at Colton. Colton can’t ask how bad it is but he can feel it. And it makes Colton feel sick to be this close to a submissive in unbelievable distress and not do anything. Dominants take care of submissives.
“I’m here for him?” Colton asks, just to confirm, his voice practically a growl. The submissive whirls around to face them, all rage and tension.
His eyes are a light brown, his lips full and practically obscene, and he looks so fucking angry Colton shoves any inappropriate thoughts far out of his mind.
The man in charge takes a step closer. He doesn’t have a designation, and the cues and requirements of those with designations make little sense to those without one.
Lucky them.
Colton extends a hand, stopping the man in charge from going closer. It’s instinct. The submissive flinches back, which reassures Colton that stopping the man was the right decision.
“Graham. This is Private Berringer. He’s the highest level we can find. Army.”
The submissive’s gaze goes right past Colton to the corner of the room. Colton glances over, sees two soldiers with stun guns at the ready.
This is a shit show.
The submissive—whose name is apparently Graham Knox—laughs.
It grates against Colton’s nerves. “You’re all gonna take me down, is that it?
” The submissive shakes his head, swallows hard.
“Hold me down for him to… hurt me? You think I’m going to let him break me down?
I don’t fucking think so,” he says, all fight.
Which is a fascinating idea on its own. This submissive is utterly incredible. He’s impossible to look away from. He’s a magnet, gravity itself, and it’s the first time Colton’s felt such a strong designational draw.
Five minutes ago, Colton would have said getting a designation was good because it had saved his life, cured him of cancer, and made him love running. There hadn’t been a single downside because his dominance didn’t react like everyone else’s seemed to.
The frantic need to fight and fuck, to breed and claim, the violence thrumming under the surface of his skin isn’t something he’s ever felt.
But now he’s beginning to understand what all the Dominants complain about.
The desperate need to be close to a submissive, to touch and settle them.
He doesn’t let his brain go farther down the path of what he’d like to do to the man before him.
It’s not helpful. The submissive would likely pick up on Colton’s arousal.
He focuses on the moment. That the submissive is unwell and needs help.
This is the submissive Colton responds to. This is the one he wants. The biggest, broadest, most beautiful man Colton has ever seen.
And it’s pretty clear he hates everyone, Colton included.