Chapter Twenty-Eight
Brock
I float into consciousness with the sound of voices in my head. Heavy shadows blocking out the excruciatingly bright light beyond is the last thing I remember. When was that? Minutes ago? Hours? I blink several times, trying to focus, feeling the heaviness pressing against my face. A mask—I have on some sort of mask to cover my eyes.
I open my mouth to speak, to call out, but my throat swells with the effort. I drag air into my lungs, the success of the effort calming me. I’m not dead. A familiar voice pierces the fog. No, moans. Female moans.
“General,” she whispers. “ Oh my, General .” More soft moans and pants. A guttural male growl.
Reality slices through my mind, possessiveness coursing through my veins. I have no idea why—no understanding of the reason it has to be—but Jocelyn is mine. I try to sit up. Try to scream out—Jocelyn!—but there’s no sound.
Jocelyn’s voice carries through the darkness. “General, wait. General, stop.” I draw in a breath and force myself to calm, clinging to the shattered pieces of her voice. “General, wait!” she repeats. “Brock’s awake. General, please stop! He’s awake.”
The general grunts. “I don’t give a damn right about now, Jocelyn.”
“We should check on him.”
“How about I make you come, and then you check on him? How about that?”
“He can hear us,” she whispers.
“Then he can get off when we do,” the general suggests, and it infuriates me. I jerk at my armbands again, fighting through the pain thrusting its way up my arms.
The general silences her with what sounds like kissing. The sighs and moans that follow are fucking torture, far more than the needles in my veins. Wildly, I begin to fight, pulling against the restraints, fighting to break free and stop him from touching her. But then, then, something happens—something I don’t understand. A sharp pain pierces my brow, and it’s like a prison confines my body, holding me. I can’t fight any more.
I’m forced to lie there and listen to Jocelyn cry out in pleasure, forced to listen to the slap of skin against skin. It drags on for long, torturous minutes until finally, silence falls, and I imagine, with graphic explicitness, them lying there naked, wrapped around each other. In this moment, I know I will kill the general, hunt him down, and make him pay for everything he has done. I wrap my mind around that vow until a loud siren rips through the air, and then it too goes silent.
“Who would be at my front door at this time of night?” Jocelyn worries, a scurry of activity following her words as if she were dressing.
Door? That wasn’t a doorbell , I think. Where the hell were they?
“I’ll check the monitor,” the general says. “Dress faster.”
The sound of a keyboard being punched…followed by the general’s low curse.
“What?” Jocelyn queries fretfully. “What is it?” She gasps, and I imagine her looking at that monitor. “Oh, my God. My son is here. Creed is here.”