Chapter 16 Jace #2
I wasn’t done—not even close. Malachi still had claws in him, still had years of control and lies buried deep in Elior’s brain.
But those claws were loosening, if only a fraction at a time.
Every touch, every kiss, every quiet night tangled up in each other pulled Elior further out of that man’s shadow.
Just before he’d fallen asleep tonight, he’d taken my cock again—the same way he had the past few nights.
This time, though, I’d made him get on top and ride my dick, although he really hadn’t accomplished much riding.
He’d tried—don’t get me wrong. But it had taken only a few seconds before he’d collapsed, saying it was too deep, and clinging to me as I fucked up into him until both of us were coming.
Yesterday, I’d shoved a smooth wooden crucifix into his hole before evening service.
Elior had gasped, knees buckling as I twisted it deep, the crossbar catching on his rim before popping inside.
His eyes went wide, pleading, but I’d clamped a hand over his mouth, whispering, “Hold it in during prayers, cherub. Let Father preach while Daddy’s cross fucks your guts. ”
“I can’t, Daddy,” he’d cried.
“But you will,” I told him. “You’ll do it for me, won’t you, baby?”
He’d nodded hesitantly, trembling, small cock leaking into his underwear as I straightened his robe and marched him into the chapel. The congregation and Malachi had filed in just moments later, oblivious.
They murmured prayers while Malachi ranted from the pulpit about purity and divine wrath. Elior perched on the edge of the Seat of Light, right in front of them all—his holy pedestal now a secret throne of torment.
I sat in the back pew, cock straining against my briefs, watching every twitch.
Elior’s thighs clenched, knuckles white on the stone arms. His face stayed serene for the faithful—a picture of angelic devotion—but I saw the truth.
Lips parted on silent whimpers, cheeks flushing pink.
Each shift ground the crucifix deeper, pressing against his prostate relentlessly.
Malachi’s voice boomed, eyes flicking to Elior now and then, hungry and unhinged. “The light demands sacrifice! Obey, or be cast into darkness!”
Elior jolted at a particularly loud shout, biting his lip bloody to stifle a moan. His hips rocked subtly, chasing friction, the motion hidden by his robe but obvious to me. Precum soaked his thighs. I just knew it. His little dick was throbbing under there, untouched.
Halfway through, he met my gaze. Those big eyes shimmered with tears, begging release, but I mouthed, “Be good.”
He shuddered, nodding, ass clenching around the intruder. Malachi droned on about purity, ironies dripping from every word as Elior squirmed, stuffed full of sacred wood.
When service ended, followers shuffled out, praising Elior’s radiance.
After the sanctuary had emptied, he stood on wobbly legs, crucifix lodged firm, and I pulled him into his rooms. The door standing between us and the chapel had been closed for but half a second before I yanked his robe up and ripped his underwear off.
“Good boy,” I growled. His hole gripped the cross tight, stretched pink around it. I pumped it in and out once, twice—Elior keened, spurting cum onto the floor without a touch to his cock.
“Come again for Daddy,” I ordered, fucking him harder with the crucifix until he sobbed, another load puddling at his feet. Only then did I pull it free, his rim gaping, drooling oil. I spun him, shoved my cock in raw, and bred him against the door until he gave me a third orgasm.
Now, Elior’s soft, sleepy snuffles filled the room, his body lax against mine.
I needed him to be reliant on me in all ways before the fast-approaching raid.
I kissed his temple, cock twitching at the thought. Soon, I’d own him completely—no more Father, just us.
It was tempting to fill Elior in about what was about to come.
I was worried about how he’d react the day of, scared that he’d panic and somehow end up hurting himself.
Telling him about the raid, explaining to him what it meant for him and for us—it would take away at least a little of that panic.
But I couldn’t. And I hated that I couldn’t.
But I knew that my sweet boy wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret from his father. He might’ve started to doubt Malachi’s teachings, but he still loved him—a fact I wasn’t too happy about.
I understood it, though. Elior had been yearning for his dad’s approval and affection for nineteen years. That wouldn’t just disappear after getting good dick a few times.
I’d spoken with Patel a few hours ago, handing over some audio recordings I’d risked my ass for—sermons where Malachi’s voice went from grandiose to deranged, a punishment session where the bastard had barely bothered to hide the pleasure he took in hurting someone.
All of it captured on my phone, tucked under my robe, praying no one noticed.
Patel had gone quiet as he listened to them.
Then he’d said, voice rough, “This is it. With these, plus the missing persons connection and his mental deterioration, we’ll have enough. We’re drafting the affidavit tonight. Tentative timeline for the raid is forty-eight hours.”
Forty-eight hours.
Two days before everything erupted.
Two days before Elior’s entire world burned down.
Two days before I’d have to steal him from the wreckage and convince him he was better off with me.
My arms tightened around him instinctively as he breathed puffs of warm air onto my chest. He shifted in his sleep, burrowing closer.
The way Patel had ended our call was an ever-present concern, sometimes even clouding my excitement about getting Elior out of here.
“If Ransom’s escalating punishments like you describe, the kid might not survive much longer in there.
We’re pushing this through fast. Man’s a ticking time bomb at this point.
Everyone wants to get in there before we end up with another Jonestown incident.
We’ll get you out before that can happen. ”
I glanced down at Elior, at the peaceful lines of his face, at the faint marks on his neck from where I’d held him earlier, guiding him, coaxing him, grounding him. Every time I touched him, I made sure the pleasure hit deep—bone-deep—so it would be me he thought of when things got dark.
I brushed my fingers through his hair, letting my thumb sweep behind his ear until he sighed in his sleep. God, he was beautiful like this—unburdened, trusting, open.
My boy.
Mine.
But the clock was ticking. And I hated the thought of how terrified he might be when the raid hit—agents swarming, shouting, armed, the compound erupting into panic.
He’d cling to the nearest familiar anchor.
If that anchor wasn’t me… I couldn’t let that happen.
I needed him to think of me as safety.
As truth.
As home.
“Just a little longer,” I murmured against his hair. “Then I’ll get you out.”
He made a soft noise, like he heard me even in sleep, and tucked his toes between my ankles. I smiled despite the knot in my chest.
Forty-eight hours.
Two days until everything changed.
Two days until the world tried to take him from me.
And God help anyone—including the FBI—who thought I’d fucking let them.