14. TATE
TATE
November
It was better than my fantasies. Watching Pearl slide in and out of Ryan’s greedy fuckhole was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
I made him kiss her. Lick her. Beg her to fuck him.
Fuuuuuck. That’s happening again. And he liked it.
The noises he made. How he begged me to let him come.
I’ll never tire of the desperation in his voice.
I decided not to touch his cock, for the record.
If he wanted to come, he had to come from Pearl alone—and he did. God, what a sight that was.
He collapsed naked on my office couch, and I put a blanket over him, doing some work on my computer until Ethan texted to remind me that I had to return him.
Did I have to, though? He belongs to me. Ryan knows it too, even if he was a bit slow on the uptake. His body always knew, though. But, alas, my strategy dictated that, yes, he did have to go back to North Point, and I was left in this unforgiving wasteland that some people call pining.
It’s a little better this time, because I have a picture of him. It’s not even of him with Pearl up his ass—I’ll get one next time if I’m not too blitzed out—it’s of him sleeping.
I didn’t realize how much the world weighed on him until he was out cold.
He was in bliss. Heavy limbs sprawled, the lines of tension in his face melted away.
The rise and fall of his chest was hypnotizing.
So sweet and melodic that I found myself wandering over and kneeling over him so I could time his heartbeat along with his breaths.
“What’s got you smiling like that, VanCourt?” a voice from the door says.
I’m back in my office at Shadowridge. The last time I was with Ryan was two agonizing days ago. That’s fine, I won’t have to tolerate so many days apart for long. He didn’t say he’d marry me, but he didn’t say he wouldn’t marry me.
Or, well, technically, he said no, and I respect that, but the no was a solid probably yes by the time he left.
But holy shit, am I smiling?
Patrick invites himself in, taking a seat. I know he wants to talk fundraisers, but I’m sick of the word fundraiser. I’ve got way more important shit going on.
“I’m going to assume things are going well with the boyfriend.”
Would it be too soon to announce the engagement? First law of manifestation: Act as if it’s already happened. Patrick and Luke don’t talk anyway, and Luke is distracted with McKinnon’s ass. Literally and figuratively.
“Fiancé, actually. We’re engaged.”
“Really, VanCourt? Alright, let’s see it.”
I frown. “See what?”
“The engagement ring.”
Shit. Fuck. I knew I forgot something. But I was so focused on convincing Ryan to marry me. That’s more important, isn’t it?
Dammit. Ryan’s into, well, not romance exactly, but signs of affection. He can’t wear a ring right now, though. The more I think about it, the more I wish he could. Rings are like collars. A golden brand. They mark an individual as taken.
And Ryan’s ass is about as taken as it gets.
“It’s getting sized,” I lie. “But, uh, we’re not announcing it just yet. If you could keep it to yourself—”
He waves a hand. “Say no more. We’re good friends. You can trust me. I think the kids call it being besties.”
My insides twist. Besties? Is that what Patrick thinks we are? I guess he’s the closest thing I have to a friend. Ethan’s always in my face, but I pay him to be. Jane has occasionally stepped outside the role of head of security, but, like Ethan, she knows her place.
Patrick stands up. I quirk a brow. “You didn’t tell me the reason you dropped by.”
“Do I have to have a reason? I came to check on you. You haven’t seemed your usual, sunny self.”
A little warmth spreads to my lips, imagining what Ryan would say to the person describing me as sunny.
“Look at you, smiling again. Right as rain. Bet you’re thinking about him.” He winks. “I’ll be going then. I expect an invite to the wedding.”
He leaves on that charming little parting shot. Fuck. There’s no way Patrick can come to our wedding, but that’s a problem for another day. I have an appointment.
Kline’s screams echo off the walls. No, literally. I had this place designed for maximum terror and sound. There’s an art to torture. People think it’s all blood and gore and ripping flesh from bone.
Sometimes that’s necessary.
Sometimes it’s just fun.
But any idiot with a knife can inflict pain. I want their mind. I want to break in, tear their psyche open, and plant a thousand seeds of my voice that will pop up like a weed when I want them to. I have plans for Kline. If I didn’t, he’d be dead.
That’s what people get when they fuck with what’s mine.
I let Kline breathe, which can’t be comfortable, hanging like that, arms overhead, chains pulled tight, only just able to press his toe pads into the stone.
Every breath must be excruciating. In that position, most of the weight sits in his shoulder joints.
Throbbing endlessly. I don’t even need to draw blood.
I could let him hang there until his muscles reach endurance, and the weight becomes too much.
Let his mind play tricks on him, wondering if his tendons are about to snap from the pressure.
That’s a sweeter kind of pain. It sinks bone-deep and makes your psyche scream.
Ask me how I know.
Kline takes slow, pain-filled breaths. Each one sparking fresh agony from other injuries. I always make sure he’s covered in some way. Today it’s sweatpants. It feels like I’m cheating on Ryan otherwise, and I’m a one-man guy. Utterly devoted.
Tears drip off Kline’s face, his once perfectly groomed hair grown out, skin slick with sweat.
He still has the audacity to sneer. He’s been tougher to break than I thought he would be.
But families like his beat their children into submission to toughen them up.
That’s okay, I’m willing to put in the work—it will be so much more satisfying when Kline finally falls.
I doubt Ryan escaped being beaten into submission by his father. Is that what he meant when he said he was his father’s prisoner? The way I wanted to ask. It took a lot of internal chatter to calm me the fuck down and keep my mouth shut while my blood boiled.
“Drink,” I say, feeding Kline a little cool water. He drinks greedily until I pull it away. Only giving him enough not to dehydrate, but not as much as he’d like. “Want more? Be a good boy, answer my questions, and I’ll think about it.”
“Fuck you.”
“Rude.”
I pick up my own bottle of water—don’t want to be infested with him—and drink my fill with a nice long moan of enjoyment. “God, that’s good.”
He keeps his mouth shut, trying to act like he doesn’t care, but he eyes the water, his dry mouth desperate for more. I walk over to my selection of canes, selecting a medium-weight one. I rest the cane across the back of my shoulders, hooking my wrists over either end, and saunter back to Kline.
“Can’t wait, VanCourt,” he wheezes. “But you’re going to have to do better than that to best a Kline.”
“Guess we’ll see. Tell me more about your situationship with Henry.”
“Why?”
“I love a good love story.”
He laughs. “It’s not a love story.”
I let the cane swing over my shoulder, one end meeting the floor, and undo a few of my shirt buttons. Is it hot in here? No? Just me, then. “Tell me a story instead. I have time.”
“Henry’s father was even more insane than you are, no offense.”
I shrug. “None taken.”
“Henry fell in love, but his father had plans for him to marry Iris, Ryan’s mother. Allegedly, he made Henry kill the man. It changed him.”
Yeah, that’ll do it.
“But you were in love with Henry?” I say, twirling the cane.
He laughs. “With Henry? No. I loved Iris.”
“But you said you wanted Henry.”
“I do now,” he says, gritting his teeth.
Interesting. This is why I love gathering information. Sometimes it takes a little digging to find something useful, but when you hit a goldmine …
“So then it’s lust or revenge, or maybe lust and revenge.”
It took a while before Kline would say anything, but after a few sessions with Ethan and me, he’s a trove of information and caustic fairytales.
“Definitely lust and revenge.”
“Aren’t you kind of old by your society’s standards not to be married already?”
“I was married. My wife died during labor while having our sons. Twins.” His jaw twitches. Is that a lie? I can’t tell. It could be part lie, part truth—the best way to tell a lie. Digging my fingers into his skull, I yank his head back till he screams.
“You’d better not be lying to me, or I’ll have Ethan shove this cane so far up your ass your esophagus will have splinters.”
“You still don’t have Ryan’s answer, do you?” he says, his voice between a cry and a scream.
I release him like he’s a scalding rock.
Claws, claws, claws.
Little feet over my skin.
Dark.
The room tilts.
Heart racing.
“Oh, did I hit a nerve?”
Goddammit. Fuck. Why did I do that? It wasn’t a voluntary reaction. Okay, so maybe it’s been eating at me that Ryan won’t fucking marry me, which is why I try not to think about it. If I do, it’s like an army of screw worms, barreling through my brain. Kline just had to fucking bring that up.
He releases a manic laugh. “You really think taking me off the board makes him yours? Ryan belongs to his father.”
I can’t give him any more than he already got from me.
This is why Uncle Jasper never had a weakness, or if he did, he was the master at never showing it.
But Kline needs to stop talking his fucking mouth off.
I toss the cane, reaching for the knife at my belt.
It has a partially serrated blade with a sharp tip.
I drag a hand through my sweaty hair, composing myself.
“I can wait until Ryan is ready.”
No, you can’t, Tate.
You hate his constant refusals.
Okay fine. Yes. He needs to be tied to me. I want finite hooks in him, so he’s mine forever.