Famous Last Words (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 2)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “Yes,” she stresses as we descend into his hell. “I did a thorough inspection. Salvatore Raniero is alone.”

  And all mine.

  “No guards and cameras are off?” I ask methodically. “We cannot have any mistakes.”

  “No personnel and cameras are disabled,” she confirms, handing the jingling keyring to me. “Here is what you paid for; he is in cell #13.”

  Taking the pass to execute his freedom, I feel the weight in my palm and let the power radiate through me. “No interruptions. I want to savor this final moment.”

  “I will make certain of it.”

  With a stern look, I inquire, “And are my other arrangements taken care of?”

  “Call the number I gave you,” she says with a smile. “And you will see my new position?”

  “I promise you, Kit.” She smiles, elated. “It should be no trouble getting you through with your credentials, Mistress Kit. Welcome to the Juliet family.”

  “Thank you, Sir Dom.”

  The doors open and she offers her fingers, expecting a respectful handshake, but I bend and lift her skin to my lips. “It has been a pleasure doing business with you. I look forward to working with you as Head Trainer Kristina Hemsworth Jolly of Juliet.”

  Her eyes sparkle with the anticipation of her future in Sugargrove. “I cannot wait.”

  I snarl. “Neither can I.”

  The solitary unit of Wiggs sends a reminiscing chill through my spine as I think of my younger days in a Northern California dungeon. The walls are grotesquely painted an eerie black and the lights buzz overheard with an insect-like noise.

  This must be driving Sal to madness.

  Strolling past the cells, I enliven with the prospect of his appearance. I haven’t seen him since the hospital stay. I glance at the keys in my palm as I stare at #13.

  Pity that Violet and Handcock are out at the same time. No better way to start a fire than pour some gasoline and throw a match. The inferno will breach the boundaries soon, and everything will go to hell in a handbasket. I swiftly move to the door, grip the handle, insert the key, and hear the locks turn over.

  Shocking my soul is a rare thing, but I gasp at the sight of the bed frame turned on end, up in the air like a rack. In the dead center, Sal suspends naked from the legs. His statement of intent is enough to end my sobriety.

  Instantly, I awaken, taking the sight of him in. The twist aches in my balls as the growing protrusion enlivens with a statement. We are speaking in body language, former Master to slave, and I cannot deny the incurable aspect of us. There will always be a deep-seated need to provide and care for him.

  I will never get over him.

  He’s gloriously balanced on his shimmering guns as I spot the casts on either hand. He’s deliciously sculpted with sinewy muscles and grotesque strength, taunting for another’s will.

  His thick thighs harden with the point of his toes; his fetish is self-discipline at its highest, the fiery core of who he is. This is his crucifixion—the declaration of a man who will not quit. The dismal part is I know he cannot be broken anymore.

  “Did you like Tristan?”

  “You came all this way to see me, and that is your opening question?” he asks as I stare at his backside. He’s lost a disconcerting amount of weight. “Try again.”

  “Holy fuck, my dick is hard,” I rumble, feeling a sense of disbelief. His shoulder blades stretch taut as his fantastic ass awaits. “… Is that better?”

  “Are we doing this dance?”

  “That would be up to you,” I mutter as my breathing intensifies. “We can play this however you would like.”

  “Did you have to get my attention by sending me to solitary?”

  “You chose this.” I shrug and slide to the side of him. The beautiful angle shows off every curve. “I like to enter with a bang.” He doesn’t flinch or pay attention to my presence, maintaining a proper posture. “You are the best submissive I’ll ever know.”

  A breath of silence passes between us as I’m caught in the memory of our labyrinth. “Too bad I’m not submissive.”

  Expecting his response, I snicker. “Where is she, Lucas?”

  Trying my patience hard, he dares to mutter, “… Whom?”

  “Don’t act like you don’t know,” I assert, easing closer until I can almost touch his arm. “We both know, you put Iris somewhere.”

  “I won’t tell you,” he maintains, keeping his stance. “Not now. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not next year.”

  “Afraid of what I will do?” I snarl, running a finger over his pumped-up bicep. It’s engorged with a chiseled accent.

  Heaven spared nothing in creating this man before me.

  I’m extraordinarily jealous, but I do not let it show. I will not let him rejoice in the glory of my insecurities. I will not bow. I will not buckle. And I will not kneel. “… Or afraid of what she’ll do?”

  “Neither,” he counters, rising slightly with a tilt of his arms. “Afraid of killing my creator.”

  “That is fair.” I break into his space and steal a touch of his flesh, smoothing my hand over his backside and cupping his ass and rocking slowly. “I own your ass.”

  “No more than I own yours.”

  “Where is she, Salvatore?”

  Turning his head with a menacingly dreadful gaze, he locks his eyes upon mine and calmly emerges like a moth from a cocoon. “Fuck you!”

  “There’s my boy!” I proudly boast, equally honored and delighted by his presence. “Where is she, Raniero?” I ask as he cracks his neck. “I bet you miss popping those knuckles.” I turn the blade because I can—because he expects me to. “And jacking off.”

  His snicker echoes throughout the room. “Not nearly as much as I miss fucking her.”

  “I missed you, Boston.” He smirks, swinging back and forth, holding out through the pain. “How long have you been up there?”

  “Hours.”

  Droplets of pre-cum leak from my cock as the heat rises on my cheeks. “You know I will never recover from you. You were my one great accomplishment, and the high I will chase for the rest of my life. You’ve ruined me.”

  “I am aware,” he replies, flexing his ass muscles. “But we both know—the limits, the rules, the lines that cannot be crossed.”

  “Yes, we do Master Raniero,” I whisper, running a single finger down his back. “But someone likes to push the limits, break the rules, and blur the lines with a certain porcelain Geisha doll.”

  “Fuck. You.”

  “Can you take it?” I howl in his ear before cranking it up to a militant roar, “Can you do this, soldier?!?!”

  He’s the fiercest I’ve ever seen, full of a raging inferno, setting out for mass destruction. He doesn’t waver as I pop the knife. “Gonna cut me?” he laughs, insulted that I couldn’t come up with something crueler than a switchblade. “Is that the best you got?”

  I graze the sharp edge over his back. “Where is she?”

  “Fuck. You.”

  “I’m starting to think you might be broken.”

  “Funny,” he says, amused. “I thought I was fixed. Stitched together my broken parts. Realigned the focus.”

  Inhaling the scent of his skin, I kiss the middle of his back as I confess, “I’m going to miss fucking your ass…Sir.”

  “Did you do everything you needed to do?”

  “Oh, we did,” I acknowledge, reaching my hand around to grope his hardness. “I sure as shit hope you aren’t sporting a boner when you wage war.”

  “Only for a certain Master I love and respect.”

  I take my time stroking him. Brushing my palm over the smooth as velvet flesh, I gasp. “I solidified our relationship with Mierne, secured Mistress Kit’s position, and married Jaid. Is there anything else you need me to do?”

  “Tell me if I’m ready.”

  Closing my eyes, I relish in the final moments of pleasure before bringing on a hideous amount of pain. “For?”

  “To
go up against my father,” he mutters like the forgotten son. “To take him on.”

  “Has this training been what you were looking for?”

  His onyx emerald eyes bat to mine as this is the goal line we must cross. We cannot escape the hidden agenda with one another. “What do you think?”

  “Did you find what you came here for?”

  “The cage did its job,” he says as sweat pours from his skin. “It kept me away from Iris.”

  “She did manage to get out from under me,” I acknowledge, giving a snarl. He’s so much better than me—at everything. Teasingly, I quiz, “Have I asked you where she is?” With a side-eyed glance, he cackles at the sudden attack as he lowers his head and shakes it. His ability for self-restraint is a thing of infamy. I won’t crack him, and that gives us enough hope to believe that no one will. “And are you done?”

  “I’m not tough anymore,” he sneers with a hint of a devious grin. “I’m hard as a motherfucking stone.”

  I offer a few more pumps in earnest. “You are, indeed. How much longer?”

  “… Until you make me come?”

  “If you are coming,” I stress, breathing against his neck. “I’m swallowing.”

  His light chuckle marks the end of my attempts. “I’ve always been your favorite.”

  “How long until extraction?”

  “Give me a few more weeks,” Sal answers, dropping his feet to the floor. “I’m having a standoff.”

  “With?”

  “My rival.”

  My eyes pivot over the splendid terrain of his chest and abs. It will take days for me to stop painting the shower for this binger on Sal. I’m an addict. And I was a recovering addict until about half an hour ago. Now, I crave more. “You need to gain some weight,” I observe, studying the body I helped to construct. Another twenty pounds and he’ll be emaciated. “You need a few weeks to get back to where you were.”

  “Cruz is getting the bike ready,” he informs with a nod. He’s soaked from head to toe, much like the inside of my trousers. “We’re going for a ride.”

  “I did well in giving you such a balanced young man,” I marvel, pulling my handkerchief out and wiping the sweat from his face. “Where is Iris, Trotter?”

  His priceless, wide smile beams as his eyebrows jet up and he huffs, “If you think I’m telling you, you’re fucking insane.”

  “You’re ready!” I laugh, knowing how hard this has been on his psyche. “Protect the asset. No excuses. No fear. You did good in coming to prison.” I brace my hands on either of his cheeks and pull our heads together. I am his trainer; he is my student. And prison is his graduation. “You did good, Boston.”

  “Thank you,” he says with a nod. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for us.”

  His semi-erect dick calls my attention as I realize the lack of adornment “Mhmm, how do you plan on getting your jewelry back in?”

  “The same way I got it in the first time,” he brags like the greedy pain slut he is. “Do I get my reward now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bring it on,” he rallies, setting his jaw. “Don’t take too long.”

  Pulling my phone from my jacket, I dial the number from Kit. “He’s all yours, Mock. Three days. Don’t be gentle. Mark his ass up good.”

  The tip of his tongue twists out to land on his sharp left canine. “This is going to be good.”

  “No, this is going to hurt like a motherfucker.”

  He cocks his head with a shrug. “Not nearly as much as missing Iris.”

  31

  Mock Up the Future

  Within thirty minutes, Mock arrives in casual clothes. He proceeds to turn #13 into a makeshift tattoo parlor. The bed comes down. Extension cords are brought in along with a folding table and chair. This shit is happening and what it represents is the real progress we are making.

  “Have you been released?” I ask, sitting on the bed and holding the pillow Dom brought me. He thought of everything and even brought a bag of clothes. He helped me take a quick shower and dress in a hoodie and a pair of black silk boxers, which feel absurdly restrictive against my junk.

  “I left a week ago,” he says, firing up the machines. “How long of a session can you do?”

  “As long as you can.” Realizing how much he trusts me to hand over intel on Violet, I feel a responsibility to him. “How long have you been doing this?”

  “Honestly?” He smiles from his chair as I take a seat. “I started when I was a kid. Both my parents were tat artists. I have all the flashes from Dom ready. Where are we going first?”

  “Two cherries held together by a heart-shaped stem, inside of my bicep.”

  “You got it,” he says, firing up the gun. I realize the small piece is nothing compared to what I’m about to do. Thirty minutes later, he glances at me and says. “Next?”

  “My upper back between the tribal crow and the wolf on my shoulders,” I say, pulling off the hoodie and laying on my belly.

  “Who did the drawings?”

  “Me,” I say, getting comfortable. “I’ve only ever had Delilah do my ink, but I’ve been drawing since I was a kid.”

  “Delilah is awesome. When Dom brought the drawings to me, I couldn’t believe how detailed they were. Do you ink?” he asks, filling the cup with obsidian black pigment and turning on the machine. “You ready?”

  “Ya,” I say, letting my casts dangle off the sides. “And to answer your question, I’ve dabbled some with needles—ink and piercing—but nowhere near enough to do what you do.”

  “I don’t do it near enough anymore, so I was super stoked to do this session for you. I did a lot of the officers here.” Mock’s calm demeanor is different from what I’m used to in many regards. His even keel is much nicer than the hot/cold treatment I’ve experienced over the years at Sibyl. “It’s hard to find the time to do the things I love when I’m busy building an operation. And forget trying to find qualified guys at the start.”

  With the needle darting into my skin, I find a blissful headspace. It’s a different pain than that of Serene and her whip. “Do you know about Cas?”

  “That girl is running all kinds of shit through Cinco.”

  “That’s when shit goes bad,” I honestly admit, relaxing. “You get these gangs and clubs thinking they can stick their finger in every pie and what they end up with is slop.”

  “Violet knows the details of the entire operation because his last cellmate was a snitch.”

  “Do I want to know where he is?” I ask as he stops.

  “Protective custody, waiting on witness protection.”

  I succumb to the endorphin surge and welcome the rush of pain. I’m tougher than I think, stronger than I believe, and more resilient than most. I’m always reminded of this when I get inked.

  “If you tell me who all is after The Unholy, I’d be happy to hand over any intel I’ve got.”

  From one contractor to another, this is the moment we all want to happen and hardly ever does. Mock is so new, and he isn’t skewed by potential clients or prospective investors. “Are you really running your operation like grassroots?”

  “Pretty much,” he says, pressing his gloved hand against my shoulder. “You know Jason Torrente?”

  “Jas?”

  “Yeah.” He smiles. “I know him he was coming into SEALs as I was going into spec ops. I started doing contract work with ATF and CIA, but eventually, I wanted to run my show.” Stopping, he looks at me and smirks. “Better pay.”

  It’s such a small world. “He works for me at my command center in Nebraska.”

  “… Your command center?”

  “Ya,” I say, moving my arms. “I built it a few years ago. I wanted to do my research without tracing it back through Sibyl and their systems.”

  He pulls back and asks, “Do you need to shift?”

  “Only if you can get these cages off of me.”

  “I can pull them off,” he volunteers with a grin, “If you want. The question i
s—can you get them back on?”

  Smiling, I laugh. “Nah, I’d just want ink on my knuckles.”

  “… Have you felt the weight of my needle?” he casually asks with a blink of his gloomy gray eyes. “I’ll be good to you, man.”

  Something about Mock fills me with comfort and joy like he’s the kind of partner to take a bullet just because he can. “There is a lot to say about who is against us,” I mutter, trusting someone outside of our immediate circle. “The chief opposition at the moment is coming from my father.”

  “Because he wants you by his side,” he points out, working his way across my back. “Ignore everything else; you are his son. Do you think he’ll put a hit out on you?” He stops to dip the needle and resumes the linework. “Think about it from a psychological perspective. You are his child. Not every parent has it in them to blow away their kids. Or vice versa for that matter. Family comes with a plethora of strings.”

  “Did you go to school?”

  “I did,” he says, peering over the top rim of his glasses. “I joined the military at eighteen, served four years, went to school for five years, and then went back to join the SEALs for another ten.”

  “How old are you?” I ask a little more shocked and impolite than I would’ve liked. “I will be fifty-one next April.”

  “Dear God, I had you pegged for young thirties.”

  “Genetics are good in the Miller family.”

  I tilt my head. “You wouldn’t happen to know Lily Miller-Armstrong?”

  “I do,” he says, switching to the shader. “She’s my baby sister.”

  The irony is too much, so I point it out, kindly. “You knew I was coming to Wiggs.”

  “I did,” he admits, working on the masterpiece for my Angel. “Lily asked me to look into you. She wanted to know if you were a safe enough bet and worthy of her risk. My name is Jeremy “Mock” Miller, and good genetics isn’t all that runs in the family.”

  He’s a damn Dom.

  Though in all honesty, I suspected that. Not only did he know I was coming to the prison but had a vast knowledge of his sister’s fetish affair.

  Great.