Jonas (Darkness #7)

by K. F. Breene

  That burning gaze locked with hers for a moment. It delved into her with raw force. And then turned away toward the wall. Waiting for what came next.

  So she gave it. Hard. With all her experience, and all her knowledge, she railed on him with one hit after the other. The crack of the whip cut through the air. Slices opened up on his body. Blood started oozing from his wounds.

  “Name,” she demanded.

  He stared straight ahead.

  She hit him harder. Slashed at him. Tore his skin.

  His face went pale. The muscles on his substantial body flexed. When she switched to his back, she could see his arms straining. Even his feet were flexed against the pain.

  “Give me your name, and you can end this,” she said between slashes.

  She walked to his front, again. His gaze swiveled up to hers. Defiance etched his every feature.

  “You force my hand,” she whispered.

  He held her eyes this time. She flicked her whip with a practiced hand. An experienced hand. The tip ripped away flesh. Flayed him. Stripped him of flesh piece by piece.

  Most men would’ve passed out by now.

  She gave him another. And another.

  His eyes started to dull. The fire within them doused. A shadow crossed over his features and his shoulders sagged. It wasn’t the pain that was doing this, though. His mind was dwelling on something. Something in his life, or his past, was taking his attention. He’d done the same thing yesterday—he’d battled some sort of inner turmoil.

  She kept at it, harder now. The memory of Nathanial’s forced touches bled into her consciousness. The degradation of being passed around to random people and exposing her vein ate away her thoughts.

  She hit him even harder as tears worked their way up. He had to submit to her. He had to give her something. She couldn’t take going back to that life. Not again. She’d climbed out of there. She’d made herself their torturer. She’d earned her independence!

  “Give me your name!” she seethed.

  A lost look washed over the man’s features. A haunted, broken look entered his eyes. With the next strip of the whip his lips curved downward, but his body didn’t slump. He was fighting it. Fighting whatever hurt more than this whip. Whatever ate him from the inside out.

  Damned if she didn’t know that from experience.

  Without meaning to, her punishment eased. Seeing his features, his dejected loss, his battle with something only he knew, sent shivers through her. Reminded her of what she faced on a daily basis. Of the expressions she so often saw in the mirror when she held the razor blade and dared herself to cut her artery.

  In the next instant, it all cleared. His inner-battle ended. His eyes snapped open with wild hunger. The hard light of triumph burned deeply. His whole body straightened and flexed. A huge display of muscle rolled and moved. His large manhood sprang upwards, tenting his sweats. His eyes delved into hers again with an invitation.

  No, not an invitation. An appeal to share in this moment. To join with him.

  And then it occurred to her. Like a flash of awareness, she finally saw.

  She couldn’t break someone that was already broken. That had been done for her. And while he could triumph over the pain, he hadn’t been able to build himself back up. His experiences had broken him, but no one had reshaped him into a whole being again.

  She’d been wasting her time. She needed to move to the next step: compassion. She needed to treat him like she’d already torn him down, and now make him into what she needed. Her slave.

  But how did she move on to the next step without an open line of communication? Usually she’d gotten answers before she tore the men down. She could then build on those answers when she reshaped them. How could she reshape when she wasn’t the one who broke him?

  Kindness? Honesty?

  “I’m not really sure what to do with you,” she started. She hung up her whip and bent to the bowl of water and sponge in the corner. A moan slipped out as her rib screamed in pain. She straightened up with effort and took a moment to collect herself before taking a few steps and kneeling carefully at his back.

  “You are not responding as you should.” She gently laid the sponge against his back. He flinched, but didn’t try to twist away. Slowly and methodically, she began to clean him up. “I’m going to have to try some new techniques before they try and pry you open with magic. They know, though, that magic tends to kill eight times out of ten. You could probably withstand it, but it is a terrible way to get information. The subjects are incoherent afterwards. It’s usually used for punishment or their horrible amusements.”

  She straightened up again, desperately trying to ignore the throbbing pain in her side. She crossed in front of him and kneeled. Her eyes found his, and paused. He looked back with an assessing type of stare. Trying to figure her out, maybe? Trying to figure out why she suddenly changed tactics?

  She leaned forward a small bit, waiting for him to spit at her. Or try to bite her. Or head butt her. Really any number of defense mechanisms men resorted to after extreme doses of pain from someone they originally wanted to have sex with.

  Nothing came. Just that beautiful, tranquil stare of a man who had confronted his demons and came out on top. It was commendable, but she bet his demons were ghosts. She had those, too. They gave her nightmares. But the real demons in her life weren’t dead and buried. They haunted her in the flesh. And parceled her out as food for punishment. And beat her when she didn’t live up to impossible expectations.

  Yeah, let him try to triumph over her demons. Then we’d see if you’re as tough as you think you are.

  She dipped the sponge into the murky red water and gently applied it to his torso. “I will win, you know. I see that you are pitting yourself against me. Will versus will. I will win because I have to.”

  She glanced up to find his eyes studying her still. His intelligence and strength shone through. Made the brown of his eyes vivid and entrancing.

  She’d once found Nathanial’s eyes beautiful, too. What a mistake that had been. A mistake that, once made, could never be unmade.

  She went back to her cleaning in silence. When she was done, she put the sponge back in the bowl and lifted her gaze to his. Determination and compassion looked out at her. Also, if she wasn’t mistaken, confusion.

  Being honest befuddled him, did it?

  She smirked and stood, hardening her features so the pain in her body didn’t show. She stowed the bowl and prepared to leave. She needed to think about how to open him up. How to get him to talk. She had today. If she didn’t get something by the end of today, she’d take her chances on the run. She had to. There were no other options.

  “Why the outfit?”

  Emmy jerked to a stop with her hand on the door handle. It took her a second to place the deep, gruff voice as coming from the subject. She couldn’t help the look of shock as she turned to him.

  He didn’t repeat himself. He waited patiently while staring straight ahead.

  This was on his terms. He was asking a question, not giving an answer. He was trying to assume control.

  She should ask his name and, when she didn’t get it, walk out. Then she should resume her next cycle later in the day after she came up with a plan. That’s what she should do.

  Nathanial’s threat sounded in her ears. His smug, sneering face swam in her vision.

  Taking a deep breath, she walked around to the front of him. His gaze lifted until it found hers. He glanced at her outfit poignantly before resettling on her gaze.

  “Do you not like women?” she countered, bracing her hands on her hips and bending enough to pronounce her cleavage.

  The man huffed and minutely shook his head. He looked back at the wall.

  A thrill of fear washed through Emmy. She couldn’t lose him!

  Her mind raced before she settled, once again, on honesty. What else did she have? “Men are aroused by this outfit. It sets them up for failure.”

  His gaze on
ce again rose to hers. “How?”

  “When men see a sexual object, they assume the woman is presenting herself to be taken. By him, of course. They delude themselves into thinking they are her master. That they are in control because their penis says they should be. Then I hurt them. My violence against them is seen as a violation of their desires—a traitorous act. Rage takes over. But they are bound. They aren’t in control. They spiral into a form of madness, thus breaking themselves down for me. I just help the process.”

  The man snorted. “Then you only come in contact with weak men.”

  “That formula doesn’t work on everyone, but it works on most. It cuts down my labor.”

  “And pain works on the rest.”

  “Usually.”

  He paused for a moment before asking, “Were you punished because I didn’t speak?”

  Tension tightened up Emmy’s body. She glanced at the door; she should go. She was breaking the rules of a torturer. She’d given him power, and now she was letting down her guard. Letting him into her life.

  Slippery slope, Emmy. You are walking a very slippery slope with this one.

  She glanced at the door again.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” the man said in a low growl. “Did you fight back?”

  Without meaning to, and unable to help the defensiveness, she answered, “Do you fight back when your boss punishes you? Your leader?”

  “No. Because usually I fucked up and knew it was coming.”

  “I see. And if you didn’t mess up? If you didn’t know it was coming?”

  His jaw clenched and unclenched. “I’ve never had violence pushed on me from a superior without due cause. If I did, I would fight back.”

  “And you would probably be killed.”

  “Probably.”

  “I would be killed. Without question. Or subjected to something worse. I’d rather take the punishment.” Emmy snapped her mouth shut when she’d realized what she’d said. How much she’d said.

  “Anyway,” she said in a brusque tone. “You’ll see more of me, now. Things need to progress. I will no longer stop when you’ve had your epiphany. I’ll continue on until you can’t hold your head up. We’ll see if prolonged pain will loosen your lips.”

  “It won’t.” His gaze was on her again. “I’m not afraid of pain. I’m used to it. What questions do you need answers to?”

  Emmy’s eyebrows furled. In response, he smirked and said, “I don’t have any great secrets. I’m sure Sasha, my mage, is trying to find me right now. She’s probably getting with her white mage teacher and coming up with some nasty spells that will tear this place apart. All they have to do is find this place. And she will, eventually. Or the Boss will. Or those mongrels will. Or all those strange humans will. It’s only a matter of time. As long as you have me, dead or alive, they’ll come for me. You’re on the wrong side, sweet cheeks. You sound American, mostly, and you almost look human with your stature—you don’t need to be hanging around with no group of Europeans. They haven’t gotten with the times.”

  “Sasha is the human?” Emmy asked with a firm voice. “She’s allowed to be mage?”

  The man’s eyes burned into hers. “They don’t treat you great here, huh? You’re human, then?”

  She raised her chin, not quite sure how he could read her so easily. “Half. My father. I was mostly raised in America. That’s why I have this accent.”

  “We just got a halvsie. More useful, straddling that line. Didn’t much like him at first, and I used to hate humans. But they grow on you when you get to know ‘em. Kind of a gentler species until they get riled up. Humans, that is. Not the halvsie. He’s a nut.”

  Emmy couldn’t stop herself from smiling. She turned away to hide it. “What’s your name?”

  “Jonas. I guard the mage. Don’t bother asking me any questions about her. I won’t answer. But you can know whatever you like about me.”

  “All on your terms, huh?” she asked, facing him again once her features were schooled.

  He shrugged his large shoulders. “You’re trying. This is out of your hands. Like I said—I’m used to pain. I’ll take it right to the grave. Almost have many times. And you’re great with that whip. Too bad you’re so stuck up or I—“

  His mouth snapped shut before he finished his thought. His gaze once again hit that back wall.

  Unable to help her curiosity, she said, “Finish.”

  He smirked. “That’s just it. I’d like to finish. With you. But that shit makes you uncomfortable.”

  Anxiety rolled through Emmy’s insides. Before she’d made the conscious thought, she was walking toward the door. Before she’d left, she heard, “See?”

  He was right. It did. Her only experience had been years and years of being forced. There’d been nothing she could do. No one she could appeal to for help. No rights, and no way to fight back. She’d just as soon never be touched by a man ever again.

  But she had the stranger talking. Jonas, his name was. She had him talking, and she had some information for Nathanial. Nothing too substantial yet, but as long as something was coming, they’d think she was doing her job.

  Now she just had to figure out how to build him up in her image. To make him want to give her everything. About the mage and whatever else Nathanial wanted to know. She had to appeal to Jonas’ soft side—because she knew he had one. Helping her, studying her, inquiring about her wounds—yes, he had one. He was a hard man with a soft core. She had to appeal to that softness. But how?

  And then she knew. There was one woman who would charm any man. She’d worked her way into this compound by batting her eyes and swinging her hips. She’d taken blood from all the top members—men and women who rarely gave anyone a taste. She was now one of Nathanial’s favorites and often shared his bed.

  Emmy walked to the back of the first floor and took the stairs up two flights. There she turned right and walked until the end. She knocked softly at the door. A moment later it opened with a swirl of air and perfume. The beautiful woman stood framed by the door, one hip jutted to the side and her perfect breasts pushed forward. Her flowing red dress was shimmery and see-through.

  “Oh, it’s you. What do you want?” the woman asked.

  “Hi Darla. I wondered if you had a moment?”

  Chapter Four

  Jonas heard the door open slowly behind him. His stomach filled with butterflies. Something about that beautiful little female had him anticipating seeing her again. There was something in her eyes. A strange sort of vulnerability that had him wanting to protect her. He’d never experienced this before and he had no idea what to make of it.

  Maybe it was because she held him captive. This room, his numb legs, the treatment—that was probably it. He was most likely responding to her as a captive would.

  Whatever. He kind of liked this. He just wished she wasn’t so shy of males.

  A flash of anger had him balling his fists remembering the scared and disgusted look in her eyes when he’d mentioned sex. Someone had screwed her up. That was pretty clear. Someone in this place. Probably the same asshole who punished her instead of worked with her. Hell, when they were trying to get information out of that shifter, the Boss never held Toa responsible for his failed attempts. Instead, he’d worked with the blond-headed idiot. Tried to come up with something that could bring the captive around.

  “Jonas.”

  The word was like honey poured across his body. She came around him slowly dressed in a shimmery red dress that was all but see-through. The usual graceful sway of her hips and assurance in her step was absent, though. Instead, her hands were held rigidly at her sides. Jarring movements and uncomfortable shifting dried up all the sex in the room.

  “If you’re trying to seduce me to make me an idiot, I’d prefer the whip,” Jonas said.

  She glanced down at her body in confusion before slowly walking toward him. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. She lowered herself to kneel directly in front of him. Her sweet b
reath fell across his face. Her baby-blue eyes held his. A small crease formed between her eyebrows, giving her away.

  “You got to this part too soon,” Jonas helped. “You’re supposed to wander around and show off your wares. Then, when I’m salivating, you’re supposed to slink forward. Maybe put your groin in my face or something. Then kneel. Then tease me. When I beg, that’s when you ask questions or whatever it is you want. You got here too quick.”

  Anger flashed in her eyes.

  “Plus, you still look uncomfortable,” Jonas continued. “If you can’t pull off a cleavage show, how are you gonna pull off near-nakedness? What are you going for, anyway? Love via my dick, or something? I said I’d answer your questions.”

  Her mouth turned into a hard line before she abruptly stood. “Fine. How about this.” She stalked back to the corner and came back with a wooden paddle. “Want pain? No problem.”

  With only a small grimace from what must’ve been the pain in her side, she leaned down, swung her paddle back, and delivered him one hell of a blow. The slap hit off his wounds from earlier and spread the pain across his chest. Aching bites tore into him as the wounds, barely knitting together, all broke open. He sucked a breath in through his teeth.

  “Hurts, huh?” she taunted. “How about this?” She hit him again. Then once more, pounding him with the blunt object with such violence he had an instant hard-on.

  “Again,” he breathed, falling into it.

  He felt another solid slap. And another. She was taking out her aggression on him, but doing it with an air of precision he hadn’t had before. The landing of each blow was well-placed for maximum effect. She’d chosen the paddle so she could beat the hell out of him without rendering him unconscious or killing him. And she stood over him with a mastery and dominance that set him on fire.

  “Again,” he repeated.

  The blows stopped. His erection throbbed. He opened his eyes to find her staring down at him with a crooked smile. “You’re on my time. You’ll get punishment when I say you get punishment. And right now, I need an answer or two before I take you higher.”