Bound Guardian Angel

by Donya Lynne

  He swung around and stormed the desk. “I’m done waiting. Go get him. Now!”

  A look of irritation crossed the guard’s expression as he let out a perturbed sigh and met Micah’s gaze frown for frown. “Do we really have to do this again?” The guard sighed. “Only Cordray is allowed to—”

  Micah uncrossed his arms and pounded his fists on the desk. “Cordray isn’t here, is she, and his sentence ended twenty minutes ago.” He made a show of looking at the clock then met the guard’s gaze with a healthy dose of heat. “If it was so goddamned important for her to take custody of Trace upon his release, she should have been here the moment his sentence ended. She’s not. I am. And right now I think you need to be worrying about me a whole hell of a lot more than you are her, because I’m the one about to knock you into next month if you don’t get out of that goddamn chair and get my friend right fucking now.”

  He wasn’t at all fond of Cordray, and just hearing her name did something to his need to draw blood, and not so he could drink it. One day, he and that bitch would swap blows, but right now, his main concern was to get Trace home and taken care of. Trace had to be going ballistic by now.

  The guard’s hard glare softened as he blinked and reconsidered his stance. “The orders—”

  “Fuck your orders!” Micah shot forward and grabbed the guard’s shirt at the collar, ready to unload the unholy wrath of Micah if he had to. “He will not stay incarcerated one more minute. If it’s so goddamn important for Cordray to be here to sign for his release, where the fuck is she?” Micah let go of the guard’s shirt with an abrupt shove. Standing tall, he projected an air of authority the guy had probably only ever felt from the king himself. “Now, you get your ass out of that chair and go get my friend so I can take him home and prevent him from turning mutant. Do you want that on your conscience, asshole? Because if I don’t get him out of here right now, that’s a distinct possibility. Am I making myself clear?”

  The guard didn’t seem happy about being bossed around by someone other than his commander or the king, but when Micah mentioned that Trace could turn mutant, his face paled.

  “M-mutant?”

  Micah backed off a step now that he had the guard’s full attention. “Yes. Mutant. You down with that? Because I’m not, especially since we’re talking about my friend in there. If I lose him because high-and-mighty Cordray Ass-Fuck isn’t here, I will hunt her down after I take off your head and use it as a soccer ball. You feeling me?”

  The guard hesitated for only a moment then cursed under his breath as he stood and unfastened his keys from his belt. “Fine, Micah, but it’s your ass if Cordray throws a fit.”

  “She can suck my ass, for all I care.” He wasn’t especially concerned with making Cordray happy.

  Micah waited for the guard to come around the desk, his keys jangling as he flipped his key ring around his index finger and caught the keys in his palm as he led Micah into the back and down a short hallway to a pair of cells, one on either side of the hall. Trace was in the one on the right.

  “Shit!” Micah shoved the guard aside as he got an eyeful of his best friend in what could only be described as a state of emergency.

  Trace lay on the floor in a shivering heap, his teeth chattering, eyes rolled back in their sockets. His shirt was ripped and shredded as if he’d clawed through the fabric. Dozens of partially healed, razor-thin cuts lined his forearms, as well as several bite marks.

  “Oh my God,” the guard said as he fumbled with his keys to open the door. “He wasn’t this bad when they brought him in. Is he okay? He isn’t going mutant, is he?” He turned plaintive eyes on Micah.

  Hell to the no! Trace couldn’t be going mutant. Micah wouldn’t let that happen.

  Micah gripped one of the iron bars, impatient for the guard to unlock the cell door. “Just hurry the fuck up and let me in there!”

  Terror filled the guard’s eyes, and he took a hesitant step back as if he was afraid to open the door. From the thoughts battering Micah in a fearful frenzy, the guard worried Trace was already too far gone and didn’t want to let him out. The big pussy. What member of the king’s guard worth his weight in salt shriveled in the face of fear?

  “Get out of my way.” Micah scowled and pushed him aside, reared back, and kicked the cell door. It shuddered on its hinges. He kicked it again, and the metal groaned. He had to get to his friend. He had to get Trace out of there, and waiting for Mighty Mouse with the keys to get over his silly-assed fear so he could unlock the door wasn’t cutting it. Mustering all his strength, Micah braced himself against the bars of the opposite cell, lifted his leg one more time, and let out a battle cry as he drove his heel against the metal plate that housed the lock.

  The mechanism shattered, and the door flew open. In an instant, Micah had Trace in his arms.

  “Trace! I’m here, brother. I’ve got you. Trace?” Micah hoisted him up, blew past the guard—who shrank away like a coward—and darted for the door. “Give my regards to Cordray!” he shouted back with an air of sarcasm as he kicked open the door to the parking lot and rushed Trace out into the rain to his waiting Audi.

  If Cordray’s tardy ass had prevented him from getting to Trace in time to save him, he would make it his life’s mission to destroy her.

  Chapter 4

  Micah arrived home in record time, pulled into his garage, hauled Trace’s shivering body from the front seat, and shot inside as Sam opened the door.

  “My God! What’s wrong with him?” Sam darted past him to the door leading to the basement. She opened it and stood aside.

  “He’s better now than he was ten minutes ago,” Micah said. “You should have seen him in his cell.”

  “This is better?” Sam swept her hand toward Trace, eyes wide, mouth gaping.

  True, Trace’s teeth still chattered, and his body still shuddered with spasms every few seconds, but at least his eyes weren’t rolled back in their sockets, anymore. They were simply closed. And he had tried to talk to Micah on the drive over. Not that his words made much sense. Some of them hadn’t even sounded English.

  “Lock us in,” he said, pausing to give her an adoring gaze. “And wait up for me.” He leaned in and gave her a hasty kiss.

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  He pecked her on the lips again. “You’re incredible.”

  She smiled and brushed her fingers through his hair then palmed Trace’s cheek. He relaxed and turned his face into her hand, eyes still closed.

  “Welcome home, Trace,” she whispered. Then to Micah she said, “Go on. Take care of him. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “It could be a while.” Trace was in bad shape. Who knew how long they would be in the dungeon just to get him back to acceptable.

  “Take your time.” Sam took a step back and motioned him down the stairs. “Now go.”

  “I love you.” Micah started down.

  “I love you, too.”

  The door latched behind him, and he hurried through the large bedroom to the rustic, arched doorway on the other side that led to his dungeon. The doors were already open. Gentle music played through the speakers, just as he’d asked, and to the side, the massage table and vat of wax were prepared.

  Bless Sam’s heart. When he had told her two days ago what he wanted to do, she had insisted he teach her how to get things ready so he wouldn’t have to worry about it. And then, of course, she had wanted to experiment. She had never engaged in wax play and had looked good covered in his artwork, although the wax he’d used on her hadn’t been very hot. Sex afterward had been through the moon. Well worth the practice.

  But he didn’t need to relive what he and Sam had done with one another right now.

  Trace needed a bath. Badly. Micah would have to talk to King Bain about the conditions in his dungeon, because poor Trace smelled like the ass end of a wild boar after it had eaten a skunk.

  “Come on, buddy.” Micah hoisted Trace more securely in his arms as he side-stepped into the apartme
nt-sized bathroom shared by his dungeon and his bedroom. He set Trace on the marble bench next to the walk-in shower then reached in to turn on the water. It spilled from multiple rainfall showerheads above, as well as from heads in the walls. Taking a shower in here felt like showering in a rainstorm. Or making love in a rainstorm, which he and Sam reaffirmed a couple of times a month.

  Once the water was warm enough, Micah turned to find Trace slumped to the side, his head resting against the wall, his arms hugging himself as he blathered unintelligibly.

  It was time to get serious. Time to bring Trace back from hell.

  * * *

  SLAP!

  The rampant, mind-obliterating thoughts destroying Trace’s mind abruptly cut off as his eyes flew open at the sharp sting of pain on his face. He clapped his hand over his cheek. What the fuck? Had someone just hit him? Last mistake that asshole would ever ma—

  His gaze met Micah’s.

  Master.

  Devotion surged through his veins, followed by confusion. How had he gotten here? Last thing he remembered was being huddled on the floor in an above-ground cell, fighting back memories of his mother. Now he was in the middle of Micah’s bathroom. A giant oval-shaped tub was on his right. A luxurious walk-in shower was on his left. In front of him were his and her basins placed in a stretch of marble with a glasslike shine.

  “Sit up!” Micah said as sternly as a Catholic school teacher. “Is this how your other masters allowed you to present yourself?” Micah waved his hand toward Trace as if disgusted.

  Trace shook out the cobwebs, coming back into himself, even if only partially. “N-no, sir.” He hadn’t spoken much in the last two weeks, and his voice sounded like someone had scraped his vocal chords with sandpaper.

  “Sir?” Micah pulled back as if affronted. “Did I say it was acceptable to call me sir?”

  In a confused daze, Trace looked from Micah’s strong, angular face to his own hands, which trembled in his lap. His shirt was torn as if he’d ripped it with his own fingernails. Jesus! His power had almost consumed him. This was the closest he had ever come to completely losing control and falling prey to the mixed-blood gift his mother had given him. But as Micah lorded over him—all alpha dominance and intensity—Trace felt his power shrink and ebb toward the shadows.

  Micah stepped between Trace’s legs, placed his hand under Trace’s scruffy chin, and lifted his face. Micah gazed straight down at him, chin to chest. “You will address me as Master, slave.”

  The two stared at each other for a heartbeat.

  “Say it.” Micah squeezed his chin between his thumb and forefinger.

  Trace swallowed. This was what he had wanted for months. Years, even. Micah as his Dom. And praise God, the moment was finally, blessedly here. Sure, they’d played with the idea in the weeks before his incarceration, but they had yet to play in his dungeon. “Yes, Master.” The two words slid reverently from his mouth.

  Micah let go of his chin and stepped back. “And how do you present yourself to your master, slave?”

  Trace lowered his gaze to the floor and slowly slid off the bench to his knees. With every second that passed, his power slipped further into the shadows of his mind, leaving him emotionally and mentally naked . . . and what a welcome feeling that was. With just his authoritative voice, Micah freed him at the same time he bound him into submission. This was what being enslaved to a Dom—to Micah—did for him.

  He sat back on his heels, head bowed forward, palms on his thighs.

  “Good,” Micah said, strolling in a circle around him. “This is how you will present yourself to me in my dungeon or whenever you need my services.” Micah caressed Trace’s peach-fuzzed scalp. “Now rise, slave. And take off your clothes. I won’t have you defiling my dungeon with this rankness you brought into my home.”

  Steam rose from the shower as Trace scooted one foot out from under him and pushed himself to his feet, head still down. As he slipped out of his dirty clothes, Micah paced slowly around him.

  “We will discuss our limits later,” Micah said. “And rest assured, slave, I have limits even if you don’t.”

  Trace dropped his shredded, filthy shirt to the floor, and Micah swatted his hand. “Is this how you disrobed for your previous Doms? By throwing your clothes so casually on the floor?”

  Trace shook his head. “No, s—Master.” He would have to get used to Micah’s style, but excitement prickled his skin at Micah’s harshness. Already, Micah was more than any of his previous Doms had ever been and ever could be. Not just because of his demeanor, but because of the connection between them. Something ethereal—some invisible gossamer thread—linked them to one another in a blissful, spiritual, almost supernatural way. One that uplifted Trace’s soul and made his heart sing, even as Micah scowled and used a firm tone.

  Micah tapped his booted foot on the floor near his shirt. “Pick it up. Fold it. And set it on the bench behind you.”

  “Yes, Master.” He reached for his shirt, but Micah stopped him.

  “On second thought, throw that shirt in the trash. It’s ruined. I don’t want it here.”

  He did as he was told then removed his pants, folded them, and placed them on the bench after setting his worn boots neatly underneath it. Then he turned toward Micah and bowed his head, arms behind his back, legs slightly apart as if he stood at military at ease.

  Tremors still rippled through his body as his power continued to wane, but for the first time since Cordray had given him the razor in his cell, he felt almost normal.

  “Nice,” Micah said. “Very good.” He hesitated for only a moment. “Now bathe yourself.” He opened the glass door to the shower and stood aside.

  The water felt like a slice of heaven as he stepped into it, but as much as he wanted to luxuriate, Micah wouldn’t let him. The time for soaking would come later. For now, he was in Micah’s world. His master’s world. And he would do as commanded.

  His skin prickled with vibrant anticipation.

  “Wash your feet first,” Micah said from outside the glass. “Spend no less than fifteen seconds on each foot.”

  Using a shower loofah, he scrubbed his feet with Sam’s lilac-scented shower soap. So what if it made him smell flowery. That was better than smelling like dungeon shit, and the floral scent comforted him. It made him think of Sam, who was almost as calming for his soul as Micah.

  Once he finished, Micah said, “Now your ankles and calves. And don’t stop washing them until I say you can.” After what felt like a minute, Micah said, “Rinse and move up to your thighs.”

  Trace had never had anyone tell him how to shower before, and he wondered at Micah’s reasoning, especially when he jumped from his thighs to his head and began to work his way down. When he rinsed his abdomen, he waited for Micah’s next instruction.

  “Now your ass,” Micah said, just as clinically as before, except there was a hint of sexual undercurrent in his tone. Trace couldn’t be sure if that was accidental or intentional, but knowing Micah, Trace would put money on the latter.

  “Do you like your ass fondled, slave?” Micah kept his gaze on his watch, but he was clearly trying to get under Trace’s skin.

  “Yes, Master.” Trace worked his soapy fingers and the shower loofah over one cheek, then the other, straining not to look at Micah.

  “How many male Doms have you had, slave?”

  Trace felt his cheeks flush. “Three, Master.”

  “And did they all play with your ass?” Micah’s gaze never wavered from his watch.

  Trace’s hands slowed as he continued to wash himself. “Yes, Master.”

  For several seconds, Micah said nothing, then, “Rinse.”

  Trace set the loofah down and let the water rinse his hands and backside.

  “Now,” Micah said. “Wash your cock and balls.”

  Trace took a shallow breath, picked up the liquid soap, and squirted a generous amount in his palm.

  “Did they all fuck you?” Micah said.

/>   Trace nearly dropped the bottle of soap as he lifted it back to the shelf, but he recovered quickly, set the bottle in place, and worked the soap into a slick lather between his hands. “Yes, Master.” He hazarded a glance at Micah in time to see one black eyebrow tick upward before settling over his eye again.

  “Wash yourself, Trace.” Micah’s gaze shifted to issue him a warning glance, as if he were reminding Trace not to look at him without permission.

  Trace’s gaze fell to his semi-hard cock as he worked the lather up and down his length and sac.

  “Did you enjoy being fucked by a male?” Micah’s voice was softer now, but still stern.

  “Yes and no, Master.” There was no point in lying. Trace had been fucked by another male, and while it wasn’t his ideal sexual encounter, it got the job done, sending him into such humiliation that his power practically evaporated into nothing, allowing him to expend himself sexually when it was impossible to do so at any other time.

  “Yes and no?”

  “Yes, Master.” Even now, the memory of the debasement he had allowed himself to suffer in the name of power control caused his cock to swell, and he struggled not to stroke himself as he continued scrubbing his dick.

  Micah didn’t push for more and instead dropped his arms to his side and said, “Rinse off, shut off the shower, and dry yourself.” Then he turned and walked toward the marble counter, which he leaned against as he watched Trace finish up and do as he was told.

  “How do you feel?” Micah said as Trace stepped out of the shower.

  His erection tented the towel around his waist like a good little camper. “Good.”

  Micah sternly arched one eyebrow.

  “Good, Master,” Trace said, correcting himself.

  “That’s better.” Micah pushed away from the counter, grabbed a can of shaving gel and a razor, and bobbed his head toward the door. “Follow me.”

  Without another word, Micah turned and walked out.