Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (26 page)

started up the flogging again. His chest this time, tips of the flogger

catching across a nipple and
holy fucking shit don’t do that again
, but

of course he did, again and again, then switched hands and caught

him on the
other
one, and he was pretty sure he was screaming with

every strike, the fury in his back slowly fading as the fury in his chest

built and built. At last the flogger dropped lower, to the straining

muscles of his belly, painting bright red stripes across his stomach,

masses and masses of them until they all ran together in one bright

red ball of fucking
napalm
and he had to squeeze his eyes closed, look

away, because not seeing was somehow less awful than seeing.

And then the flogger dropped again, and his eyes flew open as

the tails landed with a hard, noisy
thwack
about an inch above his

crotch.

You wouldn’t
dare . . .

He fought to keep his eyes open, to read Jonathan’s face, but all

he saw there was intense concentration, focus, even a little strain, and

no wonder—surely his arm must be tired for as hard as he was hitting

Bran. The next strike didn’t land
above
his groin, it landed
on
it, and

for a second Bran couldn’t even find his voice, but a second later he

was screaming, thrashing,
make it stop get away get away—

Another strike right over the last knocked every coherent thought

from his head. He thought he might have blacked out for a while,

but he was pretty sure unconsciousness wasn’t supposed to hurt so

much.

When the dungeon and the sound of leather on skin came

back into focus, Jonathan was flogging Bran’s thighs near the knees.

Strange how disconnected he felt from it, like his body wasn’t even

his
anymore, and no, the irony of that didn’t escape him; God knew

Jonathan had been trying to teach him that lesson from the word

go. Pain filtered in from somewhere—fuck, from
everywhere
—and

his heart thudded in his ears, loud as the thwack of the flogger on

his skin, loud as his labored breaths. He licked his lips, tasted salt.

Something else, too, something strong and metal ic in the back of his

throat. Not blood—adrenaline. His head felt enormous, light, ready

to pop.
Like a fucking balloon on a string.

The beating stopped. Maybe had some time ago; the flogger was

nowhere in sight and Jonathan had an arm around his waist, was

holding him up as he unhooked his hands. His legs were already free,

and when the fuck had that happened?

“. . . with me now?”

He let his head roll on Jonathan’s shoulder and mumbled, “Huh?”

Speaking hurt right down to his toes.

“I said, are you with me now?”

Bran shrugged, instantly regretted it, slurred, “Sure, Jonathan,”

instead.

Jonathan huffed a little laugh, hoisted him higher, and said,

“You’re one crazy son of a bitch, you know that?”

Pot, kettle.

Jonathan guided him over to the table, let him lean against the

edge, but he just slumped over. Felt good, touching that soft, padded

leather, cool on his burning skin. He let his eyes drift shut and inhaled
.

It even smelled good.

“Will you eat?” Jonathan asked again, fingertips trailing along

Bran’s shoulder, soothing the hurt he’d applied so thoroughly.

Maybe if I say yes, he’ll let me stay here for a few minutes.

Then he shifted, and that fucking plug jostled inside him, burning

and aching. How the hell could he have forgotten about it? Felt like a

fist shoved up there, stretching him wider with every little movement.

That pleasant haze of a moment ago disappeared, and no matter

how hard he tried, he couldn’t get it back, couldn’t ignore the pain

building and building in waves that never fucking seemed to break.

Even Jonathan’s fingers dragged like knives over his skin, amplifying

every twinge. He tried to shrug out from under them, but didn’t have

the strength or the coordination to manage more than a twitch.

This is how he
helps
me?

“No,” he rasped. And then, to those stroking fingers trailing acid

in their wake, “Get off me.”

Jonathan moved his hand up, fingers sinking into Bran’s hair,

hauling him off the table. “Fine. Sounds like you need some time

alone.”

He was dragged along by his hair, teeth gritted so hard his jaw

felt ready to shatter, still in so much pain he had no choice but to

follow. A pyramid made of steel bars sat in the corner, maybe three

feet tall by a foot and a half at the base. It couldn’t
possibly
be what

Bran thought it was. How could a human being fit into something

that smal ?

Jonathan left him to contemplate it while he rummaged in a

nearby drawer, came out with what looked like a piece of a horse

bridle. “Mouth open,” he said, and
no fucking way
flashed through

Bran’s head before he realized he didn’t actually have the strength to

stop Jonathan right now. He stood still as Jonathan stepped behind

him and brought the gag up to his face, but made Jonathan wedge

his teeth apart with the rubber bit. Jonathan tightened the gag until

it pushed against the corners of Bran’s lips and his back teeth—he

fought the urge to puke he always got when something touched his

tongue that far back—and buckled it into place.

Thank God there were no mirrors in here, because he was pretty

sure he’d die of shame if he had to look at himself right now.

Done, Jonathan turned back to the pyramid and undid a latch

at the top. One whole side of the thing swung out on a hinge at the

floor. “In,” he said, gesturing toward the cage. When Bran only looked

at him like he was out of his Goddamned mind, he jerked his thumb

toward the dungeon door. “Or out. Your choice.”

He’d come this far. No way was he chickening out now. But first

he had to figure out how to get
in
the fucking thing.

“Sit with your back to the door.” Fucking
mind reader.
“Pull your

knees up to your chest, hunch over them, and scoot back slowly.

Watch your head. Wedge your arms wherever there’s room.”

Wedge is right.
He sat down on the open flap and nearly lurched

right back to his feet; between the pain of flogged skin to metal bars

and that
fucking plug
tunneling up to his fucking throat
as he sat on

the flange, he actually forgot for a second what he was supposed to

be doing.

Oh. Right. Midget cage.

There was barely enough space for him to squeeze through the

door. He banged his head on one of the bars scooting in, then inched

over and tried to sit up. A child—or maybe
Jonathan
—might’ve

managed it better, but Bran was stuck hunched over his folded knees,

his shoulders scraping the sides of the cage, and
ow holy fuck
did that

hurt. He grunted around the gag, found himself oddly grateful for

something to bite down on when the pain crested clear into agony as

the bars dug into freshly flogged skin. God only knew how Jonathan

was going to shut the door. Maybe if he could fit his feet through the

bars . . .

But he couldn’t. The door banged into his knees when Jonathan

tried to close it, and Jonathan barked “Back up” like it was
Bran’s
fault

he was too big for the fucking pyramid. Bran wiggled a little, pulled

his knees in tighter to his chest, his muscles already starting to scream

along with his beaten skin. Jonathan leaned hard against the door to

close it the last quarter-inch and locked it shut.

For one panicked second, Bran couldn’t breathe.

“Easy,” Jonathan said. “You have room. You may not feel like it,

but you do.” Jonathan squatted down low enough to catch his eyes

despite his chin resting on his folded knees. “Look at me. Very slowly

now, take a nice deep breath. Through your nose, remember?” Bran

stared into that blue blue gaze—
wide ocean, open skies
—and sucked

in air. His chest expanded. Expanded some more. Nearly filled all the

way before the tightness of the space stopped it.

Okay. I can do this.

His lower back twinged hard, and he reached for it and banged

his elbow on a bar before he’d moved his hand half an inch.

“I know, it’s miserable.” No sympathy at al . No pleasure either,

though, oddly enough. What, too sadistic even for
him
?
“Here,” he

said, picking up a little plastic handle-shaped thing from the floor. It

was attached to a wire, and Bran jerked, expecting . . . well, he didn’t

know
what
he was expecting, and it’s not like he could’ve gotten away

from it anyhow. Jonathan held it in front of his eyes, flipped up the

top with his thumb—a little cover on a hinge. Beneath the cover lay

a little red button.

He closed the cover back over the button and wedged the

contraption through the cage bars and into Bran’s hand. “This is a

panic button—an electronic safeword for when you’re ready to come

out. Do it once. Show me you can.”

It was a bit awkward, working it with a hand wedged in so tightly

he could barely move his fingers, but he managed it. Pushed until he

heard a click.

“Good, that’s good.” Jonathan walked out of sight for a moment,

then something beeped and a cold blast of air washed over the cage.

Air conditioning. I’m right under a fucking vent.
“I’ll be in my office.

When you push that button, an alarm will go off up there, and I’ll be

down in no more than a minute.”

Bran nodded, shivered violently, tried to slurp some drool up

from the corner of his chin.
Fucking gag
.

“I can see you at all times.” He pointed, and Bran tried to follow

the line of his finger with his eyes. Tough when he couldn’t lift his

head, but he caught sight the camera, a black glimmer of glass on a

black wal , up near the ceiling.

“I’m sure this goes without saying, but just in case: don’t safeword

unless you mean it. Call me to feed you or to send you home. Nothing

else, or that flogging you just had? Will seem like tickles. Clear?”

“Hhhhhh,” Bran said around the gag. Wow, yeah, real intelligible.

He tried nodding instead, but couldn’t move his head. Shit, his neck

was cramping.
Ow.

“Good enough,” Jonathan said round a tight grin. “I’ll be back

at . . .” he peeked at his watch, shrugged one shoulder, “Oh, let’s say

bedtime.”

Bedtime?
Jesus
fuck,
wasn’t it only, like, early afternoon? “Ngggh!”

he shouted, trying to shake his head, trying to say
Please, please don’t

do this
with his eyes. But Jonathan just stood, turned around, and

walked away. Bran tried to throw himself against the cage, but of

course there was no leverage and
holy fuck
it hurt, and anyway he was

pretty sure the fucking thing was bolted to the floor. “Hhhhhhhgh!”

he screamed, screamed again, but then the dungeon door closed, and

Jonathan was gone.

CHAPTER
13

onathan tried to work, but his attention kept wandering. He

couldn’t help flipping back to the dungeon’s camera feed,

watching as Brandon screamed and shivered and struggled as best

he could inside the tiny cage. Half an hour he’d been in there. About

twenty-five minutes longer than Jonathan thought he’d last. Another

ninety minutes, and Jonathan would go let him out one way or the

other. No doubt he was in enough agony already.

Come on, Brandon, push the bloody button. Let it go, all right? Just

take the bloody food from my hand.

He’d never had to push any submissive this far before, and

honestly, it was exhausting. Every day another power struggle, every

day another doubt—was he pushing too hard, too far, being too strict,

too unfair? But no . . . in the end, he’d heaped patience upon patience

on the man, maybe let more slide than he should have. In truth, he

wasn’t sure how much longer
he
could keep it up before he just said