Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (27 page)

screw it
and stopped bothering to try to make it good for Brandon.

The gal ing part was, he
knew
Brandon would enjoy it—in fact,

had
enjoyed it—when he stopped fighting with himself long enough

to relax. To let go of his damn stubborn pride. All those erections and

orgasms didn’t lie.

He turned back to the screen, watched Brandon trying to shake

the cage apart.
What I wouldn’t give for that kind of energy . . .
Surely

he’d wear himself out soon, no? Jonathan turned the dial on his

speakers, and the sounds of Brandon screaming around his gag filled

the office. His voice was half gone, but that didn’t stop him from

trying.

Nothing
stops him from trying.

And damn but if that wasn’t half of what made him so

intriguing.

Half an hour later, Brandon went so suddenly still and silent

Jonathan worried he’d passed out. But no—a close look at the

monitor revealed slow, heavy blinks.
Just exhausted, then.
And the

panic button was still clutched in one fist. Small tremors wracked his

frame, but it was only 55 degrees in there right now, and the vent was

right on top of him. No way he’d make it another hour. And Jonathan

was glad of that for more reasons than one. This was starting to wear

pretty hard even on his ice-coated sense of sympathy.

Jonathan went back to work, one eye on the video feed, one

eye on the timer. He left the sound on, just in case. But Brandon

wasn’t shouting anymore. Just the occasional moan or whimper—

involuntary, or maybe self-comfort. It was patently absurd how badly

Jonathan wanted to go down there and wrap him in a blanket.

Come on, come on, push the bloody button. Let me take care of you.

Thirty minutes left. Twenty-five. Twenty. Jonathan gave up all

pretense of accomplishing a thing and just stared at his reef tank

between glances at the video monitor, watching the fish dart in and

out of the coral. Ten minutes. Five.

Shit. He’s not going to push the button, is he.

The timer buzzed. Jonathan smacked it rather harder than was

necessary, took one last look at the monitor—Brandon was still

force-huddled in his tiny cage, shivering and blinking but otherwise

still—and headed downstairs with a sigh. Guess it was time to put

him in an even unfriendlier cage.

The dungeon door opening jarred Bran from the not-quite-
so
-

agonizing haze into which he’d managed to settle. Had Jonathan

come to goad him some more? Well, fuck that. He wasn’t eating from

Jonathan’s fucking hand, and he wasn’t leaving. He
wasn’t
.

The air conditioner kicked on again, and he tried to burrow

tighter into his knees. Not happening. Nowhere left to go, and trying

hurt so bad it brought tears to his eyes.
Again.

Then Jonathan unlocked the cage, one side fal ing open like a

drawbridge. “Come on, climb out.”

Was it bedtime already? It’d felt like fucking
ever
, but surely he

hadn’t been stuck in here for eight hours.

. . . Had he?

Which could only mean . . . “Wwwww,” he moaned into the gag,

shaking his head as Jonathan squatted down and touched his forearm.

Holy shit, his fingers felt hot.

Jonathan wedged his hands around behind Bran’s head and

unbuckled the gag. Good God, shutting his mouth had
never
felt so

good, but he worked up enough spit to swallow and opened it again

to say, “No, wait.” When had his teeth started chattering so hard he

could barely speak? “I didn’t—” Shit, his jaw hurt.
Just like every-

fucking-thing else.
“I didn’t press the butt—”

“Shhh.” Hot fingers pressed to his lips. “I know. But I don’t

suppose you’d like to eat anyway?”

“
No
,” Bran practically spat. Should’ve. Fuck Jonathan anyway for

thinking he’d suffer through all this for
nothing
.

“Well, just a change of scenery then. Come on, out you go.”

Took Bran several seconds to unclench his arms from around his

knees enough to straighten his legs out. He stretched maybe an inch

before pain slammed into him like a fucking eighteen-wheeler—his

back, his shoulders, every inch of his skin, the muscles in his still-

folded legs. Jonathan, the little shit, just watched him impassively, let

him struggle, didn’t help. Didn’t even flick so much as a sympathetic

blink when Bran managed to get a leg straight in a burst of effort so

costly it left him panting and sniffing back tears.

The other leg next, and then he sat there wondering,
What now?

There wasn’t enough room to work his hands behind him to push

himself forward, wasn’t enough strength or feeling in his legs to use

them to pull himself out.

In the end, Jonathan solved the problem by wrapping burning-

hot hands around his ankles, and with a soft admonition to “Watch

your head,” dragged him by the feet right out of the cage.

He probably screamed, if the pain in his throat was any indication.

When he came back to himself, he was curled into a tight little ball

on the floor—and wasn’t
that
ironic—clutching with one hand at

the inferno in the small of his back.

No Jonathan-massages this time to help him through it. “Get up,”

Jonathan said, and when Bran didn’t—
couldn’t
—move, Jonathan

thrust fingers into Bran’s hair and just started dragging
him. Best

incentive he’d ever known to scramble up onto hands and knees, even

if he couldn’t quite get them to hold his weight.

At least they only went eight or ten feet.
Change of scenery
,

Jonathan had said. Bran looked up from where Jonathan had dropped

him, saw a clear plastic box on the floor.

Like a fucking coffin.
Smaller than. Tapered like a sarcophagus.

Well, at least it had air holes.

“I’m guessing you can’t stand, and I can’t lift you, yes?”

Bran didn’t bother to answer, just rolled onto his back, then his

side, then his back again, trying to get comfortable. Fuck comfortable;

he’d settle for even just a
little
less cramping in his legs and shoulders

and back.

“All right. In through the side, then.”

Bran rolled his head just enough to watch Jonathan undo a series

of latches on the little clear plastic coffin, push the lid back, and then

unhinge the long side facing Bran.

Bran blinked at it, wondering if Jonathan really meant for him

to go in there.

Of course he does.

He might have fought it if he were capable of moving anything

more than his toes and fingers without making himself cry.

Coffin. It’s a fucking
coffin
. . .

Jonathan knelt down beside him and log-rolled him right into the

box. Shit, the plastic was cold
.
Fucking miserable for his chattering

teeth, but it felt kinda good against the skin of his back—all smooth

and chilly against spasming muscle and eleven million whip marks.

Jonathan closed up the side of the box, and suddenly it was

seriously
fucking cramped in there. Better than the pyramid cage—

he was lying stretched out flat, after al —but both walls touched his

shoulders. Like it’d been made for him.

Probably was. What else does a wealthy sadist do with his heaps and

heaps of money? Swim in it?

Jonathan leaned into his field of vision with a long-suffering sigh.

“You know the routine, yes?” He placed the panic button in Bran’s

hand. Thought about it for a second and then wrapped the cord

three times around Bran’s wrist. Making sure he couldn’t drop it, he

supposed. “Yes?”

Bran tried to nod, and a tendril of pain shot up his neck and

settled behind both eyes. God, all he wanted to do was sleep. At least

he probably could in this contraption.

Jonathan stood, took two steps to the ends of the box, and

wrapped a hand around one of Bran’s ankles. Bran tensed, expecting

pain—he hadn’t answered a direct question, after al —but nothing

happened. Or rather, nothing bad. Just felt like Jonathan had clipped

his ankle cuff to the side of the box. Then Jonathan reached over and

clipped the other cuff, leaving his legs a little spread, but certainly not

enough to expose bits and pieces he’d rather protect right now. Okay,

so he’d have a little less range of motion than he’d expected. Still no

biggie—it was a miracle just to be able to stretch out.

“I asked you a question, Brandon. You know what to do?”

Bran sighed, but answered. Stupid to make Jonathan angry now.

“Push the button when I’m ready to eat from your hand or end the

contract. Nothing else.” His voice was raw to the point of barely

audible, but Jonathan seemed to get the gist, at least.

“There’s a good boy,” Jonathan said, straightening to his feet.

“Watch your face, now; I’m afraid there’s only a couple inches of

clearance.”

He let the lid drop closed, and Bran felt the whisper of air against

his forehead and cheeks as it clunked into place.

Shit.
Shit.
He lifted his head and promptly banged his nose against

the lid. Jonathan hadn’t been kidding about the low clearance. Bran

had never been claustrophobic before, and the fucking lid was
see-

through
, for fuck’s sake, but there was no denying the urge to rattle

the box, pound and rage against the lid until it popped. Not like he

could’ve though, even if he’d thought it worth the strain; there wasn’t

enough room in here to move his arms like that.

Jonathan stepped over him again, leaned in close. Bran stared up

at his slightly-blurred form through the thick Plexiglas lid. “Plenty of

air holes, so don’t worry about that. One thing, though—no sleeping,

all right?”

Yeah,
fuck
that. No way Jonathan would be able to stay up long

enough to police him.

But he kept that to himself as Jonathan walked away.

Despite being a mass of pain, he managed to drop off for a few

seconds—until something buzzed, and suddenly it felt as if a ring of

fucking fire ants had bitten his ankles. His calf muscles spasmed and

he jerked his legs back the inch or two the cuffs allowed. What the

fuck
? Was he so far gone he was starting to hal ucinate? Dream of

Jonathan beating his feet?

Great. Cos he doesn’t torture me enough in
real
life.

He tried to settle back down, close his eyes, find sleep again. If he

could just stop shivering, even for a
second . . .

He squirmed a little, tried to find some small measure of comfort

or warmth. That fucking monster plug in his ass wiggled along with

him, and he tried, for the thousandth time, to force it out. Wouldn’t

budge. And he could’ve sworn it bit him for trying.

At least the air conditioning didn’t blow quite so hard in here.

And there was plenty of air wafting in through those holes. Even his

back had stopped spasming. It wasn’t so bad compared to the other

cage. All he had to do was relax, ignore the pain of the flogging, let

himself drift off again . . .

And then that fucking buzz came back and brought the fire

ants along with it. No sleep-dulled sensation this time; the pain was

huge
, and his calves cramped and his legs jerked and the monster

plug shifted in his ass and he hit his nose on the lid again. A fucking

electric
shock.
That had to be it. Was Jonathan watching him through

the camera, hitting the button every time he started to fall asleep?

Probably stroking a fucking white cat while he does it.

“Yeah? Well
fuck you too
!” he shouted, braced himself for a shock

that didn’t come. Maybe there was no sound on the camera system?

Or maybe Jonathan was just fucking with his head again. Certainly

seemed to be the fucker’s favorite pastime.

He risked closing his eyes again, clenched jaws and teeth against

the inevitable—

Huh. Not so inevitable after all.