Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (38 page)

intended to toss him aside like he was nothing? Like he was some

kind of whore?

And not even a well-paid one. Sure, his rent was set for the year,

and he had the thirty grand Jonathan had promised him from the

start, but he’d quit his fucking job
over this. Dropped out of the

world, put his entire life on hold for six months. And what whore in

the world would let someone do what Jonathan had done to him, for

any
amount of money?

He’d given up
everything
. He had no power here—except the

power to say no to this. To make Jonathan hold to their contract

whether he wanted to or not. He was in for the duration. They both

were.And besides, he wanted his fucking
money
.

He looked Jonathan dead in the eye and said, “Fuck you.” And

then, “No, I’m not going anywhere.”

Jonathan didn’t look surprised by that, but he did look pretty

distraught. “Brandon—
Bran
, please, I’d urge you to reconsi—”

“Look at you,” Bran snorted. “You’re like some spoiled child. Like

no one’s ever said no to you before. Like you’ve never had to spend

a single fucking day of your life
without
, like you don’t even know

what it
means
to be disappointed.” He stabbed a piece of tofu, kind

of irritated that he actually liked it, and then thrust his empty fork at

Jonathan’s chest. “Well, I’ve got news for you, pal. The world
sucks
. It

hurts
. It swallows you fucking whole, pukes you back up and does it

again. Maybe it’s time you fucking
learned
that.
You’re
tired?
You’re

unhappy? Well boo fucking hoo.
You’re
not the one being tortured

and molested every fucking day. I’ve got no fucking sympathy for you

at al . And I’m not leaving until this contract is up, so pull up your

fucking big-girl panties and
deal
with it.”

Amazing
as it felt to say all that out loud, he had to admit some

disappointment at how fucking unflappable
Jonathan seemed.

Disappointed, sure, and maybe a little shocked, but mostly he just

sat there letting Bran yell, face unmoving, almost blank. He blinked

at Bran, folded his hands very primly on the table in front of his still-

untouched plate, and said, voice level, “Are you finished?”

Bran took the time to eat another piece of tofu, chew thoroughly,

swallow. Let the fucker wait. “Yeah, why not. Actually, you know

what? No. Since this is probably the last time you’ll ever let me speak

for the next five and a half months? Let me just leave you with one

more
Fuck you.
” He smiled—nothing friendly about it, the mouthful

of teeth that scared the neighbor’s kids. “To remember me by.”

Jonathan nodded like he’d expected that, like he’d have been

disappointed by anything less, then very calmly reached across the

table and took Bran’s fork right from his hand. Plate next. Then he

pointed at those cursed fucking steel cuffs, sitting on the table by

Bran’s left hand, and said, “Fine, then. In that case, the rules haven’t

changed. Put those on, take that off ”—he pointed at the robe now—

“and kneel.”

“There’s no cushion.”

Jonathan’s hand lashed out, struck him across one temple, then

back across the other. Somehow, Bran ended up on the floor, ears

ringing.

“One for speaking out of turn, one for not addressing me properly.

Now shall I fetch a cane, or will you obey me?”

Once Bran’s ears stopped ringing, he gave Jonathan a long, cold

stare. No pity, no mercy in those bright blue eyes. Not that he’d

expected any. In fact, he was amazed Jonathan hadn’t dragged him

back to the dungeon by his earlobe and locked him in that fucking

cage again.

Slowly, he rose, unknotted the robe, slid it off, let it fall to the

rug. The cool air wafted over his bare skin, but he suppressed his

shiver. No fucking way was he letting Jonathan see that. No way was

he giving him one fucking ounce of satisfaction. Maybe Jonathan

thought he was being bul headed, but fuck him for that. Fuck him

with that fucking cane he kept threatening Bran with. If Jonathan

thought he could intimidate him with the promise of more pain, he’d

be waiting a long fucking time. Another five and a half months, to be

exact.

Bran picked up the cuffs, one by one, and locked them around

his limbs. The cold weight of the steel immediately sent a bone-deep

ache shooting up his arms and legs. Wasn’t as if he hadn’t gotten used

to it, though. Two steps, three, and he was at Jonathan’s side, sinking

to his knees. The hard floor and rough nap of the rug bit into his

kneecaps. Felt like he was kneeling on broken glass, but he bit back

the grunt that rose to his lips. If Jonathan wanted him to make noise,

he’d have to beat it out of him.

Jonathan stared down at him, very coldly, fingering his fork. “Beg

me to feed you the rest of your dinner.”

Bran’s gaze didn’t waver, but he didn’t reply.

“That was
not
a request. Beg me, or face those thirty cane strokes

you still have on account.”

Fuck
. He’d forgotten about that. Besides, he really was hungry—

had eaten nothing but a banana and a few bites of stir-fry all day.

“Jonathan,” he ground out between gritted teeth, “would you
please

feed me?”

Jonathan speared a piece of tofu and a tiny slice of carrot and held

out his fork. Bran took the proffered bite, chewed slowly. It really was

good. Sabrina might be a stone cold bitch, but she sure could cook. A

few more bites, then Jonathan set down the fork and snagged a plump

blueberry from the fruit bowl. “Open,” he said, leaning forward to

drop it into Bran’s mouth.

Too tempting to resist. Bran lifted his head slightly, just enough

to catch Jonathan’s fingers with the edge of his teeth. Just enough to

make Jonathan yank his hand back with a small yelp of pain. Enough

to make Jonathan’s eyes narrow. Just like they did when the fucking

cane was about to come down.

“You did that on purpose,” Jonathan said, staring at the tips of his

reddening fingers.
Huh.
Bran had given him quite a nip. Better than

he’d been aiming for.

Didn’t throw off Jonathan’s aim, though; the fucker seized him

by the chin and planted another smack across Bran’s right cheekbone.

Hard enough to rattle his teeth and make his vision swim momentarily,

the chandelier dancing before his eyes like a thousand candles.

Jonathan’s hand sank into his hair, grabbing hard. “Since you

seem to be so fond of the dungeon, perhaps it’s time you spent the

night there.”

Jonathan dragged him to his feet before he had a chance to panic

or argue or talk back, which was probably a good thing, because

scared as he was, he was way,
way
more pissed. Tempted even now,

bent over while Jonathan dragged him down the hal way by his hair,

to say,
Better to spend the night in the dungeon than spend it with
you
.

Back downstairs, through the dungeon, back into the cubby.

The bedding hadn’t magically reappeared, sadly, but hey, at least this

was better than a cage. It’d be a long, cold, hungry, uncomfortable

night on the hard floor in the pitch black, but there’d be no shocks,

no claustrophobic confines, no eyes on his every breath. All he’d

have to do was try to sleep, and try not to wake up thinking he was

somewhere—some
when
—else again.

How hard could that be?

Jonathan shut the door to the cubby and rubbed a hand over his

face. Luckily, Brandon didn’t fling himself against the door or start

screaming, but he could still hear him on the other side, bare feet

slapping the linoleum, breathing hard enough for the sound to carry

into the dungeon. Angry, frustrated. Scared
.

Good. Maybe Jonathan was finally getting somewhere—but

whether toward convincing Brandon to leave or to accept the spirit

of the contract, he had no clue. Of course, by tomorrow they could

be right back where they started.
Again
.

Best to just let him stew. Jonathan stifled a sigh and headed

upstairs to his office. Sat down at his desk, drummed his fingers on

the blotter for a few seconds, then dialed Devon.

“Devon Turner’s phone.”

His assistant. Damn. “Hello, is Devon busy?”

“Being violently murdered, last I checked. Can I take a

message?”

“Please. Tell him Jonathan Watkins called, if you would.”

Paper rustling in the background as the assistant mumbled,

“Jonathan . . . W-a-t-k-i-n—”

“Hey, is that Waveboy? I’m here, I’m here.” A scuffling noise, and

then Devon’s voice got much louder and clearer. “We’re in between

takes. You’ve got five minutes. What can I do you for?” Shouting in

the background, something banging. Then . . . chewing? “Sorry, at

the craft table. Turns out getting shot in the face works up quite an

appetite. Don’t mind me.”

Jonathan sighed. “I don’t know what to do with him. I tried to

talk to him like a regular person tonight, and he told me to fuck off.”

Devon laughed. “Several times, actually. Then when we stepped back

into role, he
bit
me.”

Devon laughed again, gasped, coughed. Was it mean to hope he

was choking on his coffee?

“Nicky did that to me our very first time.”

“What’d you do?”

“Pinned him down and fucked him dry.” This time the cough

in the background wasn’t Devon’s. “Kidding, kidding,” he said to

someone, then, to Jonathan, “He was looking for it. If you’re sure

Brandon isn’t . . .?”

“As sure as I reasonably can be.”

“I take it you want him gone, then?”

Jonathan picked up the cane that lived on his desk—the same

one he used to correct Brandon’s posture when the crop didn’t leave

enough of an impression—and ran it between his fingers, not sure

how to answer. He’d had such high hopes for Brandon, but he’d given

their arrangement more than enough time and energy. “I can’t see

any other way for it to end. I can’t call a halt to it, and he knows it.

Right now all he’s doing is making me as miserable as I’m making

him. He won’t leave.”

“I kinda hate to suggest rewarding bad behavior here, but have

you considered just giving him the money anyway?”

Jonathan shook his head. “He’d never take it. Too proud. In fact,

I’d bet another three million that if I did offer, he’d just dig his heels

in twice as hard. Accuse me of trying to buy him, of thinking I have

the right
to.”

“Then you need to chase him out,” Devon said, all his usual good

humor evaporating from his tone. “Let your freak flag fly, man. Get

medieval on his ass.”

Jonathan fingered the cane again, tapped it desultorily against his

thigh. “I don’t just want to
torture
the man . . .”

Devon snorted. “Sure you do. I’ve only seen pictures of him with

his clothes
on
, and
I
want to torture him. And I’m happily married.”

“He’ll just safeword anyway. You know I have to respect that.”

“Of course you do. But if he safewords too early, you can kick him