Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (28 page)

Maybe Jonathan really wasn’t watching.

Or maybe he was just waiting for Bran to get comfortable again,

let his guard down before he pounced.

Well, not like he had anything better to do down here anyway.

And both mind and body were pul ing him toward sleep by the

roots of his hair. This time when his eyes slipped closed, it wasn’t on

purpose.

He’d nearly drifted off when the pain hit again, there and gone in

an instant like it’d never even happened. Except for the part where he

was wide awake again. And he’d banged his elbow on the wall of the

box, right on that awful spot that makes you nauseous. And the damn

plug had shifted again, and Jesus, Jonathan hadn’t been kidding when

he said you never got used to it. If anything, it hurt more now than

it had at the beginning. His muscles wouldn’t stop clenching against

it, trying to expel it, even though they’d gone so far past strained that

the effort hurt more than the plug did.

He dug his shoulders and heels in and tried to arch his hips up off

the ground. Made it an inch or two before his pelvis hit the lid of the

box. Felt better not to be lying on the plug, but no way could he hold

this position for more than a few seconds. He was trembling already.

Hey, at least it kept him warm. Ish. Well, at least not
totally
freezing.

He fell back, panting and exhausted and totally determined not

to close his eyes.

Except the shock still came. And then again what felt like five or

so minutes later, and again five or so minutes after that.

No Jonathan watching. No white cat. Just a timer.

Jonathan was probably asleep in his big comfortable bed, happily

dreaming of Bran’s suffering. Did that mean he planned to leave him

in here
all night?

God, fuck him. Fuck him with a rusty fucking spike.

Bran’s stomach cramped. Again
.
Empty. So empty it felt like it

was touching his spine. Every part of him ached, burned. Screamed
.

For hours
.

He clamped his mouth shut, tried not to let it out. He couldn’t

anyway. He was all screamed out, his throat raw from it. Didn’t matter

if he didn’t—no,
couldn’t
—move. Every last inch of his skin had been

scoured with Jonathan’s whip.

He lifted his head as far as he could without bumping his nose,

breath hitching, shuddering in his chest. Couldn’t even close his eyes

without bracing himself for the next shock. Without seeing a fist

coming toward him. Without tensing for the blow.

Without being too small again to fight back any other way.

A tear crawled down his temple, the only warmth he’d felt in

forever. Cold and wet a moment later. Couldn’t even wipe it away.

And then he couldn’t stop. Jesus
fuck
, was he
sobbing?

Suck it up, sissy. Don’t be such a fucking baby.

Zzzzt!
“Fuck!” he shouted—tried to, anyway; had no voice

left—body jerking like it did every time, knees and elbows hitting

the coffin like they did every time, pain chasing every thought from

his head and bringing tears back to his eyes. The hurt was already

gone by the time he’d stopped moving—at least
that
hurt, anyway,

blessedly residue-free, as awful as it was when it happened—but the

tears weren’t leaving so easy.

He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t
do
this anymore. Why had he even

bothered trying? What was worth so damn fucking much?

Strange how calm he felt as he went to flip the lid of the panic

button with cold, cold fingers . . . Until he realized it had slipped

from his hand.

Oh shit oh shit, where is it?
He scrabbled at the side of the box,

grabbing the wire still attached to his wrist. Horrible relief as he

pulled it into his palm, thumb flicking at the cap.

It didn’t open.

For one awful moment, his breath froze, but then he flicked it

again with a trembling hand and the cap popped open, the button

smooth against his thumb. Another breath, another shudder—
You

sure you want to do this?
—and he punched it.

Jonathan seemed to materialize at his side, just
there
between one

blink and the next, opening the lid. “I’m here, Brandon, I’m here,” he

said, voice as warm and soothing as the hand he stroked across Bran’s

cheek, wiping at tears. “Can you sit up?”

He couldn’t. Not without help. Was all he could do to shake his

head.“It’s all right, I’ll help you.” Jonathan opened the side of the box,

slid his hand under Bran’s shoulder and let him roll out onto the

floor. Weirdly soft. Fucking
freezing
.

And then suddenly he wasn’t so cold anymore. A blanket over

him, Jonathan’s arms wrapped around him, rubbing up and down

his own. Bran let out a pathetic little moan and leaned into it, head

pushing into the solid warmth of Jonathan’s chest.

Jonathan’s heart beat calm and strong. He radiated heat like an

oven. Bran pressed closer and soaked it in like a lizard on a rock.

Wished he could stop crying.

For a second, he almost forgot how hungry he was. How angry

he was. He knew he was supposed to be, but like the pain toward

the end of the flogging, everything was hazy, distant, happening to

someone else. He couldn’t quite seem to get himself past
warm-free-

youcameforme-you
came
forme
, even as his teeth still chattered and his

limbs refused to move and Jonathan had only come for him because

he’d
put him there in the first place.
Because Bran had wussed out and

pushed the fucking button.

Didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Jonathan was here, holding

him. Asking if he needed help.

“Can you stand?”

Bran shook his head. Then realized the clock was ticking, ticking,

the timer was counting down and those cuffs were still locked around

his ankles and there was
no fucking way
he could go through that

again, he’d
pushed the fucking button
, and he clutched at the front of

Jonathan’s shirt and begged, “Take them off, please, take them off!”

Jonathan looked down at him, their foreheads just inches apart.

“Take what off?”

“The . . . the—” Jesus, he couldn’t even
say
it, they scared him so

fucking bad. “Please, I can’t . . .” He tucked a knee tighter to his chest,

gripped his calf beneath the blanket in a shaking hand. It wouldn’t

help. Jonathan looked on patiently, brow furrowed with concern or

perhaps just confusion, and Bran finally spat out, “The
shocks
. Take

them off, please.”

“Oh.” Relief broke across Jonathan’s face, and he brushed Bran’s

sticky hair back from his forehead, replaced it with a warm press of

lips. “It’s all right. You’re not hooked up to the machine anymore. It’s

just your cuffs.”

Jonathan’s logic asserted itself for about two-tenths of a second

before the fear came rushing back in. Just the
feel
of those things

around his ankles . . .

“Please,” he said again, and Jonathan kissed him and murmured

“okay” and took a little key from a chain around his neck and unlocked

the cuffs from Bran’s ankles.

Bran felt so relieved when they were gone he could scarcely credit

it. He felt, strangely,
naked.

Probably because you are, moron.

Which reminded him of something else he needed off him—or

rather,
out
of him. He rolled onto his side, moaning as the plug inside

him shifted. Jonathan nodded, immediately taking the hint—
thank

God
—then pulled it out as gently as he could. It slid free a lot easier

than it had gone in, leaving Bran moaning again, this time in relief.

Still, he had to suck in a few deep breaths to process the lingering

ache.“So, am I taking you to the kitchen, or upstairs?” Jonathan

asked.

Bran’s stomach lurched, the mere thought of food making him

dizzy. How long had it been since he’d had anything but water? Five

days? Six? Couldn’t even remember what having anything in his

mouth felt like.
Well, anything besides Jonathan’s dick.

“Kitchen,” Bran huffed, stomach cramping, roiling again. Jesus,

could he even eat now? Fuck it, he had to at least try
.
“Please,

Jonathan.”

Except he couldn’t get up, even with Jonathan’s help. His legs had

gone all boneless and rubbery, flopping under him like dead fish. A

hot flush of humiliation crawled up the back of his neck.

Jonathan’s hand came up to rest there for a moment, lips brushing

against Bran’s forehead, his cheek. He gently laid him on the floor,

smoothed the blanket over him. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

Bran hugged the blanket tighter to himself—fleece, down, all

softness and warmth and
it smells like Jonathan
, earthy and clean and

crisp—and fell dead asleep.

He lurched himself awake some moments later, phantom shocks

shooting up his legs. Jonathan was back, holding a steaming mug in

both hands.

“Here,” he said, resting the mug on the floor and sitting down,

his back pressed to the coffin that had broken Bran into a million

blubbery pieces, his legs spread in a V. He slid an arm round Bran’s

shoulders, hoisted him upright and arranged him, still cocooned in

the blanket, with his back to Jonathan’s chest. Jonathan took the mug

in one hand, curled his other loose but steady around Bran’s chest to

stop him from listing sideways. Bran blinked, must’ve fallen asleep

again—next he knew, the mug was at his lips, sweet mouthwatering

steam wafting over his face, and Jonathan was coaxing him to “Drink,

come on, open up.”

Bran parted his lips, let Jonathan tip a small splash of
oh sweet

God in heaven what
was
that?
over his tongue. Rich, sweet, creamy,

thick. A second later his sense of taste kicked in—hot chocolate, and

not the shit that came in powder form. Easily the best hot chocolate

he’d ever tasted—fuck, easily the best
anything
he’d ever tasted, and

he swished it around before he swallowed it down, coating his mouth

with it, and then tried to nudge the bottom of the cup through the

blanket, to make Jonathan pour faster—

Ambrosia, it was fucking
ambrosia,
but then nausea surged and

he had to turn his head away, clamp his teeth together and suck in

deep breaths through his nose until his stomach settled round the

first sip he’d taken.

“Easy, easy, you’ll make yourself sick,” Jonathan admonished, his

voice a gentle rumble against Bran’s back. “Can I get you some broth

instead?”

Bran shook his head vehemently—or at least as vehemently as he

could manage right now, which was admittedly kind of pathetic—

and mumbled, “S’okay. Better now.”

“Good.” Jonathan gave him another sip, pressed his lips to Bran’s

temple again. Strange how normal it felt. How right
.
How much

Bran craved the heat of his body, melted into his tender touch. Same

hands that had beaten the ever-loving shit out of him . . . when was it,

exactly? Yesterday?

Jonathan’s sleeve brushed against the blanket, smooth blue

silk nearly the same shade as his eyes—his robe instead of his usual

sweater. His tousled hair tickled Bran’s cheek. Jonathan had climbed

out of bed to rush down here and take care of him. Just like he’d

promised.

They sat there on the floor until Bran had finished the cocoa,

until his eyes drifted shut again and he let himself relax into the calm,

patient rhythm of Jonathan’s breathing. At last Jonathan chuckled

and gave Bran a tiny shake. “Come on now, don’t nod off on me.

We’ll both end up stiff if we spend the night down here.”

What’d he mean,
end up?

Bran groaned as Jonathan shifted him forward a bit and stood.

He set the mug on the nearby table, then held out his hand to Bran.

“Let’s try getting your legs under you.”

Muscles still protesting, Bran rolled onto his knees and pushed

himself up with both hands. Shoulders, back, and legs all screamed