CHAPTER TWELVE CONTINUED…
Part 2 of 3:
I barely had time to process what just happened before I once again heard the unmistakable creak of footsteps upstairs. This time More than one. I stilled, listening. They were slow. Methodical. Searching. Two. Maybe three. But least two.
I had to move. I clenched the keycard between my teeth, pistol firm in my grip as I focused on the sounds above me. At least two of them. Their boots creaked against the wooden planks upstairs, slow but steady. They weren’t rushing.
They thought they had time. That meant I had time too.
First—I needed to search and clear as much of the house as I could while none of them knew I was here.
I moved carefully, keeping my steps soft and controlled, gun raised, my breath slow and steady. My back skimmed the hallway wall as I eased forward, eyes sweeping every shadow.
First—the hallway. Clear.
Next—the bathroom near the front. I pressed a hand lightly against the door, easing it open. Gun first. I swept the space with sharp precision, checking every angle, every possible hiding spot. Clear.
I kept moving. My bedroom door was wide open. They’d been in here. I held my position just outside, listening. The house was too still, too silent, except for the occasional shuffle of boots above me and the crackling from the guesthouse. No voices. No indication of Blake.
Gun up—I stepped in. I swept left to right, checking each corner before moving forward. Bed—clear. Corners—clear. Closet—doors open, but I needed to be sure. I moved toward it, keeping my back to the room. The hanging clothes swayed slightly from the motion of the air vent. I reached out, quietly pushing the door all the way open.
Empty.
I exhaled, moving toward the bathroom. The door was cracked open, nothing but darkness inside. I wasn’t taking any chances. I pushed it open with my foot, sweeping my gun in first, cutting the angles one by one. Shower—clear. Behind the door—clear.
This part of the house was clear. But it wasn’t just clear—like the rest of the house it was wrecked. The mattress was nearly off the bed, half-slung onto the floor, sheets tangled, pillows thrown. Nightstand drawers were yanked out and dumped. My closet was torn apart, clothes scattered, storage boxes flipped.
They had been searching. Hard. But for what? I had nothing here. Nothing worth all this. As soon as I finished clearing the bedroom, I heard it—footsteps, heavier now, more deliberate. They were moving, heading toward the stairs.
I had seconds.
Without hesitation, I grabbed the pair of jeans crumpled on the floor, I shoved the key card into one of the pocket. I didn’t have time to put them on I needed to move. I wasn’t about to get caught—with my pants around my ankles. I would rather fight with my dick swinging.
I turned, eyes flicking toward the slider leading to the backyard. My only way out. I moved. Fast. Silent.
I slid the door open just enough to slip through, careful not to let it rattle against the frame. The cool night air hit my skin as I stepped out onto the cold concrete. The jeans still slung over my shoulder. The pistol aimed ahead.
I eased the slider shut behind me and immediately crouched low, moving along the side wall of the house. There was barely any cover back here with the whole back half of the house being glass. I had to time my movements so I wasn’t seen.
I ran to the side yard where I had grabbed the wood from for the fire pit last night.
The sounds and footsteps inside grew louder. They were reaching the first floor and would soon discover the body I left behind.
Then came the shouts—sharp, commanding. The sound of debris being kicked aside, the heavy clatter of furniture being shoved, overturned. They were searching. Clearing the space. Again. Finding the bloody mess I left in my wake.
I stayed crouched, gripping the pistol tight, every muscle locked in place, waiting, listening.
The voices were English, but heavily accented. Russian, I think. They spoke quickly, exchanging rapid orders. At first, I couldn’t make out much, just the clipped edges of sentences, but then—
“Bring him down here!” One of them shouted with an authoritative tone.
My stomach dropped.
There was a scuffle. The sound of something—or someone—being dragged. Heavy footsteps thudded across the floorboards, followed by a strained, muffled noise.
A grunt. A thud.
Blake.
I clenched my jaw, forcing control, forcing focus. My mind kicked into overdrive. How many? How armed? What the fuck did they want? But under all of that, beneath the tactics, there was something darker, hotter—rage.
Then came a voice, louder, closer, sharper.
“We have your little bitch here!” The man shouted again
The words slammed into me like a hammer. A fire erupted in my chest, my vision tunneling.
The same voice rang out voice rang out, deeper, gruffer, deliberate in its cruelty. “Come out, and we will let him go.”
A pause. I gritted my teeth, listening, waiting for the real threat. And then it came.
“Or run… and he dies.” He said in a psychotically calm manner before another long beat. Then he adding “Slowly. Painfully.”
I had confirmation that they had Blake and he was at least alive. Now, it was my move. I exhaled through my nose, steady but sharp, forcing my pulse to calm the fuck down.
The leader barked another sharp order, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade.
“You have three seconds to come out, or he dies.”
“One!”
I barely heard my own breath over the pounding in my ears. My muscles coiled, every fiber of my being screaming at me to act—but not recklessly. I needed control. I needed to see the whole board before making a move.
“Two!”
Fuck.
Blake made another muffled noise—guttural, strained. He was fighting. But how bad off was he? Was he hurt? How much time did he have?
No more time to think. “Wait!” I shouted. A sharp silence cut through the air.
I took a deep breath, steadying myself, forcing my hands not to shake, then stepped out from behind the stack of firewood. My skin immediately prickled with the cool night air, a sharp contrast to the heat burning under my skin. I kept my hands raised, the pistol clearly visible, pointed toward the sky in a universal I’m-not-threatening-you-yet stance.
The jeans I grabbed but never had a chance to put on were still slung over my shoulder—yes, I was still fucking naked—I dropped them behind the wood pile as I got up. No sudden movements. The key card was still tucked in one of the pockets, out of sight.
All eyes snapped to me.
The men standing in the kitchen turned around. They were dressed in black tactical gear, full-body armor, faces obscured by tactical hoods. There were three of them. Their weapons were drawn, held tight, disciplined. These weren’t just thugs. These were professionals. And they were waiting to see my next move.
Blake was on his knees in front of the man barking orders—the one who was clearly in charge. His chest rose and fell heavily, his breathing deep and controlled, but I could see the exhaustion creeping into his muscles. His skin, usually golden and smooth, was now streaked with dirt and sweat, his body glistening under the light of the the men’s flashlights and the growing, amber glow form the burning guesthouse that was starting to fill the backyard. His mouth was taped shut, his hands bound tightly behind his back, his shoulders drawn back, broad and tense.
And he too, was still completely naked.
There was a deep scrape across his chest, over his left pec, angry and raw, the skin broken in places like he had been dragged against gravel and broken glass. A cut above his right eye leaked a slow, steady trickle of blood that ran down his temple, over his cheekbone, disappearing into the dark stubble along his jaw. His knees bloody and scuffed, like he had been forced in this position more than once. But his eyes? His eyes still burned with pure defiance.
They hadn’t broken him. Not yet.
But the part that stood out the most, the part that made my stomach coil tight with something I couldn’t quite name—he still had on the cock ring from earlier. That same silver band he had grinned about when we made the deal, the same one I told him to put on before I left. It was still snug around the base of his dick, keeping him swollen, slightly flushed, even now, even in this moment.
The leader pressed the barrel of his gun against Blake’s temple with a slow, deliberate movement, turning just enough so I could see the smirk in his eyes behind the mask.
“Oh look—this one’s naked too,” he said with a dark, mocking chuckle.
The two goons beside him threw their heads back in laughter, the sound muffled through their tactical covers, but still sharp and grating, like they actually found this whole thing funny.
I clenched my jaw, forcing my pulse to steady, ignoring the heat rising in my chest, in my face. I wasn’t about to let them turn this into a fucking joke.
The leader reached down, grabbing Blake by the arm and yanking him up to his feet. Blake winced and stumbled slightly, his muscles tensing, but he didn’t fight—not yet. The leader kept the gun pressed against his ribs now, his finger resting way too fucking close to the trigger.
Blake shifted slightly, trying to steady himself on his feet, but I caught the way his jaw clenched tighter, how his arms flexed while wrapped behind his back—like he was aware of how much was still on display. His thighs, smeared with dirt, tensed, his cock still heavy and thick where the ring kept it swollen. Even now. Even after all of this.
The leader’s smirk deepened as he noticed.
“Still all worked up, huh?” he murmured, giving Blake a mocking tilt of his head. One of the others snickered, nudging his buddy.
Blake didn’t flinch. Didn’t give them the satisfaction. But I saw his nostrils flare.
“Toss the gun,” the man ordered back at me once again, voice calm, casual, as if he had all the time in the world. “And come closer.” He pushed the barrel harder into Blake’s side, punctuating the command.
My grip on the pistol tightened for a fraction of a second.
“Alright,” I said, keeping my voice level. “Let’s just take a second and talk about this. What do you want?” My eyes flicked between them, watching their body language, their stances, the way their fingers twitched on their triggers. As I said, these guys were professionals, no doubt about it. But even professionals had tells and I just needed time to find theirs.
The leader kept his gun firmly against Blake’s ribs, his expression hidden behind his mask, but his posture was relaxed—too relaxed. He wasn’t worried. He thought he was in complete control.
Blake’s chest rose and fell with controlled, measured breaths, his jaw clenched tight around the tape over his mouth. He was dirty, sweaty, blood streaking his skin, but his eyes—those sharp, defiant fucking eyes—hadn’t lost their fire. He was watching me just as intently, trying to gauge what I was going to do.
The leader tilted his head slightly, considering me. Then, with a smirk in his voice, he said, “I want you to toss the gun.”
I stayed where I was. “And then what?” I asked.
“Then you walk your naked ass over here like a good little bitch.” He said with a smirk.
The two mercs laughed louder this time, one of them actually clapping his hands together like this was the best entertainment they’d had in weeks. My grip on the pistol tightened slightly, but I didn’t move. I wasn’t going to give them that.
Instead, I exhaled slowly, dragging my gaze across the scene. The leader, so fucking sure of himself. Blake, still standing strong despite everything. The men, amused but not watching their flanks.
“Not until you tell me what this is about,” I said evenly.
I barely had time to process the way their amusement lingered in the air before the leader’s voice dropped an octave—colder now, sharper.
“You are not in position to make demands,” he said, “You are not in position to do anything other than what I tell you.”
His tone wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even irritated. That was almost worse. There was no emotion behind it—just calculated certainty, the kind of authority that came from a man who was used to being obeyed.
I squared my stance slightly, adjusting my grip on the pistol before speaking again, keeping my voice level, even. “Look,” I said, exhaling slowly. “I have no idea who you are, what you fuckers want, or what you’re looking for. But I do know it has to do with me. And since I’m still alive, that means you need me to stay that way.”
I let the words hang for a second before tilting my head slightly, nodding toward Blake. “And you have to keep him alive too. Otherwise, you have no control over me or what I do. So why don’t we all just calm the fuck down, and you tell me what the hell you want?”
The leader stilled. Then his mouth curled beneath the mask. A slow, deliberate smirk.
He chuckled—a low, rumbling sound, humorless and malicious. “I was told you were smart guy,” he mused. “But you are not that smart.”
The amusement in his voice didn’t match the dead weight in his eyes. “See, I do not have to kill him,” he continued, voice smooth, casual. “Blake, yes?”
I didn’t answer.
The leader didn’t care.
“I do not have to kill Blake,” he repeated. “I can just… hurt him.”
His hand shifted to his holster—pulling the gun from Blake’s ribs and holstering it.
Then he moved.
Fast. Brutal. Precise.
His hand fisted into Blake’s hair, yanking his head back, exposing the long, corded stretch of his throat. Blake let out a choked grunt, his body instinctively tensing. His chest expanded, breath hitching sharp through his nostrils.
The leader studied him for a moment, taking in the sweat-slicked skin, the heaving muscles, the way his jaw tightened against the pain.
Then he let his free hand move. Slowly.
He started at Blake’s throat, his thumb pressing firmly against the pulse point just under his jaw, fingers grazing the sensitive dip between his collarbones. Blake’s Adam’s apple bobbed, his throat working around a tense swallow, his body locked up and rigid.
The leader’s voice came low, smooth—but there was something dark underneath it. “Tell me,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly as if considering a puzzle. “When you put hands on him, where do you start?”
I didn’t answer.
The leader’s fingers traced lower, slow, deliberate, sliding down the center of Blake’s chest, over the broad expanse of his pecs—not grabbing, not slapping, just grazing. Feeling.
Blake’s breathing deepened, his muscles coiling beneath the touch, but he didn’t flinch.
The leader hummed softly. “Is it chest?” he asked, dragging his fingers over one of Blake’s nipples, pressing just enough to elicit a twitch. “You like how he feel under hands? Solid. Strong.”
His fingers moved again, sliding lower, palm flattening against the ridges of Blake’s abs.
“Or maybe this?” he mused, pressing just enough to feel the tension beneath. Blake’s body responded involuntarily, muscles flexing, but his face remained stone.
The leader’s smile widened.
“I bet you dream of having him like this, da?” he murmured. “Tied up. Waiting. Just for you.”
My stomach turned.
Blake’s breath hitched—just barely, just for a second—but I caught it.
The leader’s eyes flicked to me, watching. Studying. “But I wonder,” he said, voice deepening, the amusement turning into something hungrier, colder. “Which part of him you like best?”
I clenched my jaw, refusing to speak.
His fingers moved lower. Teasing along the deep cut of Blake’s v-line, hovering just above his pubes. Then he stopped.
The leader let out a small, amused exhale, his fingers brushing against cool metal. His smirk widened. “Well,” he murmured, almost admiringly. “What do we have here?” His fingers slid along the edge of the cock ring, tracing the firm band snug around the base of Blake’s shaft.
Blake’s thighs tensed.
My breath stilled.
“You make him wear this, da?” the leader mused, eyes flicking to me, waiting, expecting a reaction.
As much as I wanted to scream and drop this motherfucker. I gave him nothing. No reaction at all.
The leader chuckled. “Bet you like seeing him like this. Thick, swollen—helpless.” He shifted his grip, fingers wrapping around the length of Blake’s dick. Blake’s breath hitched through his nose, his whole body rigid.
The leader stroked once. Slow.
A mocking touch, his fingers sliding from base to tip, lingering at the head before trailing back down.
I clenched my jaw, my pulse hammering against my ribs.
“You like watching?” the leader asked me, voice smooth, almost conversational.
I stayed silent. Trying to steady my breathing and the growing rage inside me.
The leader hummed again. “Maybe this is favorite part,” he murmured, dragging his fingers down again, another slow, deliberate stroke.
Blake’s breathing sharpened, muscles locking tight.
The leader’s grip shifted. And then—he grabbed. A fistful. His fingers closed around Blake’s balls, squeezing hard. A guttural, raw groan tore from Blake’s throat and leaked out from under the tape over his mouth. His body jerking violently against the hold. His shoulders shuddered, his chest expanding in sharp, broken exhales through his nose. His thighs jerked inward instinctively, but the leader didn’t let go.
If anything—he squeezed harder. Slower.
Blake sucked in a deep audible inhale through his nose, his head tilting back slightly, the cords in his neck tightening.
Still—he didn’t scream. Didn’t break.
The leader watched him, curious, before shifting his gaze back to me. He leaned in closer.
Almost casual.
“You know what is my favorite part?” he murmured, voice just for me now.
I didn’t speak.
His grip tightened slightly, twisting. Blake grunted through the tape over his mouth, his legs trembling with the effort to stay standing.
The leader’s lips curled. “I love watching man try to fight something he cannot control,” he said smoothly. “I love watching the exact moment when he realize—” His fingers dug in, vicious. His knuckles turning white. Blake gasped, jaw clenching tighter, his legs almost buckling before he forced himself upright again. “—that there is nothing he can fucking do.” He turned his eyes back to mine.
Smiling. Enjoying this.
“But you already know that feeling, don’t you?” he murmured, studying me like I was a specimen under a lens. “You already know what is like to be completely, utterly, fucking powerless.”
I felt my fingertips go white around the pistol.
“Da,” he said softly, tilting his head slightly. “I think you do. I think you are feeling it right now, in fact.”
Then—finally—he let go.
Blake staggered, sucking in a long, slow breath through his nose and the gaps in the tape and his skin, his whole body trembling. The leader exhaled calmly, rolling his shoulders like he was just getting comfortable.
Then, casually, he lifted his hand—the same one that had just been crushing the life out of Blake’s balls—and wiped it across Blake’s chest.
I shifted my stance a little and must have moved the gun a little because the leader quickly said, “Careful,” in a soft murmur, mocking tone. “Would not want me to squeeze too hard.”
And then—I saw it. Movement. Just over his right shoulder.
Nic.
END PART TWO
