“So why protect him? Why not tell us what we want to know?”
“Who says it's him I'm protecting?” she responds, and suddenly her reluctance makes sense.
“Rook,” I murmur, understanding dawning like the proverbial light bulb. “You're protecting your brother.”
She doesn't respond, just moans again when Tarl moves back up to her neck, biting as he goes. Her entire body jerks with each nip, and the slickness inching down her inner thighs tells me just how much she likes a little pain.
Shaking my head to clear the lust haze, I consider her for a moment and think about what I'd do to protect Jude. Shit. Still, I can't give up.
“Knox, perhaps you can help persuade her to sing?” I suggest, watching her body tense as Knox strides towards her, then drops to his knees in front of her.
I chuckle, knowing that he thoroughly approves of this type of torture for our little bird. I don't think we'll get anything from her, not unless I can guarantee her brother's safety, which I'm not sure I can.
But I've never failed to extract what I want from our prisoners before, and I'm not about to start now.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“STOCKHOLM SYNDROME” BY SOFIA KARLBERG
LARK
Hours fucking pass, their hands and tongues bringing me to the brink of sweet release, only to stop and leave me sweating, fucking aching, and on the edge of madness. It's a new sensation for me, being desperate for a man's touch. I'm so used to it being forced upon me, that desire on my part was never a requirement, which was lucky as it was never there.
Shit, this is worse than the whipping, the branding, and fingernail pulling, and that shit was bad. Blue ovaries is not a state I want to be in, but still, I don't sing for them. I don't tell them anything of use. My brother's safety is worth more than a few orgasms.
Aeron sighs, and I can hear the frustration that is no doubt all over his face. His brow is probably furrowed and his jaw clenched tight. Good. Boy needs to learn disappointment.
“Knox, Tarl,” he snaps out, and it's my turn to sigh as cool air kisses my heated skin when they step away. I'm still blindfolded,which only made the torture worse as I couldn't see what they were about to do, only feel it. Every swipe of their tongues, every press of their lips, and nip of their teeth. “Let's see if a night spent on the cross will loosen her tongue.”
“I need a piss,” I croak out, voice strained and raspy. The cold air in the basement does little to ease my discomfort.
Fingers pull the silk away from my eyes, and I blink in the sudden brightness of the room. When I can finally focus, ocean eyes fill my vision, a hand cupping my cheek. The look in his eyes is soft, almost proud, as a small smile tickles his lips.
“I've got you, Nightingale,” Jude whispers, and removing his palm from my face he finally takes off the clamps on my nipples and clit. A deep moan leaves my lips as he removes them, the blood rushing back into my buds with an almost orgasmic pleasure. A small sound lets me know that he drops the jewelry to the concrete floor, his beautiful, hypnotic eyes hold my focus making it impossible to look away.
Swooping down, he picks up a metal jug and places it between my legs underneath my pussy. My cheeks burn as the realization of what he expects washes over me, and my eyes widen as I look back up to him. He steps closer, the heat of his bare, scarred and inked-up chest pressing against my naked torso.
“You did so well today, beautiful Nightingale,” he coos, his free hand coming back up to my cheek, his thumb stroking my hot flesh. “Not spilling your secrets.”
“W–what?” I ask, the urge to pee fading under a blanket of confusion.
“Jude,” I hear Aeron admonish in a growl, but Jude ignores him.
“Such a beautiful bird,” he compliments. Tears sting my eyes, and I have to swallow past the lump in my throat. “It's time to let go, love. I won't let you make a mess.” The tinkling sound of mypiss hitting metal is loud in the quiet room, and my shoulders try to cave as I do as he says and let go, unable to hold on any longer. My cheeks burn with shame. “Such a good girl,” he tells me in a soothing voice, leaning in and flicking his tongue over the wetness on my cheek. “That's it, just let go.”
I take it back. This humiliation is far worse than anything that's happened to me so far. Having him hold a literal pot for me to piss in, all while his soft words and touch make me preen at the praise he’s giving, it’s the most embarrassing thing I’ve had to endure in a long time. It’s almost too much, and I can feel my posture trying to sag in my binds, a painful lump in my throat.
Finally, the stream ends, and I would hang my head if Jude wasn't holding it up. I can't look at him, or the others, my gaze dropping to a point on the floor across the room.
“You finished, Nightingale?” Jude questions gently.
“Yes,” I answer, my voice small.
He doesn't move away, but I see in my peripheral vision that he hands the jug to Tarl, who passes him a white flannel. Sweat glistens on my brow as Jude swipes the warm cloth over my pussy, cleaning me up.
I feel movement on my other side, and turn to see Knox standing there holding a plate of chopped fruit and what smells and looks like French toast, cut into small, bite-sized pieces.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Aeron exclaims, and I glance at him, his usually neat hair disheveled.
