“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I end the call and grab a bag, shoving a few changes of clothes and some toiletries, and I’m out of the house and into my car. I’m grateful for the lateness of the hour, making the roads quiet. I can make the most of the speed this vehicle is capable of.
When I follow the SatNav to the car park of an expensive block of apartments, I find a visitor space and park the car. I need a few moments to gather my thoughts. I have no idea what I’m going to face when I get to Drake’s apartment. After a couple of deep breaths, I switch off the engine and grab my bag from the passenger seat. Thankful he gave me the code to enter the building. I reach the lift, which is thankfully quick, and I’m on the eighth floor in no time.
The door is open a crack, but I still tap lightly. “Drake, it’s me.” There’s no reply, so I push the door open and step inside. The door closes with an almost silent click. The open plan living room and kitchen is dark and empty. I continue into the apartment and follow a hallway down to four doors. There’s a light coming from under the door at the last room on the left.
I nudge the door open with my foot. “Drake?”
I’m in his bedroom, but he’s not. The en-suite bathroom door is wide open, and I can see Drake sitting on the floor. His head is down, and his hands are in his lap.
He lifts his head and looks at me. He’s gaunt, dark rings around his bloodshot eyes. “Thank you,” he says, his voice dry and cracked.
My bag falls to the floor as I rush over to him. As I cup his face, he starts to cry again. “What the fuck happened?” I ask him again.
“Warrior,” he says, flatly.
Warrior? I’ve heard this name before, but it doesn’t jump back to mind straight away. Then he speaks again. “He found me.”
The memory floods back to me. The story of Drake’s childhood and his abandonment when he was twelve. “Jesus Christ, what did he do? Did he beat you up?”
“He tricked me by being a Dom. We’d met at the club, got on well. He seemed level-headed, a reasonable Dom and good enough to have a couple of easy scenes with, then he suggested a full a scene together. It’s my fault; I should’ve seen the signs, to have recognised the bastard. He tormented me for years as a child.”
“No way, this is not your fault. Let me help you up, and I can get you cleaned up. Can you stand?”
I help him up—he’s naked from the waist down. I can see dried blood on his thighs. He’s been raped. Fury floods me; our eyes meet, and he knows I understand. “Turn around so we can get your shirt off. I’m going to get it wet, okay.”
After, I grab some towels from the rack, dump them in the sink, and turn the taps on. I want them warm on his skin. “What did he use?” I place the first towel on his back, lettingit soak the fabric, then swapping it for another. I repeat the process until the shirt starts to lift from his back.
I can’t hold back my moan when I see the mess. Has he been whipped or caned, both can leave red welts like the ones under his shirt. “What did he use?”
“A flogger, at least to start. He switched to a cane. I stopped trying to work it out. I just gritted my teeth and tried to get through it.”
“Can you manage a shower? I’ll help.”
“Please.” He leans against me, and I wrap my arms as softly as I can around him. We stay like this for long enough for Drake to shiver. He sits on the toilet lid while I get undressed and sort the shower out.
I don’t take too long to clean him up. Enough to get the blood gone and to warm him up. I find some antiseptic cream in a bathroom cupboard.
We lie in bed together, him on his front, the cream soaking into the stripes over his back and buttocks, even the top of his thighs. He’s had some painkillers, and I’m hoping they kick in soon. “What are you going to do about him?” I ask quietly, our voices hushed in the dark room.
“Ruin him,” Drake says simply,
I push his soft hair from his eyes. “Why didn’t you call your brothers? Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad you trusted me to come. They would’ve been here a lot quicker.”
“They would’ve hunted him down. I want to hurt him for a lot longer and harder than a fist and some bruises,” he says, his words hard and his eyes dark, full of plans and promises. It would be frightening, if I didn’t know him so well.
“Good. You should sleep,” I tell him as his eyelids flutter. “I’ll still be here.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I think he’s asleep, but his whispered words break me. “How can a man hate a child somuch that he’d do this sixteen years later? What did I ever do wrong?”
“Nothing, babe. He’s a sick and twisted man. It was all in his head. What will you do?”
“Best you don’t know.” He pauses. “Thank you.”
He does sleep now. I stay awake, remembering everything he told me about his life before he met me. The army, the men that fostered and then adopted him. His brothers and the bond they share. But there’s a gap, a space before me that he hasn’t talked about. A time he always brushed over, but for him to be able to ruin someone, he’s got to have some contacts in cyber security or whatever is used to spy on people.
Fuck, was he a spy? It would make sense. How cool is that.
It’s a couple of days later when I wake up alone, but the sheet is still warm, and I can hear running water in the bathroom. I look at the cover he’s discarded and see it’s got some sticky marks from the cream and the welts. That can’t feel good, so he must be in the shower.
