“The engagement ring.”
Shit.Fuck.I knew I forgot something. But I was so focused on convincing Ryan to marry me. That’s more important, isn’t it?
Dammit. Ryan’s into, well, not romance exactly, but signs of affection. He can’t wear a ring right now, though. The more I think about it, the more I wish he could. Rings are like collars. A golden brand. They mark an individual as taken.
And Ryan’s ass is about as taken as it gets.
“It’s getting sized,” I lie. “But, uh, we’re not announcing it just yet. If you could keep it to yourself?—”
He waves a hand. “Say no more. We’re good friends. You can trust me. I think the kids call it being besties.”
My insides twist. Besties? Is that what Patrick thinks we are? I guess he’s the closest thing I have to a friend. Ethan’s always in my face, but I pay him to be. Jane has occasionally stepped outside the role of head of security, but, like Ethan, she knows her place.
Patrick stands up. I quirk a brow. “You didn’t tell me the reason you dropped by.”
“Do I have to have a reason? I came to check on you. You haven’t seemed your usual, sunny self.”
A little warmth spreads to my lips, imagining what Ryan would say to the person describing me as sunny.
“Look at you, smiling again. Right as rain. Bet you’re thinking about him.” He winks. “I’ll be going then. I expect an invite to the wedding.”
He leaves on that charming little parting shot. Fuck. There’s no way Patrick can come to our wedding, but that’s a problem for another day. I have an appointment.
Kline’s screams echo off the walls. No, literally. I had this place designed for maximum terror and sound. There’s an art to torture. People think it’s all blood and gore and ripping flesh from bone.
Sometimes that’s necessary.
Sometimes it’s just fun.
But any idiot with a knife can inflict pain. I want their mind. I want to break in, tear their psyche open, and plant a thousand seeds of my voice that will pop up like a weed when I want them to. I have plans for Kline. If I didn’t, he’d be dead.
That’s what people get when they fuck with what’s mine.
I let Kline breathe, which can’t be comfortable, hanging like that, arms overhead, chains pulled tight, only just able to press his toe pads into the stone. Every breath must be excruciating. In that position, most of the weight sits in his shoulder joints. Throbbing endlessly. I don’t even need to draw blood. I could let him hang there until his muscles reach endurance, and the weight becomes too much. Let his mind play tricks on him, wondering if his tendons are about to snap from the pressure. That’s a sweeter kind of pain. It sinks bone-deep and makes your psyche scream.
Ask me how I know.
Kline takes slow, pain-filled breaths. Each one sparking fresh agony from other injuries. I always make sure he’s covered in some way. Today it’s sweatpants. It feels like I’m cheating on Ryan otherwise, and I’m a one-man guy. Utterly devoted.
Tears drip off Kline’s face, his once perfectly groomed hair grown out, skin slick with sweat. He still has the audacity to sneer. He’s been tougher to break than I thought he would be. But families like his beat their children into submission to toughen them up. That’s okay, I’m willing to put in the work—it will be so much more satisfying when Kline finally falls.
I doubt Ryan escaped being beaten into submission by his father. Is that what he meant when he said he was his father’s prisoner? The way I wanted to ask. It took a lot of internal chatter to calm me the fuck down and keep my mouth shut while my blood boiled.
“Drink,” I say, feeding Kline a little cool water. He drinks greedily until I pull it away. Only giving him enough not to dehydrate, but not as much as he’d like. “Want more? Be a good boy, answer my questions, and I’ll think about it.”
“Fuck you.”
“Rude.”
I pick up my own bottle of water—don’t want to be infested with him—and drink my fill with a nice long moan of enjoyment. “God, that’s good.”
He keeps his mouth shut, trying to act like he doesn’t care, but he eyes the water, his dry mouth desperate for more. I walk over to my selection of canes, selecting a medium-weight one. I rest the cane across the back of my shoulders, hooking my wrists over either end, and saunter back to Kline.
“Can’t wait, VanCourt,” he wheezes. “But you’re going to have to do better than that to best a Kline.”
“Guess we’ll see. Tell me more about your situationship with Henry.”
“Why?”
