Page 85 of Bound

“None of you kimfuks are going anywhere,” Samsyn barked. “Except right this way.”

Brick was jerked backward and then around. He stumbled forward as soon as a steel barrel jabbed the center of his spine. He breathed deep through his nose, positive his heart rate was about to spike and his head would jump on the resulting merry-go-round. He never knew which would hit worse about the panic attacks. He just prayed like hell that he’d be able to steady his feet and his self-control.

Self. Control.

Thank God it seemed the foremost goal for Ethan and Z, as well. Ethan never had him worried. The guy owned a rehab ranch on the ocean and did impossible yoga poses for fun. But Zeke, while one of the finest Dominants he’d ever met, was known in the ops world as a decisive thinker. That was the polite way of saying loose cannon.

Samsyn and his men pulled them along an all-too-familiar hallway, down a flight of steps, and then back into the palais commissary. Thankfully, Z remained Josey Wales-worthy in his steely austerity. Brick marveled at it for a few seconds longer than necessary, knowing it’d be supplanted by a smirk once Zeke saw him sharing any kind of space with Jayd. Even so, he swung his gaze around in search of her. That was the only part of him still able to move so freely, thanks to the cuffs and the continued clutches from two of Samsyn’s men. He couldn’t help wondering how Jayd would perceive it all. Would she rejoice or recoil at seeing him like this? Would she protest or praise her brother?

But where was she? Surely she’d beaten him back to the surface and had come right back here, eager to revel in the same sight that sparked a smile to his lips despite all the pain through his body.

The beautiful panorama with Trystan Carris at its center.

They’d plunked him into a basic steel chair, which might permanently become a part of him with all the ropes that bound him to it. He was stripped to his pale waist, now marred from the rough ropes. His legs were secured to the chair’s legs in similar fashion.

Despite the harsh custody, the man’s posture seemed lax. Practically insouciant. The observation might have been wrong, since Brick was still only looking from behind, but surely his instincts weren’t that corroded. Then again, his last official mission had seen him nearly killed because of shitty logistical calls. Judgments that would haunt him forever.

Weirdly, the same kind of wraiths that now flew across Samsyn Cimarron’s face.

Huh?

He gave the sentiment some voice with a questioning grunt. Though he didn’t really expect an answer, it was baffling to keep studying Samsyn. He knew furious regret when he saw it, and the sonofabitch was glued hard to the prince’s features.

And Christ, now that he expanded his view, across Evrest’s face too. And Shiraz’s. And most of the crowd still hanging out in here.

What the hell was going on?

Why wasn’t everyone already three sheets to the nectar-induced wind? Or indulging in adrenaline hook-ups in the bedraped alcoves? What happened to the celebration that was already winding up when he’d left the room? Had someone harshed the overall mellow by already knifing Carris? Had the man himself said or done someth—

Fuck.

All those thoughts were axed as soon as he got hauled over to stand in front of the asshole.

“Fuck!”

He wanted to repeat it again and again. In his mind, he did. But his throat was nuked by ruthless shock. The same poisonous cloud that took out his knees and fuzzed his vision.

Because Carris…

Wasn’t Carris.

What…the…living…

The man in the chair, with a build, a face, and even a smarmy snicker to match the man’s, unleashed an open grin at Brick. The expression was wide enough to crack some crumbling latex glue at the edges of his cheeks, which fell atop a flexible rubber mask in his lap. The thing was similar to the kinds of façades that hit the stores at Halloween season—only instead of the president or the latest internet scandal star, this was a face condom of the shithead who’d begun to dominate his nightmares.

And would continue to do so.

Only now, Brick was living those midnight terrors. In more ways than he wanted to acknowledge.

“Shit on a shingle,” Z grunted.

“Deep fake for the obscene win, anyone?” Ethan added.

“Hmmm. I approve of his concept.” In a different time and place, Carris’s stand-in could’ve made some bank as a celebrity look-a-like for the asshole. Everything about the guy’s voice was an ideal match too. “Winning has a nice ring to it. And since it is fairly much the truth now…”

“Which means what?” Shiraz surged forward, overenunciating the last word until it sprayed across the dickwad’s features. “Faisi-crish! Start talking now, kimfuk. As you can see, we have exactly done what you dictated.” He grabbed the front of Brick’s coveralls and hauled him forward. “He is here now, yes? Your beloved bonami, in the flesh. So start—”

“Okay, whoa the fuck there.” The doghouse was no place from which to start a dog fight, but Brick was willing to lose a paw for it. Bonami. He knew that term now. Jayd and Emme had used it enough times with each other. “I’m not any kind of a buddy with this ass chunk. Do you honestly think—”