When the Dark Wins

“Actions have consequences, Marcus. This will be a good lesson for you to learn, especially if we plan to operate separate, but connected, businesses.” Tilting the phone to and fro, he continued, “And I can always transfer more if you feel the need to act out.”

Fuck.

He wanted to hit him. Hard. Wanted to punch him in his fucking face until they looked nothing alike. This didn’t have a thing to do with the girl, this was just Anthony reminding him who the fuck was in charge.

Another fucking power play, and he’d walked right into it.

When would he learn not to bet against his brother? The man only made bets he knew he would win, which meant he had to have done something to the girl. Drugged her, hurt her, threatened her. He’d go over the recordings piece by piece and find it.

Forcing another swallow of the expensive liquor, he tried to calm down, to focus. “Fifty-thousand for her ass, Anthony? That seems like a bit much.”

“It’s also for the bruises from your little temper tantrum with the belt. Our customers tend to prefer blank slates for their own marks.”

Marcus snorted. “She’ll heal from those long before you get her to call you Master.”

“Well, when I get her to call me Master, we will see. But you will not be here for it.” Tucking his phone in his pocket, Anthony moved towards the door. “I expect you out in the morning.”

“No reason for me to stay, is there?”

“No.” He didn’t even turn around when he answered, just opened the door and walked out into the hall, letting it fall shut behind him with a clap. The automatic lock clicking into place let him relax, and he opened his sticky fist to look at the cut on his thumb.

Not deep, but it hadn’t stopped bleeding.

He could fix this. He would fix all of it.

Taking the bottle with him, he walked to the door and opened it with his bloody hand, leaving dark, smudged fingerprints on the keypad and handle. Ruining the pristine sheen his brother kept over everything.

In his room he had a first-aid kit, and his old computer setup. He could bandage his thumb, and spend the rest of the night getting drunk and pouring over the recordings until he found the exact moment when Anthony had fucked him over.

Then he could take Beth for himself and show them all who was better at breaking slaves.

11

Anthony watched as she pressed herself forward against the cool, concrete wall. Wrists in dark cuffs, arms spread wide, linked to the hard points high above her head. He had always enjoyed this design. The chains allowed him to adjust based on their height so he could make them stretch. Even now, she was up on her toes, calves shaking from the strain, round ass catching the harsh overhead lights.

It had been two weeks of things like this. Creative punishments, mind games, but the girl seemed more defiant than ever.

She’d even told him to kill her.

So ridiculous.

First, slaves were not allowed to make demands.

Second, he didn’t believe for an instant the girl truly wanted to die. No living thing did. It was hard-wired into their biology to survive — and no matter what he did to her, she would always crave another breath.

Most importantly, this was a business, and good businessmen never invested time and money in something only to abandon it at the first hint of hardship.

He just needed to be rougher with her. Make her suffer more.

Running the leather of the whip over his palm he focused on the handful of bright red lines across her upper back and shoulders. “What are you, girl?”

Her body jerked, twisted a little as she shifted her weight between her feet, but she didn’t answer. Fingers wrapped tight around the chains, she was either extraordinarily strong, or impressively stupid.

“Silence is defiance. Do you need another reminder?” Uncoiling the whip, he let it hang to the floor once more. Waiting, watching as he adjusted his grip and moved to the side again, letting her hear his footsteps — but she still didn’t speak.

Lifting his arm, he swung forward, hearing the whip snap against her flesh a second before a guttural cry left her lips, soft whimpers following. Another bright red line formed, and he wondered if she knew he could strike so much harder. Could make those lines purple, could make her bleed.

“What are you, girl?” he repeated, and it irked him. He’d asked the same question so many times and he despised repeating himself. A waste of time and energy. “Answer me.”