Out of the Ashes (The Game 5)

“Nooo!” He let out a long wail. “I don’t like you, I don’t like you!”

Colt came back with a leather flogger.

“He says he doesn’t like me,” I said.

Colt furrowed his brow. “Well, that’s rude.”

“Sadists always know best!” someone screamed.

We looked over our shoulders to find Greer ceasing his assault on the backs of Corey’s thighs.

“I’mma need more than that, boy,” Greer told him.

Corey hiccupped around a sob.

I wondered how his Daddy was taking it. He was in the audience. Corey needed pain; he needed the emotional release. His partner, however, wasn’t into pain one bit.

“Sadists are the best in the world,” Corey cried. “They make me cry when I can’t cry on my own.”

Aw hell, my heart. I didn’t need to know Greer in order to predict his next move. But I did know him, and I knew he’d felt that gut punch too. Greer picked the boy up, wrapped Corey’s legs around his hips, and walked away for a semblance of privacy.

“That’s a good boy.” Greer kissed the side of Corey’s head and sat down with him on a rock. “You did fuckin’ amazin’ today, you know that? Just let it all out, sweetheart.”

I loved those moments with Tate. We were more private with total releases, though. We saved that for when we were alone, at home, or had access to playrooms at the house where we could close the door.

“I love a happy ending,” I sighed.

“Amen,” Colt murmured.

When he returned his focus to Noa, I took my cue and covered Greer’s station. “Next brat in line!” I hollered.

A drenched, muddy, beat-up Shay.

All right, then. I couldn’t foresee anyone in their group giving up, so I prepared myself for twenty minutes of beating Shay’s back, arms, thighs, and ass.

He walked over to me and eyed the spotter next to me. “There isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell I will declare my love for Sadists tonight.”

“That’s okay.” I smiled and picked a cat-o’-nine tails from the toy bag on the ground.

Shay clenched his jaw. “You had to pick that one?”

“River told me it’s your favorite.”

“River’s full of shit.”

“I’ll be sure to let him know.” I gestured to the spotter. “Hold on to his arms and bend over.”

He was already shirtless, his back decorated with Japanese-inspired tattoos and fresh welts and scratches.

“What happens if I refuse?”

I smirked faintly. “You really wanna go there right now?”

He didn’t.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Kingsley Madden

River and Reese arrived with the last group. The line had grown longer, because we had the most strong-willed brats in our community who refused to surrender. Their stubbornness and strength inspired us Sadists every damn time we came out to the house.

“How’s our fighter holdin’ up?” Reese asked.

I wiped sweat off my forehead and carefully rotated my shoulder. “He has no idea how sore my arm is right now.”

Shay shot straight up from his position and stared at me in sheer disbelief. Tears streaked his cheeks—but he’d held back for a long time. It wasn’t until a few minutes ago I’d broken his resolve and the tears had started falling.

“You’re sore?” he croaked.

Reese winced in sympathy for me and clapped me on the back. “I know that pain, buddy. These li’l whores will never get it.”

“My back is on fire!” Shay yelled.

“Yeah, but my arm—” I even pointed to it “—is tired.”

“Don’t let him get to you, Shay!” Tate called hoarsely. “Oh my fuck—oww! You’re sick, Colt! You’re fucking sick!”

“Next brat in line!” Greer commanded.

I chuckled to myself and handed my whip over to Reese. “Enjoy, my friends. Shay has five minutes left on the clock.”

“Excellent.” Reese lit up. “Get down on your hands and knees, boy.”

Shay whimpered and fell to his knees.

“I give up!” Gretchen bawled. “Sadists are the salt of the earth—and our tears! So many fucking tears!”

Salt of the earth—that was good praise. I was inclined to agree with her.

KC felt the same way and released her with a gentle hug, and then he summoned Gretchen’s Top.

I’d been itching to see what damage Colt had caused to my boy since I’d heard Tate call him the cruelest motherfucker in the universe some ten minutes ago. A new spotter had taken Lucian’s place, and I recognized Macklin even with a balaclava covering his face.

“Jesus, I’m gonna need a massage before I return to base,” Colt muttered. His shoulder was sore too, I bet. I felt for him.

Tate sniffled and tried to keep his cries as quiet as possible.

My gaze landed on his back, and I was almost speechless. “Holy hell, that’s beautiful, man.” Where I shone with floggers and whips, Colt was a master of canes and crops. Not to mention belts. They were probably his favorite, but he had a true skill in decorative scarring with a cane.

The thin welts across Tate’s back formed an almost perfectly symmetrical crisscross pattern.

“We’re taking some new pictures tomorrow, pet,” I said. One of my favorite black-and-white photos of him, I had taken the day after a severe pain scene. He’d been asleep in our bed the morning after, the sheets riding low, exposing beautiful bruises and marks all over his skin.