Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (39 page)

out. If he gives you shit about bending over for the cane or getting

into the sarcophagus or whatever else you decide to do to him, you

can kick him out. So he’s got to endure it until he can’t. Do that three,

four, fuck, six or eight times a day? He’ll run screaming within the

week.”

“Or my arm will fall off.”

Another snort. “Nah. Look, you’ve got
leverage
. So use it. Knock

him off his game. Don’t let him sleep. Don’t
ever
let him feel safe, not

even at night. Where is he now?”

“In the cubby.”

“Dark? Cold?”

“Yes.”

“So set your alarm for, oh, 2 a.m. or so, go down there and wake

him with a leather strap. Don’t say a word. Don’t stop until he calls

red. Then lock the door and go back to sleep. You’ll see—it’ll throw

him hard.” A pause; Jonathan could practically hear the smile. “And

who knows, you might even get a kick out of it.”

“Maybe,” Jonathan said, but somehow, he doubted it. This whole

thing had moved way past fun the moment Brandon had bitten the

hand that fed him.

Jonathan set his alarm for 2 a.m., but when it went off, he nearly

stayed in bed. The room seemed oddly cold and weirdly silent without

Brandon’s soft snoring punctuating the air. But eventually he climbed

out and wandered over to the small desk in the corner to check the

camera feed from downstairs.

Brandon was curled up in a little ball in the center of the cubby.

He was shivering, but his eyes were closed. Looked like he’d managed

to fall asleep—out of sheer exhaustion, no doubt. Jonathan rubbed

his eyes, flung a wistful gaze at his own warm bed, and reached for

his robe.

The dungeon made him shiver as he strode through, snagging a

long thin strap from the toy rack before continuing on to the cubby.

No sounds from the other side, other than Brandon’s tiny wheezing

snore. Sounded like a kitten Jonathan had had as a child. Almost

made his hand falter on the doorknob.
Almost.

Get it over with. We’ll both be better off.

He shouldered open the door and burst in, swinging the strap

in front of him. The first strike landed hard across Brandon’s flank

before the sound of the slamming door had faded. Brandon jerked

awake with a panicked shout, and Jonathan landed the second strike

before Brandon could get his hands beneath him to skitter away. A

third strike, and a fourth—Brandon gave up trying to escape and just

curled in on himself, hands protecting his head, ragged breaths ripped

from his chest as Jonathan struck him again with as much force as he

could muster.

Brandon finally managed to roll onto his knees and forearms,

presenting a much cleaner target; Jonathan laid four good stripes

across Brandon’s back before he pressed himself into the corner,

head still buried in his arms, and good lord, was he
crying
? It couldn’t

possibly hurt that much. At least not yet.

Another strike, this one landing square across Brandon’s forearms,

the noise making even Jonathan wince.

“Dad, please! Don’t! I’m sorry, I’m
sorry
!”

Shock stayed Jonathan’s hand mid-blow. The strap slipped from

his fingers. Thumped to the floor. Brandon whimpered another

apology, and Jonathan stumbled away so fast he nearly tripped.

Fumbled behind himself for the door. Backed through it and all but

slammed it shut.

Jesus Christ . . . What had he
done
?

CHAPTER
18

ran woke to pain, every frozen muscle protesting as he sat up. The

light had come on overhead, bright enough to make his eyeballs

ache. Fuck, what an
awful
dream he’d had last night. He pulled his

knees up to his chest to conserve heat, chafed his hands across his

arms. Shit . . . It’d been years
since he’d felt that kind of fear, years

since he’d let his father have that kind of power over—

Bran stared at his forearms. At the fresh red welts across them.

More on his shins, his chest, his sides. He could feel them across his

back and shoulders, too. And there, near the door, a leather strap like

a fucking belt without a buckle.

Not a dream. Not a dream at all.

Fury drove him to his feet, bunched his hands at his sides, sent

him flying toward the door. He pounded on it with both fists. “Get

down here, you little fuck! Face me like a—!”

The door clicked open.

What, the little fucker hadn’t even bothered to lock him in?

He half-expected to find Jonathan waiting for him in the

dungeon, but instead all he found were his things sitting on the

leather-upholstered table. His duffel bag, his clothes, his shoes. The

key to his cuffs. His copy of
Huck Finn
, and the picture of his mother

Jonathan had taken away from him yesterday. Bran ran his fingertip

along the edge of the frame, then quickly turned it over.

Don’t want her to see me like this.
Even if it was fucking stupid.

He unlocked the cuffs, threw them on the floor. Picked up his

jeans. They felt . . . softer, smelled like sunshine. Jonathan must’ve had

his maid wash them. His T-shirt, plain old white cotton, had had a

tiny rip in one armpit, right on the seam. It was mended now.

He dragged the shirt over his head, his shoulders and back sending

up a screech as the material chafed like sandpaper on his welted skin.

He’d just stepped into his jeans when he caught sight of the damn toy

rack, his gaze lingering on the soft suede flogger Jonathan had used

on him a week or so ago. The day he’d eaten from Jonathan’s hand for

the first time.

What the hell had happened between then and now? Could he

find his way back to it?

Did he
want
to?

No. Not even a little. He’d never traded his self-respect for

comfort before, and he wasn’t about to start now. He finished pul ing

his jeans up, buttoned and zipped them. Shit but it felt good to be

warm.

One other way to never go cold again. Just walk out of here. Fuck

Jonathan and fuck his bullshit abuse and his even more bullshit pop

psychology about what you supposedly really want and just
leave.

Jonathan obviously wanted him to. Why else would he have left

all his stuff down here? Fucking coward couldn’t even face him to say

goodbye.

But if you leave, he wins. You walk out on your whole future. You

walk out beaten
.
Weak. The coward, the loser Dad always said you

were.
Shit. He really fucking needed to stop thinking about his dad

so fucking much. And fuck Jonathan for
that,
too. For reminding

him of it. No doubt he’d done it on purpose. Crossed a fucking
line

there.

He didn’t even want to think about how hard he’d fallen for it.

Of what he’d said to Jonathan last night in the heat of his half-asleep

disorientation. Of how he’d
begged
. Cried like some little fucking kid.

Of how terrified he’d been, how he’d thought—

Stop it. Big-girl panties, Bran.

Or, in this case, no panties at al . With a sigh, he unbuttoned

his jeans, slid them off, stepped out of them. Took off the shirt as

well. Stuffed both back in his duffel, along with
Huck Finn
. Naked

again but for those fucking steel cuffs he scooped up off the floor and

locked back on. He picked up the photo of his mother, brushed his

fingers across her soft smile. So lovely she’d been, even when she’d lost

all her hair, her eyebrows, even when she’d gotten skinny enough for

his twelve-year-old arms to lift her. She wouldn’t have wanted this

for him—any of this. But she’d always taught him to stand by his

principles, to follow his heart. She’d never doubted him when he’d

told her he’d go to UC Berkeley, become an architect. Never mind

that he’d been eight years old at the time. He’d hung on to that dream

through all the shit life had thrown at him. Had it in his reach now.

He wasn’t going to quit. He
wasn’t
.

He brought the photo to his lips, kissed his mother on the

forehead and then laid it very carefully inside his duffel. Sniffed back

the urge to cry. No time for this sentimental bullshit; he had to get

ready to face his day.

He went into the bathroom to groom himself, then headed

upstairs. He hesitated a moment as he reached the top of the staircase

before stepping into the living room. Jonathan was sitting on the

balcony, reading the paper, as usual. Little fucker hadn’t even come

down to check on him. Or maybe Jonathan thought he’d already

left?Time to give him a shock, then. Straightening up as best he

could, he marched over to the balcony. Slid open the door, stepped

out, knelt on the cold paving stones at Jonathan’s feet. No cushion

this time, but then, he hadn’t expected one. The pavers bit into his

knees, nearly forcing a grunt out of him, but he bit it back, assumed

the correct posture. Looked up to meet Jonathan’s gaze, defiant as

ever.Jonathan folded the paper back and said, casually dismissive,

“You’re still here, eh?”

“Damn straight, Jonathan. And if you
ever
—” He broke position

when Jonathan cast his gaze back to the newspaper, reached up to grab

the fucker’s wrist and squeezed until Jonathan met his eyes. “If you

ever
cross that line again,
I will fucking kill you.
Do you understand,

Jonathan?”

Jonathan’s gaze was bright blue in the early morning sun, steady,

endless, not cold like Bran had expected. Completely opposite, in

fact: Repentant? Guilty? Fuck that; Bran wasn’t buying that for a

second.

At last Jonathan nodded. Said softly, “Yes, I understand.”

Then he extricated his wrist from Bran’s hand—carefully, no

force—and went back to his paper. Whatever permissiveness,

whatever understanding had passed between them, the moment

was gone. Bran folded his hands behind his back again, content

to have said what needed saying, content Jonathan had listened.

Surprised, though, at the lack of demerits. Was that Jonathan’s way

of apologizing?

Bran remained in position, watching Jonathan thumb through

the financial section as his hollow belly rumbled. Finally Jonathan set

aside the paper and reached for his fork, speared a fat red strawberry

off his plate and held it out to Bran. Their gazes locked as Bran

accepted it, a hot flush creeping up the back of his neck when he

realized how eagerly he was chewing. How good one small bite of

food could taste after a whole day and night of going hungry.

“I want you to stop shaving every day,” Jonathan said as he fed

him another strawberry. “You obviously have no regard for yourself,

no respect for discipline or routine, and I like you better scruffy

anyway.”

That
was Jonathan’s plan to run him out of here? Insult him to

death? Turn him into a yeti?

“And you won’t be joining me in my office anymore. You’ve not

earned the right to kneel at my feet.”

Then what am I doing here now?

“In fact, don’t come upstairs at all anymore. Sabrina will see you

fed.”
You. Have. Got. To. Be. Fucking.
Kidding
. Me.

“Bite
her
and she’s like as not to emasculate you with one of those

exquisitely
sharp knives of hers.”

Bran resisted the very strong urge to press his knees together.

Jonathan spooned up a blob of oatmeal and shoved it at Bran so

hard he knocked the spoon against Bran’s teeth.
Ow.
“I plan to mark

up every inch of you, and see to it you stay that way for the next five

and a half months.”

Lovely. But it ain’t gonna work, you little shit; I’m not going

anywhere.

“Since nothing about our arrangement interests you in the

slightest, at least one of us should enjoy themselves, don’t you

think?”

Was that a rhetorical question or an actual one? Actual, he

realized, when Jonathan’s slippered foot flicked out and caught him