My back is damp with sweat, my expensive shirt clinging to my skin and shoulders. Whose idea was this again? Stupid moron.

Oh right. It was mine.

Inviting Robert O’Connor for a scene in exchange for information.

Which he agreed to.

Will he give me false information? Cheat me? Why did he agree so readily? Because he expects to feed me a lie and get me, too, as he’s always wanted? Ever since I cut all ties to him. We were tight as brothers once.

Apparently I was more than that to him. But that’s not on me. Neither are the events that followed.

Or so I tell myself in the light of day. The nights are a different matter. Then the guilt crushes me, twisting my memories and driving me to the brink of despair.

But back to Rob. I hope he knows that if he lies to me, I’ll have his hide and use it as a doormat, a rug to wipe my boots on. I may be trying to find out names on my own first, but soon the big guns will come out, and he’d better know that the big guns and me—we’re buddies.

Doesn’t stop the cold sweat from coating my palms and running down my temples, though, when I think of what’s about to happen.

God, I wish Mia were here.

I blink at the strange thought and rub at my face. Don’t know where that came from. I mean, I like her. I want her, and I crave her taste, and then there was that weird moment when I thought I would like more… More time with her, and not just for sex. To talk to her, get to know her, feel her in my arms. There’s a sweetness in her eyes, in her smile… I want it.

For myself.

Christ, Rook. Your timing is shit. Now’s not the time to have a crush on the sexy little maid of the hotel where you’re about to have your ass whipped by Robert Fucking O’Connor.

Hell.

Of the three receptionists working the front desk of the hotel tonight, the one who hurries to help me is an unfamiliar slender man with a curtain of blond hair hiding half his face. When I tell him there is a message for me with a room number, he nods frantically, his cheeks reddening.

A newbie. How delightful.

“Make sure there’s a good selection of floggers,” I lean in to whisper, enjoying his tiny flinch. “And nipple clamps. Can’t forget those.”

“Sir,” he stammers, his face gone flaming red. “All our pain suites have the best selection of BDSM instruments, best quality, best—”

“Just making sure,” I interrupt him and watch his fingers falter on the keyboard.

I love being an asshole for fun.

So why do I keep trying to save the world instead? Most of the time it’s boring, tiring and unrewarding—except when it’s downright dangerous.

Dammit.

* * *

The door to the suite is identical to any other door on this floor. The ninth floor. My floor. I’ve come to this hotel, to this floor, countless times, but I’ve never felt fear. This was one of my safe places.

Not anymore.

Wincing, I force a deep breath into my lungs, let it out, and raise my hand to rap on the door. Two knocks, and it swings open.

Robert gives me a slow once-over that feels way too invasive, even if I’m still dressed in my three-piece suit and tie. As for him, he’s dressed in loose black pants and nothing else, silver glinting around his neck. A thick chain with a lock.

Pushing past him, I enter the suite. I don’t want him thinking I’m happy to be here. To be clear, I first offered him money for the information. Many times over, these past months. This… transaction was his idea. It was in fact the only fucking offer he made. This or nothing.

So this is it.

Motherfucker.

He stalks after me, the door closing softly behind us. “There you are.”

“Yeah, as you can see.” I make a show of checking out the suite, like I haven’t been inside one in my life. They are all the same with small differences, individual touches, like the color theme and the style of the instruments. “I thought, hey, why not swing by?”

“Bullshit. You’d kill for that info.”

“I’m not you,” I tell him coldly and move to the window. “I don’t place power over people’s lives.”

“Still stuck on old hurts, I see.”

“Hurts?” I don’t even turn to look at him, not sure I can control my face as the rage expands in my chest like a hot air balloon. “People died.”

“One person. And we didn’t kill her.”

“There’s no ‘we.’ And you did. Indirectly, but your hand was in it, Rob.”

Dammit, I hate how I slip yet again. We’re not friends anymore.

“She chose to end it,” he mutters, coming to stand so close behind me I have to fight the urge to shove him away. He’s crowding me in, and I hate it.

“To end her life. Say it.”

“Fine, to end her life.”

“Because of what you told her.”

“Because she saw who you really are, Rook. And couldn’t take it.”

I press my forehead to the cool glass. “You told her to come to your house,” I breathe, the memory playing in a loop in my mind. Evelyn’s shocked face. The despair in her eyes. The news of her death the next day.

“She saw the truth, a truth you hid from her.”

“I loved her. And you wanted her out of the picture.” The pain is not as sharp as it had been then, muted by the passage of time. “I was young. So was she. There was time to tell her everything.”

“She wasn’t good for you, Rook.”

Fuck, I can’t do this, with this guy who thinks in black and white. “Neither were you. Let’s get on with this.”

“In a hurry, are you?”

Fuck yeah, I am. This isn’t what I came here for. Is it? To find closure. There is no closure, not for me.

I shrug nonchalantly, refusing to let him see how creeped out I am, and how the conversation we just had made it worse. “I’m a busy man.”

“You’re mine tonight, though.”

Dammit. “It’s just a scene, Robert. Get over yourself. And move aside. I need to undress.”

He steps back, sweeps his hand in a mockery of a grand gesture, a smirk on his face. “By all means. Undress. And then you do as I say, or there’s no deal.”

Ah fuck. The bile rising in my throat isn’t a good sign at all.

* * *

I’m standing in the middle of the suite in my black briefs and nothing else, hands loose at my sides, chin high. I’m comfortable in my skin. I’m tall, strong, intimidating. I’m certainly not sweating under my former friend’s scrutiny.

Fucking hell.

“New ink, I see,” he says, walking leisurely around me. “Not enough thorns on your skin already?”

My fingers curl into fists. The thorns are in my mind, my soul. My skin is only a mirror. “Get on with it.”

He ignores my words, and keeps checking out my body. “Don’t tell me you inked her name on you?” He completes the circle around me. “Nah. But you got her initial, high on your back. That E. You still love her?”

“Fuck you,” I say through gritted teeth.

It’s not love.

It’s penance. I loved her back then. I think I did. It’s hard to be sure, after all that happened, after her name became inextricably linked with sorrow and guilt. Maybe I was in love with her, back when I was seventeen.

Now I’m just sorry.

“Hands behind your back,” he says as he comes to a stop in front of me.

“Not a sub, forgotten already?”

“Haven’t forgotten anything. But tonight you play by my rules.”

“Dammit, Robert.” I lick my lips, disconcerted again by how vulnerable I feel tonight. “I told you back then, and I’m telling you now: I’m not into dick, and I’m not into you.”

Taking a risk here, especially when I see the red flush of anger spreading over his chest and neck, but shit, no matter how badly I want to bring the Organization down, there are limits. If he wants more, then to hell with this.

His gaze hardens. “Go to the spanking bench,” he says, his voice rough.

“Going to spank me?” I mutter derisively, too nervous still to control my mouth.

Dammit.

“Get. On. It.”

Getting on with it would be a relief. And yet… “Not before you tell me what I want to know.”

He folds his arms over his broad chest. “You’re an idiot, Rook. Always have been. Ever the altruist, selfless moron. You really think you can take down the Organization?”

“I might.”

“You know I won’t give you an important name. My brother would have my balls.”

“Your balls are nothing to write home about, anyway.”

His face darkens. “Keep it up, and you’ll need a doctor after I’m done with you.”

“Promises, promises.”

He takes a step closer and I force myself not to move. “Such a fool. It’s cute.”

“No one has ever called me cute. Back off. And tell me now, why should I trust that you won’t give me false info?”

“You tell me, Rook. You’re the one who asked. Do you trust me?”

I shake my head. And yet… “Can I trust you?”

He doesn’t reply, and the knot in my stomach tightens, making me feel sick. His brow furrows and something dark passes through his gaze, too quickly for me to read it.

“Forget the spanking bench.” Turning away, he pads over to the window. He draws the curtains shut, the movements jerky with anger. “Saint Andrew’s cross it is. Get on it, facing it. And wait for me.”

Fine.

Squaring my shoulders, I turn and head that way. The cross is an old-fashioned dark wood contraption, fitting in with the dark theme of the suite. It looks like a prop from a historical movie, a real cross to be mounted on and whipped.

A shiver of anticipation skitters down my spine at the promise of what’s to come. At least I’m getting something I need. Haven’t had it in a while.

The cross is inclined, so I carefully climb on top, align myself on it, place my feet and hands on top of the open shackles.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

His steps approach, soft on the carpet. He secures the straps on my wrists and ankles, then the broad belt around my waist. I let the familiarity of this procedure calm me down, soothe my frayed nerves. We used to do that a lot, back then, when we were sixteen and seventeen, and he had showed me what it all meant. He’d made me feel safe then.

Not so much now, though, especially when he doesn’t speak a word as he goes about securing me to the cross.

Then his steps lead away, and I crane my neck, trying to see him. “Tell me the name,” I breathe. “Robert.”

Nada.

Fuck.

“I’m showing you so much fucking trust.” I try again to see him, but he moves right out of sight. “I’m tied here. Show me I wasn’t wrong.”

“A bit too late with this show of trust, aren’t you?” he mutters, and my heart sinks.

“Robert…”

Something slithers down my back and I freeze. He’s standing right behind me. I can hear him breathing. It’s a flogger. Has to be. The falls feel like hard leather, quite wide, too, I think as he trails them down my legs. This will sting.

Nice.

He lifts it off me, then brings it down without warning, and I jerk against the cross. Dammit, we haven’t even set up the scene yet, haven’t discussed… Ah!

The flogger comes down again and again, expertly moving across my back and my legs, leaving fine lines of fire that burn so good. So damn good I try to arch up to meet the falls whenever they come down, my mind shutting down, my worry bleeding through the rhythm the pain keeps pushing through my body.

Unlocking me.

Undoing me.

I need to ask for that name, that information, but my mouth, my brain won’t function. He works the flogger methodically over every inch of my exposed skin, marking me in parallel lines, then crosshatching them, giving his wrist that twist for that extra sting that has me arching off the cross, trying to both escape and get more.

“You like this too much,” I think I hear him mutter, right before the lashing stops. I’m still vibrating with it all, my body taut and my hands fisted in the restraints. “This won’t do.”

What is he talking about?

He moves away, and there’s a rustle and a small thump. Probably the lid of the flogger trunk. What did he swap the flogger for?

“Let’s try this now.” He trails a long braid of leather over my back, and I tense and twitch at the scratchy sensation.

Oh fuck, a whip. A bullwhip, from the feel of it. Or a black snake.

Not that I haven’t been whipped before, or haven’t enjoyed it, but it’s too soon in the scene, I’m not in that headspace yet, and shit…

“Safe word,” I grit out. “My safe word is thorn.” Like the thorns on the roses all over my back, and inside my mind. “And no blindfolds.”

He still doesn’t reply, and my blood is turning to ice.

I try again. “Robert. Did you hear me?” My mouth is dry. A good partner would check if I’m okay, and why my voice is cracking, but he’s not, and fuck, I think I made a huge fucking mistake.

He lifts the whip off me, and it only serves to make me tense more. I fight the edge of panic creeping in, but it’s no use. “Robert, untie me right the hell now. This isn’t what we agreed on.”

Nothing.

I try to think of something, anything to calm myself.

Mia. I think of her face, of her voice. Funny how the face and the voice of a girl I barely know can affect me so much that my chest, locked up and crushed a second ago, expands, letting me draw in air.

“Robert—”

“Heard you. Now shut the fuck up.”

Dammit. I doubt he cares. Doubt he’ll stop if I ask him to, and the realization sends an icy breath over my skin. A whip can draw blood, cut deep, do real damage. It requires a special level of trust, one I don’t have with Robert, not anymore.

Of course he will stop, Rook. He wouldn’t risk a possible scandal. And he was your friend, once. He won’t damage you.

Right. God, I hope not.

Holding on to that thought, I wait him out, wait until he swings the whip and brings it down on my back, the pain sharp and bright, digging its claws deep into muscle. I can’t help the gasp leaving my mouth, and try to relax, flow with it, let it flow through me.

This is good, I remind myself. This is what I like, what I crave.

Again Mia’s face flashes through my mind.

The whip falls, hard, and my body jerks before it registers the new line of fire across my flesh. The safe word is on the tip of my tongue, and I want to use it, see if he will stop, if it will make a difference—and yet keeping my mouth shut, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

He still hasn’t told me anything I want to know.

Bastard. Fucking bastard—

Fucking shit, ow. I brace as he brings the whip down across my ass, across the back of my thighs, my calves, my feet. Shit, this is too much.

“Stop,” I grind out. “Rob, stop.”

“You want this,” he pants, not stopping.

“Pain,” I rasp.

“You see?”

“I want pain. Not this.” I rattle my shackles, tasting coppery sweet blood in my mouth. I’ve bitten my tongue, or my cheek. Hard to tell. My whole body throbs with the pain. “Stop.”

“I think you want me to go on.” The whip falls down harder across my back, making me cry out. I writhe on the cross like a fish on the hook when he hits me again.

“Thorn, damn you. Thorn! Stop.”

The whip falls one last time—an endless moment when the pain stretches, a fire that eats its way through muscle and sinew to my bones, drilling into my spine until I can’t breathe and speak and think—and then stops.

My vision is blurry. I have tears on my face. That’s not unusual after a scene, but damn, this one isn’t normal by any stretch of the imagination.

Asshole. And I can’t even find the breath to spit the word into his fucking face. Motherfucker.

“Had fun?” he asks, and I draw breath to curse him out only to choke on it and start coughing.

My back is on fire. Did he cut me?

He comes around to where my head is hanging forward between my arms, tears and bloody saliva dribbling to the floor. “Don’t tell me it wasn’t good? Look at you, all trembling and drenched in sweat, your back and legs such a mess. Perfect.”

His face is flushed, his eyes glittering with satisfaction. Fucking psycho.

“The name,” I manage, because it’s all I have left.

He nods, leans closer. “The name you want is Travis.”

He draws back and I panic.

Jesus. “Travis who?”

At first I think he won’t reply. He walks across the room, grabs his shirt, pulls it on. Then he stabs his feet into his shoes, and lifts his jacket from the bed. He stops, tilts his head to the side. “Grant Travis. And he’s not a small fish, either.”

“Why,” I try, my breath hurting my lungs. “Why?”

“Why tell you?” He seems to ponder this. “Because there is something you should know. Something important. Check his desk drawers. You’ll see.”

This makes no sense.

He opens the door of the suite. Where is he going?

“What are you doing?” I tug on my restraints. “Robert.”

“Leaving you. Just like you left me. No excuses, no explanations. Left me in the dark.”

And he… walks out. Out of the suite.

Turning off the lights as he goes, the door clicking shut behind him.

The fuck.

I’m very still while I process this info, although my brain is already running around in circles.

Black. With the curtains drawn, the lights off, it’s completely black all around me.

No, not the dark. God, not that. A whimper catches in my throat. “Robert. Rob! You can’t leave me like this! Damn you, Robert. Untie me. Robert!”

No reply.

Fuck. Fuck! This is fucked up.

Tied up, in the dark, I’m back in a dark basement, deep down in the earth, and the dark room has moved from reality to claim a spot in my mind. In my mind, I’m often in that room, with no way out.

Like now. Now the outside matches the inside, black, black and rotten and aching with fear and terror and sharp panic.

I’m about to shiver apart. I’m cracking deep inside. Scenes don’t play out this way. I need the pain, but I need someone to touch me afterward, check me, sit me down and give me a drink. A good word. A moment to stitch my shredded soul back together.

Robert left the tear inside me gaping wide open, shoved my worst fears into it to fester, and left, getting back at me for leaving his side all those years ago.

After he set up a scene just like this one and invited my girlfriend without telling me. Shattering her mind. Driving her to kill herself.

Driving me away from the only friend I had outside of Storm and Hawk, the only one in the world who seemed to get me.

All gone.

The dark presses into me, crushing me, and I’m losing my mind, unraveling slowly but surely as memories replay in my mind, broken fragments that may or may not be real, multiplying in the dark until they fill my mind.

Screams. Blood. Gunshots. Furniture smashing. A hand pushing me into the wall, demanding to know what I was doing there. A punch into my stomach that made me puke.

A dark basement, the door locked up, my hands and legs tied up, so I will keep out of it, so I won’t see anything else I wasn’t supposed to see, faces snarling at me, yelling at me, cursing me to hell. The cable ties cutting into my flesh as I struggle to get free, to get out, to find the light.

The pain grounding me, the only real thing in this void.

God. I can’t stop the moan from escaping me, scraping up my throat like a broken piece of glass. I’m shaking and can’t seem to get my heart to slow down. I feel sick. Sweat trickles down my back, stinging what feel like open wounds.

I’m drowning in blind panic, quite literally, and one thing is clear:

I don’t know which memories are real, but I know that Storm’s parents died at the hands of the Organization. Hawk’s parents left him with his grandfather and went on to do more evil things that landed them in prison.

Now my parents… they’re free and doing well, despite everything they did to Storm’s family, not to mention the world… and me.

That has to change. The Organization has to fall. No matter the cost.

Yeah, it’s personal.