The Beast

What could he do? Carry the poor male?

Assail went further into the dungeon. “Here now, be of ease. I am not about to harm you.”

He was cautious as he approached, and he was very aware that his brain had lit up like a switchboard, all kinds of thoughts swirling and disturbing him.

“My dear male, you mustn’t fear me.” He made his voice stronger. “I am here to rescue you.”

The slave’s head lifted a little. And then some more.

And finally, the male looked at him with terrified, red-rimmed eyes that were sunken so far into his skull that Assail wondered how much longer life could be sustained.

“Can you walk?” Assail demanded. When there was no response, he nodded down at those legs. “Can you stand? Can you walk?”

“Who . . .” The word was so reedy, it was barely a syllable.

“I am Assail.” He touched his chest. “I am . . . no one of importance. But I shall save you.”

The slave’s eyes began to water. “Why . . .”

Assail leaned down to touch the male’s arm, but the slave’s autonomic jerk was so violent, he retracted his hand immediately.

“Because you are in need of saving.” As he spoke in an utterly raw tone, he felt in some way as if he were addressing himself. “And I . . . I am in need of a good deed to prove myself.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he calculated the distance up to, and out of, the grand home’s front door. The time that had elapsed since he had left the study. The amount of ammunition he had on him. The calls that would have to be made to his cousins. To Vishous.

To anyone.

Shit. The chains.

No, he could handle them.

Reaching into the holster under his arm, he took out the nine millimeter he’d brought with him and then retrieved its silencer from his jacket pocket. With quick twists, he screwed the equipment into place on the muzzle.

“I need you to move.” He indicated the way toward himself. “I need you away from the wall.”

The slave was still trembling, but he attempted to comply, dragging himself on all fours from the place he habitually curled up—indeed, one could see the imprinted shadow on the stone of both the floor and the wall as the male vacated the area.

All at once, sweat broke out over Assail’s body, beading upon his upper lip and across his brow—and his heart abruptly thundered.

“Stop it—” As the male froze, Assail shook his head. “No, I’m speaking with myself. That was not directed at you.”

The chains were anchored to the wall via a ring that was thick as a male’s thumb and as wide as a neck—and which was bolted into the stone.

Any bullet was going to ricochet around. But what choice did he have?

Leaving the slave here was certainly not an option.

“You’re going to have to—here, will you allow me to touch you?”

The male nodded mutely, and braced himself for the contact. With quick work, Assail lifted him up—

Fates, he weighed not a thing.

The chains rattled as they moved over the floor—likewise, the male’s teeth chattered as he moaned, there being some obvious soreness.

When they were as far away as possible, Assail put the slave down and stepped in front, shielding the male with his body. Then he took aim and—

The bullet didn’t make a sound as it was discharged, but it pinged around the cell, hitting rock faces until it buried itself somewhere far from its intended target. Assail took a moment to see if he’d been hit. Then he checked on the slave.

“You all right?” When he got a nod, he went over to inspect the ring. “Close, but not quite there, damn it.”

His aim had been good, but the metal was stout. He daren’t take another shot, however.

Grasping onto the thing, he moved the injury he’d imparted upon the metal to the bolt and put all his weight and strength into the pull. Grunting, straining, he was curiously desperate as he sought to break the hold.

After much struggle, there was a high-pitched whine, as if the metal were cursing him, and then he stumbled back, the ring in his hands, his loafers slipping out from under him.

The landing hurt like a bitch, but he did not care. He was on his feet and back at the male a split second later.

Shrugging out of his suit jacket, he wished he’d thought to take a proper coat with him, but as he’d just been dematerializing over, he’d assumed there would be no need for more appropriate cold-weather wear.

“Let us put this upon you.”

That proved better in theory than reality, the chains not lending themselves to sleeves or lapels. In the end, he put the thing back on just so he did not leave it behind.

Wrapping the chains around his own neck—twice on account of their length—he picked up the male and managed to hold him up with only one arm. Then he proceeded forward to the door.

The slave was the one who opened the way out for them both.

Which enabled Assail to keep his gun up.

He left the light on. Soon enough the household would realize the slave was gone, and he didn’t want to waste time futzing around with shutting things back up.

The far worse outcome would be to find that the meeting with Saxton was over, and Throe and the mistress of the house were looking for him.

Past the sex dungeon. Up the stairs.

The slave reached for the door handle again.

“Slowly,” Assail said between breaths. “Let me listen.”

No sounds. At the nod, the male opened the way fully and Assail broke through at a fast walk, his heart thundering, his legs curiously numb even as they functioned appropriately.