Page 7 of Brutal Surrender

Summoning my acting skills, I grasp the cage bars and plead with Brady, “How about I suck you off if you bring me more food and water? Please?”

Brady plays along. “I’ll have to ask about the food and water first.”

“Seriously? What’s the matter with you? Who doesn’t want a blowjob? And all you’ve got to do is come back with—”

“I should go.”

“Now you want to go? ’Cause you got your fill of ogling my tits?”

Brady turns to leave.

“Hey!” I yell angrily. “This could be your last chance! I’m really good at sucking cock!”

After Brady closes the door behind him, I sink back down. Now that I’m not so thirsty and hungry, I feel a lot better. I just hope Brady doesn’t worry too much about me and lose his focus. Going into this, it was kill Vincent or bust.

If Vincent’s serious about breeding me, then that means more fucking. My body warms at the prospect of another orgasm.

No! I scold my traitorous arousal.

More fucking means more times I’ll get let out of this cage. I can take advantage of opportunities if they come up. All of Vincent’s bodyguards carry. If I could break free and grab one of their guns…

The prospect rejuvenates me. Now if only my arousal doesn’t get in the way. Maybe I should have Brady smuggle in some omega blockers. But Vincent will notice the difference in my body’s reaction, and that will confirm there’s someone on the yacht helping me out.

I kick at the cage. I can’t believe I’m going to have to battle my own body. I’m going to have to hope that Vincent’s torment is more pain than pleasure. I have a feeling he’s going to up his game next time. Something in the way he went from looking unsettled to spouting all that breeding shit with determination, it was like he was trying to prove just how evil he could be.

I lay down to get as much rest as I can. Chances are tomorrow’s going to be a new level of hell.

Chapter 4

Vincent

What the fuck is the matter with me?

Back in the bathroom of my suite, I brace myself against the vanity. I close my eyes until the sensation to throw up dies down. I imagine this is what it feels like to be seasick, but I’ve never had motion sickness before. The Caribbean Sea is remarkably calm as my yacht makes its way at a leisurely speed toward Jamaica, a trip I’ve made many times without issue before.

After splashing cold water over my face, I look in the mirror and half expect to see something other than myself. On the surface, it’s the same me: the same jet-black hair, ebony eyes, rugged bone structure, and prime physique with a few scratches that my would-be assassin gave me. But do I look as ruthless as before?

I’m not sure why I’m questioning myself. I just physically assaulted a woman. I’ve never forced myself on a woman before. There have been women who have wronged me in the past and paid a painful consequence—I don’t discriminate between the sexes when it comes to retribution—but what I did to “Ramona” is something I’ve never done before.

I used her own body against her. I denigrated and degraded her. And the sadist in me found it hot as hell. Because I’ve never had a woman get that wet for me before, even though she’d probably prefer to sit in a pit of tarantulas than do anything I tell her.

I knew the words I had her say made her retch inside, but they came out sounding so sweet.

“Please, daddy, please fuck me.”

“Now tell me why.”

“Because your baby girl needs it bad.”

“That’s more like it. Tell me more.”

“Your baby girl loves it when you fuck me with your big daddy cock.”

My loins warm with the memory of how she begged and how she came. Her orgasm on my cock felt fucking amazing. Even after I came, the swell of my knot didn’t seem to want to go down, like it wanted me to be permanently locked to her.

I’ve decided to keep her alive. For the time being. Anyone who knows me knows that crossing me is equivalent to asking for a death sentence. And in some cases—like with the little omega caged in my dungeon—death would be a relief. I don’t play nice anymore. Nice doesn’t get you anywhere. The love of my life was beyond nice. No one could have been purer of heart. And because she made the mistake of loving a degenerate like me, she paid for it with her life. And not in a peaceful passing, but in a shower of bullets, none of which produced an instant death. Instead, she bled out in my arms.

The heavens showed no mercy for an angel on earth, so why should I do things differently? Why should I be anything but cruel to a woman who tried to fucking kill me? I wasn’t going to give her a quick death no matter what, but she made things worse for herself when she claimed to have the same name as the one person I would spend an eternity in Hell for the chance to bring back.

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