Page 16 of Brutal Surrender

“I’m Hakka. I was born with a tan,” Ming replies. “Only Wu like you need sun to tan.”

At the moment, my skin is a shade darker than Ming’s, but he’s right. If I don’t see sun, I get pale.

“Then go to the beach to gawk at the women in bikinis,” I say.

Ming returns a wry look. “We have the facilities tour. I don’t have time for such things.”

“The facilities tour doesn’t take all day. You just don’t want to do anything fun or relaxing.”

“I’ll relax when you do.”

I stare hard into nothingness. “You know that won’t happen until I get the son of a bitch who ordered the hit on Irene.”

“You should relax anyway. It’s bad for your health to drive yourself so hard. Besides, what if we don’t—”

Before Ming can finish, I throw my empty teacup in his direction. The porcelain shatters into pieces against the balcony doors. I don’t like that Ming has doubts, but I hate that he’s voicing my own fears. After years of searching, the fact is I’m not a hundred percent confident I’ll ever catch the asshole. I’m as determined as ever, but I’m not a fool. The longer it takes, the colder the trails get. All the ones we’ve followed have been dead ends. At the moment, we have no other trails. And the anniversary of Irene’s death is just weeks away.

“I meant,” Ming quickly corrects, “of course we’ll find the guy.”

“We’d better,” I seethe. “Or I’m taking the whole world to hell with me.”

Ming turns to pick up the larger pieces of the broken teacup.

“Leave it,” I command.

“I’ll send someone in to clean up.”

I grab the remote to turn on the television. “Later.”

Knowing that I want to be alone—or deciding it’s safer not to be near me—Ming nods and departs.

For a second I consider throwing the remote at the screen. I never used to throw tantrums. I imagine Irene gently scolding me.

“What did the television ever do to you?” I hear her ask, but the sympathy in her eyes is reserved for me.

I draw in a deep breath to cool my desire to break everything. My calm is what got me elected as head of the Black Dragon.

“The man who needs to scream and shout, to throw things, smash things—this is not the man to fear,” my uncle once told me. “Beware the quiet man who can control his temper, for he is superior.”

I took my uncle’s words to heart, training physically and mentally to live up to his standards. He was the only father figure in my life. If he hadn’t taken in me and my mother when I was young, we probably would have perished on the streets. Even so, it was too late for my mother, who, sick and heartbroken when my dad left, died within a year. At best, I would have ended up in an orphanage or street gang if it hadn’t been for my uncle.

Now I’m probably a disappointment to him. And to Irene. Especially Irene.

I can’t imagine the horror she would feel toward me today. While I was far from a saint when I first met in Irene and already had blood on my hands, I was open to redemption back then. Or whatever it took to be worthy of her love.

Now I’m a demon that even an angel like Irene couldn’t possibly love. The depths of my wickedness surprise even me, thanks to Ramona. Something about her sets me off, even before she uttered the name “Irene.”

At the same time, my body is drawn to her like it’s regressed back to the horny teenage years. Watching her come—making her come—gives me an incredible high. I could probably watch her climax all day long without getting bored. Each orgasm of hers is unique, and I want to sample all the flavors. It fulfills even while it excites my deepest cravings. But the best orgasm to witness is the one that I can feel around my cock.

After she came to all my talk about glory holes, I wanted to take her on that plank she was strapped to and fuck her till she came again. And again. And again.

But just as I was about to unzip my pants, a wave of nausea hit. Maybe I should reconsider having Doctor Das take a look at me.

Later.

I flick the television on, but not to watch programming. I never spent time watching movies or television shows. I don’t scroll social media or browse the internet. Irene didn’t do much of that stuff either. She liked to garden, treating her plants and flowers as if they were her children. I liked to watch her. It was calming.

Several images from our closed-circuit security cameras appear on the screen—the hallway outside my suite, the doors to my suite, the elevator doors. I scroll past these to the ones in the dungeon. The night-vision cameras pick up Ramona in her cage. She’s lying on her side with her knees bent toward her chest. Awake. Murmuring something.

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