Page 82 of Beneath the Surface

Dillon winced, swatting weakly at the light. Before Tristan could check the other eye, Dillon’s stomach lurched. He turned his head sharply and retched, vomiting onto the floor. He gasped for air, beads of sweat rolling down his temples.

"Doc," Dillon managed between heavy breaths, his hand gripping the side of the bed. "Where’s Riley?" He took a shuddering breath, forcing out the words through the haze of pain. "The suspect—six feet tall, dark hair, dark mustache, hospital security uniform. He had a female accomplice, blonde, scrubs, about five feet tall."

Tristan’s face darkened, but his tone remained calm as he called out to the medical staff, "Ondansetron, eight milligrams, IV push. We need a CT scan—now." His gaze flicked back to Dillon. "You’ve been through hell. Let us help you."

Dillon barely heard him. His heart raced as the adrenaline pumped through his battered body. He lay back against thepillow, trying to catch his breath, his thoughts spiraling toward Isobel and the danger she was in.

"Where’s Riley?" he asked again, his voice quieter now, almost pleading.

Tristan hesitated, his hand coming to rest on Dillon’s shoulder. His expression softened with reluctant sorrow, and he spoke with the practiced delicacy of someone accustomed to delivering devastating news. "I’m sorry," he said gently. "He didn’t make it."

The words hit Dillon like a physical blow. He froze, his breath catching in his throat. "What?" His voice cracked, disbelief warring with a deep, gut-wrenching grief.

"There was nothing they could do," Tristan said softly. "Riley was already gone by the time they found him. I’m so sorry."

Dillon clenched his fists, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he processed the loss. He closed his eyes, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. "He—" His voice broke, and he forced himself to start again. "He didn’t deserve that."

"No, he didn’t," Tristan agreed, his voice steady but filled with compassion. "And neither do you. But you need to focus now. You can’t help anyone like this. Let me get you stable, and we’ll take it from there."

Dillon opened his eyes, his vision swimming as tears threatened to spill. "I need to find her," he murmured, his voice a mix of desperation and determination. "I can’t let her down too."

"You won’t," Tristan assured him. "But you need to trust us to do our jobs."

Dillon’s head fell back onto the pillow, the failure and loss pressing down on him. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay conscious as the medical team worked around him. Somewhere out there, Isobel was in the hands of a monster. And Riley—Riley was gone.

Thirty-One

Isobel woke to the sharp, metallic taste of blood on her tongue. Her head throbbed, the remnants of whatever drug had knocked her out still pulsing through her veins. Slowly, she became aware of the cold air against her bare skin and the painful constriction around her chest. Panic surged as she realized she was bound to a chair, her wrists tied tightly behind her back. Her legs were forced apart, strapped to the cold metal legs of the chair, and a chain collar around her neck was pulled taut, pulling her head upright to the ceiling.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, her body trembling against the unfamiliar pressure of a corset strapped too tightly around her torso. The lacing cut into her skin, and every shallow breath felt like a struggle. A flimsy thong was the only other thing she wore, leaving her feeling utterly cold, exposed and vulnerable.

She blinked through the haze, trying to make sense of her surroundings. The room was dark, except for a single dim light hanging overhead, casting long shadows across the bare concrete walls as it rocked in a faint breeze. The oppressive silence echoed around her, save for the clink of the chain every time she shifted.

And then she saw him—Malcolm Hale.

He stood in front of her, shirtless, his muscular torso gleaming under the dull light. His black leather pants clung to him, tight against his skin, exuding power and control. His gaze was predatory, like a wolf staring down its prey. In his hand, he held a coiled leather whip, the tail of it brushing lightly against the ground as he moved, savoring the sight of her in this helpless state.

"Awake at last," he said, his voice low and mocking. "You know, I’ve waited a long time for this moment."

Isobel’s throat tightened, fear clawing its way up her spine. Her skin crawled under his gaze, the chain around her neck pulling uncomfortably whenever she so much as tried to shift away. She stayed silent, forcing herself to remain as still as possible, though her heart raced. Hale stepped closer, his boots making dull thuds against the concrete floor. He ran his fingers along her cheek, and she flinched involuntarily, the revulsion in her body uncontrollable.

"You’re so fragile, aren’t you? You thought Brad Killian could protect you from me. Thought you could hide behind him. But now..." His fingers trailed down her neck, grazing the metal of the collar. "Now you’re mine."

Isobel’s heart pounded harder, but she didn’t speak. She refused to give him the satisfaction of her fear.

"Let me explain how this works," he continued, his tone dripping with malice. "You see, I know Brad taught you about Dominance and submission. But he showed you the gentle side, didn’t he? The side that makes you feel safe, even when you’re vulnerable. What we’re going to do here is different. So much more… raw."

He smirked as he walked behind her, the whip trailing along the floor. She couldn’t see him anymore, only hear his footsteps echoing in the dark space. Her breathing became more erratic as she braced herself for whatever was coming next.

"I’m going to break you," Hale whispered in her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "Piece by piece. Until there’s nothing left of you but the need to beg. You’ll beg for me to stop, but I won’t. Not until I’ve taken everything."

He snapped the whip lightly against her shoulder, not hard enough to hurt—but enough to make her jump. Isobel clenched her fists behind her back, her nails digging into her palms as she tried to hold on, tried to push away the panic threatening to overwhelm her.

She forced her mind to drift, to escape from the cold terror of the room. Her thoughts went to Brad, to the warmth of his hands, the steady comfort he always gave her, even when he spanked her. She could almost hear his voice in her mind, calm and commanding, guiding her to breathe, to focus.

You’re stronger than this,she reminded herself, hearing Brad’s voice echo in her memory.You don’t have to give in.

She thought of the nights spent in Brad’s arms, the way he held her after a long day, his lips brushing softly against her forehead. When he whispered how much he loved her. Those moments of trust, of connection—they were real. And this? This was a twisted mockery of everything Brad had shown her. It wasn’t power. It wasn’t control. It was cruelty.

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