Page 60 of Don't You Pucking Dare

The world fades to black, and my last thought is that I should have known better than to trust a monster in a mask.

Chapter 26

Lola looks small in the cell, curled on her side like a broken doll. Something twists in my chest watching her—something that has no place in tonight's performance. The Reapers are watching through the cameras, evaluating every move. I can't show weakness. Not now.

I check her breathing for the third time. The chloroform might have been too much for someone her size, but backing out wasn't an option. Not with Rick Kemper making his own moves, sending those photos of her mother. He thinks he's ahead of the game. He has no idea what's waiting in this chamber.

The monitors cast blue light across her face. Even unconscious, she's got that stubborn set to her jaw. That's what drew me to her first—not just her beauty, but that quiet defiance. The way she surrendered in the garden maze but kept that spark of fight. The way she let me claim her in front of the Reapers but never fully broke.

My little Duchess. Who would have thought she'd become more than just bait?

I've orchestrated everything perfectly—using our connection to lure her here, playing the possessive lover to hide my true purpose. The Reapers want Rick Kemper's blood. I want his suffering. But Lola... Lola's become the wild card I never expected.

She stirs, a soft sound escaping her lips. I straighten in my chair, hidden behind the two-way mirror. She'll be disoriented at first, then angry. Then terrified when she realizes where she is. The same chamber where she watched me torture Jack.

Part of me hopes she'll understand once it's over—that this was the only way to protect her from what's coming. Rick Kemper's games are more dangerous than she knows. But another part, the darker part that comes alive when she submits to me, wants her to enjoy this. To embrace the monster she's been dancing with.

A groan echoes through the speakers. Showtime.

I just hope she's strong enough to survive the truth about her father.

We secure her to the chair before consciousness fully returns. Each strap feels like a betrayal, but the Reapers are watching. Everything has to look real.

"Brody?" Her voice cracks as awareness returns. She fights against the restraints, anger cutting through the drug haze. "I trusted you! Show yourself!"

I step into the light, masked and silent. Everything about this moment needs to be perfect—for the cameras, for the Reapers, for what comes next.

"Quiet." My voice carries authority she hasn't heard before. "No names in here. Understand?"

She studies me through clouded eyes—black shirt, dark jeans, mask hiding any trace of the man she knows. Anysane person would be terrified. But my Duchess just watches, calculating even now.

Her hands tremble against the restraints, but it's from the chamber's cold, not fear. Everything in me wants to protect her from what's coming, but that's not what the Reapers want to see.

I lean close to the bars, voice dropping to barely a whisper. "Be compliant. I'll get you out of this. Trust me."

The slight tilt of her head tells me she understands. This is bigger than us now. If I wasn't the one doing this, it would be someone else. Someone who wouldn't care about keeping her safe.

She looks otherworldly in the chamber's harsh light, defiant even bound to the chair. I turn to the table of implements, making a show of selecting tools. "What comes next... you won't enjoy it."

The weight of my brother's broken body haunts every move. This initiation, this performance—it's all for him. For justice. But watching Lola's defiant eyes, I wonder if there'll be anything left to salvage between us after tonight. I pick up the first tool of torture.

"They think you're hiding something." I let the riding crop trace her legs.

She hisses at the first strike, still fighting through the drug haze. Even now, she's calculating, adapting. My perfect match in this twisted game.

I circle her like a predator, letting the leather tails whisper across her skin. Each touch is a message—hard enough to satisfy our audience, gentle enough to keep from marking her permanently. When I strike her face, it's all theater, no real force behind it.

"If it wasn't me," I breathe, close enough that only she can hear, "they'd show no mercy."

"Just keep me alive." Her whisper carries steel beneath the fear.

I force her legs apart, making a show of dominance for the cameras. She grabs the bars, knuckles white but spine straight. Even bound and exposed, she maintains that quiet dignity that first drew me to her.

The implements laid out on the table tell a story of pain, but I choose them carefully. Everything has to look worse than it is. Someone's streaming this to Rick Kemper right now, showing him exactly what his games have cost his daughter.

I catch the camera's red eye, making sure they know I see them watching. This performance isn't just for the Reapers anymore.

"Give Daddy a good show." The voice modulator makes me sound inhuman. Perfect.

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