Page 33 of Chained
Stroking the strap obscenely, Whitaker grinned at Terry. “Just a taste. He can take whatever you dish out and come crawling back for more. And when you get tired of him, well, there’s plenty more fun out there.”
For the second time in—what? five minutes?—a solid truth hit Terry in the gut. Whitaker believed that the power to abuse others was a lure. That everyone else was, like him, hungry for the chance to mistreat others.
This was a blindness in Whitaker’s worldview, just as Terry had been blind to Ms. Stroman’s true identity. And although Terry himself was fucked, at least he could use Whitaker’s weakness to help Edge.
“I’ll sign,” Terry said.
Ms. Stroman grinned in triumph and handed him a pen. Whitaker hugged the strap to his chest. But Edge raised his head and barked, “No! Don’t do it!”
Apparently surprised by Edge’s outburst, Whitaker stepped toward him, strap raised. Edge shook his head frantically, ignoring Whitaker and looking pleadingly at Terry. “Don’t. It’s better to let them kill you. It’s—”
The strap hit the side of his face, causing him to grunt and sending blood spraying onto Whitaker’s preppy clothes. And even still, with more blood flowing from his eye and mouth, Edge pleaded. “Terry. No.”
Another blow, this one savage enough to make him shriek, and already Whitaker had his hand back for another. How much damage could a dog shifter take?
“I’ll sign,” Terry repeated, sounding eerily calm to his own ears.
Edge sobbed once, but Whitaker dropped the strap and marched over. “Right here.” He pointed to a blank line on the third page.
Terry walked to the nearest shelf—it held a cane and several small metal items he didn’t care to inspect more closely—found the spot Whitaker had pointed to, and set the pen to paper.Terrence Alan Brandt. The last time he’d signed his full legal name was when he joined the Bureau.
Whitaker took the pen and added his signature to the line below Terry’s, as Edge continued to whimper softly in the background. Then it was Ms. Stroman’s turn. Apparently she didn’t need a pen. She used only her fingertip, and a glowing symbol appeared as if aflame. It burned even more brightly for a moment, so brightly that Terry could barely look, and then the entire contract disappeared.
Something shifted in Terry’s chest. A tearing pain that made him stagger, followed by an odd sense of heaviness, as if he’d swallowed a rock. Would he get used to it in time? He guessed it wouldn’t matter.
Ms. Stroman looked satisfied, as if she’d gone into a fancy department store and come out with an incredible bargain. Whitaker, on the other hand, glanced at his watch. “Got a meeting with a producer in thirty minutes. Tomorrow we’ll get you all set up, Terry. I’ve got a juicy role in mind for you: star billing in a rom-com about a rich guy who falls for a hooker.”
Terry gestured at Edge, who now hung motionless, tiny droplets of blood pattering onto the floor beneath him. “Can I play?”
“Sure,” Whitaker said, barking a laugh. “Knock yourself out.”
“Not here, though.” He gave a crocodile smile to rival Ms. Stroman’s. “I have a little fantasy. There’s a place I know out in the desert, past Barstow. Nothing out there but sand and Joshua Trees. I want to know what it’s like to make a man scream under the nighttime desert sky.”
Whitaker gazed at him with what might have been admiration. “You actors. Always the creative types. Sure, take him. Just bring him back with you tomorrow—and don’t fuck him up too bad. He was expensive.”
“And he’ll… he’ll just let me do whatever to him?”
“Sure, as long as I tell him to. He’s a very good dog. Right, bitch?”
Edge gave a tiny nod.
Whitaker released the chains, and Edge collapsed to the floor with a thud. After Whitaker prodded him with a foot, Edge struggled to his feet. Then with Whitaker leading the way, they all left the torture chamber, wound their way to the front door, and walked to Terry’s car. Edge stumbled and fell several times along the way but always got up again. He never raised his head, and nobody offered clothing.
Whitaker frowned when they reached the parking lot. “You can’t drive around with him looking like that. Edge, shift.” He shrugged at Terry. “Just order him to change back when you get there.”
Apparently it was no longer necessary to pretend that Edge was human. It made sense. A dog-shifter would be no big deal to a guy who’d just sold his soul to the devil.
Edge collapsed onto his knees and then onto all fours and let his head droop. His back was crisscrossed with bloody welts and mottled with ugly bruises. His collar glinted in the sunlight. Then his skin rippled, his body spasmed, and he let out an unearthly howl. As Terry watched in fascination, Edge skewed and transformed, looking for a few moments like an entirely strange creature before settling into the familiar form of a large, panting dog.
“Told you,” Whitaker said smugly. “The world is full of secrets you’ve never imagined.”
“Secrets,” Terry agreed. Then he turned and opened the rear passenger door. “Get in,” he ordered Edge.
Edge moved slowly, tail between his legs. He was about to squeeze into the back seat when Whitaker grabbed his collar, hauling him back. As Edge cowered, Whitaker bent to glare at him. “Be very, very good, bitch. Act as if Mr. Brandt were your master. Be grateful I’m letting you get used by Hollywood’s next big star.” He reached forward, as if to pat Edge’s head.
Edge bit him.
It was a hard bite—a chomp—right through the meat of Whitaker’s hand. Bones crunched. Whitaker screamed and tried to pull away, but Edge shook his head savagely, sending Whitaker tumbling to the ground.
