Page 11 of Chained
The boss laughed. “No. I’m displeased about that, but I’m sure you’ll do better. Tomorrow, after the party, yes?”
Of course—because Edge was in no shape to seduce anyone tonight. “Yes, sir.”
“You’ve noticed that I do this only to you and not your brothers. It’s not because you make a prettier approximation of a man than they do. I don’t give a shit about that. Hell, I’m not looking at your face when I attend to you, am I?” The boss laughed again and slapped Edge’s ass, bringing a shout of pain. Then he came nearer, so close that Edge felt the heat of his body and the almost-brush of his clothes against tender bare skin.
“I do this because you’re weak, Edge. You always have been. You were the runt of the litter, weren’t you? Always struggling to keep up with the others. And you worked at it, I’ll give you that, you worked hard. But I paid good money for you, and you haven’t reached your potential. You’ve got plenty of muscle”—he squeezed one of Edge’s biceps—“but you’re still weak where it counts. Here.” He thumped Edge’s skull.
Even if Edge had been capable of being articulate enough to defend himself and foolish enough to argue with the boss, he would have held his tongue. Everything the boss said was true. Edge could run faster than Holt and Duke, he could match them weight for weight in the gym, but his will was softer than theirs. As was his heart. They were content with their place at the boss’s side, never questioning the morality of what he did, while Edge… he’d been uneasy for years.
But the boss wasn’t finished with his lecture. “Weakness is fatal in this business. All of the would-be movie stars who come begging for me to represent them? They’re weak and needy, and that’s why I can collect them so easily. They deserve what happens to them. But you, Edge….” He stroked Edge’s back very gently, making him shudder. “You’re not one of the pretty pieces of fluff. Idependon you, and that’s why I need you to be strong. Hard.” On the final word, he punched Edge forcefully in the ribs, making him bellow. He followed with another delicate touch, this one on Edge’s nape, just above the links of the collar. “Do you understand, bitch?”
“Y-yes. Sir.”
After a long pause, the boss unlocked the left manacle. Edge’s legs couldn’t hold him, and he hung with his right shoulder agonizingly wrenched until the boss released that arm as well. Edge collapsed to the floor with a thud. He curled in on himself, now thankful for the coolness of the floor tiles, and closed his eyes.
But he felt the boss looming over him and heard him light another cigarette. “Now, Butch….” The boss inhaled before blowing out a noisy cloud of smoke. “He wasn’t weak like you, but he had other flaws, didn’t he? I tried to correct them. Tried my best. But in the end, he didn’t want to be improved. And we know how that turned out. A shame. I lost a lotta money on that.” He stomped out of the dark room, leaving the door ajar.
It took a long time before Edge gathered enough strength to do anything. He didn’t bother trying to stand; he simply willed himself to change, then howled through the transformation. Now four-legged, he walked away, abandoning his clothes. He’d fetch them tomorrow.
The lawn seemed to stretch on for miles. When Edge reached the guest house, his brothers waited there. They sniffed him carefully, and when Edge whined softly and licked their chins, neither of them snapped or growled. Holt even jostled Edge’s shoulder, which hurt but consoled him. They were his family, his pack, and they accepted him despite his weakness. From now on, he would try to be more like them.
Duke and Holt trotted off for nighttime rounds, and Edge made his laborious way up the stairs. Music was coming from Brandt’s room—something bright and happy with a strong beat. Maybe Brandt was dancing; Edge couldn’t tell. He pawed open the door handle for his room and went inside. Without bothering to shift again, he jumped onto the bed, turned in a few circles, and settled down. He fell asleep to the sound of the music.
Chapter Six
Terry slept poorly. He kept waking up from unsettling dreams that he couldn’t quite remember, and then he had trouble dropping off again. Bad dreams were a risk of his job—Christ knew he’d seen enough ugly shit to last several lifetimes—and when Terry wasn’t on assignment, sometimes he took a little something to knock himself out. A lot of agents did the same, although they rarely discussed it. The older guys tended to stick to the routine of bennies while they worked and booze when it was time to crash, while the younger ones used coke to pick them up and Tuinal to knock them out. Terry had a bottle of Halcion, prescribed for insomnia by the Bureau’s in-house doctor, but due to the potential side effects, he wasn’t going to use it while on assignment.
So he tossed and turned, and he thought about Edge and the upcoming party and the vampire he’d killed the previous month and Whitaker and then Edge again. Finally he stood at his window, watching the sun rise behind the big house, and soon afterward he put on his exercise clothes and emerged into the hallway. There was Edge, in a suit, leaning in the open doorway of his room. He looked as tired as Terry felt.
“Gonna work out,” Terry said. “Join me?”
Edge shook his head. “I’ll just come with.”
“Did we overdo it yesterday? You’re limping.”
“No.” It wasn’t clear whether Edge was answering the question or denying the limp.
Either way, Terry didn’t press it. They went down to the gym, where Edge sat on a bench and Terry ran and lifted until his limbs felt rubbery. Then they trooped upstairs.
“Want to order us some breakfast?” Terry asked. “I need to shower.”
They’d eaten all their meals together so far. At first Edge had appeared deeply uncomfortable sitting across from him, but he’d gradually relaxed. He still spoke very little, and he handled his cutlery awkwardly, glancing often at Terry as if for guidance, but he didn’t fidget in his seat anymore or ball his hands into fists when they weren’t in use.
Terry deliberately left the bathroom door open. The shower was off to the side, so Edge would have to make an effort to watch. If he did actually peek, Terry didn’t catch him at it. As the warm water sluiced over him, Terry reflected on how weird he felt about the whole… Edge situation. Obviously Terry lusted after the guy. Who could blame him? But he was also intrigued by him. And when Edge sat silently nearby while Terry swam or listened to music, Terry didn’t feel encroached upon. Edge’s presence calmed him, which was stupid and possibly dangerous. After all, Edge worked security for Whitaker, and if the Bureau’s sources were correct—and they usually were—Whitaker was up to some really bad shit. Making Edge complicit.
Unless Edge was a victim. Terry had been playing with that idea, but it didn’t make much sense. Whitaker used money and fame to bait his prey, but Edge wasn’t a movie star, and his job perks didn’t seem lavish enough to tempt anyone into Whitaker’s trap.
When the mission was complete and the Bureau stepped in, Edge’s fate would be grim. People—and creatures—who ended up in Bureau custody didn’t get court trials. Too much publicity, too much potential to scare the public. Lawyers had found some kind of constitutional loophole. If the arrestees were deemed too dangerous, someone dispatched them at once. Otherwise they were shipped off to a special prison in eastern Nevada, a place that made an ordinary supermax prison look like a pleasant vacation spot. A place where nobody was ever paroled or released.
Terry dried off and pulled on a pair of underwear. It covered more of him than his swimming briefs, and Edge had already spent plenty of time eyeing him in those. Yet when Terry emerged from the bathroom and smiled at Edge, who was sitting in the armchair, Edge’s eyes widened and his pupils dilated. Although Terry knew very little about him, he was at least confident that Edge wanted him as badly as he wanted Edge. But he didn’t know what to do with that knowledge.
“Breakfast coming?” Terry pulled a T-shirt out of a drawer; he was almost out of clean clothes. Edge had said he could call for laundry service any time, andthatwas handy. Terry hated doing laundry.
“Yes.”
That amounted to a complex conversation with Edge.
Terry put on the tee, a pair of jeans, and socks, and then he started some music on the stereo.Purple Rain, which wasn’t Prince’s newest album but was, in Terry’s opinion, his best. Terry perched on the edge of the bed. “Will you be at Mr. Whitaker’s shindig tonight?”
