Page 32 of Chained
“I had an aunt, but I haven’t spoken with her in almost a decade. I have no idea what she’s been doing or whether she’s still alive. And that’s it.”
“Good. Relatives just make things messy. Always after your money. Anyway, you won’t want family once you sign with me. You’ll have more important things to keep you busy.”
Was that a consequence of selling your soul: losing your desire for emotional connections? If so, that was truly awful. Terry had only recently become aware he possessed that desire, and now it felt vital.
Whitaker glanced at his Rolex. “Time’s ticking, kid. You ready to make a deal?”
“Yes.” Terry hoped he looked a lot more eager than he felt.
A hand landed on his bicep, startling him. It was Ms. Stroman, who held a sheaf of papers in her other hand. “The contract.” Grinning like a crocodile, she handed it to him.
Terry scanned the writing. “This isn’t English.” It was, in fact, a particularly obscure demonic dialect he’d been introduced to during training, but the only thing he knew how to say wasStop or I’ll shoot. Not helpful in this situation.
Whitaker shrugged. “Them’s the rules. Not my idea. Honestly, I’m just the broker here.” He glanced at Ms. Stroman, who was still flashing her teeth. Terry almost staggered with a realization: She wasn’t Whitaker’s secretary or personal assistant, as he’d assumed. She was… the devil. Or at the very least, the devil’s representative.Devil’s advocate, he thought, and almost erupted into hysterical giggles. And now that he’d seen what lay within her eyes, he wouldn’t want to give her his dirty socks, let alone his soul.
“Having second thoughts?” Whitaker asked.
Terry struggled to get his brain in order. “I… I’m just hesitant when I don’t know what I’m signing.”
“Do you always read the fine print? You don’t seem like the type.”
Well, that was accurate. “No. But I usually have a… a vague idea.”
Ms. Stroman growled and stepped closer, and for a fraction of a second, she didn’t look remotely human. Terry didn’t have to feign fear as he stumbled back and nearly fell over a high-backed wooden chair. Then she was a pretty woman again, laughing. The dogs, however, had moved as far away from her as possible.
“What…?” Terry cried. Although he hadn’t had to fake being scared—her little performance would have made an ordinary person, one who hadn’t spent years with the Bureau, piss his pants—he feigned surprise and confusion.
Whitaker simply shrugged. “There are things in this universe your little brain can’t even conceive of, boy. Things that would splat you like you’d swat a gnat. What’s it gonna be? All the money you want and hordes of fans? Or—” He slapped one hand down on the other, obviously referencing the unfortunate gnat.
“Just tell me what I’m selling. Please.”
Though Whitaker seemed loathe to answer, Ms. Stroman apparently didn’t mind. She touched Terry’s shoulder, making him shudder. “Your soul, little man. Your teeny, tiny soul. You’re hardly using it anyway.”
And that was it, right? His mission was complete. He had more than enough evidence against Whitaker—and against Ms. Stroman to boot. Even Townsend might not have known about her. So now what the fuck was he supposed to do? Walk away? Whitaker and Stroman certainly wouldn’t allow that, and he suspected that his hard-won fighting skills would do little good against… whatever she was. He wasn’t carrying a weapon. And even if they let him waltz back out the gates, where did that leave Edge?
Fuck.
“Is it worth it?” Terry asked Whitaker. Not only the deal he was being pressured into, but the bargain Whitaker must have struck to become a broker of souls.
“Abso-fucking-lutely.” Whitaker seemed entirely sincere. “But I’ll tell you what. I’ve got a little something extra for you. Sweetening the pot, yeah? A demo of what you’re being given.” He turned and opened the door.
Terry didn’t want to enter, but everyone was waiting for him, and he couldn’t very well stand there forever. He summoned a quick image—he was about to enter a nightclub with great music and hundreds of hot men—and stepped inside.
No music, of course, and only one man. Edge. Naked, his arms shackled to chains hanging from the ceiling, his feet barely touching the ground. When he saw Terry, he groaned and hung his head. The room was… well, no other words for it. It was a fucking torture chamber, and it reeked of sweat, piss, and blood.
Whitaker and Ms. Stroman came in behind Terry, pushing him forward, and then the dogs entered too. The dogs stood just inside the door, panting with anxiety. Whitaker and Ms. Stroman, however, were cool as ice.
Terry wanted to rush to Edge, unchain him, comfort him, protect him, but he remained several feet away, hands balled at his sides. “What is this?”
“Told you. A gift and an illustration. As soon as you sign that contract, I’ll let you use him as much as you want. Any way you want. And he’ll be a good little pup for you. Isn’t that right, Edge?”
“Yes, sir,” Edge whispered.
Those two words broke Terry’s heart.
“You already know you can fuck him,” said Whitaker, perhaps oblivious to Terry’s distress—and definitely uncaring of Edge’s. “But you’re pretty. You can probably get all the ass you want without my help. How many of those cute things you pick up will let you do this?” He strode to a nearby shelf and grabbed a leather strap. Then, as Terry watched in shock, he pulled his arm back and struck Edge with all his might. Three times: once on the back, once on the ass, and then, hardest of all, once on the lower belly and groin.
Edge was silent for the first two blows but cried out at the third. He didn’t lift his head, though. Didn’t look at Terry.
