Jonas (Darkness #7)

J
onas blinked
his eyes open and minutely shook his head. Throbs of pain pulsed behind his forehead. He felt rough stone under his bruised knees. His wrists were secured behind his back with unyielding metal. Pulling his arms apart, then twisting, had the shackles biting into his skin. A trickle of liquid dribbled into his palm. Blood.

He remembered feeling eyes on him at the
Mata
compound. The feeling of being watched had tickled between his shoulder blades. He’d looked around, then behind him, to see if one of the mangy shifters was staring at him. Except for a distant wolf at the far end of the perimeter, though, no one had been around.

He’d recalled the tricks of magic that could make a person invisible two seconds before a rough voice said, “Don’t kill him—we can use him.” Something dull had crashed down on his head before all went dark. Only someone with advanced use of magic could create and use an invisibility spell. Plus, that accent had been English. Jonas didn’t know much about that pansy country, but he knew the irritating speech when he heard it.

It seemed they had out-of-town visitors. Probably here to cash in on all the problems with the Council. He couldn’t blame them—he’d heard that Cato had tried a similar take-over method when the English and French were battling each other. He couldn’t blame them, but he could sure kill them for thinking his country was defenseless.

As soon as he got free, that was.

Jonas looked around. He knelt in the middle of a square room made of old stone. Mold grew in cracks on the walls and across the floor. A damp, musty smell lingered in the air. There was one window, way up high at the top of the far wall, indicating most of this room was underground. An old basement probably, and not even remotely close to the health code standards.

Jonas heaved a laugh. He wiggled his arms again, hearing the clink of chain. He tried to move his feet, half-numb from being in this position for however long, and heard the same jingle. He was probably secured to the floor. His torso leaned against a thin strip of metal—a bar that made up a side of a rectangle. The two ends were braced into the floor to hold him up. Awfully nice of them, giving him something to lean on. He wondered why he wasn’t secured to that, though.

There was a stone seat next to the wall in front of him, and one on the side. The other wall was bare. He glanced behind him. In the back, right corner was a stand gleaming with well-polished tools. Flays, whips, paddles, spikes—this was the makings for a great time. Jonas had a similar array in his quarters at the Mansion.

As a smile graced his lips for the shock the torturer would get when his version of torture wasn’t going according to plan, the door behind him opened with a metallic wheeze. Two clicks announced someone in high heels before the door latched, the metallic sound echoing through the chamber. Soft leather slid against wood, which clinked off of metal, in that back corner.

The torturer had arrived. And it was either a cross-dressing male, or a female.

He would have fun with either.

The clicks sounded again, coming around his body and stopping directly in front of him. A female, small for one of their kind, stood in front of him with a blank expression that didn’t adequately hide the tightness around her eyes. She wore a red leather corset, black fishnet stockings, and shiny black heels. A pony tail held her glossy brown hair high on her head. Expertly manicured fingernails clutched her weapon of choice, a whip. Her features were straight and dainty, and her lips were a plump, bright red. She would be really hot if she wasn’t trying too hard—if the female was any more rigid, she’d have to pull the stick out of her ass to sit down.

She obviously felt inadequate in what she wore, but that hold on the whip gave Jonas shivers. Very pleasant shivers. She balanced it delicately in a sure, comfortable grip. Confidence radiated in the light touch she had with that weapon. The expertly-worked leather was well-maintained—probably oiled and looked after on a regular basis. It would slash and cut in all the right ways.

Jonas let his gaze drift back up to her face. Her eyes were a clear blue and sparkling with intelligence. Currently, she was surveying his body and tracing his scars with her gaze. Trying to find his weaknesses. Trying to figure out how hard he really was—how easily he would break.

He’d been the subject of this type of scrutiny his whole life. Only, usually the one in control wore a sneer. In contrast, the gleam in her eyes bent more toward analysis.

Jonas felt a thrill of anticipation. So few females knew how to properly dominate. So few people in general, actually, females or males. He’d really only found one who could take him away from the encroaching wildness in his emotions and reset him. Make him someone that could exist with others without randomly sticking knives in people or throwing them through walls. But she had to struggle to dominate him on a regular basis. She wasn’t as strong as she pretended to be, and she didn’t understand the hardware as well as she needed to.

Most people probably didn’t look forward to a torture session like he was. But by the look of it, this female could handle that whip. And he wanted to see what she was made of. He had a feeling she was a natural, and his experienced eye told him she’d had a lot of practice. Two good things.

As the heat started to burn in him, he recognized a shadow slowly creep into her gaze. The sparkle in her eyes started to ebb. Her body stiffened even more.

His arousal made her uncomfortable. Yet… she was wearing a corset. And liked to play with whips. What was this female playing at?

Jonas filed that information away as she started to speak in a low, sensual voice. “By now I imagine you know you’ve been taken. All we require out of you is information. Just a few easy answers and everyone is happy. You don’t need to see me any more than is absolutely necessary.”

She paused expectantly. Jonas simply stared. He was getting bored.

“So let’s start with the easy ones, shall we?” She sauntered closer. As her shoes clicked on the stone she snaked the whip over her shoulder and then down across her body, eyeing the places on his torso her first strikes would land. That leather traveled over well-rounded breasts and delicious cleavage before sliding down her flat stomach and over shapely thighs. She was getting ready, not trying to entice him sexually. Her brutality was coming to the surface.

Jonas’ heart started to hammer. That light of confident ruthlessness sparkled in her eyes as she ran her finger lightly over the handle of her whip. Her pink tongue ran over that sensuous bottom lip before she smiled a little to herself. She was probably planning to punish him for his earlier arousal—probably going to teach him a lesson.

Oh gods, he really hoped she was planning to punish him. For a long time. Really hard.

He opened and closed his fists in anticipation.

“What’s your name?” she asked in a sultry voice.

Jonas let his gaze burn into hers. Without flinching, tightness around her eyes completely gone, rigidity having melted in a graceful sensuousness that could not be taught, she met his gaze with a wild streak of raw violence. This female was stepping onto the battle field and her energy soaked into him like a power line. Jonas’ dick was so hard he was having trouble thinking.

“I usually will not ask a question twice without something to fill the pauses. However, since this is your first time, I’ll be lenient. Just this once.” She stopped right in front of him. Her whip dangled down her thigh. “What is your name?”

Jonas watched her blue eyes flash.
Here it comes.

She moved with the grace of a predator. Her hand came up quickly and
flicked.
The whip splashed out in a string of leather and licked his torso. A stinging pain he barely registered lanced his pec. She was taking it easy on him.

Damn.

“What is your name?” she asked again. He could hear the passion in her voice. The desire to inflict pain humming deeply in her words. But when the next lash fell, it was barely harder than the last.

His ardor started to drain away in his disappointment. She should’ve been able to tell what he could take by sizing him up—any torturer worthy of the title had that trait. And she probably did notice it—it seemed like she had by that analytical gaze—but she didn’t act on it. She had the ability, but not the gumption.

What damned, depressing news.

Jonas let his gaze drift straight-ahead toward the wall. Her sensual voice droned on as Jonas let his mind drift to Sasha and the Boss. He wondered how the little babies were. He wasn’t a people person, but he’d always loved kids. They were so sweet and innocent when they were young. They looked at the world with big, bright eyes. Anything was possible. Jonas really wanted his own someday. He wanted a mate he could protect and support. A family to raise and a home away from the Mansion where he could spend his dawnings. He wanted peace, both of mind and body. Tranquility.

A whip stroke fell, the slice across his chest barely registering. He completely ignored any that came after—it wasn’t hard to do.

He thought back to holding Sabrina when she was just a few hours old. He’d almost felt that tranquility he craved. That deeper purpose. Looking on her tiny, angelic face, he’d let go of his own demons. All he could think about was wanting to give everything he had to make sure Sasha’s two infants went through life with the best it had to offer. They wouldn’t be picked on and torn apart like he was. They’d have someone to stand up for them—to protect them, even if their parents took off. Jonas would make sure they were nothing but loved and supported, no matter what came.

The bite of the leather sank in a little deeper. Not just a housefly, now. A horse fly. Still irritating. He almost wanted to tell her to just move on to a knife—she wasn’t fulfilling his expectations with the whip.

“Just your name. That’s all I want.”

He barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes as he let the caress of the leather lull his mind. Every torturer wanted to break their subject. That was the point. The beginning was an answer to a simple question. Just one answer. That wasn’t so bad, the subject would think. The reprieve of pain would be a nice change. Then the next answer. And the next. When the pain got really bad, those answers were a lifeline until suddenly, the tortured was nothing more than a broken snitch. He was a dog, trained to obey.

That just didn’t fly with Jonas. Plus, he’d been through all this before. It hadn’t mattered that the boys who caught him were just pretending—their knives were real. The blood and pain was real. And he’d squealed. He’d squealed like a little pig. He’d told on his good friend for taking Julia’s sword. He’d told on himself for a million things he shouldn’t have done. He’d made stuff up. He’d pissed himself. He’d cried and begged. He’d promised them he’d do anything,
anything
if they’d let him go.

He’d been twelve. A child. The boys had been graduating school—much older than him. He’d been their first victim and he’d had to endure five different sessions before they’d gotten bored with him. They’d gotten caught when the next boy told on them. The other boy hadn’t been afraid to speak up and became an instant martyr. Instead of shunning him, the adults all thought he was brave for enduring the torture.

No one ever knew Jonas had endured worse. He’d been too embarrassed to say anything.

“That’s all for today. Tomorrow maybe you’ll come to your senses.”

It took Jonas a moment to realize the light pain had stopped. He looked around in confusion, only catching the female wiping off her whip at the far wall and hanging it up carefully. He glanced down at his chest. He had two gashes, and a great many welts.

The pain of his memories was what lingered, however. Physical pain would diminish in time. His past wouldn’t. And hadn’t.

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