Marked for Surrender (3 page)

And when Pavlik sought to destroy them, he went all the way. Somehow the man knew Christophe was a sub, a deviant male on Nylar, who had managed to camouflage his nature. Pavlik knew Zevon was a dominant, a man who would crumble beneath the lash of the Mistresses. And the asshole had made sure Christophe would be there to see it happen.

The vid streamers had covered the Ball Breaker's “successes.” Mistress Andia Cyrus was famous for her ability to destroy the thing that made a dominant powerful. All the men he'd seen released by the Mistresses committed suicide or lived small, broken lives. Especially the men punished by
this
Mistress.

Zevon finally glanced at Christophe. “Stop worrying about me."

"There has to be a way—"

"There isn't.” Zevon shifted his weight and glanced at the camera. Christophe still wasn't used to the constant surveillance, but Zevon had worked in a sensitive part of Vezera.

It was hard to think of himself as a criminal. He still thought of himself as an employee of Vezera, as Zevon's lover, as a productive member of society. Maybe it was because he hadn't had a real hearing in front of the council. Maybe it was because he'd never been allowed to defend himself.

There was no hope now.

"At least—” He shut his mouth. How selfish was he? To think that he was happy, relieved that Pavlik thought Christophe should watch Zevon be punished by a Mistress. They were together.

"What?” Zevon demanded in that voice, the one that made Christophe hard as a rock.

"At least we're together.” He lifted his gaze and met those dark eyes that knew him, had loved him, had suffered for him. “I was miserable every second we were apart."

Zevon's chains rattled when he made an involuntary lunge toward Christophe. “Two months, four days, and five hours."

Christophe blinked. Stars, he hated that they couldn't touch, couldn't spend their last few moments before they faced their punishment in each other's arms.

He studied this man carefully. Even though Christophe knew Zevon loved him, there had always been a caution, a part of himself he held back.

Two months hadn't broken him. But what would this woman do? “Zevon, we have to make a plan."

Fire burned in Zevon's onyx eyes. “I have a plan."

Christophe widened his eyes. “You do?"

"I'm going to get the fuck out of here, and then I'm going to kill that bastard,” he snarled.

Some plan. Christophe took deep breaths. He had to think of a way to save his lover, the man he didn't want to live without. Clearly Zevon wasn't going to think rationally.

The hovervan came to an abrupt stop. Shit, they were here.

Christophe almost fell off his bench when the wall restraints were released suddenly. When the back of the vehicle opened, the guard said nothing but motioned with his laser rifle for them to get out.

He followed Zevon's lead, keeping his head lowered and his hands in front of him. Apparently Zevon had learned hard lessons in the time he'd been incarcerated.

They dropped from the back of the hovervan onto a snow-crusted driveway. When Christophe glanced up, he couldn't help staring.

For some reason, he'd thought the conclave would be a sterile building, white and gleaming, the guardian of civilization. Instead the place was an ancient castle made of gray and black stone. It rose out of the mountainside like a looming monster, dark, forbidding.

Windows, rectangular and sheltered from his vision by their deep recesses, dotted huge spires that reached to the gray clouds, seeming to point to the sky like an accusing finger.

Snow covered the flat top of the curtain wall surrounding the outside of the edifice. The sound of metal squealing caught his attention, and he glanced behind him. They'd crossed a drawbridge that connected the mountain road to the conclave.

Everything about the conclave reminded him of an impenetrable fortress. The bridge they traversed crossed a bottomless gorge. The conclave itself had no color, no softness about it. Cliffs dropped off every side except behind the building, which was dominated by a massive peak that loomed over the conclave like a silent guardian.

No plan that consisted of “getting the fuck out of here” was going to work. Panic began to rise in Christophe's throat, and he had to fight it down. Perhaps he could access the security systems to escape, but that would require trust from his new captor, and he didn't think that would happen. At least not without losing a piece of himself.

But he wasn't sure he wanted to escape, and that thought made the fear shoot through his veins.

"Move,” one of the guards snapped and prodded them forward.

The snow was cold on his feet when they sank in the drifts in front of the main building. Everything was so quiet, so lonely here.

"Are there other prisoners here?” he asked.

The second guard, apparently less surly, answered him. “No, it's Christmas. Most of the Mistresses take their time off then.” He grinned, a death's mask. “But not your Mistress. She's dedicated."

Why didn't that frighten him? It should. Christophe should be shaking in his shoes. Instead, something tripped along his nerves, something like anticipation and impatience. He probably should have been shocked by his reaction, but it all felt inevitable.

The guards marched them up stone steps and through a large wooden door. Inside were two women. One look and Christophe knew neither of them was the infamous Ball Breaker.

The older one, wrinkled skin and a sour expression on her face, pointed a long, bony finger at him. “You! This way."

"Before you leave,” the other woman commented casually as if they were at a dinner party. “Show him, Mya."

The older woman moved and was a blur. One minute she was there, the next, she had a knife at his dick. “In case you had thoughts of trying anything stupid."

He examined her closely. The woman had faded blue eyes and a mole on her left cheek. “Enhanced?” he managed to ask.

She grinned. “More than that. The Mistresses’ Guard is a special breed. We are generations in the making. And for generations, our secrets have been kept."

Zevon hadn't spoken a word. The younger guard shoved him forward, and he stumbled to his knees. Christophe lunged forward. The older woman gripped him around his neck, and Christophe struggled for breath.

The woman's voice was gritty and harsh in his ear. “The sooner you learn that you have no power here, the sooner you will reach your destiny."

He met her gaze, the moment charged with something strange he couldn't understand. Her expression, insistent and dominant, only mesmerized him. Fear was there, but that was only part of it.

She drove him to his knees. Christophe bent his head and glanced at Zevon. The sight of his lover, defiant and strong even as the younger woman crowded him, was inspiring.

Casually the younger woman slapped Zevon. “Eyes down."

Blood oozed from Zevon's mouth. Christophe, tense and trembling, kept still by force of will.

Deliberately Zevon took a deep breath and raised his gaze. The younger woman smiled, a slight lift of her lips that terrified Christophe.

"No!” he shouted when he saw Zevon's guard produce a shockstick. She jammed it into Zevon's gonads, and the man's neck snapped back, but he refused to make a sound.

Christophe lunged forward again, breaking the old woman's hold, and broke the connection of the shockstick to Zevon's skin. He hit the floor and turned to find both women loomed over him.

The pain when the shockstick jammed into his stomach was incredible. He bit his tongue and grunted. Stars, fuck, it hurt. His whole body felt like it was on fire. He jerked like invisible strings yanked on his limbs.

Unconsciousness was a blessing.

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The evidence damned them. Andia studied the files the council had sent her. Clearly the two men had contacted the Blueshift Brotherhood and sent them information. Not only that, but money had flowed into their bank accounts. Their friends had turned on them, saying they were secretive and had clandestine meetings on a regular basis.

Zevon Maco had access to sensitive information in his capacity as an engineer at Vezera. Christophe Onnis was an information genius, creating many of the advertising packages and instructional videos that had become famous galaxy-wide.

The one thing missing was motive.

Most of the criminals Andia had studied in the last twenty years had a reason for their crimes. Power, greed, revenge, something that created a need to grab for too much. The files were strangely silent on this.

Everything she found about these two men indicated they were the opposite of the kind of men who would commit the crime. Both had been raised by single parents but loving ones. Both men had served in the Nyral military for one tour and had been good soldiers.

Christophe had lost his father when he was very young to Keel's Disease, an environmental sickness created by exposure to a nasty poison designed by the Blueshift Brotherhood. So why in the hell would Christophe participate in selling secrets to the group that had murdered his father?

His records after his father's death were all too familiar. Quiet and withdrawn, Christophe had excelled at computers and mathematics, his social interactions awkward. His mother remarried four or five years after the tragedy that left her a widow. Every indication seemed to show this had been a positive thing for Christophe. He seemed content with his new stepfather, coming out of his shell, interacting more normally.

All signs indicated a damaged little boy who had healed.

Zevon was even more confusing. He had lost his mother young and had blots on his record, bouts of anger immediately following her death. As much as Christophe had retreated, Zevon had acted out. Even with their problems, Zevon and his father had seemed close. Nothing in Zevon's record showed violence or psychopathic behavior, though he clearly had an attitude. But he'd straightened up, the military changing him. Again, signs that the angry little boy had dealt with his grief. Though he never remarried, his father was a respected citizen and had the ear of the council.

Christophe had served as a communications expert for the Nyral military, breaking code and intercepting transmissions. Zevon had been an officer on the fast track when the private sector had lured him from his job as a TIF liaison with the Nyral special forces. He'd been a brilliant tactician, leading men and channeling his aggression by fighting the Blueshift Brotherhood.

What the fuck had happened?

Zevon and Christophe had met at Vezera three years earlier when Christophe was assigned to the shipping manifests.

What seemed to be the key was the connection between the two men. No one understood their relationship, some saying Zevon was the evil genius behind the two and others saying Christophe was in charge.

Nothing about this case was clear-cut except the evidence against them. And yet, Yalani had placed doubts in Andia's mind.

As usual, she had a session with the entire council before she began her work with the prisoners. The council determined the level of punishment, and Andia decided the rest.

She closed the files on her computer and placed the vid call to the council.

The screen was filled with a circle of women. Andia had met with them a month earlier for the official release of eight of her prisoners, so she was surprised to see that seven out of the twelve council members were complete strangers.

Yalani was not there.

The hairs on the back of Andia's neck rose. What the fuck was going on? Years of training kept her calm, but something about this whole thing made her uncomfortable.

"It is my honor to serve,” she said, keeping her voice strong and steady.

One of the councilwomen she knew, Falia, spoke first. “Welcome, Mistress Andia. We present our punishment for Christophe Onnis and Zevon Maco."

Andia bowed her head and waited. Falia glanced toward a hidden corner of the council chamber, and Andia noted a looming shadow lurking in the left of her screen.

One of the new council members spoke, her voice high and young. “We request a level nine punishment with the following addendums. You will break them together. They are not to be separated."

Andia's eyebrows almost shot up, but she controlled it. Prisoners were not allowed to stay together. Why would the council demand this? “As you wish,” she said with a bow of her head.

"There's more,” an older woman, also a stranger, said. “The information, as you must have seen, has led to the death of thousands of our people. They must be left with nothing as they left others with nothing."

This, at least, was familiar, though usually it was delivered with less vitriol. This woman seemed personally angered by the crime. “This may take more time,” she said. “The general required over a year. If they are together, allowed to seek power from each other, it may take much longer."

Andia caught a smile on two of the women's faces, faint but cruel. She did not like these new women. One of them, the one who demanded a level nine punishment, answered her. “Time is of no importance. What matters is that these men are stripped of their power. Totally and completely."

Something negative and ugly reached across the screen. Andia's instincts screamed, her stomach rolling with discomfort. This was definitely wrong.

Yet, until she understood the power shift, she had no choice. “As you wish."

Falia spoke, her voice rough. “We will require regular updates as usual."

"Video,” the younger councilwoman snapped, and Andia was shocked to see Falia's eyes widen, the fear palpable. The new councilwoman stared at Falia as she spoke to Andia. “You will send us vids of your sessions with these men at regular intervals. We expect to see your usual...vigilance."

Andia gritted her teeth. This bitch didn't understand shit. Vigilance? What the woman meant was Andia would break these men because she hated the Brotherhood. But if these men were innocent, it didn't matter what she did. The fulcrum Andia's abilities turned on was a man's guilt. Some men, like the general, were psychopaths, enjoying another's torment and pain. But even he had a breaking point.