Jonas (Darkness #7)

Jonas (Darkness #7)
K.F. Breene



Chapter One

Jonas 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?