Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Becks

T he following morning, the quiet hum of the safe house was shattered in an instant as the door exploded off its hinges. Somehow all of the warning mechanisms must have been compromised. Becks instinctively dropped to the floor, her heart slamming against her ribcage like a caged bird desperate for escape. Dust and debris swirled through the air, creating a hazy fog of confusion and fear.

"Stay down!" Liam's command cut through the chaos, his voice a lifeline in the storm. She watched, almost in slow motion, how his muscles coiled, ready to spring into violent action. His eyes scanned the room with years of experience, assessing the threat.

Sophie had already left for Interpol, their temporary ally now absent in the moment of crisis. It should have been a routine day of deciphering codes and intercepted messages—a day of cerebral challenge rather than physical danger. But Sokolov and his men had other plans.

"Becks, behind me!" Liam shouted, positioning himself between her and the intruders who were streaming through the gaping maw that had once been a door. The sharp reports of gunfire punctuated the air, bullets embedding themselves into the walls with deadly whispers.

"Ah, there you are," a menacing voice drawled, cutting through the din as if the sound of violence were mere background noise. Becks' gaze flickered towards the source. It was Sokolov, flanked by his goons, a sinister smile creeping across his face as his eyes locked on her. "Such a pretty little thing, hiding behind your handler. Don't worry, we'll take good care of you."

Liam moved with lethal grace, his body a weapon honed by years of training. Each punch, each block, each maneuver was executed with a dominant's precision—the same exactitude he applied to his craft in the shadowy world of BDSM. He was the whip master now, lashing out with controlled fury.

The air crackled with tension, thick with the stench of sweat and gunpowder. Becks' mind raced, trying to find some way to assist, to be more than a bystander in her own fate. Her hands itched to do something, anything, but her body remained frozen, caught in the terrifying tableau unfolding before her.

"Take him down!" Sokolov barked, and one of his men lunged at Liam with the cold intent of a predator focused on his prey. The thuds and grunts of hand-to-hand combat filled the space, a brutal concerto accompanying the struggle for survival.

"Stay back, Becks!" Liam warned without turning, his voice strained under the exertion. There was no doubt that he would lay down his life to protect her. And in that realization, she felt an unexpected surge of warmth amidst the terror—a connection that transcended their roles of protector and protected, Dom and submissive.

Despite the peril, despite the uncertainty, this man was her anchor, her safety within the storm. But even anchors could be ripped from their moorings, and in that breathless moment, as the battle raged, Becks understood the true depth of the danger they faced.

"Your knight can't save you now," Sokolov sneered, stepping closer with the confidence of a man holding all the cards. He reached out, and Becks recoiled, not from the touch, but from the dark promise in his eyes.

"Touch her, and I swear...” Liam's threat was cut short as one of the thugs blindsided him, a heavy blow sending him staggering.

"Enough!" Sokolov snapped, his patience fraying. "Secure them. We don't have all day."

Becks' mind screamed for her to move, to fight, to escape, but her body refused to cooperate, paralyzed by the unfolding nightmare. As strong arms seized her, dragging her away from the man who had vowed to protect her, she clung to one hope—that somehow, Liam would find a way to engineer an escape.

"Let her go, you bastard," Liam spat, his fists clenching as if restraining the violence simmering within.

"Such fiery spirit," Sokolov mocked, his leer unmistakable. "But futile. I have plans for your pretty little submissive. A few days of amusement for me and my men."

Becks felt the bile rise in her throat, not from fear—though it was there, tightening its grip—but from the thought of those rough hands defiling the trust she held sacred in her submission. Yet her defiance sparked within her, a hidden strength fostered by the very vulnerability that Sokolov sought to exploit.

"Over my dead body," Liam said, each word laced with a deadly promise.

"Quite possibly," Sokolov replied. But before Liam could launch himself at the sadistic tormentor, one of Sokolov's henchmen emerged from the shadows. With a swift, brutal precision, he stabbed Liam.

Liam crumpled to the floor and appeared not to be breathing. Becks' world started to spin out of control. She wanted to scream, to rage against the injustice, but her voice was trapped beneath a rising tide of helplessness.

"Take her," Sokolov ordered, his gaze never leaving Liam's fallen form or the expanding pool of blood, as if savoring his victory. He kicked Liam’s body and then started to lean over, presumably to check for a pulse but stopped as sirens in the distance sounded. “Move now.”

Rough hands gripped Becks, dragging her away from the man who had become her safety in this treacherous game. Despite her struggles, the men were merciless, binding her wrists with coarse rope that bit into her skin, an unwelcome parody of the ties she willingly accepted in the art of Shibari.

A burlap bag engulfed her head, cutting off her sight and muffling her protests. Panic clawed at her insides, and she felt like a wild animal desperate for escape. She was lifted like cargo, her body tossed carelessly into what felt like the back of a vehicle.

As the vehicle jolted into motion, Becks lay amidst the darkness, her thoughts a whirlwind of fear, calmed only by the thought that Liam would come for her. She refused to entertain the thought that he had been killed. For now, bound and blindfolded, she surrendered to the unknown, her mind clinging to the memory of Liam's fierce vow—a lifeline in the enveloping dark.

After what felt like hours, but might have only been a few minutes, the van came to an abrupt halt, the inertia throwing Becks' body against the cold metal of its interior. Her heart raced as she heard the vehicle's side door sliding open, bracing for another wave of violence. But it was not Sokolov's rough hands that reached for her this time—it was someone far more chilling.

"Remove that sack and untie her," commanded a voice that dripped with authority and barely restrained malice. As the bag was removed, Becks blinked her eyes, trying to get them to focus. The man she recognized as Dr. Cezar Baro stood outside the van, his silhouette a dark monument against the hazy light that filtered through dirty warehouse windows. She’d seen his picture in magazines and scholarly journals.

Sokolov grumbled under his breath before cutting the ropes around Becks' wrists with a swift, practiced motion. She blinked against the harsh daylight, her violet eyes locking onto Baro's dark piercing gaze. Fear knotted in her belly, yet she held herself with a poise that belied her internal turmoil.

"Leave us," Baro instructed Sokolov, dismissing him with a flick of his wrist. The Russian's ego seemed to be deflated by the sudden loss of control over his prize as he quietly walked away.

"Dr. Ashworth," Baro began, his tone smooth as silk. "You’ve caused quite the commotion."

Becks rubbed her chafed wrists, buying time as she assessed the situation. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she replied coolly, her upper-class British accent clashing against the rawness of the scene.

"Come now," he said, circling her like a predator eyeing his prey. "You and O'Shea have been quite busy unraveling our plans. Tell me, who else is privy to your discoveries?"

"Nobody." Becks lied effortlessly, maintaining eye contact with Baro. Inside, she willed Liam to regain consciousness, to find her before it was too late.

"Your loyalty is touching," Baro mocked, "but ultimately futile. You see, secrets have a way of coming to light, and I intend to uncover every one of yours."

"I wish you luck with that," she retorted, drawing upon her submissive training to present a facade of calm surrender. Her mind worked to weave together a web of half-truths and careful omissions.

"Tell me, Dr. Ashworth," Baro leaned in closer, breathing against her skin, "does your heart race from fear or... anticipation?"

"Perhaps a bit of both," she admitted, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She could almost feel Liam's presence, the dominant force that had guided her through darkness before. Hold on, she urged herself silently, hold on just a little longer.

Baro's smile was thin and devoid of warmth. "We'll see how long that bravery lasts," he murmured, taking a step back, indicating that she take a seat, giving her space and yet none at all. "For now, let's continue our little chat, shall we?"

Becks nodded, her mind weaving a complex tapestry of deceit as she sat in the chair indicated. She would play his game, for now, holding on to the hope that Liam, her protector, her Dominant, would once again emerge from the shadows to claim her.

Sometime later, the warehouse's oppressive silence was shattered by the faint scuffle of movement. Becks' pulse quickened, her eyes darting to the corner where a shadow detached itself from the wall. It was Liam, his presence both a balm and a blade to her frayed nerves. His blue gaze met hers for a split second—sharp, intense—before his finger rose to his lips. His message was clear: wait, watch, be ready.

She gave a nearly imperceptible nod. She had learned to read his signals as if they were her own thoughts, and she understood. Patience was their ally now, and she clung to it like a lifeline.

"Time is not on our side, Baro," came a voice that sliced through the thick tension in the room. Marcus Hawthorne entered, the urgency in his tone grappling with the usual composure he carried like a cloak. His salt-and-pepper hair appeared more striking in the dim light, his scar bearing the mark of battles fought and won. "We need to move, now."

Baro turned, his expression unreadable as he faced Hawthorne. "Interpol, the French police—they're no longer concerns," he said, his voice as smooth and cold as ice. "Our paths remain unobstructed."

"Perhaps," Hawthorne countered, his eyes flickering momentarily toward Becks before returning to Baro. "But we can't afford delays. I have received word that Cerberus is closing in even as we speak."

Becks could sense the shift in the air, the crackle of something momentous on the horizon. Her mind worked at a furious pace, calculating the odds, the exits, the potential for escape. Somewhere beyond these walls, danger lurked, a dark cloud ready to burst.

Liam edged closer, his movements catlike, despite the pain from being stabbed. In the periphery of her awareness, Becks felt the electric charge of anticipation. The stakes were high, the game deadly. And yet, there was a thrill in the unknown, a dark allure that sang through her veins. This was the imperceptible line where trust and danger danced.

"Then let us waste no time," Baro conceded, casting a final, piercing glance at Becks. "However, I think I'll keep this one a bit longer. She has... potential."

Hawthorne's gaze lingered on Becks, an unspoken question hanging between them. But it was Liam who held her focus—a beacon in the storm, the master of her fate. As the men spoke, she braced herself for what would come next, knowing that whatever the outcome, she was not alone.

In a game of shadows, Becks had found her strength. She was the submissive to Liam's Dominant, yes, but she was also a warrior just as he was. And as the next sequence of events began to unfold, she knew that they were unstoppable.

Suddenly, the room erupted into chaos. The unmistakable staccato of gunfire reverberated, and Becks flinched instinctively, moving toward cover. Bullets whistled past, embedding themselves with deadly accuracy into the walls. She glimpsed Liam, moving with lethal grace, a shadow conjured from nightmares as he engaged their assailants.

"Stay down!" His command cut through the cacophony, a lifeline thrown amidst the storm of violence.

She obeyed, her mind racing even as her body pressed low to the ground. Every sense heightened, Becks analyzed the fray, looking for patterns, opportunities—anything she could use to turn the tide in their favor.

The battle was a maelstrom, a brutal ballet of blood and steel. In this crucible, the trust that existed between them was their greatest weapon.

A figure lunged at Liam, a blade glinting with malice. With a surge of adrenaline, Becks acted, grabbing the steel chair she’d been sitting in and launching herself at the attacker. Their bodies collided, and she felt the jarring impact, the grunt of surprise from the man as she brought the chair down over his head, knocking him out.

"Good girl," Liam praised through gritted teeth, his approval a balm to her soul even as he dispatched another foe.

He pushed her behind a desk he flipped over, giving her some protection.

"Liam, the window!" Becks’ shout pierced his focus, and he turned just in time to see a man with a gun, leaning in.

Time slowed. Liam’s body was already moving before her mind could fully register the danger. He withdrew something from his pocket—a grenade—pulling the pin and lobbing it through the window past the man. The explosion erupted outside, a fiery exclamation mark to the fight.

"Holy shit, Liam..." Becks’ voice was breathless, tinged with awe and something fiercer, something that spoke of the deep, dark bond they shared.

As the smoke cleared, they stood amidst the wreckage, surveying the room. There were numerous bodies on the ground either dead or wounded, but neither Baro nor Hawthorne were among them. As they looked around, they knew this was more than just a mere skirmish; it was the prelude of a battle where both sides would pull back, assess the damage and come up with a new plan.

Liam

The journey back to London unfolded in a haze of exchanged glances and unspoken understanding. As they entered the city, the familiar sights did little to ease the tension that clung to them like a second skin—reminders of the ordeal they had endured together.

Liam leaned back in the worn leather chair, the hum of the air conditioning barely cutting through the tension in Fitzwallace’s office. The older man stood by the window, his silhouette sharp against the pale light of the late afternoon. Fitzwallace’s gaze lingered outside for a moment before he turned, fixing Liam with his usual piercing stare.

“Cerberus and Interpol are both hunting them now,” Fitzwallace said, his voice steady but edged with steel. “Baro, Hawthorne, and Sokolov might think they’ve slipped through the cracks, but they won’t stay in the wind for long.”

Liam’s jaw tightened. He’d seen firsthand what those three were capable of. Baro, with his calculating ruthlessness, had left a trail of destruction in his wake. Hawthorne’s charm was a weapon in its own right, a polished facade hiding a predator. And Sokolov—Liam didn’t even want to think about the body count that man could rack up if left unchecked.

“Any leads?” Liam asked, keeping his voice calm despite the fire simmering beneath the surface.

Fitzwallace moved to his desk, pulling a folder from the stack. He tossed it onto the polished surface, the pages fanning out slightly. “Baro was last spotted in Istanbul three days ago, but he’s gone to ground since then. Hawthorne’s trail leads through Vienna, but it’s cold. And Sokolov?” Fitzwallace shook his head. “That bastard’s a ghost. But Cerberus has resources Interpol doesn’t have. Interpol has red-noticed all of them and have eyes on every major port and checkpoint.”

Liam reached for the folder, flipping through the grainy surveillance photos and hastily scribbled reports. Each image and word painted a clearer picture of the chaos the three had left in their wake. It wasn’t just about catching them anymore; it was about stopping them before more people got hurt.

“You sound confident,” Liam said, glancing up at Fitzwallace.

“I am.” Fitzwallace’s tone brooked no argument. “They’re skilled, but they’re not invincible. Baro and Hawthorne have egos—they’ll make mistakes. And Sokolov? He’s a creature of habit. It’s only a matter of time before someone connects the dots.”

Liam leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “And what happens when we do find them?”

Fitzwallace’s expression hardened. “That depends on who finds them first. Cerberus plays by our own rules, but Interpol will want to bring them in alive. You and I both know the damage those three can do. If it comes down to it, we’ll do what needs to be done.”

Liam nodded, though he wasn’t as convinced as Fitzwallace. Liam couldn’t shake the feeling that the real battle was only just beginning.

The two men headed down the grand staircase to the foyer of the club. Liam had always thought that Baker Street, and Cerberus for that matter, seemed to stand as a symbol of both endings and beginnings. They passed beyond the guarded entrance into the club itself to find Becks and JJ waiting for them. Liam took Becks’ hand in his and led her into the dungeon. The main room was filled with warm light, coming from an assortment of candles placed around the space. All their closest friends had gathered at Liam's request, and the air was heavy with feeling and anticipation for the ritual that was about to take place.

“Am I dressed okay?” she asked looking down at the purple corset and thong he had given her.

“Yes, baby, you look beautiful,” he crooned softly, kissing her cheek.

Liam stepped forward, drawing her with him, his presence commanding the space as he turned to face Becks. Fitzwallace stepped forward, holding a small velvet pillow from which Liam plucked a collar, a simple strand of alternating beads of diamonds, amethysts and pearls, the gems gleaming in the candlelight—a tangible representation of the bond they shared. She’d never seen anything like it and had no idea how he’d arranged for it to be here.

"Rebecca Ashworth," he began, his voice low and reverent, "do you willingly accept this collar, as a symbol of your submission to me, and our mutual trust?"

Becks met his gaze, her own eyes reflecting the flames around them. "I do," she replied, her voice unwavering.

As Liam fastened the collar around her neck, a hush fell over the room. It was a sacred moment, one that transcended the perils they had faced and one that spoke to the depth of their connection—a bond forged in danger but rooted in a trust deeper than either had known before.

At the edge of the crowd, one of the Cerberus operatives leaned over to another, his voice tinged with reluctant admiration. "I swear, I'm never letting Fitzwallace assign me as close cover to a woman again."

His companion raised an eyebrow, prompting him to continue.

"Because it always ends with a collaring ceremony," he grumbled, though the hint of envy betrayed his true feelings.

Laughter and murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd, but it was the exchange between Liam and Becks that held the true meaning of the night—a vow that no matter what darkness awaited them, they would face it as one.

Ready to read Sara’s story? She is sent to protect Bryan, a doctor with Doctor’s Without Borders who gets himself caught behind enemy lines. Click here for Provoking Bryan.