Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

C harlie

I wake up from a nap. After I got home with Marcus, I had a shower and laid down. It was a shock to see Trent again and to be accosted by him. Being rescued by Marcus made me feel like the safest person in the world. I don't think I'll ever have to worry about anybody else ever again. I stretch and roll over, just as the door to the bedroom opens.

"Good. You're awake."

Marcus enters the room. He's in his shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His forearms ripple as he adjusts them, then tucks his shirt back into the top of his pants. His waist is so trim and powerful. His shoulders are so broad. There's a curl of dark hair threatening to fall into his eyes before he pushes it back into the dense mop of hair.

He looks as though he has been working out, though I know he wouldn't work out in that kind of clothing. It's a bit of a mystery. There is a certain look in his eye that makes my adrenaline spike just a little. It's a danger. A wildness.

"I am," I say, sitting up and hugging my knees to my chest. I'm wearing a camisole and panties, not enough to feel protected by my clothing—though no amount of clothing could ever really protect me from him.

"I think you and I and your ex-boyfriend should have a little talk," he says.

"Oh?" I'm surprised to hear that. I wouldn't have thought he'd let Trent anywhere near me. There's a small part of me that wondered if Trent was even still alive.

"Get dressed," he says.

There's something short and clipped about the way he is speaking. I do as I am told quickly and follow him out to the elevator. I don't ask questions, even though I want to ask a thousand of them. At this point, I know the less I say, the better.

Some of my questions are answered when he takes me to what I can only call a murder room in the basement of his building. Trent, bloodied and looking like shit, is tied to a chair.

I should be horrified to find him like this, but there's a part of me that is glad this is happening to him. If I can be captured and turned into the pet slave of a billionaire, why should a piece of shit like Trent walk free?

"Char!" He looks at me almost as if he expects me to help him. "Who the fuck is this old guy?"

"His name is Marcus."

"Not defending me on the old charge, pet?" Marcus raises a smirking brow at me.

I let out a nervous giggle. None of this is funny, really, but my nervous system has to pick some kind of reaction, and that's the one it goes with.

"My name is Marcus Waterstone," Marcus says, thinking Trent will make some sense of that.

Trent looks blank. "So? You a detective or a gangster or something?"

"He's one of the richest men in New York."

"So he's one of your marks," Trent says.

I feel my stomach drop. I never, for a single second, thought Trent paid enough attention to me and my work, even when I tried to talk to him about it, to be able to say something like that all these months later.

"He's not one of my marks," I laugh, a little too nervously. "He's a… he's my…"

Marcus saves me again, conversationally this time.

"This woman is mine," he explains to Trent. "Now I understand that when you accosted her on the street and refused to let her go, even though she told you she needed to do so several times, you didn't know she belonged to me. But you see, you need to treat every woman you encounter as though she belongs to someone more powerful than you. Because she probably does."

Trent is pulling against his bindings. I don't think he's scared of Marcus. I don't know if Trent actually has the ability to be scared of anyone. He's the sort of guy who gets into bar fights for fun.

"You should untie me," he says. "Then we'd see who the tough guy is, tough guy."

Marcus hesitates for a second. I see his face change, just a little. There's a darkness in his eyes, and a certain tension around his jaw. He's smiling, but not in a way anybody should ever smile.

"I don't think you want me to untie you," he says.

"Yes, I do. I'm going to kick the shit out of you, old man."

"Charlie, go upstairs," Marcus says.

I have a horrible feeling deep inside, as if this might be the very last time I see Trent. He is such a stupid man, and he has no understanding of the situation he is in.

"I don't think I should."

I'm worried Marcus is going to do something terrible, and as much as Trent deserves only the worst of things to happen to him, it doesn't feel right leaving him to the tender criminal mercy of an annoyed billionaire.

"Go. Upstairs. Charlie." Marcus enunciates every single one of his words very carefully. He is not looking at me at all. He is looking dead at Trent with a locked-on stare that concerns me.

"He's not worth killing," I say. "He's nobody. He's nothing."

"Shut up, Charlie!" Trent curses at me.

Marcus grabs me by the scruff of the neck, turns me around, and smacks my ass hard enough to make me cry out. Tears leap to my eyes as my rear stings with an instant intense pain.

"Do as you're told," Marcus growls.

I don't like the way he is speaking to me. There's nothing sweet about it, or warm. He's not being indulgent, as he has been almost every time, even when whipping me senseless. Right now, he is ice cold and absolutely dominant.

"Please don't…"

Smack !

Another hard blow lands across my ass. This time, tears don't just leap to my eyes, they start to flow down my cheeks as I burst into sobs.

I stand my ground, though. Because I have the sense that the second I step out of the room, Trent is dead. He deserves a lot of terrible things to happen to him, but he doesn't deserve to fucking die. He is too stupid to realize that's what's going to happen, but Marcus' bloodied knuckles and Trent's bloody, swollen face tell the story of what has happened, and what is yet to happen.

"Do as you're told, Charlie," he says. "You've already earned yourself a punishment with this disobedience."

"I can't let you kill him."

Marcus sighs, picks me up physically, and carries me out of the room. It is impossible to fight this approach. I can feel his annoyance in the way he is touching me, in the impatient shortness of his breath, and the way his jaw is clenched. It's a long elevator ride up in the arms of a very annoyed billionaire master.

"You need to learn to obey me," he growls as he carries me into his bedroom, tosses me down on the bed, and slaps my ass several more times. Each time his palm lands, it is a hard gunshot-like sound followed by one of my pathetic, plaintive cries. "When I tell you to leave a room, you leave a room. You do not question me."

I can't argue. I can't breathe or speak enough to argue. He is spanking me mercilessly, hard and fast, and there is nothing about his demeanor that makes me think he would want to hear my opinion. He has always been the type to give commands and expect them to be obeyed, but right now, he is prepared to do whatever it takes to ensure I submit.

"Okay! I'm sorry! I'll do what you say!"

"Yes," he says, giving me one last smack. "You will."

He stalks out of the room, leaving me in tears. I have never experienced him that way before—actually angry. He still had self-control when he spanked me, but I could feel the cool dominance and the absolute intensity of his resolve. Marcus has absolutely no intention of being disobeyed for long. He will happily break my will before he allows that to happen.

I lie on the bed for some time, sniveling and feeling immensely sorry for myself. My ass is aching, and my pride is non-existent. He has stripped that from me and left me writhing in his wake.

Slowly, I start to recover. The shock of being treated this way is starting to wear off, and I am starting to remember a few things—like he doesn't actually own me. I've been playing into his sick control fantasies in order to get closer to him, to verify some of the worst rumors I've heard about him. It might be that Trent fucking dies tonight because I had to follow this unhinged urge for justice.

He had no right to spank me like that. He had no right to treat me like an animal he owns and can punish for errant behavior. No matter what delusions he labors under, people are still born free in this country, and even the mighty can fall.

I pull on a shirt of his which is long enough to cover my ass, and I pad through his place. I know I already have enough on Marcus to create an absolute media firestorm.

I have been marked. There is a fucking chip in my neck. That alone would be enough. But I want more evidence. I don't want this to come down to what sounds like sexual impropriety, because that never sticks to men. People expect men, especially rich, powerful men to be sick bastards. Where they really get angry is when it comes to financial crimes.

I'm never going to have enough time to uncover something like that tonight. But while he's downstairs killing Trent, I do have time to use the little ace up my sleeve that I have been hiding this entire time.

I have a little tube of lipstick in my purse. The same purse I've had on me from the beginning. It goes unnoticed because a girl's cosmetics are almost always beyond male scrutiny. There's even an actual color inside it, so I can apply it to my lips if need be. It's the base of the lipstick that's interesting. If you turn it counter-clockwise, it comes off and there's a little USB connector inside—because this isn't a connector. This is a storage device, and a transmitter. It came in a package sent to me by Libraryleaks right back in the beginning. I never thought I'd get the chance to use it. I thought I'd never have the nerve to use it.

Now I am the right combination of furious and upset to not care.

I plug it into Marcus' computer, and I sit beneath his desk as the tool does its work. It will be copying every file it can get its little digital fingers on, including email, and anything encrypted.

Trent doesn't think very highly of me, and Marcus obviously thinks I'm no better than an animal, but I did not come to this rodeo without a lasso of my own.

There's a muted beep that sounds when it is finished copying. I slip it out of his computer and put it back into the lipstick base. That's where the real magic starts. It begins to transmit, using a battery and a very small wireless device, sending all the information it just gathered to a decentralized network of servers.

I just took Marcus Waterstone's personal files and disseminated them to every hacker on the planet, effectively. What I just did has the potential to make Wikileaks look like a gossip rag.

If he hadn't just thrashed me, I might not have done it. I certainly didn't take the first opportunity that presented itself—but when it comes down to it, hot as he is, Marcus Waterstone is one of the world's true villains, and he deserves to be exposed.

Revenge doesn't make me feel better, though. If anything, it makes me feel slightly nauseous. He's going to be furious when he finds out, and I know he will find out. There's a seventy-two hour hold on the information once it hits the servers. That's so hackers like me can get the hell out of dodge before all hell breaks loose.

I wonder what he'd do to me if he caught me. The thought makes me shudder.

A second soft beep and buzz confirms that the information has been transmitted. I now have ninety seconds to dispose of the device before it…

"Ow!" I curse as it gets suddenly incredibly hot.

Fortunately, Marcus Waterstone has a fireplace in his office. All the best villains do. I toss the lipstick in there and watch as it self-immolates, destroying all traces and remnants of evidence.

That's it.

It's over.

I've done what I came to do.

There's a certain anti-climactic feel to the whole thing. It's like I expected something to happen. But nothing is happening, besides my aching ass reminding me that I need to get out of Marcus' office before anybody sees me.

I know there's a possibility there's a camera somewhere in here. I know there's a very high chance he'll know it was me once the information gets disseminated.

I could run now. Maybe I should run now.

"Charlie!"

I scoot out of his office as quickly as I can, dipping through every other room I can get to before he finds me. I don't care if he finds me in the lounge, the library, the kitchen, the bathroom, one of the spare bedrooms, the game room, the movie theater—I just don't want him to know that I was in his office.

I am as nervous as I have ever been as I dart into the kitchen, throw the freezer open, and do my best to cover my ass by literally grabbing a bag of peas and pressing them against my butt as if I am trying to soothe the heat and ache from his spanking.

Marcus

I find her disheveled, tear-stained, wearing one of my shirts, and trying to soothe her butt with a bag of peas that I know Chef would refuse to use if he saw this. Hell, he's probably never going to use them anyway. The man's obsessed with fresh produce. But that's not what matters right now. What matters is the adorable, sulky, sweet pet who is looking at me as if I am the biggest monster in the world.

It's not fear.

Or perhaps it is. But it is something more than fear, too. It is a strength that I know means trouble for both of us. She's far from broken.

"Did you kill him?"

"It doesn't matter what I did to him. He is nothing. He is less than nothing. You, on the other hand, worry me a great deal, pet."

"Don't worry about me," she says. "I'm fine. I can take more than you think."

That's a challenge. She's not afraid of me, even though I know that last round of spanking got to her. It was harder than I wanted to do it, but she wasn't listening, and I can't have a pet that doesn't get out of rooms when I tell her to. She was in danger, and she was willing to put herself in more just to try to stop me from killing her ex.

"Are you still in love with Trent?"

A laugh escapes her involuntarily.

"Sorry," she says. "But that's very funny. I never loved Trent. I just wanted to stop him from being murdered brutally. There's a lot of gray area there."

"Perhaps, but you don't need to be in it. When I tell you to do something, it's for your own safety. He was a dangerous young man, and he was more than willing to hurt you. He didn't even care about his own well-being. He wanted violence, and he chose death."

I see her suck in a breath, her eyes welling with emotion. Perhaps she did have some lingering fondness for him that she just doesn't want to admit to. It is better that he is out of the picture. She does not need any more assistance in the art of behaving badly.

Charlie

"Have you stopped having your little temper tantrum yet?"

He's talking to me like I pitched a fit just because I didn't get my own way.

"Did you kill him?"

A muscle in Marcus' jaw twitches. "You really think I'd do that, don't you."

"I think you do whatever you want," I say, being surprisingly bold. I do believe Marcus is dangerous. He is dangerous to me, and to others. He is a pure predator, and he has made the streets of this city his territory. I think he could kill quite literally anybody and get away with it at this point.

He takes a step toward me. He has always been big and tall, but he looks even bigger and taller now. Imposing is the word. I have to work not to shrink away from him. There is something in his gaze that wasn't there before, a certain intensity and perhaps even mistrust.

"Trent mentioned you'd been working on stories about the corruption of the rich."

"Did he?" I try to keep my tone light. "I'm surprised he remembered anything about me. He never seemed to care."

"He did. He said you were obsessed, even to the point of getting jobs to infiltrate their inner circles."

"Wow, I sound motivated."

I can't deny the charges. That would be lying, and I want to be able to tell him that I've never lied to him.

Marcus

She is lying through her teeth. I can see how afraid she is. I can practically smell her guilt. It is an ashy, acrid scent. This is what I wanted. I wanted to be betrayed again, but this time, to have all the elements in my control.

She's playing right into my hands. She has no choice. She hasn't had a choice from the beginning. I knew what she was. I knew what she wanted. But still, it is so satisfying to have a plan come together. Even one like this, that burns me to my fucking core.

I'm wondering if I am strong enough to withstand this thing I am doing to her and to myself. This was always going to be a twisted, terrible thing.

I'm going to go through with it.

"Get on your hands and knees." My voice is rough, hard, and dominant.

She hesitates for a second. I can see the fear in her eyes. She is absolutely terrified—and she should be. Her fear makes my cock twitch. Angry as I am, she still turns me on.

I am going to fuck each and every one of her holes until she begs for mercy. I am going to make her suffer, and I am going to take pleasure in that suffering.

Before she has a chance to ready herself, I have her on the floor, clothes askew, and she is stuck on my cock, squirming and wriggling. Her pussy grips me tightly, her inner walls slick with the kind of arousal you only get when you are terribly afraid.

She gasps and she grips me and she tries to milk my cock for all she is worth. I think my unfortunate little pet wants this to be over with already. I think her cunt is getting more sore and swollen with every thrust of my cock. She is puffy and she is tight. Her eyes are similarly wet.

I have not told her that I know what she did to me, but her guilt is clear in the way she takes this punishing fucking. She is soaking it up, basking in my punitive fury.

This should not be this hot. She shouldn't be enjoying me so much. She should be absolutely broken.

I pull out of her pussy, throw her over my knee and spank her hard. Her ass becomes a brighter and brighter red with every slap, turning into a handsome rouge hue.

"Ow! Ow! "

She should know that she has turned on me, and that her life from here on out is going to be nothing but pain.

My cock is hard as hell, and it only gets harder when she starts to cry again. I'd like to fuck her using those traitorous tears as lube.

I reach around, cup her face, and swipe my fingers over her cheeks, gathering her tears on my fingers. I lift my fingers to my mouth, tasting her remorse. She tastes like salt and sadness, but not enough.

Her ass is waiting for me. There's no tail in the way tonight, which means that hole of hers is ready for the taking.

I'll use lubricant, because I want to be able to do this again, and because even in the very depths of desire, there's some part of me that doesn't want to entirely destroy her. I want to keep her usable for the future.

"It's too big," she whimpers in the way all filthy little sluts do when their asses are about to be fucked long and hard.

"It's not too big. It's perfect for your hot little ass," I tell her. "You could stretch for me even wider than this. Count yourself lucky that it's just my cock. I could put so many more things in your ass. I could stretch both of your holes until you were nothing but a vessel for my accoutrements. I'll turn you into a fucking desk caddy for me, tie you up and keep my pencils in your pussy…"

The more I threaten her with these terrible, demeaning things, the harder my cock gets and the more her pussy coats me with desire. She's enjoying this too much. My fury and my arousal are doing nothing more than turning her on. I don't know what I am going to do with her, but I know I am going to make sure she suffers properly.

I take just a moment to lubricate her with a dash of olive oil from the kitchen cabinet first. She keeps wriggling and squirming as I hold her cheeks apart and ensure there's enough lube. I do not intend to be gentle with her. I intend to make this hurt. Once I am satisfied, I pull out of her soaked pussy and plunge into her ass.

She is tight and she is hot and she will soon be sorry. This is where I am going to come. This is the hole I am going to use, her tight little tail is going to pleasure me.

Her whines, wails, and cries only make me harder as I fuck her with a ruthless, pounding tempo. I am taking my pleasure, and I am letting her feel pain because that is what she deserves. She had a chance to redeem herself. To confess, or simply to change course. But she didn't.

I fuck her ass hard, grinding her into the floor, fucking her prone like the traitorous little animal she is. I can smell her arousal, and I know that in spite of how rough I am being, there is some part of her that absolutely loves being handled this way.

I growl as my orgasm gets closer. There's no holding it back, and I don't even try. I fill her ass with my come, and I leave her lying on the kitchen floor for a moment, a pathetic little rag having soaked up my seed and my rage.

It takes her a little while to recover enough to sit up. When she does, her makeup is streaked with tears. She gives me a look that would be pitiful if she deserved mercy. I feel my cock twitch as l look down at her. She almost looks broken, but I know she's not. There are still too many secrets between us for that.

"Why are you doing this?"

Oh what a helpless little question that is. I could almost believe she didn't understand.

"I think you know why. Why don't you tell me why I would be punishing you, pet?"

"Is it something to do with Trent?"

"It is absolutely nothing to do with Trent, and everything to do with you, Charlie."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes. You. Do."

Charlie

Marcus gets up and stalks away from me.

My ass is aching, my pussy is doing that terrible pulsing thing it does when it has been left on the verge of orgasm. I am so keyed up and so…

Slap !

That is the sound of rumpled paper hitting marble floor as Marcus throws the notebook down in front of me.

The one I hid in Sasha's apartment. I have a brief mental image of her place torn apart in what they'll probably make look like a robbery, and I feel angry as hell. Finding that is going to traumatize Sasha, I know it. She won't understand what's happened. She'll think she's been targeted. She won't feel safe in the place she lives. It's going to be something she thinks back on for years, probably, and changes the way she relates to the world.

"I know what you've been up to," he says.

"You do?" I try to stay calm. That notebook has some stuff in it, but it doesn't have anything truly incriminating. It has the notes of an indie journalist who would quite like to write a hit piece. It doesn't have the notes of someone who is going to bring him to his fucking knees.

I can't panic. The seventy-two hour window isn't over yet. So he doesn't know I have anything more than these relatively limited notes.

"You hid this in an apartment of a friend," he says.

"So?"

"So?" He quirks a dangerous brow at me. "Is that all you have to say?"

"You killed Trent. Who cares what little notes I made?"

The muscle in his jaw twitches, and he looks at me with an expression that is somewhere between frustration and being genuinely impressed with my tenacity.

"You think I killed Trent, so you also think the best idea is to give me an attitude when I ask you about your little hidden book of observations?"

"I think you're going to do to me what you're going to do to me, and what I say doesn't really matter."

Marcus looks at me with a dark gaze completely devoid of mercy. "I think you're right."