32. Talia

Chapter 32

Talia

M y head throbs in time with my heartbeat, my jaw aches from the press of a gag, and my left hip radiates sharp pulses of pain—either from falling to asphalt beneath Gabe’s weight or slamming against the walls of a car trunk while unconscious.

The physical discomfort is manageable. The oily fear in my mind is harder to control.

I’m not blindfolded. I know who my kidnappers are—Bradley Mills and Oliver McCann. And I know where we are thanks to my unwilling tour of the downstairs of the house, including a hallway with portraits of Oliver and his wife.

They have no intention of keeping me alive.

Bradley and Oliver argue in low tones on the other side of a massive, ostentatious kitchen—all dark wood, granite, high coffered ceilings, and gilded wallpaper. They’ve been at it off and on since dragging me kicking and screaming to a chair and tying my wrists behind my back.

Keeping my gaze trained on them, I will them to continue arguing. The longer they don’t pay attention to me, the closer I get to freeing my hands. The rope is a cheap, hardware-store variety. Horrible for bondage, it produces bulky knots and abrades the skin. The knots themselves are amateur and would normally be a breeze for me, but my hands are shaking.

Oliver’s voice lifts, thick with irritation. “For the last time, I didn’t know there’d be three of them.”

He looks nothing like the man I’ve met twice before—his face is pasty and sweaty, his eyes bloodshot with abnormally constricted pupils. I don’t know what drugs he’s taken, but I hope they give him a heart attack.

“Get the fuck over it,” he continues. “You survived and you’ll get your payday. We both will.”

I freeze as Bradley’s gaze shifts to me. Staring into his brown eyes, I see nothing of the man who came to me years ago, equally desperate for and ashamed of his desire for a woman to dominate him. I saw him for three months, until the day he showed up with flowers and a declaration of love.

Charlie warned me early on about the risk of clients developing emotional attachments. The newer they were to kink, the more vigilant we needed to be. I was always careful, maintaining emotional distance while committed to the role I played. My aftercare routines rarely included touching, revolving instead around serving them comfort foods and drinks, heated blankets, and the like.

In my seven years as a working dominatrix, Bradley was one of only three to develop feelings for me, and he’s the only one who slipped through the cracks. No warning signs, no red flags. He was perfectly polite, respectful, and never breached the boundaries I set.

As irritated with myself as I’d been for missing the cues of his infatuation, I’d let none of my emotion show as I’d gently reiterated that my actions in our sessions and afterward didn’t mean I harbored feelings for him. I then referred him to a kink-friendly therapist. He was disappointed and hurt, which was natural, but he’d seemed accepting. We never spoke again, and I never thought of him again until I read the article in which he basically accused me of brainwashing him.

“I want something else, too,” he says.

There’s no mistaking the innuendo. Rage smothers my guilt, dissolving the fog of fear from my mind. I hold his stare, unblinking.

Fuck you, I tell him silently . I’m the bigger predator here. Even if you hurt me, I will never submit.

His gaze drops, then snaps back to me. Fury flushes his cheeks.

“Fine, whatever,” Oliver says, mopping his damp forehead with his forearm. “After I get the confirmation I need, she’s all yours.”

Ice wraps around my spine. I’m glad Bradley’s attention is back on Oliver, otherwise he’d see how terrified those words made me. I’m under no illusions I can stop him from hurting me by glaring at him.

My fingers scramble to loosen the last knots.

“Then quit wasting time and make the call,” Bradley snarls.

Oliver gets even redder. “You work for me, asshole.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

Oliver’s eyes dart to me before he hisses through clenched teeth, “Shut the fuck up.”

Doors suddenly unlock and open in my mind, connecting disjointed observations. Their combativeness. Bradley’s attitude; Oliver’s anxiety and overall lack of composure. The comment about both of them getting their payday.

Someone else is pulling the strings.

My heart dances from side to side, amplifying the pounding in my temples. Lowering my head, I attempt to slow my breathing.

“Okay. Here we go.”

I glance up to see Oliver tap the screen of a cell phone. Ringing fills the kitchen. Three trills later, the line connects. Voice distorted by an app, he asks, “Are you prepared to take me seriously now?”

“Yes,” answers Kieran. “I’ll give you whatever you want if she’s released unharmed.”

A whimper leaks around my gag.

“Good,” says Oliver. “You have one hour to confirm that the lab in Limerick, including all research and prototypes, has been destroyed. ”

I expect Kieran to say that’s impossible—because surely it is—but instead he says, “Done. I want proof Talia’s okay. Let me hear her voice.”

Oliver nods at Bradley, who pulls the gun from his belt and stalks toward me. His fingers dig cruelly at the corner of my mouth, pulling the gag off my tongue and yanking it down over my chin. He smiles at my wince of pain, his eyes promising more. The muzzle of the gun taps against my temple.

Oliver approaches and angles the phone toward my face.

“Kieran,” I croak. “I’m sorry.”

“None of that now, mo ghrá,” he says, his low, tender tone bringing tears to my eyes. “Are you all right?”

The gun presses harder to my head, squashing a brief impulse to blurt out Oliver’s name. My own mortality overwhelms me. Grief suffocates me, clogging my throat with tears.

“This isn’t your fault, Kieran. Remember that, please—” Bradley stuffs the gag back in my mouth.

“Talia? Talia!”

I scream around the gag as Oliver walks away. “As you heard, she’s fine. Do your part, and she’ll stay in one piece. You have sixty minutes. Goodbye, Mr. Hayes.”

Kieran yells three words before the line disconnects.

Oliver frowns at the phone, then sighs and swipes a hand over his hair. “I need a fucking drink.” He glances at me, a hint of apology in his expression before looking at Bradley. “No permanent damage. We might still need her. ”

“No interruptions,” retorts Bradley.

Oliver’s lip curls. “I’ll be in my office. Don’t do anything stupid like untie her or kill her.”

He strides from the room.

Bradley taps the gun against my head. “Just you and me now.”

My stomach tumbles, but the sensation is distant—a physical reflex. In this moment, no fear touches me.

Kieran’s three words are my shield.

“Hold fast, Birdie.”

He knows who I am .

As the revelation settles, so does the conviction that I will do anything—even sell my soul—to get back to him.

Oblivious to the compass of my morality aligning to a new north, Bradley drags the muzzle of the gun down my neck and across my chest. He’s breathing hard, his eyes fixed on my breasts as he rubs the metal roughly against them. My nipples firm under the assault.

I ignore the violation, my mind churning through various plans of action. I’m getting the fuck out of here, and if a life is the price, I’ll pour Bradley’s blood in the Devil’s cup myself.

“Do you know how many times I’ve imagined this?” he whispers.

At his words, the final puzzle pieces align and lock. My plan solidifies.

I work my tongue against wet fabric in my mouth. “I’m sorry,” I say, the words garbled .

His crazed eyes find mine. “What’s that? You’re sorry?” He grins, sharp and humorless. “You think that will save you?”

I shake my head, my eyes conveying regret and helplessness. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He stares at my mouth, frowning as he tries to decipher the words. Come on, asshole, you know you want to hear my voice. After what feels like an eternity, he lays the gun on the counter behind him and yanks out my gag.

Before I can speak, he grabs me by the throat and squeezes hard. With his other hand, he rips my blouse open. His fingers roughly fondle my breasts. I don’t have to fake my cry of pain.

“How does it feel knowing you’re not in control?” he spits out.

The last knot on my wrists comes undone. I fist the rope to keep it from falling to the floor.

Finally, his grip on my neck loosens a fraction. I suck in air, my heart thundering and my eyes watering. I gasp out, “I’m sorry, Bradley. Truly. I didn’t mean to hurt you. How can I make it up to you? I’ll do anything.”

He sucks in a breath, eyes full of loathing and lust roaming my face and breasts. “Anything, huh? What if I asked you to lick my shoes? To beg me for the privilege?”

Memory supplies context for his words: his primary kink was degradation, both physical and verbal. I’d given him exactly what he wanted, reading and adjusting to his cues over the course of our appointments. He left my care sated and blissful each time—or so I thought.

Guilt descends like a shroud, but it’s sliced to pieces almost instantly. This isn’t my fault. I treated him like all my clients, with compassion and care. Whatever twisted him into the mentally unstable person he is now, it has nothing to do with me. I’m merely the vehicle for his self-loathing.

“If that’s what you want, I’ll do it. You’re in charge.” I look down so he can’t see the lie in my eyes as I say, “Can—can I tell you something? A secret?”

I glance up to see surprise swallow his anger. Glazed eyes meet mine as he nods.

Gotcha, you stupid, sick fuck.

“I’m tired of pretending to be someone I’m not,” I whisper.

He shifts his weight, scratching a narrow, bristly cheek. “What do you mean?”

“What I did to you—that wasn’t the real me. But I was never taught any other way.” The meekness in my voice revolts me, but I stay the course. “All I know is what I’m feeling right now, tied up and at your mercy.”

He flushes, hands descending to his belt. “I knew it,” he says, his voice trembling with excitement. “I knew deep down you were a slut like her. Like all of them.”

And there it is.

Bradley didn’t need a dominatrix—he needed therapy for his mommy issues.

“You want to suck my dick, don’t you? ”

I nod, feigning eagerness even as my stomach lurches. Bile shoots up my throat; I swallow frantically.

Bradley fumbles with his pants, ripping down the zipper and exposing himself. Single-minded in his want. Utterly ignorant of the fact I’ve laid explosives in his fault line and am about to push the proverbial red button.

Before he can get his junk anywhere near my mouth, I ask hopefully, “Maybe… maybe you can sit in the chair and I can kneel between your legs? I’ve never done that before—been on my knees for someone.”

His groan is thick with phlegm. He shuffles forward and grabs one of my breasts, his other hand stroking his erection. “Since I’m a generous man, I’ll give you want you want. Get on your knees like the greedy whore you are.”

Decades of practice compartmentalizing my emotions allows me to overcome the urge to vomit all over myself. Shifting my grip on the rope, I allow the middle to unwind and slacken between my hands.

“Can I have a little help? My legs feel super weak.” I force myself to glance at his groin. “You’re really intimidating.”

He grins as he reaches for my shoulders. Adrenaline sharpens my vision and crackles through my limbs.

I let him hoist me halfway to standing before bringing my knee up as hard as I can between his legs, thanking God I wore pants tonight and they were too stupid to tie my ankles together. My full strength isn’t behind the blow, but it’s more than enough. His mouth gapes in a soundless shriek, his knees buckling. I shove him to the side, away from the counter and the gun. He falls onto his arms, keening breathlessly, hands still cupped between his legs.

Knowing I have only seconds to act, I launch onto his back and whip the rope around his neck. Then I throw my body backward, compressing his trachea and esophagus. He bucks beneath me and twists from side to side, but I simply move with him, avoiding swipes of his hands and utilizing my weight to maintain leverage.

When he realizes he can’t unseat me, panic sets in. His hands fly to his throat. He scratches at the rope in an attempt to create slack, but nothing short of a bullet to my head is going to loosen my grip. Rough fibers slice my palms, my blood mingling with Gabe’s. I feel no pain—nothing at all—the entirety of my being focused on a single, immutable goal.

I will survive. He will not.

Slowly, his flailing lessens. My muscles quiver with exhaustion, but I keep pulling. Sweat blurs my eyes. Or maybe tears. There are sounds—shouts, running footsteps—but they’re muted by the static in my head.

Is someone crying?

Bradley jerks again. I pull harder, gritting my teeth against an explosion of pain in my shoulder and back. My vision washes red.

From far away, I hear a familiar voice. But it sounds wrong, not its usual dry gravel but saturated with worry. “He’s almost gone, Kier. Get her off before she kills him!”

Bands of warm pressure surround my chest. It feels like a hug. Like a dream too perfect to be real .

“Mo ghrá,” whispers a voice against my ear, “you can let go now. You’re safe. It’s over.”

“Kieran?” I ask, but it comes out as a sob. Another follows, and another.

Oh, I’m the one crying.

“I’ve got you,” he says, voice thick with his own tears. “Let go, my love. I won’t let you fall.”

My fingers spasm and open.

I’m weightless, lifted up and away.