Somebody's Angel (#5 in a Military Romance / BDSM Romance series) (Rescue Me) (53 page)

T
he text from Adam came early the next morning. Marc had waited up all night.
“If u still want to go thru with this, b at Club at 1530 hrs today. Kitchen entrance.”

Marc had packed an overnight bag in case he needed toiletries or a change of clothes. He figured he’d either be nude or wearing the thrift-store clothes he had on now, even if he was there two full weeks. Not knowing what Adam had planned set his nerves on edge, but he had no intention of backing out now.

After rattling around in his lonely mausoleum for hours, he headed downtown a little early and grabbed some fast food on his way to the club. Probably should have eaten something healthier, but he was anxious for this scene to start—and end.

He entered the kitchen as Karla carried a plate of what looked like her peanut-butter brownies over to Adam, who was seated at the table wearing the same mock Desert MARPAT uniform he’d worn on the mission to rescue Savannah. Marc recognized it by a few stains of blood spatter that hadn’t come clean.

This time, Marc needed the rescuing. There might even be more blood spatter added to Adam’s MARPATs—his.

“Marc!” She nearly ran across the room after placing the plate on the table and wrapped her arms around him.

“Smells good,
cara
.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Marc was surprised Adam had told Karla about the upcoming scene. “My mind’s made up. It’s something I need to do.”

“I’d hate to put you out of your home, but it’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for us, and I can’t tell you how excited I am. We’d about given up hope of ever finding anything.”

The house! She was talking about selling them his house, not the upcoming scene Adam had planned. It pleased him to know that, without a doubt, he’d done one thing right. “That house needs the pitter-patter of little feet and your beautiful voice singing in the hallways.”

“Well, that kitchen is going to go to waste, unless Angie—” Karla’s face flushed, and she looked away. “Help yourself to brownies. At least I know how the oven works here! There’s way more of them than Adam needs to eat.”

Marc held one up to her first. “How about you? A chef should always sample her dishes.” Angelina had taught him that. And a lot of other things.

Karla patted her well-rounded stomach. “I’ve gained enough weight as it is. No empty calories for me.”

Adam still hadn’t acknowledged his arrival, so he munched on a brownie and watched as Adam continued to read the newspaper. The man seemed in no hurry to get the scene started. Marc glanced at the clock over the stove and saw he was twenty minutes early. Might as well take a seat at the table while he waited. But first he pulled out a chair for Karla. “Here, sit.”

“Oh, I’m fine. I’m just going to clean up my mess a little bit.”

Marc took the seat himself. His heart pounded in anticipation. Adam turned the page of the paper in silence. “The Twins don’t look like they’ll go the distance.”

Twins?

“Adam!”

Adam glanced dumbfounded at Karla; then Marc’s attention strayed to her belly. “The
Minnesota
Twins, Kitten.”

“Oh!”

Karla flushed and turned toward the sink where she continued washing the dishes.

Marc wouldn’t have expected Karla to give a rat’s ass what a Minnesota team was expected to do, given her roots were in Chicago which had no shortage of professional baseball teams, but he had no interest in talking baseball or any other sport at the moment. He made a noncommittal grunt. Adam apparently remained loyal to the local boys of summer from his childhood home.

Anxious to get going on the scene, Marc said, “I’m ready to start anytime you are, Adam.”

Adam glared at him. “What time did I tell you to be here?”

Merda.
He didn’t want to piss Adam off just before putting himself into the man’s hands for the intense scene to come. “Fifteen-thirty, Top.” Adam’s demeanor told Marc he needed to take a subordinate stance with his Marine Corps Master Sergeant now. All too soon he would be referring to him as a Top of a different sort.

“And what time is it now?”

Marc glanced at his watch. “Fifteen-seventeen.”

“You still going through with this scene?”

“Yes. All systems go.”

“Well, if you want to work with me, you’re going to follow orders to the T. Do I make myself clear?”

Shit.
Marc nearly stood at attention. “Loud and clear, Top.”

Adam returned his gaze to the sports page. After a few more minutes, Marc reached for another brownie. They were damned good. “Did you ask me for permission to have that brownie?”

Adam’s question threw him off guard. “No, but Karla offered…”

Adam stood so abruptly his chair hit the backs of his knees and toppled over with a crack. Karla turned and pressed her back against the counter, her eyes wide at the transformation in her husband. Marc had seen Adam in master sergeant mode before, mostly during those early days of Marc’s recon training with the other ropers at Pendleton. This must be new to Karla, though.

“This scene began the minute you gave me the all go, devil dog. From this point on, you don’t eat, drink, piss, or shit without permission. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Top.” Marc dropped the uneaten brownie back on the plate and stood at attention.

“Haul your ass down the hall to the head and take a piss, empty your bowels, and do whatever else you need to. Might be the last time you take advantage of the porcelain facilities for at least the next week. Then I want your ass in the dungeon, standing at attention, and waiting to spill your sorry guts by the time I get down there.”

Karla gasped, and Marc glanced at where she stood transfixed, staring at Adam. Her respirations had increased, not unlike Marc’s, but for her there was more excitement than fear as the cause.

“Leave your watch and other jewelry on the table. Empty your pockets of anything metallic. Remove your shoes and socks up here, too. Karla will stow everything until you need it again.”

What did Adam have planned? The man wasn’t into electrical play. Violet wands were Damián’s and Grant’s area of expertise. Of course, he remembered the use of Tasers in SERE school resistance training. Any one of his Marines would be proficient in the use of those tactics. Marc had no clue who would be brought into this scene. He’d given Adam
carte blanche
.

What the fuck was he getting into?

Marc leaned down to pick up his overnight bag.

“Drop it. You won’t be needing anything in that bag. I’ll decide what you need until this scene is over.”

Marc followed orders, leaving the bag in the kitchen and hitting the head before taking the stairway to the dungeon. When he walked into the room, he noticed a number of changes. A straight-back wooden chair from the kitchen had been set up behind a utilitarian wooden table about two-thirds of the way across the dungeon, both similar to one from an episode of
NCIS
. Marc listened for Adam to approach while surveying more of the dungeon. A work lamp, its bulb caged in wire, hung above the chair, reminiscent of something from one of his spy novels. Marc trusted Adam to do what needed to be done, but the level of authenticity surprised him.

Footsteps. Marc moved to…

“I told you to stand at attention.”

Too late.
“Yes, Top.” He stood straight and still, waiting.

Adam walked over to the table and uncovered a tray of implements—leather tawse, steel-gauge needles, a wire brush, dragon-tongue bullwhip, rope, a cock-and-balls chastity belt, and a black cloth. Adam ran his finger over several of the more menacing items, picking up the needle and holding it to the light. Did he know needles couldn’t be used if exposed to…

“On your fucking knees, grunt.” Without giving him time to move, Adam kicked the backs of his knees and he collapsed into the position. “Eyes on the floor.”

Not sure where to put his hands, he kept them at his side.

“Hands behind your back, wrists crossed.”

Marc’s lungs constricted as Adam worked the rope onto his arms just above the wrists. Without conscious thought, he began to strain against the rope.

“You’d better not move another fucking muscle or you’re going to wish you hadn’t.”

Marc clenched his fists but willed his body to remain still and accept the restraints, even though every nerve in his body lay poised on the edge of fight-or-flight response. After Adam had tied off the end, he hauled Marc up by the ropes at his wrists and would have wrenched his arms out of their sockets if Marc hadn’t scrambled to get his feet underneath him fast enough.

“Sit.”

Marc walked toward the chair and sat down.

“Did I tell you you’d earned the right to sit in a chair?”

“No, Top.” Marc stood and surveyed his options. The only other place to sit was on the floor, and he did so, first going to his knees and trying not to fall over with his hands restrained behind his back.

“Get your ass on the chair.”

Fuck.
Getting up would be harder than getting down here. Why didn’t he make up his mind? Once on his feet again, he waited for further instructions to clarify which position Adam wanted him in on the chair, afraid to make the same mistake twice.

“Sit, facing forward.”

Marc got up and sat in the chair as instructed. The light bulb above him shined in his eyes, but only briefly. Adam dangled a ball gag in front of Marc, and fear rose again in his throat.

“Breathe, Marc
.” Angelina’s voice helped calm him.

“Last chance to back out. Do you consent to give me free rein as to what this scene requires?”

Marc still had a choice. Adam obviously meant business. What lay ahead scared Marc shitless, but he could choose to end it now. “Yes, Top. I give unconditional consent.”

“You’re aware of the risks, including full-on psychosis, hallucinations, torture, and physical conditions intended to make you face your phobias and triggers head on?”

Marc drew a deep breath.
I’m doing this for you,
amore
. I have no choice.

“I fully understand the risks and consent.”

He also did this for himself, if he wanted to be honest. He’d been running long enough. Time to reclaim his past and start living his life.

“You’ve given up use of a safeword. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Top. I have given up my safeword.”

“If you have any numbness to extremities, muscle cramps, you name it—report those to me ASAP. I’ll determine if you’re just trying to weasel out of facing something or if a change of position is needed. Understood?”

“Yes, Top. I understand.”

“Evade the questions of any of your interrogators, and there will be consequences.”

“I understand, Top.” He remembered the sting of the crop and nylon flogger when he hadn’t been truthful to Angelina. Adam’s punishments would be so much worse.

After a long moment’s pause, Adam reached up and turned out the light, but the bulb had been burned onto Marc’s retinas where it shone yellow and bright, its cage visible still for several seconds as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the windowless cellar room. Adam placed a blindfold over Marc’s eyes. With one sense deprived, he became more aware of sounds in the room. A clock ticked somewhere, growing louder and louder. He hadn’t noticed one being in the dungeon before, certainly not a few minutes ago.

Something heavy scraped across the floor and into position nearby. Marc wondered what it could be but knew better than to speak without permission. He didn’t have to be told there would be ramifications to that breach of basic protocol. He’d been a Dom long enough, not to mention a grunt serving under Adam. He’d also submitted to Angelina once and his mouth had gotten him in a lot of trouble.

Adam’s suede combat boots barely made a sound on the floor. The silence dragged out.

Without warning, Adam ripped the blindfold off Marc’s face and hauled him out of the chair by the collar of his shirt. Once on his feet, he shoved him across the floor until Marc’s chest rammed against the wall. Adam’s voice roared in his ears, his mouth mere inches away.

Adam spoke in a calm, commanding voice. “Your ass is mine now, grunt. You will do as you’re told until I release you from this scene. You will answer my questions, every fucking one of them, with total honesty. You understand?”

“Yes, Top.”

“I’m not your master sergeant anymore. You will refer to me as Sir. We’re in a fucking BDSM dungeon in a fucking RACK scene, not on some military base where I have to comply with the Geneva Convention or the Uniform Code of Military Justice. You got that?”

“Yes, Sir.” It sounded strange to Marc to call him sir. Adam wouldn’t stand for any of his Marines to do so, nor his Navy Corpsman. But Marc had better get used to it pronto.

Adam loosened his grip and stepped away. Marc remained in place breathing hard and deep, well on his way to hyperventilating before he employed meditation techniques to try and calm his nerves. Adam slipped the black hood over Marc’s head. He’d seen them used in scenes to totally block out a submissive’s sight. They’d also been used in SERE resistance training.