Somebody's Angel (#5 in a Military Romance / BDSM Romance series) (Rescue Me) (55 page)

Marc’s legs shook with the effort of holding his body upright. How long had he been sitting in the chair? Adam had gone relatively silent after asking questions about Marc’s past. How much time had passed while he’d gotten lost in memories of Gino and their childhood?

“Here’s your chance to piss in the bucket, if you have to go.”

Adam led Marc several steps to what he assumed was the bucket he’d seen when he surveyed the dungeon after he’d first come down here. Adam held Marc’s cock like a mother might when training her toddler. It took him a long while, but Marc finally heard the stream of piss hitting the bottom of the bucket.

Adam knew what had to be done to break him—humiliation and demoralization would play a part in it, for sure. Marc would gladly forego food and water if it would help him reach the breaking point faster, not that Adam had offered him anything to eat. Food he could live without, but he’d been given the bare minimum of water he’d need to survive without having his kidneys shut down.

No way did he see how this scene was going to accomplish anything Marc wanted to uncover. He trusted Adam too much to suspend belief and see him as a heartless inquisitor. How was he supposed to dig up answers if Adam asked so few questions? He’d spent a lifetime burying shit like that memory of Gino and their lair.

A lair? Who called their childhood hideout a lair? He wondered what it had looked like and regretted that Adam had disturbed the memory before he’d seen it again with his mind’s eye.

Gone. Again.

Adam said nothing. Marc stood, waiting. What if the scene was over? Would Adam give up on him? No! They hadn’t gotten anywhere! Disappointment flooded his senses that another attempt at getting to the root of his problems had failed.

“Arms in front.”

Adrenaline pumped through his veins instantly. This scene wasn’t over! Marc extended his arms in front of him, anxious to continue. His shoulders ached from having been in the same unnatural position for however long. He shook them out before presenting them to Adam. At least, he assumed Adam stood in front of him. That’s where his voice had come from on the last command. The room was still pitch black, his hood firmly in place.

Adam wrapped something around Marc’s left wrist and pulled tight. A cuff. Adam easily slipped his finger between Marc’s skin and the padded leather. Not too tight. He then cuffed the right wrist. A raspy noise and jerking motion with his hands told him Adam was threading rope through the D-rings.

“Lift your arms.”

Marc did so and soon found himself restrained from the ceiling, an eyebolt, he supposed. Adam adjusted the ropes until only Marc’s toes made contact with the floor. The strain on his arms hurt more, because this was the opposite of how his arms had been restrained so far.

Silence. No more questions. No commands.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Even the clock became white noise after a while. The quiet left Marc sinking slowly into his own dark thoughts. Only this time, memories of Gino with Melissa clouded his mind.

“She’s not worth this, Marc. Why don’t you think with your head for once, you asshole?”

Gino slammed him against the wall and restrained Marc’s arms above his head.

Somehow, Marc managed to shake him off, or perhaps Gino released him. Marc surveyed the scene in the bedroom, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. Where had Melissa gone? After what he’d just seen, did he care? Marc grabbed his jacket and left Gino behind. If he wanted her so badly, then he could have her. Fuck them both!

Marc’s head nodded, and he jerked back into his stance.

Slap!

The sting of the tawse across his bare ass stung momentarily, but he soon grew too tired to care. Definitely a tawse, though. He’d felt it before. When?

How long had he been hanging in this position? Sleep wasn’t advisable if he wanted to keep from hanging by his wrists, so he fought to stay awake and try to keep his legs steady.

Adam made no sound at all. Was he even there? Surely, he was. Adam wouldn’t abandon him, not like so many others had done in his life. His birth parents. Melissa. Gino.

Angelina.

His chest ached at the thought that she’d walked away like all the rest.

Marc tried to adjust his position but had very little wiggle room. Surely Adam would cut him down soon. How long would he have to remain in this position? He fought the urge to call out to his friend, not wanting to mess with the scene. Adam would interact with him when the time was right. He knew how to break a man in an interrogation.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Crack!

The sting of something on his shoulder dissipated more slowly than that from the tawse.
Merda
, it stung. Marc fought his restraints, shifting on his toes again to relieve a bit of the strain on his shoulders.

Adam! It took a while, but Marc’s mind registered he was no longer alone. The sense of relief washing over him made the sting in his shoulders more bearable for a moment. Adam hadn’t left or, if he had, he’d returned. How long had Marc slept before Adam had woken him so abruptly? His arms ached from hanging.

“Enjoy your nap?”

He was told to answer truthfully. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good, because that’ll be the last one you’ll have for a while. Time for some music.”

Adam placed a headset over his ears. The padded headphones masked some of the ambient noise in the room. Marc waited, unsure what music his master sergeant had chosen. He expected loud and obnoxious if they were using sleep-deprivation tactics. Marc preferred Italian opera or…

The first chords of the “music” blasted forth. Way too loud. A demonic voice screamed into his ear.

Tangled in a web of reversed lies

and my reflection is the one that’s on my side.

Now lies the choice between regret and time.

Marc’s nerves, already on edge from a lack of sleep and time/space disorientation, screamed, too. One cacophonous “song” bled into the next. Damián had to have done this. Did that mean Adam had told him about the scene? Was he going to be involved? The man was into serious metal music. This crap made Marc’s jaws ache. How could anyone call this shit music?

Marc couldn’t always tell when one track ended and another began but needed to keep his focus. He guessed there had been eight or nine of them. If each lasted three or four minutes, he’d been listening for twenty-five to thirty-five minutes. Focusing on the number of songs could help him keep track of time. Not that he had any idea how much time had passed already. He needed to keep his mind occupied.

Focus.

Time—and the noise—droned on without a break. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen tracks.

I am a dominant gene – live as I die

Never say forever ’cause forever’s a lie

Was he a Dominant? He didn’t have a clue.

Slap!

The tawse this time slapping his thigh jerked Marc awake. How the hell had he fallen asleep with that god-awful crap blaring in his ears? Marc couldn’t think about the present, much less the past. Fuck. He’d lost count of the number of tracks. How long had he slept this time? Was Adam waking him up immediately or letting him rest some to skew his ability to judge the passage of time?

A memory’s a memory until it’s a fact

I can bury the hatchet and let some shit go

But I got too many grudges to hold!

He’d never let go of one grudge. Awfully hard to bury the hatchet with someone who didn’t exist anymore.

Gino, why did you betray me?

Slap!

Fuck, that hurt! Same spot on his thigh, still sore from the last slap. Did that mean he hadn’t remained awake very long? He’d never played with a tawse and had no idea how long the sting lasted. Yet it was oddly familiar.

He needed to stay awake. He hadn’t even been down here all that long—had he? Hell, he had no fucking clue what time—or day—it was anymore. Every time Marc’s head nodded and he dozed off, Adam slapped his ass or thigh with the tawse and woke him, but Marc had no clue about time anymore. He also couldn’t control his yawns, although moving his jaw was difficult under the tight hood.

Tired. Bone tired. After a hellacious week of very little sleep, being further deprived of sleep while having his senses bombarded by this incessant noise left his body and mind screaming for escape.

No way out. He’d given Adam complete authority—no, control. Adam didn’t remove the headphones to speak to him. Instead, he just kept waking him with the tawse. At least he assumed Adam was doing it. He needed to sleep, though, and if this went beyond eighteen hours or so, he would have brought Damián or Grant from the club to wield the implement in order for Adam to take breaks.

Marc hadn’t been smacked by the tawse for such a long time, he wondered if Adam was still here.

Sleep is overrated.

How many times had he heard Adam say that? So perhaps he hadn’t taken a sleep break. As a Navy Corpsman, he’d seen Marines appear awake who no longer responded to wakeful stimuli. Micro-sleeps lasted mere seconds. Had he zoned out in one of those?

What if Adam had left him here alone, though? Marc didn’t want to be left alone down here.

His mouth was dry, but no one had offered another drink since the first one however long ago.
Auuuggghhhhh.
A cramp in his right calf had him screaming in pain, but he couldn’t put enough pressure on it to relieve it. Would Adam come to his aid or leave him dangling from the ceiling?

“Leg cramp, Sir!”

A tug on the rope above him and Marc felt himself start to fall before his back was slammed against the wall. He’d been cut down. Adam hadn’t left him! Wrists still cuffed, arms aching at yet another change in position, he stood as Adam massaged the cramp in his calf away. He gritted his teeth as Adam’s hands caused more pain than comfort at first, but slowly the cramp eased.

Adam broke contact, and Marc continued to lean against the wall, uncertain his legs would hold him without the crutch. The hood was lifted off his lower face, and a cold, hard plastic bottle pressed against his lips. He opened wide to gulp down the precious water. When no more poured from the bottle, his tongue reached out to lick the lip of the bottle for any remaining drops.
Dio
, he wanted more!

Marc waited on the floor for an indeterminate time.

The headset continued to blare into his ears. If Adam said anything, Marc couldn’t hear. No one touched him any further.

Abandoned. Again.

Where did that thought come from? Adam wouldn’t abandon him. Even if he had to leave, Marc was merely alone, not
abandoned
. He had spent time alone many times. Sometimes he preferred being alone.

Until Angelina.

Why did he feel so much more insecure now at the thought of being left alone?

His mind flashed back to another time when he’d felt alone. His whole world had been blown apart…along with his big brother.

The casket had remained closed at the funeral home visitation. Gino’s body had been too mangled by the mortar for the mortician to even try to make him look like he once had. Mama insisted on holding onto her memories of him alive.

Numb. Marc felt numb. He stood apart in the corner, observing as Sandro comforted Mama while Carmella, her face streaked with tears, accepted the condolences of the many people standing in line. Melissa, dressed in a tight black cocktail dress, was being fussed over by some of her friends from college. She took to being the near-widow like a hand to a glove, but did she really love Gino the way he deserved? Hell, they hardly knew each other.

Except for business interactions, his family had left him alone since they’d returned to Aspen following Gino’s funeral. Did Mama and Papa blame Marc for Gino enlisting in the Marines—blame him for getting the favored son killed?

No, that wasn’t logical. Gino had enlisted because their adopted country had been attacked.

Marc’s gaze returned to his former girlfriend. Melissa. Why he’d ever thought he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, he didn’t understand anymore.

Comparing her to Angelina, well, there
was
no comparison. How had he and Gino both been so blind?

The first volley of the twenty-one gun salute jolted Marc’s senses and brought him back to Fort Logan where Gino had been laid to rest. Row upon row of military-issue tombstones covered the hillside. Snow blanketed the ground, except where Marc and his family stood preparing to say their final good-bye to the once-vibrant Gino D’Alessio.

Rage filled him at the tragic waste.

“Why did you leave me behind, Gino? You promised…”

He screamed the words in his head, but didn’t utter a sound aloud. If he screamed, Adam would punish him…

He couldn’t hear himself think anymore. He didn’t have permission to speak. Adam was watching, listening, protecting.

Wasn’t he? Wanting some kind of confirmation he wasn’t alone, even if it meant painful punishment, Marc screamed, “Adam! Where the fuck are you?”

No response. Adam was gone.

Fear clawed at Marc, but he refused to give it a foothold. Adam would be back. Maybe he’d gone to the head.

Marc remembered waking up in Fallujah with Adam watching over him from across the room. His master sergeant told Marc all about Gino, the Marine. Gino, the hero.

He didn’t blame Adam for abandoning him, now that he knew Marc had failed at all attempts to play the hero.

Angelina had been beaten senseless by Sir Asshole, because Marc had been late to arrive at the club for his dungeon monitor duties.

Sergeant Miller had bled out before he could reach him. No, there was nothing he could have done for Miller. He’d been dead before Marc had answered the “Corpsman Up!” call and made it to the rooftop to render aid.

But Damián lost his foot in the same attack. Could a more experienced corpsman have saved it? In those days, training was accelerated to get as many corpsmen in the field as possible, with the country fighting combat in two active arenas.