Marie Harte - Fortune's Favor

Movement stopped, he heard the sound of a car door opening, and light blinded him.

“Not yet, Sleeping Beauty. Back to bed.” Something pinched his hip, and he lost consciousness.

He didn’t know how long he’d been out, but when he next woke, he felt sore all over. His throat was parched, his eyes hurt, and his shoulder and side throbbed like a raw wound. His hands had been bound behind him, tied to the same chair as his ankles. He had to piss, and he felt feverish. All in all, he’d had better days.

Water splashed into his face and had him gasping for breath.

“Oh, good. You’re back.”

Avery blinked up at an older version of Nathan. The same shaped eyes, the sandy brown brows and hair. Even the way the guy tilted his head as he looked at Avery was the same. It was eerie as hell. The man had Nathan’s height and extra brawn, what Nathan might look like in another two decades after heapings of steroids. Avery wanted to see some gray in the man’s hair, or at the least some sign of age. But ignoring the slight crow’s feet at his eyes, there was little to show Malcolm Dixon had aged past forty.

“Why?” Avery asked.

“Why?” Malcolm laughed, his disbelief obvious. “Is this where I waste precious minutes talking to give Nathan time to arrive? Where my soliloquy tells all so that the hero has time to vanquish the villain?”

“That’s what you are. A psychotic villain who killed his wife and nearly killed his son.”

Malcolm’s eyes flared. He didn’t like the reminder, apparently, though why the truth should hurt, Avery had no idea.

“The woman I killed was not the sweet woman I married.” Malcolm sat down in a chair directly across from Avery. “But then, you know all about that. My son no doubt told you about his horrible upbringing,” Malcolm sneered.

“Said you abused him, that you were jealous of the love Danielle had for him. And that you had no idea how to hold on to a woman.”

Malcolm slapped him with the quick, vicious speed of a snake striking. Avery hadn’t seen the blow coming and knew he’d stepped into some serious shit when Malcolm waved that wicked blade in his face. The word Sangre on the blade glowed under the dim lighting with a peculiar luminescence that didn’t seem natural.

“Do you see this, Major?”

“Hold on while my vision clears.”

Malcolm chuckled. His moods ran hot and cold. Avery had to remember he dealt with someone not quite sane.

“Yeah. Espada de Sangre, right?”

“Correct.” Malcolm sounded pleased. “This is the weapon Owen Stallbridge hired your boss to retrieve. Yes, I know all about Jack Keiser and you people, his psychic puppets. I have contacts in a lot of places.”

“So I gathered.” Avery’s mind raced. They worked for Stallbridge? The multimillionaire investor who owned half of Bend? And Malcolm knew about it. Knew about Jack, about all of them. “How is it you never joined the PWP?”

Malcolm shrugged. “I would have if I hadn’t already been working for the government. My time in the army brought me to the attention of the Agency two decades ago. The rest is history.” Malcolm brought the blade to Avery’s forehead and dug into his skin.

The pain should have been light compared to the pressure on his wounded shoulder. At first, blood dripped into his eyes and made it hard to see. But then darkness seemed to lick at the wound, drawing more pain than he would have thought possible for such a superficial cut.

“Don’t you like my new toy? It surely likes you.” Malcolm tittered, and Avery shivered. The madness there couldn’t be missed. “I found it at a black market near Oaxaca, close to home. It’s like we were meant for each other.” His lips thinned. “Like Danielle and I were once paired…before she’d turned into a whore.”

“How was she a whore?”

“She was only supposed to be mine. She kept me bright, full. With her, I was real.”

Like a real boy, eh, Pinocchio ? Avery wanted badly to make a comment, but he didn’t have a death wish.

“When she left me, when she was gone, I was so empty. All the days spent away from my beautiful wife were hell. And then he showed up…” Malcolm trailed off, into his own little world.

Thinking about Nathan—the same man Avery couldn’t get out of his mind. Nathan must have been worried sick. Hell, the asshole was probably coming here right now, wherever here was.

Avery took a good look around and saw nothing but crumbling wallpaper, lone lightbulbs dangling from cords overhead, and debris everywhere. The musty smell of mold and the chill of cement warned him he wasn’t going to like what he learned.

“Where are we?”

Malcolm blinked and turned his gaze toward Avery once more. “We’re home. If you belong to Nathan, it’s more than appropriate you share in his fondest memories.”

“Oh hell. We’re in Bloomville. The basement, right?”

Avery wanted nothing more than to kill this bastard. The sick fuck planned to torment Nathan to the end. If Avery succumbed to the wounds and darkness pulling him to sleep, his lover would never get over the guilt. No, Avery had to find a way to escape, to stay alive to somehow warn Nathan away.

“Now, now. Pay attention.” Malcolm gave him a disdainful once-over. “You know what we called women in the service? Split tails. To fuck one, you split her right up the middle. So is that what I should call you and your sick boyfriend?”

Ironic, this twisted fuck calling anyone else sick.

“Actually, I call myself a Marine.” He should have stopped there, but the injustice of what Malcolm had done to Nathan and still intended to do to him wouldn’t leave his mind. “Not like you pussy army fags with nothing better to do than compare dick sizes. And that’s no slam on being gay, but on you not being good enough to have made it into the right service.” Avery had done his fair share of insulting the other, more inferior branches of the military. In his experience, nothing bothered militant pukes more than being thought of as less than a U.S. Marine.

Malcolm’s cheeks flushed. He stared at Avery for a good minute, then shoved Sangre into the tender flesh of Avery’s inner thigh.

The blade shrieked with pleasure, and darkness invaded his mind, pulling him toward a black pit of despair and death, as if the sword fed off his misery. He hissed and sucked in a breath but refused to give Dixon the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

Stay awake and alive. And shut your trap so you can find a way to save Nathan, his subconscious warned. When Malcolm pulled the blade away, the respite was fleeting. He then dug into Avery’s belly, peeling away the skin by the wound he’d caused earlier with that fucking knife he’d left for Nathan to find.

Avery concentrated on staying aware and ignoring the pain. Nathan, please don’t be a hero. You show up by yourself, and I will personally kick your ass.

“I’m Delta Force, son. Show some respect.”

Avery hung his head, not in shame, but because he no longer possessed the strength to hold it upright. “S-sorry, s-sir. Just a jarhead being m-mouthy.”

“Much better.” Malcolm withdrew that cursed blade, and Avery bit back a groan of relief. The thing freaked him out more than Malcolm did. And damn if the thing wasn’t hungry for more of him.

Nathan pulled into the driveway of the old house, not surprised to see a vehicle there. He gripped the wheel tight, sure of what he had to do. He hadn’t rested in two days and was on edge. He knew some agents were close behind, probably no more than a few hours away. But he had to hurry. Malcolm probably wouldn’t kill Avery until Nathan had arrived, to make sure Nathan didn’t miss the big finale. But he couldn’t be certain.