Page 41 of The Devil of Hollywood

The lock clicking home.

Home.

Yes.

This was my new home.

Drayton

For the life of me, I couldn’t sleep. I imagined every horrible thing that could happen to Marian. I saw the scenes in vivid colors, letting the possibilities scar their way into my brain. I built on the visions, testing how they made me feel as I watched my chosen be hurt in the most horrifying ways possible. And then I made myself face what I had been planning to do to her.

Separating myself so I could be the one outside looking in wasn’t working. Marian was meant to be taken by me. Hurt by me. Owned. By. Me. She had always been mine, even when I didn’t ever think I’d get her back. Preparing myself for the horrors she could be going through at someone else’s hand wasn’t easy. Hell, I couldn’t stomach it. I should have hated her more than this. I should have been on cloud nine at the thought that justice or karma had finally made its way around. I wasn’t. I was sick. I was enraged at the possibility of someone harming her.

Over and over, my lids would snap open, and I’d turn, trying to get comfortable. But those damn thoughts would return. The fears. I prayed I was wrong. Every cell in me was hoping my anxiety over the situation was for nothing. Then, I could get back to focusing on the two of us. I could have my revenge like I deserved and forget this trip to save her from some deranged Main Master ever happened. I could strap her in restraints and⁠—

Just the thought of marking her body and seeing her cry and beg for forgiveness was making me hard. I tossed and turned, squeezing my hand into my pillow so that I didn’t reach for my cock. I wanted to fall into old habits of getting off to the pain I was going to put her through, but the unknown didn’t allow me. I just tuned in to the fantasy, seeing me rear back with the flogger. Her pale skin would mark up and bruise so beautifully. Those red welts, the broken skin and blood that came from my selected swings… justice would be written all over her. And it wouldn’t be just once. Marian would be mine to hurt as much as I wanted. Nothing was off limits now that I owned her. I could get my fill, and then…

I had no idea. I never got past the revenge. I lived in this moment, needing—taking. Who were we if I wasn’t making her pay for ruining my life? Married? Well, yes. But husband and wife? I couldn’t wrap my head around us being in those roles. I lived for the before—the revenge—never the after—our forever. But I was having to think about it now. About what she meant to me. About what I’d do if they… Fuck.

An angry groan left me as I turned once again. Despite being unable to stop the emotion, the worry returned as did the what-ifs.

“For fucks sake.”

I sat up, letting a rumble leave me as I stared into the darkness of the room. It’d only been a few hours since I’d been back from Bram’s. How long was it going to take for him to get us into The Order? He mentioned he wasn’t even sure he could convince them to let me in. That was unacceptable. Me… not there when they set her free? I had to be there. If I wasn’t—if I didn’t see the damage or lack thereof, it could ruin or alter my revenge. I had to know the truth. I had to see it for myself.

Throwing back the blankets, I stood, heading for the bedroom door. I wasn’t surprised to see Quinton still awake, scrolling on his laptop.

“Can’t sleep?”

He looked up, shaking his head.

“Nope. I’m not surprised you can’t either. After hearing stories of what happens down there.” His face drew in and he gave his head a quick shake. “I don’t get affected by shit easily, but I wouldn’t wish that place on my worst enemy.”

I lowered to the other side of the sofa, taking a seat. “Stories? Did you hear them from the team?”

“Yeah. They’ve been reaching out to their connections. They’re not getting much. The place is impossible to really get information on.”

My fists clenched. “Everleigh Whitlock hinted it might be bad. What did the team say?”

“You don’t want to know that, Dray.”

“Actually, I do.”

His head shook. “The shit is unreal. It’s bad.”

“You have to tell me everything. If there’s stories, I want to hear them.”

His lips tightened, and he placed his laptop on the glass coffee table.

“The slaves—the women.” Quinton rubbed his hands down his face. “They’re… used. Tortured.”

“… No shit. I’ve already heard this. That’s not stories, Quinton. You said stories.”

“Dray—”

“Stop trying to avoid the conversation. Just tell me.”

“Fuck. Fine.” He shifted on the sofa, clasping his hands as he leaned forward. “The way it was explained to me sounds like the place is set in the old ways. They have traditions I can’t even begin to grasp. I don’t understand them. Ceremonies. Rituals. Weird shit. And I hear the place is huge. The slaves, they have their own rooms, but the conditions are deplorable. It’s cold, wet, and dirty. Until slaves are bought, they’re no one. They get raped. Beat. Shit, man, some even get killed before they make it to auction. The guards rule their area, and they have full reign to do whatever they want, so long as they don’t break the rules or piss off The Reeve.”