Chapter 118: Chains Of The Past

Samantha’s smile was a blade, cutting through Addicus’s resolve. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soft but unconvincing. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“This was a mistake,” Addicus muttered, turning for the door, his heart pounding. The ballroom’s music—some jazzy Cole Porter tune—faded behind the bedroom’s heavy walls.

“Wait,” Samantha called, stepping closer. “Don’t go. Sit, have a drink. We’ll just talk—no more.” Her eyes pleaded, but there was a glint Addicus didn’t trust.

He hesitated, caught between fleeing and the pull of her presence. At nineteen, he was drawn to her—her power, her beauty—but her advances felt like a trap. Mixing romance with their business partnership could ruin everything.

“Please,” she urged, gesturing to a velvet chair.

Addicus sat, reluctant, his jaw tight. Samantha crossed to a mahogany bar, pouring whiskey from a crystal decanter. The room smelled of her perfume—jasmine, sharp and heady. Glancing back, she slipped a pinch of powder into the glass, stirring it with a finger. She handed it to him, smiling. “For you.”

“I don’t drink,” Addicus said, eyeing the amber liquid.

“At twenty?” she teased, leaning close. “Still so innocent?”

Her words stung, pricking his pride. To prove her wrong, he grabbed the glass and downed it, grimacing at the burn. “Fine. You wanted to talk—I’m listening.”

Samantha pulled a chair opposite him, her gaze piercing. “Six years ago, on my twenty-first birthday, I learned something about myself,” she said, voice low. “I don’t crave older, powerful men. I like younger ones—boys I can dominate. It’s… exhilarating.”

Addicus shifted, unease crawling up his spine. Her confession was a warning, but his head felt heavy, the room tilting.

“What did you… do to me?” he slurred, gripping the chair.

“Just a little something to relax you,” Samantha purred, smirking as he slumped, darkness swallowing him.

He woke to pain, his wrists and ankles bound to a four-poster bed. Stripped to his trousers, he yanked at the ropes, but they held fast. The room was a nightmare—black walls, black curtains, a black chandelier dripping wax. Whips, chains, and strange devices hung like trophies, glinting under dim red lights. Addicus’s breath hitched, his mind screaming he’d stumbled into hell.

Samantha emerged from a side door, her leather lingerie gleaming, a mask framing her eyes. A whip dangled from her hand. “Where am I?” Addicus demanded, voice shaking with rage.

“The locked room I showed you,” she said, her tone seductive, predatory. “My playroom. And you’re my new toy.”

“Untie me, Samantha!” he shouted.

She leapt onto the bed, straddling him, and slapped him hard, the sting radiating. “In here, I’m Mistress. Understand?”

“I’m not calling you that,” he spat. “Let me go!”

Her hand shot to his groin, squeezing until pain blinded him. He gasped, begging her to stop, but she tightened her grip. “You’ll learn submission,” she whispered, cracking the whip across his chest. Red welts bloomed, searing his skin.

Addicus bit back a scream, his pride warring with agony. Samantha’s laugh filled the room, a sound that would haunt him for decades. Outside, the party’s murmur faded, leaving only her cruelty and his dread.

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The warehouse loomed in the dawn’s gray light, its rusted walls streaked with graffiti. Peter and Chris stepped from their car, the air thick with oil and decay. A nearby jukebox blared Sweet Child O’ Mine, its notes warped by distance. “What’re we doing here, Peter?” Chris asked, scanning the deserted street.

“Jinx’s meeting spot,” Peter said, checking his watch.

Chris frowned, eyeing the broken windows. “You sure we can trust her? This screams trap.”

“She’s a mercenary,” Peter said. “We met her price. She won’t bite the hand that pays.”

“Hope you’re right,” Chris muttered. “You’ve never screwed me over, but there’s always a first.”

Peter grinned. “Not today.” He nodded toward the horizon. “Here she comes.”

Jinx’s motorcycle roared up, dust swirling. She yanked off her helmet, her smile sharp. “Morning, boys. Punctual—I’m impressed.”

“My wife needs me,” Peter said, voice tight. “Let’s move fast.”

“Want her alive?” Jinx asked, dismounting. “Then we plan.” She tossed a duffel at their feet, its clank promising firepower.

Chris unzipped it, revealing rifles, grenades, and gleaming knives. “We’ve got our own gear,” he said, nodding to their car.

“Mine’s better,” Jinx said, smirking. “Shall we?”

Peter grabbed their bag from the trunk, and they followed Jinx inside. She locked the door, her eyes scanning the street before flipping a switch. Fluorescent lights buzzed, illuminating a cavernous space—crates, maps, a table strewn with blueprints.

“My planning hub,” Jinx said, pride in her voice. “Big jobs, delicate ones. I’ve spent weeks here, studying targets, perfecting kills.”

“We’re not staying weeks,” Peter said. “Days, max.”

“Fine,” Jinx said, spreading a blueprint across the table. “Addicus’s mansion. Where your wife’s held.”

Peter leaned in, heart racing. “How’d you get this?”

“Blood, torture, death,” Jinx said, waving a hand. “Details you don’t need. Point is, it’s a fortress. Sharon’s inside, likely underground.”

Peter traced the blueprint’s lower levels, hope and fear colliding. “Thank you,” he said, voice low.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Jinx warned. “Getting in’s the easy part. Getting out alive? That’s the trick.”

Chris studied the map, uneasy. “This place is locked tight. Guards, cameras—what’s the play?”