The Thrall (Seven Sins MC #3) by Jessica Gadziala



That was fair.

I was probably doing more eye-banging than was appropriate, even in this venue.

Forcing my gaze away, I went and found an open seat near the stages.

I didn't do scenes myself. Not in public, anyway. I liked my kinks to go down in private, where no one could learn them, then possibly use them against me.

Though, to be honest, everyone knew demons got their kicks torturing people in hell. It wasn't much of a stretch that they might be into power play in the human realm.

Only it was a very different thing at its core.

What we did in hell, we did it because it was our job, because people deserved to pay for the evil shit they'd done.

It wasn't like that on the human plane.

I didn't want to punish the women for being wicked. I just needed the outlet. And so did they. We all had our damage. We all played it out with and on one another.

It was therapeutic, in a way.

I didn't like the idea of all the parts of me slipping away with each passing year. This kink helped me hold onto shit I felt like we were all slowly but surely forgetting.

About two hours and a bottle of whiskey that did fuckall for me aside from warm me up inside, a movement in my peripheral caught my eye.

The old vampire.

Yanking the sickly girl toward the stage.

His hand was gripping her wrist so hard I was sure there would be bruises as soon as he released her.

She wasn't actively screaming or making a scene, but she was yanking and frantically begging.

I was no lip-reader, but I knew certain words when I saw them.

No.

Please no.

Don't.

I don't want to.

Please!

But her pleas were ignored as the bloodsucker dragged her onto stage, and strapped her to a St. Andrew's Cross.

My stomach knotted as he reached up to yank down her dress, pulling it until it exposed her from her shoulder to her ankles, leaving her shivering in just a nude thong.

Sitting there, I felt something innate, yet almost foreign start to well up, something that used to be an important part of me, but had gotten more and more buried over the years.

Rage.

This was pure, undiluted rage.

It was something that made me rise up in my seat, ready to charge across the stage, and rip that fucker's throat out.

But as soon as my ass left the seat, a wall slammed into me, an actual, physical, yet invisible, thing that knocked me back down, pinned me into place.

Across the bar Thysa's gaze had slid to me, a brow raised, like she knew exactly what was happening.

Mind changed, the wall eased as I hopped up and made a beeline for Thysa instead.

"You're not going to stop this?" I asked, barely able to keep myself from shouting. "Consent is what this shit is all about," I added.

"You don't need to remind me how protocol works in my kink club, Drex," she said, voice cool.

"She begged him not to."

"The subs always beg them not to. Unless we have some spirited brats in for the night. They always beg their masters not to whip them. It's all part of it."

"This is different."

"You can't possibly know that," she shot back, shaking her head even as the paddle landed with a smack that ricocheted off the walls, making my stomach tighten again.

"She said no, Thysa," I snapped, feeling the wall slam into me again when I took a step toward the club owner. I didn't intend to put my hands on her, but the wards this place had must have misunderstood the anger coursing through my system, burning me up from the inside out. "Fucking shame on you," I growled as the smacks of the paddle got harder and faster, as the woman's cries filled the air.

Cries.

Actual cries.

Not just the kind that came with a little fun pain.

I turned toward the stage again, trying to surge forward, but this time the wall pushed so hard against me that it was literally moving me backward through the club, pushing me out the door, then slamming down as a barrier, refusing me entrance again.

Frustrated, I paced around the property, moving along the lines of the ward until I felt some of the murderous rage start to settle down a bit, making the boundary more bendy than solid.

It was right about then that I saw the back door slide open with an awful creaking noise.

Two women emerged.

A curvy Black woman who was half-carrying another woman out of the building.

Not just any woman.

That woman.

Who was beaten so badly she could barely walk.

A paddle was rough enough to endure on fleshy skin, but on someone who was all bones? I couldn't imagine how she was feeling.