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. Damian 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 Damian 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 Damian 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.

The headphones continued to blare the fucking music into his ears. How long did Adam plan to keep this shit up? This bombardment of his senses wasn't going to achieve anything but giving him a migraine.

The floor was cold, and a shiver coursed through his body. His muscles ached from a series of shivers, and his jaw ached from clenching his teeth. No relief. Every muscle in his body screamed for release. The incessant noise filled his ears, and his mind ached as much as the other parts of his body.

Honestly, somehow it always seems that I'm dreaming of something I can never be It doesn't bother me, 'cause I will always be that pimp I see in all of my fantasies Manwhore.

Anger boiled beneath the surface. "Turn this fucking shit off!" Marc's voice came in loud and clear through the headset. He hoped Adam heard him. He was tired. He needed sleep. He didn't want to continue with this fucking scene anymore.

Marc shouted, "What the fuck are you waiting for, Adam?" Nothing. "Interrogate me!" Silence. "This is a fucking waste of time!"

So he'd remembered a couple of scenes from the past; how were those memories going to win Angelina back?

I don't know your fucking name...

Screwin' may be the only way that I can truly be free.

Marc ached to make love with Angelina again. He felt his cock grow rigid with thoughts of Angelina's sexy body restrained for him to pleasure her. The image faded, along with his hard-on.

He waited for Adam to turn off the music. Even to have Adam slap him with the tawse-at least it was human contact. He wanted this scene to be over.

Nothing.

Marc sagged against the floor in defeat. What did it matter if Adam stayed or not? The only person he wanted to speak to would never hear him again. His face was cold and wet. Tears.

"Stop crying..."

"Gino? Is that you?"

Silence.

Gino, you were supposed to protect me. Why did you abandon me?

Chapter Twenty-Five.

Gino, home from college for the winter break, nabbed Marc as he crossed the lobby after a hard day on the slopes.

"Mrs. Giovanni in the Presidential Suite wants you to help her with something, Marco." Gino had sent him up there. Had he known just what kind of help she wanted? Had she really asked for him or had Gino turned her down already?

Marc walked into the suite when she opened the door after the first knock. The middle-aged woman had been staying at the hotel every ski season for years. Marc and his family provided individualized attention to their regulars, and Mrs. Giovanni was certainly a regular.

"How may I help you, ma'am?"

"You've grown into a handsome young man, Marco." She sipped at her amber-colored cocktail on the rocks. "I watched you giving ski lessons today. You're very much in control there."

"Thank you, ma'am." He still had no clue what she wanted with him but had an uneasy feeling. He wanted to leave the room, but he'd just been lectured by Mama for not pulling his weight at the resort. She complained that he'd spent too much time in the mountains hiking or skiing alone, without clients. If one of their guests needed something, he'd been ordered to assist.

"What is it I can do for you, ma'am?"

"Do you sometimes feel like you have no control over anything in your life?"

All the time.

He simply nodded.

"How would you like to learn to take control whenever you want it, Marco?" Her gaze roamed over him from head to boots before settling on his groin. "To take control of your body?"

"I beg your pardon?"