The farther Trace drove from Asylum, the more his chest ached. And the more his chest ached, the more pissed off his inner beast became. Which, in turn, pissed him off.
For God’s sake, what the fuck was up with his goddamn power? He’d been worked over by Micah only a few days ago. Hard. Not spank-me-with-a-noodle hard, but rip-my-mind-from-my-body hard. The waxing session had been the most intense session he’d ever endured. But as puny as getting waxed sounded, his beast should have been sated ten times over, not clawing at him for another round.
By the time he reached Micah’s house, he was almost doubled over and damn near ready to melt. His right hand trembled uncontrollably. His entire body hummed with mounting pressure. Fear replaced anger. Worry filled his heart.
His power had never claimed him so quickly before, but he felt as if he were on the verge of exploding like an overly inflated tire driving over jagged granite. There was only so much tension his body could take before it snapped and unleashed the full force of his power.
Wincing as a shard of agony ripped through his chest, he staggered up to the keypad for the garage, managed to punch in the security code, then ducked under the bay door as it slowly crept upward. At the inside door, he gasped and clutched his chest as he gripped the handle and twisted it.
Sam’s laughter coming from the kitchen was music to his ears, as was Micah’s deep voice, but neither calmed the strain compressing his lungs. It felt like a giant fist was wrapped around his torso, squeezing his rib cage, mashing his organs together.
He hesitated in the hallway and pressed his right palm against the wall to keep him upright. The plaster vibrated under his hand and cracked.
This was bad. If he didn’t get to Micah soon . . . if he couldn’t reach his master in time . . . he would mutate. That had to be what was happening to him. Never before had he felt such agony—such intense suffering.
Micah laughed from the kitchen. “No, baby, you put the banana liqueur in first, then the brandy.”
“Like this?”
Trace could hear the smile in Sam’s voice. He could practically see the shimmer in her clover-green eyes as she looked up at Micah with complete adoration filling every angle of her face.
How he wanted a female to look at him the way Sam looked at Micah.
“Whoa! That’s enough,” Micah said. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
Sam giggled.
Trace pulled himself toward the kitchen, his hand dragging over the wall, leaving a hairline fracture in the paint as his power simmered just below the boiling point.
He turned the corner, saw Micah standing beside Sam at the stove.
“Now, stand back,” Micah said. He was holding the handle of a sauté pan.
Sam leaned away just as Trace fell to his knees.
“Master . . .” The agony was so great he could only whisper. “I need you.”
They couldn’t hear him, too absorbed by whatever it was they were cooking.
Micah lifted the handle of the pan. “Let the edge of the liquid catch the flame,” Micah said. “Like this.”
“Master . . .” Trace clutched his chest.
A plume of blue-orange flames burst from the pan.
Fire!
Mother!
Oh God!
Trace shrieked as pain knifed his soul and memories of his mother burning to death blasted into his mind, almost blinding him with its ferocity.
Sam jumped and spun around. “Oh my God! Micah, help him!”
Micah dropped the pan back onto the burner, the flames stretching upward, and immediately lunged for him. “Trace! What’s wrong?”
All Trace could see was fire. Maddening, life-taking fire.
His mother dying.
Because of him.
His power spiraled into a vortex. He was going to let loose. He could feel it. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.
“Sam!” Micah reached for her. “Help me!”
She started forward.
“No!” Trace lurched away from them both. “Stay away from me!” He didn’t want to kill them. He didn’t want to take yet another beautiful, innocent life the way he’d taken his mother’s.
If only he’d been more disciplined. More responsible.
Micah grabbed his arm. “I’m here, buddy. I’ve got you. Stay with me.”
Trace tried to pull away, feeling his power slither down his arm and coil in the palm of his hand. “Get away from me. You and Sam have to get away from me now. NOW!” He thrust his fist against the floor, forcing the leash to stay on his beast just a little bit longer even as a shockwave of energy pulsed down his arm. A dull boom sounded as the earth trembled.
He was losing the battle. Shit was going critical.
Sam froze, wide-eyed, terrified and unsure what she should do.
“Get away from me, Sam!”
Her panicked gaze flew to Micah, imploring him to do something.
Fear flickered over Micah’s face, then determination hardened his features as he slowly rose to his feet. As he did, his master’s persona fell into place until he stood tall and proud, confident, in total Domination mode. “Do you dare tell me what to do in my own home, slave? You dare to speak to my mate in such a way?”
Fast as lightning, Micah’s hand shot out, striking him across the cheek.
Trace’s head whipped to the side, but the wicked slap came just in time, seconds before his power would have burst from his hand and obliterated everything within a fifty-foot radius.
For the moment, he was saved. They all were, but the dull throbbing in his chest persisted, and his power remained poised to strike.
“Master . . .” He turned pleading eyes up at Micah. “What’s wrong with me?”
* * *
Micah wasn’t sure if the question was literal, figurative, or rhetorical, so he didn’t know how to answer. There was nothing wrong with Trace in the figurative sense, but right now—at this very moment—it was obvious something was most definitely and gravely wrong with him in the literal.
“I don’t know,” he said a moment later.
He had never seen Trace in such awful shape. He was pale, and for a dark-skinned male, that was saying something. Sallow hollows filled the space under his eyes. Dots of perspiration sprinkled the skin above his upper lip. The guy looked shredded and completely strung out.
“Help me.” Trace’s pale eyes beseeched his, the pain he was experiencing evident in the twist of his lips and the way he grimaced as he clutched his chest.
He knelt in front of his best friend and placed his hand over his bald head. “Let me in, Trace,” he coaxed gently. “Open up your mind and let me in. I can help you better if I can see what’s going on inside here.” He tapped his fingers on Trace’s head.
Trace closed his eyes with an air of regret. “I can’t.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“Does it matter? The result is the same.”
Anger surged through Micah’s blood, and he rose to his full height. Trace’s refusal was unacceptable.
“Are you saying that you are willfully and intentionally keeping me out of your thoughts?”
Trace remained silent, head shamefully bowed, hands on his thighs.
Micah paced to the side and shot a look over his shoulder at Sam. “Turn that off.” He pointed to the burner. “Make sure everything is shut down in here, and then go down to my dungeon and prepare the table.”
He knew he wasn’t Sam’s Dom and that he shouldn’t be bossing her around, but he was through being nice. He was going to deal with this shit with Trace today, and Sam was going to help him. Together, they were going to make Trace open up, even if it took all night, because this shit couldn’t go on like this anymore. Trace had come within seconds of killing them all.
Anyone else would tell Trace to get lost and never come back, but that wasn’t an option for Micah. No way would he lose his best friend when he had vowed to take care of him. And so help him God, he kept his promises.
Since banishing Trace was off the table, that left only one solution. Pry open the gridlock Trace had on his mind by force.
Sam disappeared down the stairs.
He paced back toward Trace and stood in front of him, feet solidly planted shoulder-width apart, arms crossed.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
Trace flinched but kept his head down.
“I said look at me!”
Trace sighed in defeat then lifted his head. The misery and sorrow pulling on Trace’s features nearly shattered Micah’s heart. His friend was in hell. Despair and heartache had Trace fully in their grip.
What could be going on inside Trace’s head to make him so miserable? So hopeless?
“I told you during our first session that you would let me in, Trace. Remember?”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, Master.”
“And yet you tell me that you still refuse to open up to me. Not that you can’t, but that you won’t. There’s a big difference between the two, slave. Can’t is out of your control. Won’t is within it. And yet you still won’t let me in, knowing that I can’t fully be your master until you do. Knowing I can’t save you from yourself until I can see inside your mind.”
“Master, I—”
“Do you need me, slave?”
Trace’s chest rose and fell heavily. “Yes, Master. I need you.”
“Will you open yourself to me if I service you?”
Silence.
Micah bent forward and grabbed Trace under his chin, cranking his head back so they were nose to nose. “Will you open yourself to me?”
Moisture glistened in Trace’s eyes, but he held Micah’s gaze like a champ.
Trace took a trembling breath. On the exhale, he said, “I’ll try.”
“Not good enough, Trace.”
“Micah—”
Micah released Trace’s chin and slapped him as he straightened. “I am not Micah to you, slave. I am Master. You call me Master until you either safeword out or I decide our session is over. Do you understand?”
“Yes . . . Master.” Trace’s voice was whisper quiet.
Micah hated seeing him so emotionally beaten down, but his instincts told him the only way to break through Trace’s walls was to break him completely. That until Trace’s spirit broke, Micah wouldn’t be able to get inside. And until he got inside, he wouldn’t be able to help him. And helping Trace was his number one priority, especially since Trace had almost suffered a nuclear meltdown in his kitchen less than five minutes ago.
“Get up, slave.” He snapped his fingers and took a step back.
Trace did as commanded.
“We’re going to my dungeon”—Micah clutched the back of Trace’s neck and pulled him close until their foreheads touched—“and we’re not coming back up until you let me in here.” Micah tapped the side of Trace’s head. “If I have to keep you down there for a week, I will, but you will let me in.” He searched Trace’s eyes. “Do you want to know why?”
“Why, Master?”
He squeezed the back of Trace’s neck and drew Trace’s head down to rest on his shoulder. He kissed Trace’s scalp as he wrapped his other arm around him, hugging him hard. “Because I love you too much to let you suffer this alone any longer, Trace.”
He would save Trace now or die trying.