Bound by Chains
Bound by Chains
Bethany Bliss
Published by Blushing Books
An Imprint of
ABCD Graphics and Design, Inc.
A Virginia Corporation
977 Seminole Trail #233
Charlottesville, VA 22901
©2020
All rights reserved.
No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The trademark Blushing Books is pending in the US Patent and Trademark Office.
Bethany Bliss
Bound by Chains
EBook ISBN: 978-1-64563-234-4
v1
Cover Art by ABCD Graphics & Design
This book contains fantasy themes appropriate for mature readers only. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual sexual activity.
For Megan
My first friend, supporter and follower.
Contents
1. Bubblegum Bitch
2. Tag, you’re it
3. Pinky Promise
4. Hit the Floor
5. Bad Guy
6. Heroes and Thieves
7. Sinners
8. Alive
9. Toxic
10. Animal I Have Become
11. Awake and Alive
12. You’re Going Down
13. Get Out Alive
14. In the End
15. Super Psycho Love
16. Bound by Chains
17. Fight Back
18. Blood Water
Epilogue
Bethany Bliss
Blushing Books
Blushing Books Newsletter
1
Bubblegum Bitch
She pushed open the door to the precinct, her jaw working on the new lump of gum she had just slipped into her mouth. Her heels clacked on the tile floor towards the ‘Wanted’ board currently surrounded by men dressed all in black, her sundress as pink as the bubblegum she was chewing streaming behind her. Her teeth ground over the pink mass as her tongue pushed against it. All she could smell anymore was bubblegum. Oddly soothing, that. To have all other scents erased by that one childishly sweet aroma.
“You take it,” said a burly man about the wanted poster that hung front and center.
Fifty-grand reward. Cha-Ching.
“No way, they say one touch from him will kill you,” answered a taller, broad shouldered man with a wallet chain.
“He uses poison, like a bitch,” said a third man, chomping on a toothpick.
The group of men began to notice her, stepping aside to make space for this walking bottle of Pepto-Bismol. They watched as she formed a bubble between her cherry red lips, then quirked an eyebrow in surprise as she reached forward and snatched the wanted poster from the board.
She was a bounty hunter, and even this man with poisoned fingers didn’t scare her.
It happened in less than two seconds.
Krone even counted this time as Asher unholstered his weapon, took aim at the target, and pulled the trigger. No hesitation, no remorse and it gave Krone chills of pleasure.
Asher’s face held no expression. No laughter, no love, no emotion, no soul, and it gave Krone chills.
He put the ‘cold’ in ‘cold-blooded’ and Krone only hoped one day he’d be as dedicated, as poised, as toxic as Asher. Though he held little hope of achieving such greatness.
Krone slapped a manila folder down onto the shooting range counter before his hired personal assassin. “The target’s name is Emery Wilson, serial rapist and murderer. One bad SOB which is why we’re sending you,” Krone complimented, watching Asher reload his gun. He took his time even though Krone had seen him reload as quickly as he could shoot. He slowly slipped the clip into the butt of his weapon. Like watching a powerful white tiger stalking unsuspecting prey, slow and controlled, though Krone knew he could be equally fast and powerful. It was erotic somehow. A build of suspense. “Supposedly he kills his victims through touch, poisoning them.”
Asher took aim almost like a game, slowly once again even though he could have hit his mark ages ago. “I guess I can’t let him touch me,” came Asher’s deep voice, before pulling the trigger and shattering the paper target before him.
Unable to prevent his smile of pleasure, he said, “You have your orders from The Company, kill well and don’t let me down.” As if you ever would.
Krone couldn’t resist clipping the shorter, more deadly man on the shoulder before turning his back. Sometimes he enjoyed tempting the reaper, turning his back on death itself. It excited him.
Asher, however, barely felt the touch. Barely registered the affection coming from his handler. He had never disappointed so he knew Krone would never doubt him, his words were more a game and one Asher didn’t take part in. Didn’t really understand. He was told to kill so he killed, not much thinking involved, not much preparation to be taken. Two rules were all Asher knew: always kill the target given, and never get caught doing so.
He was given more details with Emery Wilson than usual. Typically, when handed a file it was filled with pictures and wiped out material with only an address visible. Asher usually knew the who and the where, but never the why.
Asher flipped open the file, holstering his weapon but keeping it close. Always keeping it close. As usual, a few pictures and paperwork with long black lines. Nothing about his victims and nothing about why he was now on The Company’s hit list. Krone had shared that information himself.
Asher knew Krone to be manipulative, if there was something he could say to better motivate Asher, he would say it. That’s probably why he had shared confidential information so casually even knowing Asher would get the job done regardless.
Incidentally, Asher did feel motivated.
He felt that even the name of his target was unnecessary information at times, he typically disregarded it and gave the hit a name of his own. He would call Emery Wilson ‘The Snake’,’ from then on.
There wasn’t typically much stalking to be done. The targets Asher was given were usually predictable enough that The Company knew their whereabouts rather specifically, so no further research was necessary to complete the job. They didn’t want Asher digging too deep into the hits he was assigned, so usually all that remained was the hit itself.
Asher had several hours before night fell and his target would be where the folder alleged. He had a certain routine during his downtime, but he also tried not to be too predictable. As a hitman, he loved commuters. Those who stuck to a schedule were always the easiest hits. The folder was never wrong with commuters.
As a hitman he strived to not be as easy to track.
He never had his day planned in advance; he let his body decide on a whim what it wanted. Did it want food? He would grab takeout or go to some random bar filled with people that sold quick sustenance. He was not a regular at any food establishment, however.
Did it want to work out? He would take himself to the gym.
Did it want to rest? He would return to his penthouse apartment, which overlooked Miami.
He had sacrificed some of his non-predictability by only having one apartment. He wasn’t there every night, but the location was too perfect to move. It wasn’t a high-end neighborhood, too many people would notice him if it were. Rich or well-off people always had too much time to pay close attention to their neighbors. His neighborhood was loud, active, crowds always bustling through the streets. This was good, too much going on around him for anyone to notice him specifically. A lot of people also meant a lot of warning if something went wrong. Like a flock of birds in the woods, always screaming when a cat was lurking around.
There was one entrance to his apartment but several exits, making it the perfect home for him. If anyone made the foolish decision to attack him while he was in the one place he frequented, they wouldn’t last long, and he would have several escape plans in place.
His body chose to work out. This didn’t surprise Asher, after the shooting range he was more energized, more anxious to move. He was pumped, and he decided he was pumped enough for kickboxing.
He held memberships at several gyms, all with an emphasis on self-defense. He needed his skills to be sharp and lethal. Kickboxing was one of his lesser talents in the fighting arts however, too much direct force. He was far more skilled in the manipulative types of fighting where an opponent’s weight and size were used against them. Wrestling for instance.
In kickboxing he was fast, quick jabs that proved to be just as deadly as strength, but he didn’t have the size to back up brute force. He stood around five-foot-nine, but with toned muscle that sat lean beneath his tight shirt. Defined pectorals tugged at the fabric along with toned deltoids and biceps, tight abdominals and glutes to match. He was not a stranger to the gym. Physical fitness was a must in his profession.
Asher wasn’t exceptionally tall, but he was exceptionally handsome.
His eyes were a piercing shade of blue. Deep, swimmable pools of aqua that appeared frozen over. Cold and icy.
His hair was a dark shade of brown and it sat businesslike at the top of his skull, trimmed tighter as it gradually traveled down to the base. His facial shape was pleasant he had been told: strong jawline and cheekbones with a cleft chin he kept hidden beneath a hefty amount of stubble. Without the tightly trimmed beard he appeared much younger than he was,
so he kept some facial hair to hide his more noticeable features. The less that could identify him, the better.
The gym was busy as usual, so he had no issue finding a sparring partner. He never conversed with any of the members other than to ask them to spar then thank them after he had overpowered them. Another safety precaution. Never get too close, not to anyone. No one knew him even in passing, he was there so rarely. Staying invisible was necessary.
He sparred for an hour, incorporating a warmup and cool down through other activities such as jogging lightly or self-training on a punching bag. When his lean body was thoroughly drenched with sweat, he left and returned to his apartment for a shower.
His apartment building was heavily graffitied, the hallway leading to his apartment musty though inside his apartment it smelled of citrus cleaning supplies. He was tidy, he didn’t deep clean often, but each of his items had a very specific place with a very specific position.
If anyone were ever in his apartment, he’d know immediately. If not because something was slightly askew from its perfect positioning, then because of the many precautions he took to alert him of an intruder. A small red string for instance could be even more useful than a surveillance system. Not that he didn’t have one of those too. Nothing seemed better than the little red string he closed into the doorjamb, however. If anyone other than him opened the door and didn’t reset the string, he’d know someone had trespassed even before opening his door.
He took a long step over the subtle powder lying on the hardwood at his feet. He sprinkled a mixture of flour and glow-powder at the archway of the front door, patio door, and before every window so any footsteps that traipsed through it would be easily distinguished by a blacklight. Repositioning the string, he closed his front door and locked the three deadbolts before undressing for his shower.
As the water heated, he took some vitamins to prevent muscle fatigue after his workout. Though staying fit was exceedingly important, being too sore to protect himself was deadly, so he took handfuls of different vitamins to keep his body strong and limber. He usually didn’t engage with a target, but there had been once or twice that a scuffle directly following leg day had nearly cost Asher his life, so now he took precautions.
He didn’t linger in the shower; he didn’t feel safe confined behind the curtain, unable to see what was beyond it. After he had scrubbed the sweat from his skin and patted himself dry, he moved into the bedroom, which was simple. He didn’t bother with furnishings or comfortable home décor; a mattress on the floor suited him fine. He had removed the walls around his bedroom so he could survey the whole apartment even as he slept. The closet even hung open, its doors removed. The bathroom door, the patio door and the front door were the only doors in the apartment. The kitchen and bedroom were joined now, and the small space the apartment deemed a living room was empty. Naked hardwood floor covered that section of the landing.
He sifted through the contents of his closet. He had his basketball shorts and tees for working out, his casual attire and his suits. When he performed a hit, he was representing The Company, so he dressed the part. A three-piece suit and a well-groomed appearance to match.
He buttoned up the white collared shirt and slipped the black jacket around his broad shoulders then moved into the bathroom to position his hair atop his head properly. For now it hung in strands around his forehead, wet against his skin. That certainly would not do.
As he polished his appearance before a hit, Cora was also getting into her routine before her bounty hunt.
She’d returned to her apartment in a much more suitable part of town with her wanted poster folded into her palm. Unlike Asher, Cora actually liked her nosy neighbors. She liked it when they stared at her as she passed, working up the courage to ask her what she did for a living while glancing frequently at her poorly concealed gun, which usually sat strapped to her ankle or thigh just beneath her flowing dress.
She felt no need to be below the radar. Then again, she wasn’t doing anything illegal.
“What is it that you do?” Her snooty neighbor had asked her while giving her a once over, taking in her sundress though inevitably focusing on the Glock 42 she had strapped just below her dress’ skirt.
“I’m a bounty hunter, Sue,” she had said casually, a satisfied smile uplifting her face at Sue’s round eyes. Weren’t expectin’ that were ya, Sue? “What do you do?”
“T-Taxes,” Sue had stuttered, clearing her throat before muttering, “I’m an accountant.”
“Sounds cool.” More sounded like a job that would make Cora want to use her Glock 42 on herself.
“Thanks, um, do you have to carry a gun into the building? We have a lot of residents here who are against guns—”
“Then they shouldn’t get one,” Cora interrupted with a smile. A weapon was only as good as its handler and somehow Cora couldn’t imagine Sue the accountant being a very calm shot, but people had surprised her before. She’d swept to the side to pass Sue back to her own apartment where there was work to be done.
Also unlike Asher, her apartment was filled with possessions and material things. None of which she was attached to. Every room was designed and modeled after the Pottery Barn catalog. She liked those pictures of ‘the perfect modern home’ enough to want to live in them, so she had modeled everything to match those pointlessly quaint yet enticing catalog pictures.
Her sizable kitchen held several glass jars containing several varieties of dried noodles or other such decorative nonsense. A bowl of sculpted glass lemons sat on the gray granite countertop that “tied the room together,” or so the interior designer had said. Cora had to admit, the yellow did make the royal blue backsplash and walls look more intentional.
Her living room was hardly lived in. Her mahogany coffee table was free of rings, couch cushions free of dents, and pillows fluffed and picture perfectly positioned. Mostly because when she wanted to relax she’d have a pint of ice cream in bed and watch reruns of her favorite sappy soap operas rather than bundle up in the living room.
The only other room she frequented was her office. It was the only room in her apartment that carried the wear that only a lived-in room could. She had fallen asleep at that desk as mahogany as her coffee table, this one however did have rings from careless cups of liquid spilling over as she worked. All her researching was done at that desk, overlooking laminated maps and corkboards filled with victim’s pictures and newspaper articles for those especially elusive bounties. This bounty seemed pretty cut and dry however, surprising for the reward being advertised. Usually for fifty thousand she had to work a lot harder than she suspected she would to catch this poison fingered fuck.
She unfolded the flier and tacked it to the corkboard hanging over her desk. The board was just as worn as her desk however, so one of the tacks wouldn’t stay.
She made a mental note to buy another with her reward when she caught this bounty. Though she had done the same with the last few bounties, so she was under no disillusion that she would buy something as simple as a new corkboard with any of the reward money. Her money was always better spent on other things. Like food.
The last few bounties had been small time, she liked to do the little two grand bounties for fun to keep her skills current but preferred the whales at least once a year. Fifty grand or more. They weren’t incredibly rare, but they also weren’t incredibly common, so when one appeared on the board, she nabbed it.
Emery Wilson. A cool name for such an ugly man. She wondered why the criminals always got the cool names. Did their parents know their life was going to be shit, so they strived to soften the blow?
She giggled to herself as she unwrapped a lollipop from her desk drawer and positioned it against her tongue, twirling it this way and that as she sized up the black-and-white image on the poster. Not that it mattered, but he wasn’t actually an ugly man. In fact with a little TLC he could be quite a handsome man. His beard was scruffy and overgrown, his hair clearly unwashed for several weeks and noticeable even in black-and-white, but his bone structure was sound. There was however something in his eyes, something feral and disgusting that couldn’t ever be fixed. He was a monster. A monster she intended to lock away.