Page 42 of Cold Bastard
“The allure of a sadist-masochist dynamic can be profoundly seductive. Yet, the shadows it cast are long and insidious. For the sadist,” Carver said, motioning his hand toward me, “the rush of control, the visceral thrill of eliciting a gasp, a whimper, could become an addiction, a consuming need that eclipses his empathy. Nano could find himself enslaved by this craving. His own deep-seated belief in kindness, in nurturing, would war with his dark impulse that whispered in his ear, urging him to push further, to extract a more potent response from his partner. A sadist abhors the idea of causing genuine, lasting pain, yet the line blurs with terrifying ease in the heat of the moment. The pleasure derived from Nano’s partner’s vulnerability becomes a poison, making him question the very core of his being. Can he truly be a good person if this hidden part of him thrives on another’s suffering? This internal battle would forcehim to make a choice, one he desperately wishes to avoid: either surrender to his dark desire, potentially destroying the very connection he cherishes, or attempt to suppress it, risking a dangerous internal implosion that could manifest in other, equally destructive ways.
“For the masochist, the narrative is equally fraught. Alexandra is drawn to the release found in surrender, in the abnegation of self. She seeks solace in pain, a perverse form of purification that temporarily silences the cacophony of her own anxieties. But this desire is a trap. She knows, deep down, that this dependency on external validation through suffering is unhealthy, a crutch that prevents her from truly healing. Her moral compass would scream at her that she should be building herself up, not tearing herself down, yet the allure of the diminishment, the temporary peace it offers, is a siren song she cannot resist. She’s forced to make a choice that feels like a betrayal of her own self-preservation: either continue down this path, risking complete emotional annihilation and a descent into utter dependency, or confront the terrifying void of her own worth without the balm of pain, a prospect that fills her with an unbearable dread. She would recognize the pattern, the cyclical nature of her pain, yet the thought of breaking it would feel like a more devastating failure than perpetuating it. She knows, with a sinking certainty, that in this delicate, dangerous dance, she is destined to make a bad choice, a choice she will surely regret long after the immediate sensation fades.”
“Jesus fuck, Carver,” Wanderer groaned. “Can we have that in English, please?”
“If unchecked, he will try to kill her, and she will let him,” Morpheus stated, rubbing his hands down his face before asking, “So what do we do here? ’Cause I don’t see Nano letting her walk away. And the bitch still has my fucking money.”
“What they need is a fucking babysitter.” Vortex chuckled.
Carver’s eyes widened as Morpheus grinned. “That’s a great idea.”
“The fuck it is!” Carver shouted.
“Said it yourself, asshole. You watched. Even got off on it.”
“That’s different!” Carver snapped. “Just because I got off on watching them doesn’t mean I want to do it all the time.”
“I think it’s a great idea.” Cerberus chuckled. “And who better to make sure he doesn’t kill her than the club’s doc? If Nano goes overboard, the doc can bring her back.”
“I won’t hurt her,” I whispered, silencing the room. “I may want to break her. I may want to make her pay for what she did, but I won’t hurt her.”
Morpheus studied me for a long moment. Then he nodded. “Fine. She’s yours after she gives up the money. No fucking. Do whatever else you want, but I want the money transferred before your dick slides into her cunt. I don’t care how you fucking do it, but get my money back.” He paused before adding, “But if she ends up dead, and the Gods of Mayhem come knocking, it’s on you. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Good.” Morpheus looked around the table. “And, Carver, you will make damn sure he keeps his word.”
“How the fuck am I supposed to do that? I can’t be with him every minute of the day. I have responsibilities, patients to see.”
“Figure it the fuck out.” Morpheus glared as he stood, signaling the end of church. “Meeting’s over. Get the fuck out of here. Nano and Carver, stay.”
The brothers filed out, their voices low as they talked amongst themselves. When the room emptied except for Morpheus, Carver and me, he walked over, pulled out the chair next to me, and sat. Leaning forward, he looked directly at me. “Tell me now if you can’t do this. Won’t lose a brother because of some bitch. Don’t give a fuck who the hell she is.”
“She’s mine, brother,” I admitted. “I know you’re worried, but I can keep a lid on it.”
“You better.” He glared. “Because she’s not just some random bitch, Nano. She’s Poseidon’s sister. If you fuck this up, it’s not just you who pays. It’s the entire club.”
“I know,” I muttered.
“Do you?” Morpheus asked, his eyes hard. “Because from where I’m standing, you look like a man who just discovered he likes the taste of blood. And that’s dangerous.”
“I can handle it,” I said.
Morpheus studied me for a long moment. Then he nodded. “I hope so. Because if you can’t, I’ll put a bullet in her head myself and deal with Zeus later.”
Chapter Fourteen
Nano
The basement was cold. Brutally, relentlessly cold. Concrete walls, concrete floor, both gray and unforgiving. A single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling by a fraying wire that cast harsh shadows across the cramped space. The light swung slightly, making the shadows dance and shift like living things. It smelled of damp earth and old blood. Faint, but unmistakably there. A metallic tang that lingered in the back of your throat if you breathed too deeply. A reminder of what this room was used for, what it had witnessed over the years.
Interrogations. Punishments. Consequences. The kind of club business that couldn’t happen upstairs where the club whores or prospects might see, might talk, might get ideas about what really went on behind closed doors.
I paced the length of the room, my boots echoing off the walls with each heavy step. Back and forth. Back and forth. The sound was rhythmic, almost hypnotic, filling the oppressive silence. My hands flexed at my sides, opening and closing repeatedly. The tension coiled so tight in my muscles that my shoulders ached, and my jaw throbbed from clenching my teeth. My pulse hammered in my ears, adrenaline coursing through my veins like liquid fire.
The other officers watched me with varying degrees of concern and wariness.
Morpheus leaned against the far wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, his expression unreadable as stone. He had seen me like this before—wound up, dangerous, teetering on the edge—but he knew better than to speak first. Cerberus sat on an old metal chair that creaked under his weight, elbows on his knees, his gaze tracking my movements like a predator watching prey. His jaw worked as he chewed on a piece of gum, the only sound besides my footsteps. Garrote stood near the stairs, blocking the only exit, silent as always, but his eyes were sharp and alert. Calculating. Reading the room, reading me, probably already planning his next move depending on how this went.
