Page 7 of Savoring Sienna
The day they’d found him—God, he could still hear the controlled chaos of the raid, the sharp reports of gunfire, and the tactical commands echoing through stone corridors—he had been so far gone by then, hanging by threads of consciousness in that dank cell, that he’d thought the sounds were just another hallucination. But then Jagger’s voice had cut through the haze, that familiar “Clear!” followed by a strangled, “Jesus Christ! Medic! Get in here now!”
The entire squad, all hardened warriors, had tears in their eyes as they worked to free him from the chains. Cooper, the team’s medic, shook so badly he could barely insert the IV. Martinez, their explosives expert, threw up in the corner when he saw the extent of the damage. And Williams, who’d never once showed emotion in the fifteen years Crone had known him, openly wept as he helped stabilize Crone’s mangled leg.
But it was Jagger’s face he remembered most clearly. He would never forget the raw anguish that had twisted his features when their eyes met, or the way his voice had cracked as he’d said, “I got you, brother. I got you.” His huge hands had been impossibly gentle as he’d cradled Crone’s broken body, mindful of the wounds and fractures that mapped two years of systematic torture.
Crone had cried then—deep, gut-wrenching sobs that tore through him with enough force to make his broken ribs scream in protest. Tears and mucus had run freely down his face as twenty-four months of carefully maintained control shattered in the arms of the man who wasn’t only his brother-in-arms buthis best friend. He’d cried for the pain, the fear, and the lonely nights when he’d prayed for death. But mostly, he had sobbed because they’d come for him. Against all odds, because Jagger had never stopped searching.
That moment still had the power to choke him with emotion, even five years later. The bond forged in that hellhole that day went beyond friendship and sodality. It was primal and unbreakable, written in blood and sealed with tears that no real man would ever be ashamed to shed.
“Yeah, well,” he managed in a voice rougher than usual, “someone had to come make sure you’re not going soft playing house in the mountains.” The deflection was weak, but he knew Jagger understood. Some emotions were too raw to face head-on, even now.
Jagger’s voice thickened as he responded with a forced laugh, “Soft, my ass. Wait till you see what Moira’s got planned for your stay. She’s determined to put some meat back on your bones. Claims she needs an eating buddy to help her eat for two.” He squeezed Crone’s shoulder as his expression grew serious. “You’re too damn thin, man. Living like a hermit isn’t doing you any favors.”
Crone knew he was right. Gone were the bulging muscles he’d sported before being captured, when he’d lived on protein shakes and spent hours in the weight room chasing that bodybuilder physique. His frame now carried a different kind of strength. It was lean and whipcord tough from daily calisthenics and running the mountain trails near his cabin. The years of torture and recovery had stripped away the bulk but hadn’t diminished the raw power in his body. His muscles were defined and functional rather than showy, speaking more to endurance than brute force. It was the build of a predator rather than a strongman—efficient and deadly in its own way.
Still, the concern in his friend’s voice hit home in a way few things could. Jagger had earned the right to speak such truths.
Chapter Four
The Big House, Rawhide Ranch... the foothills of the Sapphire Mountains in Ravalli County in the state of Montana
Derek
Derek leaned back in his chair, enjoying the sanctuary of leather and oak of his study as he made a call. Drawing in a breath, he reveled in the mountain air drifting through half-open windows.
His fingers drummed against the desk, matching the rhythm from his vintage radio while he waited for Jagger to answer. From the dining room, a chorus of high-pitched squeals and giggles shattered his peaceful afternoon. A smile tugged at his lips. Sadie’s tea party was in full swing.
Knowing his babygirl was happy was worth having his house overflowing with a giggle of Littles every now and then, especially when he got to pull her over his lap afterward for a well-deserved spanking for interrupting his peace with their shenanigans.
“Derek? Fancy hearing from you.”
“Took your time answering. I was about to put down the phone.”
A burst of laughter erupted from the dining room. Jagger’s knowing chuckle crackled through the phone. “Ah, the big bad wolf has to play pool Daddy, I see. Is that why you’re grumpy?”
His wife’s weekly Little gatherings had become quite a tradition, and although he regularly reiterated the rule to keep them confined to weekdays when he was handling business at the resort, she persisted in hosting one at their home at least once a month over a weekend. Derek shook his head, admiring her clever manipulation… but he was on to her. Sadie orchestrated these invasions of his quiet time with one purpose. His pretty Little was after a punishing spanking, but not today. He had other plans. It was time Little Mrs. Hawkins realized he was her Daddy, the one in charge… not her play toy.
“I’m tea Daddy today and no, I’m not grumpy at all.” Derek’s voice carried a rich undercurrent of anticipation. “I’m looking forward to her punishment too much.”
“So, you caught on to her scheme.” Jagger’s deep chuckle resonated through the phone. “She and Moira must be in cahoots. They pull the same stunt every month on one Wednesday afternoon at our place.”
“And we both know that’s your carved-out special time with your Little wife when the kiddos are visiting their gram.” Derek chuckled. “They are definitely synchronizing their efforts.”
“Perhaps we should let Crone address their behavior with his double flogger technique. The way he binds two subs front-to-front creates an extraordinary dynamic.” Jagger paused. “I’ve never seen another Dom have the depth of emotional effect on Littles and subs like he does with an impact tool.”
“His mastery comes as no surprise. We shared the same mentor in Noah Carver.”
“Indeed. Another success story from the master himself.”
“I believe it’s his own terrifying trauma that adds to his ability to break the walls of other’s emotional distress.”
“Whatsup, Derek?” Jagger knew him too well to think he phoned just to chat, especially over a weekend when family time took priority.
Derek’s gaze drifted to Dr. Williams’ assessment on his desk. The detailed psychiatric evaluation delved into territories beyond the scope of Rawhide Ranch’s resident therapists, Drs. Sam and Catherine Denton.
“Crone is the reason for my call, Jag. You mentioned his upcoming visit. Any idea when he’ll be here?”
Derek had observed Crone during his regular visits to Rawhide Ranch, noting how he maintained careful emotional distance despite his popularity among submissives and Littles. Yet when wielding an impact tool, Crone transformed into something extraordinary—a master who could extract buried trauma through carefully orchestrated sensation. It was during those visits that he had earned the name whip whisperer among the submissives and Littles.
