Depraved by Trent Evans

Chapter 27

Jon stirred, a ghost of a dream fading fast, the scent of Yulia all around him. Her breathing was slow and shallow, a comforting sound next to him. He rolled over onto his back, the light in the room much brighter, morning almost upon them.

He was pleasantly stiff, his cock standing up as it always did each morning.

Twice more during the night, he’d taken her, the second time while she was only half awake. His erection was sticky with the remnants of her juices, the smell of her making his mouth water.

He turned to look at her, all curled up in the blankets, her bound wrists tucked under her cheek, her hair wild, spread all around, a thick lock hanging down over her eyes. The blankets had slipped down in her slumber, revealing the naked curve of her hip, the soft buttocks still showing the fading marks of his handprints from the smacks to her ass he’d given her during their last romp last night, her bottom presented high, her face forced down, her pillow absorbing her lost cries of pain and pleasure.

Something hard and small pressed to the back of his head, to the subtle whine of a mag accelerator winding up.

Military.

“Move, and I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off.”

“Not moving.” Jon held up his free hand. “I’m rolling over, okay?”

“Slow, asshole.” The gun barrel remained pressed to his head.

The instant the barrel pulled away though, Jon rolled and swept his leg out from under the comforter, his heel striking the man at mid-thigh. The impact drove him against the wall next to the bed, the man’s pained grunt following. At the exact same moment, Jon slashed his arm up and back, his forearm striking mid-barrel and deflecting the weapon away just as it fired, the sound a deafening roar in his ears.

Yulia screamed, next to him, her voice a ululation of pure, shocked terror.

The man staggered, but was already recovering, training the rifle on him once more.

The blue uniform confirmed it.

Rebels.

In a split second, Jon sprang from the bed, striking the rebel at the solar plexus with the heel of his hand, throwing him against the wall once more, the burst of white plaster behind him signaling it had given way under the heavy impact. The gunman was wearing a strong ballistics vest, but Jon was more than powerful enough to stagger him anyway, the man wincing and dropping to a knee.

Jon ripped the weapon from the man’s grip as the intruder dropped to his hands and knees, gasping. Flipping the rifle around to grip it properly, he brought the kneeling man’s close-cropped blond hair into his sights.

“Jon… no, he’s one of—no!” Yulia cried out from the bed, her hands at her face, the blanket clutched over her breasts.

He was already beginning to squeeze the trigger when another pair of mag accelerator whines sounded from across the room.

“Pull that trigger and it’s the last fucking thing you ever do,” a female voice, low and smooth, barked.

He froze. It might be possible to wheel and eliminate one—he was fast enough. But not two, not if they were well-trained—and these three had managed to get inside his place without alerting him.

They had him.

“On your knees,” the third man said, his deeper voice little more than a growl as he advanced quickly until he was less than two meters away, rifle up in firing position, his movement swift and sure.

His slender female companion, armed with a large caliber sniper rifle—probably a Wharton 282, judging by the stock and lower receiver—was right on him, in standard two-by-two squad fire team infantry advance.

Definitely military rebels.

The first attacker brought himself to his feet, yanking the rifle from Jon’s hand.

“I’ll take that, thanks, asshole,” he drawled, voice tight, as if he hadn’t quite caught his breath.

As he took it, the blond intruder cracked his forearm into the side of Jon’s head. The blow hurt, but other than a split second of dizziness, he held his ground.

“Oh, tough guy, then?”

This time the butt of the blond’s rifle struck him just behind his left cheek with a bright flash between his eyes, and an explosion of pain through his face and head. Jon dropped to his knees, but willed himself to stay conscious.

He’d taken worse hits before, after all.

“An… Anson?” It was Yulia’s voice, incredulous.

Did she know these rebels?

“Yeah, it’s me. You stay right there, Yulia” The man with the deeper voice—Anson—didn’t take his eyes, or his rifle, from Jon for even a moment as he said it, nodding toward the blond man. “That’s Tom, and this is Lyssa with me. We’re taking you out of here.”

“Lyssa? Is that really you?”

“How you been, Wyndham?” the woman drawled, real warmth in her tone.

It made Yulia smile.

“Do we shoot him?” Lyssa asked.

She was strikingly pretty, even in her heavy gear, a dirty gray cloth wrapped across her mouth seeming to highlight the almost purple hue of her eyes.

“Has he hurt you?” Anson asked.

Anson was clearly the leader here.

The pause was long enough that Jon thought she might tell the man everything. “N-no… I’m all right.” She slipped off the bed, on the other side, bringing the covers with her. “Please… my clothes.”

“Go find her something to wear,” Anson said to his female companion.

“In the vehicle bay,” Jon said. “The rover—storage compartment in center console.”

“You shut your fuckin’ mouth,” the blond said from behind him, the rifle barrel once more prodding the back of Jon’s skull. “Lace those fingers behind your head, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep them there.”

Jon obeyed, slowly and calmly, even as he knew the remainder of his life was likely to be measured in minutes, perhaps seconds.

But an odd sort of calm had settled over him. He had saved Yulia, from Kaman and Carter anyway. That was worth something, no matter what happened in the next few moments.

Still, he wished he’d have even a handful of minutes more with her.

To say what needed to be said.

But he wasn’t going to get it.

“Let’s splat his ass right now.” The barrel prodded him again. “Be done with him.”

“Tom, no… Tom,” Yulia said. “He’s… he’s not a danger.”

His heart seized in his chest. Where a moment ago, he was certain he was facing his doom, Yulia had given him something to hold onto. His captive. The woman he’d taken in that very bed hours before.

She’d given him hope—even though he deserved none.

“Mr. Not A Danger here just about crushed my sternum with that battering ram of a fucking right hand. Not a danger, my ass.”

“Steady, Tom,” Anson said, an edge in his voice.

“I’ll get them, Cap,” Lyssa murmured.

Anson nodded to her, and she lowered her rifle, slipping back out of the room.

Shouldering his rifle, Anson then moved to Yulia.

She jumped at him, embracing him tightly. “I’m so glad to see you!”

“We’ve got you, Yulia.” Anson seemed to allow just a little bit of emotion into his voice, hugging her with one arm. “We’ve got you, girl.”

Jon hated it. She was his to watch over, to protect—and now, he was losing her.

You never had her, Jon. You kidnapped her.

Despair threatened then, an almost unknown emotion to him. He was adrift now, with no purpose. No mission. The one anchor left to his former self, his old life, was the woman being taken from him.

The same woman who’d just saved his life.

But it wasn’t bitterness he felt, despite the rawness of his emotions. Not at all. It was… gratitude. For the first time in a very long time, perhaps ever, he was… thankful.

To another human being.

The same human being who had every reason to hate him. To order him shot like a rabid dog right there in his own bed chamber.

“We won’t hurt him as long as be cooperates,” Anson said.

Tom cursed under his breath behind Jon. “But if he tries anything, I’m putting him down, and I won’t have a second of regret doing it. Understand?”

“Yes, I do,” Yulia said, softly.

Then, incredibly, she came around the bed, blankets dragging on the floor behind her. She dropped to her knees in front of him, giving him a tentative little smile.

“He has to come with us,” Anson said. “He’s got a lot to answer for. And a lot we still need to know.”

Lyssa walked back in, rifle slung diagonally across her back, Yulia’s torn shift bundled in her arms. “Got ‘em, Cap.”

Yulia touched Jon’s cheek then, shocking him. “He…he won’t hurt me. I know it. We’ve got to help him.”

“He’s our prisoner, Yulia,” Anson intoned. “He’s going to face a Tribunal. You know that.”

The anguish Jon saw in Yulia’s eyes then both uplifted him, and threatened to crush him.

“I know. But… he needs me.”

He was lost. Utterly. And he’d accepted what had happened—and what his likely fate was.

There was nothing he could do about that, because in truth, he no longer cared.

The only thing he cared about anymore… was Yulia.