Breach - 7

Chapter Seven:

Let Me Destroy You

06:43 A.M.

The video in high definition burned through their eyes.

Cain stood frozen in front of the flat-screen, jaw tight, arms folded. Saxon was on the couch behind him, shirtless, lips parted, watching himself on the screen with wide, stunned eyes.

The video played on loop.

His back arched. His thighs spread. Cain’s hands gripping his waist. His moans filling the speakers.

Grainy. Stolen. Obscene.

It was them. Their first night in the safehouse.

Cain didn’t need audio to hear it.

Didn’t need visuals to know how he sounded when he came inside Saxon the first time after thinking he’d lost him forever.

“You were mine before you ever knew what the word meant,” his voice snarled on screen.

Cain shut off the TV.

Saxon whispered, “That’s… online?”

Cain nodded once.

“Who has it?”

Cain’s voice was ice. “Don Vincente.”

Saxon’s breath hitched. “How?”

Cain turned to him, jaw flexing. “Someone tapped the feed. Probably before we even got here.”

“Your own system?”

“I built this place to be untouchable,” Cain said darkly. “Which means whoever breached it knows me.”

Saxon stood, pacing.

“This is more than blackmail,” he muttered.

Cain nodded. “It’s exposure. Humiliation. Psychological warfare.”

“And you know what Vincente does to people once he’s bored of scaring them.”

Cain’s face darkened. “He breaks them.”

—

07:02 A.M.

The safehouse had two levels.

The bottom floor was designed for rest.

The top floor was designed for war.

But beneath that—hidden in the walls, only accessible by Cain’s biometrics—was a door.

Behind it?

A room with no windows. No light unless turned on. No echoes.

Just bondage rigs, padded floors, steel walls, and a single mirror bolted to the ceiling above the black leather bed.

Cain had only ever used it once.

Long ago.

With Saxon.

The first time they’d needed to forget the world.

—

07:15 A.M.

“Get on your knees,” Cain said.

Saxon blinked at him.

They stood in the entrance of the room—bare concrete, flickering lights, a faint chill that clung to the skin.

Saxon didn’t hesitate.

He dropped.

Cain walked behind him slowly, stripping his shirt as he spoke.

“They’re watching us,” he said. “Waiting for us to fall apart. To crack. To run.”

He crouched, unbuckled Saxon’s pants, yanked them down and off.

“But you know what we do instead?”

Saxon’s voice was soft. “We burn bright.”

Cain pulled his belt free with a sharp, cruel sound.

And bound Saxon’s wrists behind his back.

Then he guided him to the padded bench.

“Face down,” he murmured.

Saxon obeyed.

Cain spread his legs wide, knelt between them, and pressed a kiss to the back of Saxon’s thigh.

“You want to be ruined?”

Saxon breathed, “Yes.”

Cain reached into the nearby drawer.

Chains. Lube. A collar. Blindfolds.

He took the collar first.

Wrapped it around Saxon’s neck. Latched it.

Then the blindfold.

And then he spread Saxon open, slow, dragging his fingers between the cheeks before spitting and pushing three fingers inside all at once.

Saxon screamed.

Cain growled, “Take it.”

“Fuck—Cain—”

“Take every inch, Saxon. Every piece of me. Let them see what I do to you.”

Saxon was shaking, moaning, the leather creaking beneath him as he squirmed.

Cain replaced his fingers with the fat, blunt head of his cock.

No warning.

He slammed in.

Saxon choked on air, the collar tightening as his body jerked forward.

Cain held him in place with one hand on the back of his neck and fucked him hard, without rhythm, without sanity—just pounding, furious, raw thrusts.

He was taking Saxon.

Claiming him.

Not for Don Vincente.

Not for the cameras.

For himself.

“Mine,” Cain snarled. “Even if they leak every inch of you to the world, you’ll still crawl back to me.”

Saxon moaned into the bench. “Yes—yes—I’ll always come back—”

Cain grabbed the chain between the collar and yanked. “Louder.”

“I’m yours—I’m fucking yours—break me—ruin me—”

Cain lost it.

He pulled out, flipped Saxon onto his back, wrists still bound, body shaking—and then shoved back inside, holding his hips in a bruising grip.

Saxon arched.

Sweat dripped down his chest.

Cain kissed him—hard, filthy, tongue shoved in deep.

They fucked like the world had ended.

Saxon came untouched, face twisted in something between agony and devotion.

Cain followed seconds later, biting into Saxon’s chest, spilling inside him so deep it felt like his soul bled out too.

They collapsed on the padded mat.

Breathless.

Ruined.

Safe.

For now.

—

08:45 A.M.

Cain cleaned Saxon in silence.

Unbound him slowly. Unbuckled the collar. Kissed the bruises.

“You okay?” he whispered.

Saxon stared up at him with the softest eyes.

“I’ve never felt more alive.”

Cain pulled him close. “I’ll protect you. Even if it kills me.”

Saxon nodded.

But somewhere deep inside his chest…

He knew Cain was already dying.

Piece by piece.

Because love wasn’t enough to stop a war.

—

10:00 A.M.

Unknown Location

Don Vincente leaned back in his chair, replaying the latest feed with a pleased smile.

“They’re cracking,” he said.

Rena, seated beside him, sipped from her wine.

“He’ll kill you if you get close,” she said.

Vincente chuckled. “He won’t get the chance.”

He turned the monitor off.

“And when I finally touch Saxon…” His voice turned molten. “He’ll beg for more.”

Rena didn’t smile.

She looked at the screen once more.

And whispered, “We’ll see.”

—

12:01 P.M.

Cain didn’t flinch when the knock came.

He was already by the door—gun in hand, knife at his ankle, Glock tucked at the base of his spine.

The safehouse wasn’t on any map. Not satellite, not private ledger, not even in Vincente’s own network.

Whoever had the balls to show up here knew what they were doing.

Cain opened the door.

Nothing.

Just a single black box on the concrete, sealed with blood-red wax.

No name. No return address.

Just a sticker on the top with one word in block capitals:

STAY BROKEN.

Cain’s stomach coiled like a spring.

He took it inside.

Opened it slow.

And inside— A copy of the sex video, printed and paused at Saxon’s face mid-orgasm, a single, bloody bullet casing and a slip of paper with Saxon’s real name—Elias Angelo Dantes—written in looping cursive.

And then slashed through in thick, black ink.

Like a death notice.

Cain’s grip crushed the edge of the casing.

His vision went white.

Saxon stepped out from the hallway, shirt halfway on, lips still bruised from last night’s bite marks.

He took one look at Cain’s face and froze.

“What is it?”

Cain didn’t speak.

He just held the paper out.

Saxon took it.

Read it once.

Then again.

His face went blank.

“You told me no one knew,” he whispered.

“They shouldn’t have,” Cain said tightly. “Your name was buried years ago. Erased from every federal, medical, and state archive. Only two people ever had access.”

Saxon looked up. “You and—”

Cain finished it. “Vincente.”