What is a surprise? Only the unexpected truly qualifies.
Despite being, metaphorically speaking, a "new car," Helena had gone to the hotel with him so casually and unrestrainedly that Jack Kadere could already tell: she had issues—deep ones. Coming from a criminal legacy like the Bertinelli family, it wasn't shocking she harbored some twisted psychology, a blend of rebellion, self-destruction, and a thirst for revenge against her father. But what really caught Jack off guard… was her secret stash of toys.
She didn't have the refined elegance of Laurel Lance or the seductive aloofness of Selina Kyle, but Helena radiated something raw—rebellious, reckless, and dangerously alluring. That wild energy drew Jack in like a moth to a flame.
Moments later,
Jack's eyes darkened as he took in the sight of Helena, bound and gagged, her body laid out before him like a feast. He approached her, his fingers trailing down her body, tracing the curve of her hips, her waist, her breasts.
"You like this, don't you?" he growled, his voice low and husky. "You like being tied up, at my mercy?"
Helena's eyes flashed with a dark, dangerous hunger. She nodded, her body tensing in anticipation.
Jack smirked, his hands moving to her wrists, binding them tighter with the rope. He could see the marks it left on her skin, red and raw, and it only served to fuel his desire.
He moved to her breasts, his fingers pinching her nipples, twisting them until she moaned, her body arching into his touch. He leaned in, his tongue flicking out to taste her, to tease her.
"You like that, huh?" he whispered, his voice low and steady. "You like it when it hurts?"
Helena nodded, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Jack could see the pleasure building in her eyes, the way her body tensed and relaxed in rhythm with his movements.
He moved to her thighs, his hands spreading them wide, exposing her to him. He leaned in, his tongue flicking out to taste her, to tease her. She moaned, her body writhing beneath him.
But then, he stopped. He looked up at her, his eyes filled with a dark, dangerous hunger. "You want more, don't you?" he growled, his voice low and steady. "You want it harder. Rougher."
Helena nodded, her eyes filled with a desperate hunger. Jack smirked, his hands moving to her throat. He wrapped his fingers around it, squeezing, cutting off her air supply. Her eyes widened, her body tensing as she struggled to breathe.
"This is what you want, isn't it?" he whispered, his voice low and steady. "You want to feel the pain. You want to feel the struggle. You want to feel... alive."
He released her, her body collapsing back onto the bed, gasping for air. He moved to her breasts, his hands cupping them, squeezing them, pinching them. He could see the marks, red and raw, and it only served to fuel his desire.
"Harder," she gasped, her voice muffled by the gag. "Make it hurt, Jack. Make me scream."
Jack's body responded, his hips slamming against hers, his cock sliding deep inside her. He could feel her, tight and hot around him, her body responding to his every touch. He leaned in, his lips capturing her breasts, his tongue sliding against her nipples.
He moved faster, his hips slamming against hers, his body sheathed in hers. He could feel her, her body tensing, her muscles convulsing as she came undone. But he didn't stop. He continued to move, his body slamming against hers, his own release building.
But it wasn;t the time yet.
....
Jack smirked, his hands moving to her wrists. He unbound them, but only to bind them again, this time behind her back, pulling them taut, stretching her muscles.
She gasped, her body arching as pain shot through her. But Jack didn't stop. He moved to her ankles, binding them together, pulling them up and over, until she was spread eagle, her body open and vulnerable to him.
He moved to her breasts, his hands cupping them, squeezing them, pinching her nipples until she moaned, her body writhing beneath him. He leaned in, his tongue flicking out to taste her, to tease her.
But then, he stopped. He looked up at her, his eyes filled with a dark, dangerous hunger. "You want more, don't you?" he growled, his voice low and steady. "You want it harder. Rougher."
Helena nodded, her eyes filled with a desperate hunger. Jack smirked, his hands moving to her throat. He wrapped his fingers around it, squeezing, cutting off her air supply. Her eyes widened, her body tensing as she struggled to breathe.
"This is what you want, isn't it?" he whispered, his voice low and steady. "You want to feel the pain. You want to feel the struggle. You want to feel... alive."
He released her, her body collapsing back onto the bed, gasping for air. He moved to her ass, his hands spanking her, leaving red handprints on her skin. She moaned, her body writhing beneath him, her ass arching into his touch.
"Harder," she gasped, her voice muffled by the gag. "Make it hurt, Jack. Make me scream."
Jack's body responded, his hips slamming against hers, his cock sliding deep inside her. He could feel her, tight and hot around him, her body responding to his every touch. He moved faster, his hips slamming against hers, his body sheathed in hers.
He reached up, his hands wrapping around her throat again. He squeezed, cutting off her air supply, his hips moving in time with the pulsing of her veins. She struggled, her body tensing, her face turning red, but he didn't stop. He continued to move, his body slamming against hers, until she screamed, her body convulsing with pleasure and pain.
He released into her, her body collapsing back onto the bed, gasping for air. Undoing the gag, he leaned in, his lips capturing hers, his tongue sliding against hers. He could taste her, her breath, her desire, her hunger.
"You're mine," he growled, his voice low and steady. "You're my canvas. My plaything. My toy. And I'll do with you as I please."
Helena's body responded, her muscles convulsing, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. She was his, completely and utterly, and she loved it. She loved the pain. She loved the struggle. She loved the feeling of being... alive.
....
After the storm had passed, Jack lay back in bed as if he owned the place, one arm slung lazily over the now thoroughly exhausted Helena. His gaze drifted to the peculiar little item she had discarded earlier.
"So," he said, picking it up between two fingers with amusement, "what made you think of buying something like this?"
"To keep myself from talking in my sleep," Helena said, turning to meet his eyes. "What if I told you I've been secretly collecting evidence on my father's crimes—trying to take down his entire operation. Would you believe me?"
Jack nodded without hesitation. "Yeah. I'd believe you."
Helena raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? You're not just saying that to get on my good side?"
Jack laughed. "Don't flatter yourself. You're not my girlfriend, Helena. I've got no reason to humor you. Everyone's got issues with their family—yours just happens to run a criminal empire. Not exactly rare in this world."
Helena paused. Then, in a softer tone, she asked, "Would you help me?"
Jack answered without missing a beat. "No. I wouldn't."
Helena blinked, caught off guard. "Why not?"
"I'm not interested in family drama," he said simply. "Yours or anyone else's."
Helena's expression darkened. Her lips parted in regret, and she turned her face away. "I really did misjudge you, didn't I?"
She was angry—more at herself than him. She shouldn't have opened up. What if he betrayed her? Her father's reach was long. If word of this got back to him, she wouldn't survive it.
Her eyes returned to Jack, now calm and disinterested, as if the conversation meant nothing to him. But she wasn't done.
"If I offered myself to you," Helena said quietly, "if I became your lover—on your terms—and gave you more money than you could spend, would you reconsider? I don't need you to take any real risks. Just play your part. Help me bring him down."
Jack considered her offer for a moment. Then he shook his head.
"Still not interested."
Helena exhaled slowly. "I didn't want to do this…"
Her voice trembled.
"…but I won't let anyone screw up my plan."
Suddenly, she bolted upright and stumbled toward the door, screaming.
"Help! Someone broke into my room!"
Jack blinked. "Are you serious right now?"
The bedroom door exploded inward as two hulking bodyguards burst in, guns drawn, muscles tensed for violence. Their training had prepared them for assassins, intruders, even full-blown mob hits—but not for the sight of Helena Bertinelli, hair wild, sheets tangled around her, and some smirking stranger lounging half-naked in her bed like he owned the damn place.
"What the hell are you idiots waiting for?!" Helena shrieked, her voice raw with fury and something dangerously close to desperation. "He broke in! He—he raped me right under your noses! KILL HIM!"
The bodyguards' brains short-circuited for half a second.
Raped her?
In this house?
On their watch?
Frank Bertinelli would skin them alive. Slowly. With a butter knife.
They didn't need to be told twice.
Gunfire erupted.
The room became a storm of muzzle flashes and splintering wood as bullets chewed through the bedframe, the headboard, the expensive-ass wallpaper Frank had imported from Italy. Helena ducked behind them, her chest heaving, a flicker of something like regret flashing across her face before she crushed it.
"I... I didn't want it to turn out like this..." she whispered, so quiet even she barely heard it.
But then—
Reality glitched.
Because Jack Kadere wasn't dead.
He wasn't even hit.
He moved like the bullets were wading through syrup, tilting his head just so as a round grazed past his ear, twisting his torso in a lazy backbend as another punched through the space where his ribs had been a millisecond ago. His grin never wavered, like this was all some private joke only he understood.
Click. Click.
Silence.
The bodyguards stared at their empty magazines, then at each other, then back at Jack—who was now perched on the dresser, one knee drawn up, looking bored.
"You guys done?" he asked, brushing a speck of dust off his shoulder. "Because if we're doing the whole 'shoot first, ask never' thing, I should warn you—I hate reloading."
Helena's breath caught in her throat.
How?
How was any of this possible?
The hallway was a kill box. The range was point-blank. These weren't just hired thugs—they were Frank's best, men who could put a bullet between a target's eyes from thirty yards in the dark.
And yet Jack had dodged every shot like he was playing dodgeball with the laws of physics.
One of the bodyguards, a brick shithouse named Marco, finally found his voice. "What... what are you?"
Jack's smile widened.
"Disappointed."
Then—
He moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just wrong. Like reality itself stuttered for a frame, and suddenly he was behind them, one hand resting on Marco's shoulder like an old friend.
"Pro tip?" Jack whispered, right into the man's ear. "Next time, aim."
Then he tapped him—just a light flick of the fingers against his temple—and Marco's eyes rolled back as he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
The second bodyguard barely had time to piss himself before Jack's foot somehow connected with his jaw, sending him spinning into the wall with a crunch.
Helena stared, her pulse roaring in her ears.
Jack turned to her, tilting his head. "So." He gestured at the unconscious goons. "We still doing the whole 'helpless victim' thing, or...?"
"You really do keep me on my toes," Jack said with a crooked smile, stepping in front of Helena.
Helena's survival instinct kicked in. Her eyes flared, and she threw a punch straight at his jaw.
Jack caught the motion out of the corner of his eye. With a chuckle, he dipped sideways, letting the blow pass harmlessly by. Then, with a fluid motion, he drove his knee upward into Helena's midsection.
She doubled over instantly, gasping for air, her face twisted in pain.
"Too slow."
Jack grabbed her by the shoulder and flipped her with a clean, over-the-shoulder throw.
Thud!
She crashed to the marble floor, the impact rattling her senses. Dazed but conscious, Helena rolled to her side, teeth clenched in agony.
Down the staircase, the thunder of boots shook the walls. Reinforcements—Frank Bertinelli's personal kill squad—were storming in, guns up, fingers itching on triggers. These weren't just hired muscle; these were the guys who made other hired muscle piss themselves.
Jack didn't even turn around.
He just sighed, rolled his shoulders, and raised one hand like he was swatting a fly.
A low, ominous hum filled the air—the kind of sound that makes the hairs on your neck stand up before the lightning even shows up. Then came the crackle. Not the cute "static shock from a doorknob" kind. More like the "God just plugged his fingers into a live power grid" kind.
Blue-white tendrils of electricity coiled up Jack's arm, dancing between his fingers like hyperactive serpents. The air itself vibrated, heavy with the promise of violence.
"You ever wonder," Jack mused, "why tasers stop at 100,000 volts?"
Helena, still frozen in shock, could only stare.
"Because normal people die after that."
Then—
"Stack it. Tenfold."
The world went white.
A million-volt arc of raw, screaming energy erupted from his fingertips, twisting midair into the shape of a gigantic, snarling dragon made of pure lightning. It roared—actually roared—before lashing out like the fist of an angry thunder god.
CRACK-CRACK-BOOM!
The hallway turned into a warzone of light and sound. Bulbs exploded in showers of sparks. Wires melted in their casings. The guards didn't even have time to scream before the dragon swallowed them whole, sending bodies flying like ragdolls in a hurricane. Guns clattered to the floor, barrels glowing red-hot. The stench of ozone and burnt polyester filled the air.
When the light finally faded, the stairwell looked like a bomb had gone off—a bomb that really loved electricity.
Helena's jaw was somewhere near the floor.
Jack flexed his fingers, shaking off the last few sparks. "Huh. Forgot how much I missed doing that."
One of the guards—some poor bastard who'd miraculously survived—was twitching on the ground, his hair standing straight up like he'd just stuck a fork in a socket.
Jack crouched next to him, tilting his head. "Hey. Tell your boss something for me."
The guard wheezed.
"Tell him his daughter's got great taste in men."
Then he tapped the guy's forehead—just a little boop—and the guard's eyes rolled back as he joined his buddies in unconsciousness.
Helena finally found her voice. "What... the hell are you?"
Jack stood up, brushing imaginary dust off his pants. "Oh, you know. Just a guy with a shocking personality."
Somewhere, in the depths of the universe, Enel sneezed.