Breaking Free, Loving Again -The Flash Marriage with Mr. CEO

In the meantime, Dafydd's car finally came to a halt. His man hesitated, but looking through the rear mirror, he announced, "Sir, we have arrived at the location."

Dafydd paused when he heard that. His gaze darted toward the window, narrowing as he took in the deserted surroundings. The silence outside didn't feel peaceful —instead, it felt suffocating, charged with the weight of something hidden beneath its stillness. A chaos.

His frown deepened as he studied the place.

"What kind of shi*ty place is this?" he muttered, though his voice carried a strain he couldn't hide. He tried not to dwell on the thoughts clawing at him, but in his heart, a cold dread had already begun to spread.

His man looked around warily, his brows tightening. "This is the location we received, sir. If the tip is reliable … then Young Master Bryn should be here. But we aren't sure."

"Why would he be kept at a place like this?" Dafydd almost growled, but before he could let his anger burn further, his body betrayed him. His chest tightened, and he broke into a fit of coughs, harsh and uncontrollable.

"Sir!" The man quickly twisted around, unscrewing a bottle of water and offering it to him with urgent hands. His expression was etched with worry. "Please, don't strain yourself. We don't yet know what the situation is. We need to confirm before rushing in."

Dafydd's fingers clenched around the bottle. His knuckles turned white as his breathing steadied with effort.

The very thought of his dear son —his Bryn —locked away in a place like this, perhaps suffering, perhaps hurt … it made his blood boil until his veins screamed with fury.

His lips curled into a snarl.

"Aiden," he muttered, venom lacing each syllable, "you had better not have laid a finger on Bryn. Because if you have …"

His eyes darkened, the fury in them almost feral. "... then even the heavens won't be enough to protect you from me."

The car door clicked open, and Dafydd stepped out, his shoes crunching against the gravel of the abandoned site. His man followed him closely.

The entrance to the abandoned warehouse loomed ahead like a monster gaping, waiting to swallow them.

If it hadn't been for Bryn, Dafydd would never have set foot in such filth. But now he had no other option. All he could think of was his son. He needed to take him away, safe and sound.

Inside the warehouse, the air felt damp, heavy with rust and mildew. Dafydd's steps echoed sharply. His gaze darted across the figures stationed there — men standing rigid, silent, watching like shadows.

"Where is my son?" he asked in a snarl, grabbing one by the collar.

The man's jaw tightened. However, he said nothing, as though he was instructed not to speak a word.

"You … why aren't you speaking? I asked you where my son is! Where is Bryn —"

His voice broke off.

"Arghhh —!!!"

A scream ripped through the air.

It wasn't just any scream. It was a scream Dafydd recognized too well.

Bryn's scream.

The sound rattled him to the marrow. His grip loosened as his body froze. His head snapped towards the dim corridor from where the cream had come, his heart pounding like a drum of war.

His fists clenched, and he surged forward.

No one stopped him. Dozens of men lined the walls, but not one lifted a hand. It was as if they were instructed to let him through.

The warehouse was a maze of shadows, but the deeper he went, the brighter it grew. A single bulb glared in the distance, swaying faintly from a chain, its light throwing jagged shadows on the walls.

And then Dafydd saw it.

The cavernous hall stretched before him, silent except for the wet crack of leather, echoing in the air.

Beneath the swaying bulb. Bryn sat, slumped in a steel chair. His arms were lashed tight behind him, his body jerking with every strike.

His shirt had long been torn to rags, his skin beneath raw and weeping. Each last from Tariq's hip tore strips of his flesh, the song sickening, wet, as if meat was being ripped from the bone.

The moment Dafydd saw him like that, he couldn't move. It felt like his soul had already left his body. He had imagined the worst happening, but in none of his imaginings had he imagined seeing Bryn in such a gory condition.

It was as though the scene had been staged —crafted deliberately for him to witness.

"Please … let me go, l-let me —" Bryn begged hoarsely, his words breaking off as another lash carved into his back. His cry cracked the silence. "Arhhh!"

Dafydd flinched at the sharp, flesh-cutting sound. His control snapped, and so did his dazed senses. "How dare you?" he roared.

Tariq stilled, slowly turning to look at him. And so did Bryn.

"D-Dad …!" Bryn's voice trembled, uncertain if what he saw was real or another cruel trick of his mind.

Dafydd's jaws locked. He didn't respond to him. Instead, he strode forward, his steps heavy with authority, rage bleeding from every pore.

Tariq's eyes followed him, cold and unreadable. He didn't move, didn't speak, until Dafydd was close enough for their shadows to meet.

"Is there anything I can help you with, Sir?" Tariq asked evenly, as though Dafydd had merely stepped into his office.

"I asked you," Dafydd spat, "how dare you lay your hands on my son?"

Tariq tilted his head, a faint crease forming between his brows. His gaze flickered from Dafydd to Bryn, then back again. Without another word, he lifted his whip —and lashed Bryn once more.

"Like this?"

"Arhh!" Bryn's cry split the air.

Dafydd's pupils dialated, rage searing through him. "You … bloody bast*rd! I —"

"Wait," Tariq's voice cut through his fury, quiet but laced with something unnerving. His brows twitched, curiosity glinting in his eyes —maniacal, deliberate.

"Don't tell me you know a better way to whip?" He tilted his head, lips curling in a cold smile. "If you do … then by all means, show me. I will learn immediately. And then I will give you a better show. After all, that's what I am tasked for."

Dafydd frowned as though he didn't understand what he meant. "What do you mean?"

Tariq tilted his head, putting on a look of disbelief on his face. "Wait … still haven't understood?" His tone dripped with surprise, as if he couldn't fathom Dafydd's confusion.

When Dafydd's frown only deepened, his patience wearing thin, Tariq suddenly laughed out loud —a sharp, mocking sound that echoed against the steel walls. "I can understand. You must have been too busy enjoying the spectacle to realize that you didn't come here on your own."

"You are here," Tariq continued, voice curling with mockery, "because you were meant to be here. To enjoy the show. So tell me …" he leaned forward, raising a finger in the air. "Did you enjoy enough?"

Dafydd's fist tightened.

"Even if not," Tariq went on, his grin widening, "there is nothing to worry about. It hasn't ended yet. In fact …" his voice dropped to a near whisper. "It has only just begun. Be patient, sir. I am sure there will come a time when even you … will enjoy."

Every word sent shivers down Dafydd's spine. He didn't feel like he was confronting a human. The more he heard Tariq, the more he felt like he was standing in front of a psycho —a madman —one who has lost his complete senses.

"Leave my son. Let him go," Dafydd barked, his voice commanding though laced with desperation.

But that only made Tariq laugh again, waving a dismissive hand. "Oh, come now, sir. Don't give up so soon. The show has just begun. And I haven't even shown you how I turned your precious boy into a living cripple."

"You did what?" Dafydd was taken aback. The words stuck him like lightning. His eyes snapped to Bryn, straining to focus in dim light, searching desperately ti see if it was true —or just another sick taunt.

But something was wrong. Horribly wrong. The way Bryn slumped in the chair … the unnatural stillness of his limbs …

"Bryn …" Dafydd's voice cracked as he stepped forward. "Bryn, son, tell me you are alright. Aren't you?"

"D-Dad…" Bryn's trembling voice pierced the air, drenched in terror. "Please … save me. Save me, Dad … or, I will die".

The plea twisted a knife in Dafydd's chest. Horror crashed over him, and rage followed in its wake. His breath grew ragged, his vision narrowing until only Tariq's smirking face remained in focus.

"How dare you —!" he roared, his voice thundering across the hall.

However, the effect died almost instantly.

Because along with his roar came the sound of someone's footsteps —heavy, deliberate, echoing with a chilling rhythm that drowned out everything else.

Dafydd's head snapped towards the sound only to see a long, dark shadow stretching across the floor, slowly creeping into the space.