A/N:

At this point in our little tale, there has not been the discovery of Jill Valentine and her antibodies. So, what does that mean? It means, at the current time, the only person that we know of that has special blood? Oh yes, Sherry. So, that's why our most hated/loved villain is going to be hunting her down. Eventually, we know, that Jill will fall into his hands and offer him the answers. But for now? Let's see where his pursuit of his new world gets us.

I have a dirty but prolific mind. I thrill myself with it sometimes. I have lots of smut lying around looking for a home. I'm using it here. As the master/commander theme of my writing is prevalent in most of my love stories. Why? It seems I'm drawn to the dominant male, the alpha. I'm drawn to a strong female presence in the same way BUT the quiet power of women enthralls me. So we see that although Sherry and Claire may submit, they will never be ruled…not entirely…by that which possesses them.

Power.

A potent aphrodisiac.


Stage Three: Extrapolation


Devil's Elbow, Kentucky


Sherry took a search and rescue mission to escape her gilded cage. It was little more than a fetch and run to bring back a fleeing informant. It was cake and would likely give her little more than 72 hours before Simmons came looking for her if she didn't report back in.

The hills of the Kentucky countryside were still rolling and still green even as Fall looped her arms around the world and welcomed it, shivering with delight, into her comforting embrace. The trees were riots of color and commanded the hillsides where they rose, ever-changing, above the virtuous canvas of teeming perfection. If she never left the compound again, she knew that having seen the bustling, beautiful, endless sprawling Monte Carlo metropolis water line and the breathtaking splendor of the Kentucky wide open plains would stay with her like a dream.

She tracked her subject, Trey Burns, to the smallest little town in the Bluegrass State. Burns was wanted for questioning regarding the sale of black market viral weaponry to a few struggling factions of zealots responsible for an outbreak in a small urban area of Minnesota. He wasn't the power behind the sale, no, but it was suspected that he'd instituted the meeting of the two parties involved. He'd fled when security had attempted to collect him at his job at a Minnesota manufacturing plant. Backchannels had located him, potentially, under the radar in Kentucky. He had obscure relatives living in the area and was reputed to be hunkering down.

He was not considered armed or dangerous. Rarely did Simmons risk her on missions regarding her imminent safety. She got the feeling that he only sent her on missions to keep her compliant with her captivity. Eventually, she was going to gather the resolve to demand her freedom. She wondered what he'd say when she asked. Technically, holding her was against the law. But she doubted the National Security Advisor cared about her civil rights. He was probably holding her under the guise of the Patriot Act – promising that the world would see her as a terrorist committing treason against the United States. Such an act was in place to keep terrorists from claiming their civil rights. Those were all forfeited when one was considered a traitor to their country.

The small town was called Devil's Elbow. Apparently, the person who'd named it had a sense of humor because she didn't think the devil would bother to frequent what was little more than a wide spot in the road. She saw two stoplights in the whole town. Two. It was just that small.

A brief check of her GPS told her she was nearing the safe house set up for her by the agency. She pulled her little-rented sedan to the side of the road in front of the house and killed the engine. It was a tiny little cracker jack box of a house. It was yellow and had lacy little curtains that she could glimpse through the sparkling windows. The garden out front was well tended with pretty red plants called burning bushes that had clearly changed colors for the season.

Sherry jangled the keys in her hand as she stepped out of the car and popped the trunk to remove her bag. The bag was filled with clothes and her ID and her weapon. It was tucked smoothly in between a sweater and her favorite jeans. She was a crack shot with it although she'd never been forced to pull it in the field. She never missed on the range.

She opened the little white picket fence that was the garden entrance gate and moved down the cobblestoned walk toward the house. She glanced at her phone as she walked, wondering why Claire hadn't yet answered her texts. It wasn't like her to not respond for days on end.

Maybe Terra Save had sent her to another refugee camp to help with biological decontamination. Claire was often on the forefront of the humanitarian efforts following an outbreak. She was never shy about getting her hands dirty.

Sherry opened the little door and moved into the house, flipping through texts from Simmons and from her handler, Yvonne. She answered as she moved into the foyer. It was cool and dark in the little cottage. She set her bag by the door and responded to another text from Gary in mission control.

The low light of a lamp across the room flicked on and scared her to death. She dropped her phone in surprise.

"You should never, ever, enter a room without clearing it first."

Leon Kennedy was sitting in the recliner across the room. He had one leg crossed over the other casually and his gun was sitting beside him on the small table there. He was dressed in a long-sleeved Versace button down in black with a white dragon beautifully embroidered on the left upper chest and shoulder. The jeans were Diesel and stonewashed deconstructed in a style that looked guileless and falling apart and sexy. The boots were clearly Ferragamo. He was never a man without something expensive and beautiful on his body.

Sherry put a hand to her thundering heart and breathed. "You scared me to death."

"Where is your gun?"

She met that cool gaze and that stoic judgment with a blasé expression. "It's in my bag."

"In your bag?"

"Yes."

"What if I was an enemy? You'd be dead now. I'd have blown you away first at the door while you jingled your little keys so prettily and signaled your arrival. And again when you blindly walked into the house without clearing it. Who trained you?"

That quiet professional derision rankled. She met his look smoothly. "I see your point, Mr. Kennedy. Why are you here?"

Leon said nothing now; he simply watched her and waited.

Annoyed, Sherry shifted where she stood.

It was interesting to discover he'd missed her. He'd listened to her flee that night they'd spent together in Monte Carlo. He'd let her run. It was ok that she had. He'd needed a little time to digest their time together himself.

Her long blonde hair was carefully pinned back in a style that looked artless and simple and had probably taken hours to perfect. The shaggy fall of her bangs highlighted the pretty roundness of that gorgeous face. She wore a little butter yellow jacket and flare legged jeans. His practiced eye told him they weren't expensive but simple and fit her like a glove. There was the peeking promise of white beneath the jacket where it gapped.

She didn't wear much makeup. But she didn't need it. The perfect porcelain face was unlined and smooth. The gorgeous clear blue of her eyes were ringed in black liner and her mouth slicked with pink gloss. It shivered in him how much he'd missed her. And he'd missed the sweet sound of her voice. The voice was older, yes, but still the charming pitch of a bird to the ears. The voice was the girl in Raccoon City.

The body was the woman he'd touched himself thinking about for months.

Sherry said, again, "Why are you here, Leon?"

"Officially?"

"Sure. Officially."

"I'm here to assist in the capture of Trey Burns."

"They sent you to assist me?" She sounded surprised as she unzipped her jacket and slipped it off, hanging it on the little coat rack by the door.

"Not exactly. I volunteered. Simmons is worried about his potential to flee."

Irritated, Sherry crossed the room in her little white t-shirt and jeans. He watched her move and enjoyed the way she tried to cover up the rage of emotions. She failed, miserably, but she tried. "Simmons doesn't trust me to get the damn job done. He thinks I need a fucking babysitter."

Fucking.

The filthy word sounded so cute coming from that little mouth.

The image it elicited in his head? Nothing cute about that.

"You want me to take off and leave you to it? I figured it was better me than some trumped up asshole with a savior complex."

Sherry paused by the door to the small bedroom. She considered him. "You don't think you have a savior complex? I've rarely met a man that didn't."

"I don't think I'm much of a savior."

"Curious answer. Why not?"

"The savior generally doesn't flip the girl he just saved over onto her belly and spank her while she writhes."

Oh.

Jesus.

Sherry held his gaze. The little white t-shirt with its V-neck was offering a good view of those perky little breasts that he'd had his mouth all over. This is what she'd been wanting. That was written all over her face.

Her voice was so soft and breathy now as she asked, "Why are you here, Leon? Unofficially?"

And his answer stole her breath.

"The last time was about you. This time? It's about me."

Her heart was pounding so hard she thought she might faint from it.

"And what do you want?" Barely a whisper.

The small clock above the tiny fireplace in the living room gonged the hour. It sounded so loud in the teeming quiet. She felt the thrill of that cool calculation while he watched her, unwavering. He knew and she knew that whatever he wanted, whatever he said…she'd do it.

Or he'd punish her for it.

"Your surrender."

It was a good answer.

They held eyes for a long moment.

And her hands shifted to smooth brown leather of her belt.


Meanwhile...somewhere in the wilderness…


There was blood dripping down her body.

The realization of that alarmed her even as she dangled. She was bound to the cold stone and the sounds of dripping somewhere in the musty darkness was her only companion. Terrified, her eyes tried to find something beyond the torchlight that flickered on the far wall.

She couldn't see the source of the blood. She couldn't tell where she was bleeding if she was bleeding if it was fresh, old, or even hers. She was naked with her arms bound above her head with iron shackles.

Claire made some sound of fear as the door opened with a creak of rusty hinges.

He entered the room in all black. Did he ever wear anything that wasn't all black? He wasn't alone this time. The last two times he'd come in the room to question her, he'd been alone. This time? He brought a pale-faced servant with him.

The servant carried a tray.

The tray had a single plunger filled with dark liquid.

Wesker lifted the plunger in one gloved hand. "Claire Redfield…I find you try my patience. I've prepared this truth serum to loosen your lips. Shall we dispense with the normal torture and begin the evening with it?"

Claire jerked against her bonds. The last two times he'd come in he'd tried first intimidation. He'd threatened her, he'd threatened Chris, he'd threatened Sherry and Leon and everyone she loved. When he realized she wouldn't cower to any of that, he'd shifted his focus to torture. He'd turned her to the wall to whip her.

The strike and slap of leather on her back had stolen her breath. It had robbed a scream from her mouth. It had left her with snakelike stripes of blood on her perfect skin. He didn't permanently mar her…no…but he left her welted and wounded. And he wasted his time.

He could kill her slowly, daily, and she'd never speak a word of where Sherry was. Never. Ever.

Wesker wrapped his hand in her sweaty, sticky hair and drew her face back to look at him. "Shall we try this another way?"

His hand shifted. She watched it like the hens must watch the fox the moment he breaches their sanctuary and begins to stalk them. He didn't hit her. He'd never hit her. Not like that.

He cupped one of her naked breasts in his gloved palm and whisked a simple thumb across her nipple. His voice was so very, very, utterly bored when he intoned, "Perhaps this is how you get a Redfield to talk? My sources tell me your brother gave away quite a few secrets when Jessica Sherawat spread her perfect thighs for him. Perhaps you'll do the same."

The horror of that spilled between them like blood.

Was he talking about raping her?

….or did he think to seduce her? Surely not. Surely he was kidding. He was supposed to be an evil genius. A genius didn't bind a woman to a wall, threaten and torture her, and then try to seduce her. An idiot did. But she was betting he wasn't an idiot.

He tugged playfully on that breast and sent that fear into her soul.

No. No fool.

His intelligence was frightening. He knew exactly what he was doing. He thought to break her with fear. Death didn't scare her. But this? This numbed her soul with terror.

And lifted brow said he knew it.

It said he thought he'd already won. She'd be damned if he did. She'd rather die screaming than with her thighs spread for his demon seed.

Jesus Christ the idea was horrifying.

She spat in his face.

It hit those perfect glasses and slid, wet and ugly, down the flawless lenses.

His smile was frightening. It was frightening and wolfish and amused.

"I'm going to enjoy breaking you, Claire."

"….fuck you."

"Artless but surprisingly poetic given my plans for you." He shoved the plunger into her chest. Claire gasped, jerking against her bonds. And that hand molded the shape of her breast now, almost playfully.

"You're going to be screaming your secrets for me, Redfield. Screaming." He put his mouth to the delicate shell of her ear while the drug in her body brought her mouth open in a silent cry. "Do it now and save yourself."

Claire turned her head, slowly, and the world spun like she was drunk. She met those opaque lenses and shifted. Their mouths were a breath apart when she whispered, "You've spent years trying to break my brother, you stupid bastard. You think he's tough? You ain't seen nothing yet."

The drug stole her vision and turned it red at the edges. She slumped in her chains; body throbbing. She was paralyzed, frozen, dangling now at his mercy. And she was so afraid. Terrified. His hand slid down her bloody stomach and across one flawless hip. The drug turned the touch to fire against her skin. Not a truth serum..not exactly…an aphrodisiac.

Oh my god.

Whatever was in that cocktail made her skin hungry. It made her blood boil. It made her brain burn. She was trapped in the cage of her own need. She despised him. She abhorred him. She feared him.

And her body said she wanted him.

His hand brushed over her thigh and the trembling center of her need. Claire made a sound of horror. And her mouth said, "Don't you fucking touch me."

"Is that really what you want…Claire?"

Her mouth said, "Yes." But her body…her body arched against that gloved hand as it skimmed her inner thigh.

That was the power of his drug. It didn't stop the mind. It didn't even stop the body. She could still turn away from him. She did so now, in her bonds, but she shivered…she shivered for him. Because her flesh wanted his touch. It fairly throbbed for it. It was the ultimate date rape drug.

He was going to use it to destroy her.

He grabbed her face and turned it toward him. She watched his mouth move toward hers. She tried to jerk her head away even as he touched their lips together. She shook her head, denying, denying…and her mouth pressed back against him.

Oh my god.

The fear ate around the edges of her world and stole her breath while the drug devoured her and the sound of his delighted laughter chased her into the trembling dark that came with it.