Chapter 17
17
brAIDEN
S he knows exactly what she’s doing. Part of me admires her nerve. Another part is filled with rage—at her for blatantly disobeying, at myself for not anticipating her workaround, using her phone instead of her computer.
At Donny, for falling into Russo’s hands.
I won’t let myself see the fire, won’t let myself hear the screams.
I’m with Samantha. I sought her out because she’s the only one who can absorb my thirst for vengeance. She can take my fury. She can be my equal.
She grew up in the shadow of Russo’s savagery. She understands what an empire like mine means. It’s as familiar to her as breathing.
We have the same killer instincts slinking through our brains. That’s why she’s paving her own path at the freeport, instead of marking time at some fancy law firm. Why she takes on clients like me, instead of sitting back in some posh partnership, staying safe and collecting a monstrous paycheck.
I don’t know what happened in her past to lock her down. Why she dresses in black and white, denying herself even a hint of color. Why she surrounds herself by hard edges and clean lines, without a bit of softness. Why she’s punishing herself, more than anything I’ll ever do to her body.
But I will do things to her body.
The Dom in me recognizes the submissive in her. I sense it like a song that’s never been sung before, like a new color that’s just been invented. Samantha doesn’t just tolerate my rules. She thrives on them.
And I recognize an invitation when I see one, a sexual offer she might not even understand herself. She’s typing on that phone because she wants me to pull down her plain silk knickers and smack the tight globes of her arse until she can’t breathe.
Which is why I have no intention of spanking her.
No sub of mine will be allowed to top from the bottom.
Instead, I close the distance between us in a single step. I snatch the phone from her fingers and toss it into the fish pond. She barely gets to yelp her protest before I wrap her hair in my hand. I pull hard, forcing her neck back before I kiss her.
Kiss.
That’s not the right word.
I fuck her mouth with mine. I crush her lips to get at her tongue. I tighten my grip on her hair to force the angle I crave. I make her take one step back and then another, using my weight to lower her onto the bench.
My free hand roams up her sweater. Her nipples are rock-hard, which makes them easy to pinch, and I’m ready to drink her yips of protest as I catch first one and then the other.
But when I close my eyes, I see Donny O’Keefe tied to his chair, the Irish flag turning to fire in his mouth. I hear him screaming, deep bellows from his chest, because his throat is closed off with flame.
I’m shaking with rage, blind with the need to make Russo pay.
And that means I’m not any good for Samantha. I’m not in control. I’m not safe.
I shove her away with more force than I mean to use.
She catches herself on the arm of the iron bench. She’s breathing like a racehorse, spine hunched, back of her hand pressed against her lower lip. “What the hell happened to you?” she asks.
I want to tell her, but she doesn’t need that story in her brain. She already has her own horror stories about Russo.
So I opt for another reply. “Take off your sweater,” I command.
She looks around, like she expects to find a crowd. “Here?”
“I’ll count to three,” I say. “One.”
“Anyone can walk in on us!”
“Two.”
“I’m not saying no, I’m just?—”
“Three.”
“—saying not here.”
Before she finishes her protest, my hands are on the soft wool. I rip it over her head and throw it to the ground, tossing it beneath the bench.
“Take off your bra.”
“Braiden—”
“One.”
Slowly, she reaches around and undoes the clasp. I don’t realize I’m drooling like a dog until I swallow by reflex.
Her tits are high and proud. They’re larger than I thought they’d be, good for filling a man’s palm. The nipples are a dark rose-brown, still flushed from my earlier attention.
I want to roll them hard between my fingers. I want to bite them. But then I imagine Samantha crying out, and that merges in my twisted brain with the sound of Donny O’Keefe dying for me.
“Fuck!” I pound the heel of my hand against my forehead. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“Braiden,” she says, obvious concern driving her toward me, just when she should run away. She raises a hand toward my face. “What happened?”
I bat away her fingers. “Get the fuck out of here.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
I need her to say that. I’m afraid of her saying that. “Samantha?—”
She pulls me close, pressing those beautiful tits against my shirt.
“Dammit,” I snap, but she only tightens her arms. “Let me go,” I order.
She pulls back just enough to look me in the eye. She shakes her head, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “You need this as much as I do.”
“I can’t?—”
But she cuts me off. “You can. And you will. You know I want you, Braiden.” I can’t let myself believe her. “I want to feel the weight of you. I want to feel your cock between my breasts. I want to feel you come.”
She’s mocking me, or maybe it’s only teasing. I’m the one who told her she’d say the words. In the safe room, I warned her. But sitting here on this bench, holding her against me, every word she says feels like a revelation, like she’s honestly offering a prize I know I don’t deserve.
I just watched one of my most loyal men burn, and I couldn’t do a fucking thing to save him. I howl as a new wave of fury washes over me. I want to tear something, break something, destroy the world around me.
Samantha sees it. That’s real fear on her face, which only heats the thick sludge where my heart’s supposed to be.
I’m not the man she deserves. My fists flex, my fingers tight enough to crumble bedrock. I stumble toward the wall of honeysuckle, the scaffolding that sets off this corner of the hothouse. The vines resist for barely a second before they rip free. I toss them behind me and grab for more. The stalks bleed green sap onto my hands. Crushed flowers exhale their final sweetness.
More.
More.
I need to ruin more.
I only stop when the trellis is bare. When I whirl back to Samantha, I catch pity on her face, tenderness a man like me doesn’t deserve. She’s standing by the bench, bare-breasted, like one of those broken statues in a museum.
She reaches toward the last clump of honeysuckle in my fist. Toward my arm. My hidden scar.
“Don’t touch me!” I bellow.
She doesn’t believe me, doesn’t understand. Her fingertips brush the hidden ridges, the twisted stripe that will never truly heal. I start to crack, because she’s too gentle.
So I find her bra beside the bench. I’ve known all along where she dropped it. I lash the cloth around her wrists, yanking it tight enough to make her yelp. I tie a vicious knot, one that will never slip free.
She’s fighting me now. She’s realized I’m no child for her to comfort, no boy for her to tease.
My fist finds her hair again. Furious, I tug hard, forcing her to her knees. I use my weight to shove her onto the honeysuckle, levering her onto the bed of bruised and broken flowers.
She twists beneath me, her fingers jutting like Donny’s broken hands. She goes for my face, my crotch, anywhere she can reach, but I know how to stop that. I strip my belt free from my pants and loop it under her bound wrists. One tight knot, and she’s bound to the cast-iron bench, her arms stretched over her head.
She’s gasping like she just broke free from a forest fire. The hollow of her belly rises and falls. She tosses her head, her eyes wild as she tests her bonds.
They hold.
Standing over her, something shifts deep inside my brain. My rage is gone, the blind fury that burned beyond my control. It’s replaced by a familiar cold calculation, by the balance of the Dom part of my brain.
I’ve left her just enough give with that bra that her fingers won’t be permanently damaged. I’ve cut an angle with my belt that secures her arms, but her shoulders won’t be torn. I’ve centered her on the bed of honeysuckle, cushioned her back and her lovely arse, which I’m sure is still marked from yesterday’s work.
Now I have all the time in the world. I can undo my shirt, button by button. I can shrug it off, tossing it toward the bench.
She gasps when she sees my scar. It’s red and wrinkled, a full hand-span of ruined flesh. It turned to lava as I stripped the honeysuckle, but now it’s settled back to the old, familiar fire of regret.
Her fingers flex, but she can’t reach me. I can toe off my shoes. My socks. I can work the button on my trousers. The zipper. I can shuck my pants and my boxers too.
And when I’m standing over her, my cock at full mast, she’s finally got something to gape at besides my ugly scar.
“Same rules as before,” I tell her. “Red, and I stop. Anything else, and you’re taking all I have to give.”