Broken Bonds Boxed Set 1-3 (5 page)

“All right,” I say, and suck in a deep, steadying breath. I widen my eyes at the guy from the club, silently asking how he’d like this to proceed. He might be on my turf now, but I need to give him the lead so I can figure out his angle.

My two lives do not intersect into one another. Ever. Mentally, I’m very efficient at keeping them separated, and one does not affect the other. I remind myself of this as he gestures to the kitchen area and I follow him toward a marble-top island.

“Your name.” He demands this as though I’ve kept this piece of information from him on purpose. Maybe I have. Had he asked me Saturday night, or any other night I’ve seen him at the club, I would’ve lied. Given him a fake.

But now that my two worlds have collided at a blinding speed, I don’t have that opportunity. “Bonds.” He arches one dark eyebrow, and I add, “Sadie.”

He licks his lips, like he’s preparing to taste my name, then, “Sadie.” It rolls off his tongue like a whispered prayer. The desire to close my eyes and be lost in that sound alarms me, and I press my palms to the counter to ground myself.

It’s the same reaction I had as his words caressed me at the club, the same draw to his deep timbre—inviting, arousing,
tempting
. But I can’t… I’m not that person right now.

“You’re a detective,” he says, surprise edging into his tone. “I never would’ve guessed that. Though I did take a stab at your real hair color—and that, I’m pleased to say, I got right.” He winks, sending a jolt to my chest. “I like your natural color more.”

“Behavioral analyst, actually.” I match his cocky smile with one of my own, choosing to ignore his remark about my hair. “But it’s along the same field of work. Sort of.”

His eyebrows draw together, like he’s working something out. “A profiler?”

Damn television. “Yes. But don’t worry,” I say, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “Long as you tell the truth, you’re safe.”

“I have no reason to lie. Nothing to hide.” There’s a hint of accusation there.

I note that, then try to push us both past this awkward encounter. “Your full name?” I ask, forcing my gaze to my notebook. I reach for my pen.

His hand snakes the pen off the counter first. “Colton Reed.” He studies the object for a second before he holds the pen out between us. I grasp it hesitantly, anticipating the touch of his fingers on mine. I hold my breath, waiting for their feel…but he releases the pen without making a connection. “I gave you my word, Sadie. I won’t touch you until you ask.”

My eyes stay locked on his disarming gaze while I lower the pen to the page. My stomach clenches, and I’m not sure if it’s nerves or what, but an ache thrums through me. Hot and vicious. Igniting my skin with awareness.

Breaking eye contact, I look down at the clean page and write his name. “You said you were at work the night of your neighbor’s attack. Can you confirm where that is?”

I can feel his smile charging the air between us. “You know where. And yes, that’s a confirmation.”

Right. “On that night you were bartending?”

“No.”

I look up to catch the serious pull at his features. “Can you elaborate?”

He pushes his sleeves up, exposing one well-defined forearm at a time, then rests his elbows on the counter. Lowering himself right before me, so close I could lean in and feel his breath on my skin, he says, “I’d rather show you.”

I force a smile. “I’m sorry, Colton. I don’t have time for games. This is a very serious investigation—”

“And I’m taking it seriously. I’m trying to tell you that bartending is only something I do as a favor to the owner until he finds a proper replacement. That if you ever explored a bit beyond your comfort zone, you’d already know the answer to your question.”

This, right here, is why I don’t mix business with pleasure. The line blurs, and I can’t focus on my job when that happens. I sigh and push away from the counter. “As long as this checks out, I think I have everything I need from you.”

Colton tilts his head. “As far as
this
is concerned, you do. I wasn’t home to hear any noises. I only spoke to Piper in greeting while checking the mail or in passing. I have nothing to offer you that will help with your case. For that, I’m sorry. But”—he reaches across the island and pulls my notebook toward him. And I’m so stunned by his willing admission, his knowledge of my job, that I don’t stop him—“as for having everything you need from me? You couldn’t be more wrong.”

I can only watch—frozen—as he plucks the pen from my hand without touching me and scrawls something along the side of the page. “You know absolutely nothing about me,” I say, hearing the tremble in my voice and hating it. “Just because I frequent a less than socially acceptable establishment doesn’t mean you can play games with me.”

He slides the notebook toward me and looks up. Straightening to his full height, he walks around the island, coming to stand before me. His flinty eyes slowly drag down my body, taking me in, mentally peeling away the layers of my clothing to leave me bare and vulnerable.

“I wonder which is closer to the real you, Sadie? The little, tight dresses you wear so sexy, or this baggy outfit meant to hide behind. Two very different looks, two very different intentions…but both offer some form of control and power for you.”

What the hell. Is this guy really trying to profile
me
? I’m the master of mind games—but if he wants to play, I can give him the room to hang himself. “Very insightful. You don’t want me to analyze you, do you?”

His knowing smile tilts his lips into a crooked grin. “Well, first you have to gather the facts.” He glances back at the notebook on the counter. “And if you’re up for that, then I’m all over giving you what you need.”

Head games. I might be damn good at them, but that doesn’t mean I like them. And I sure don’t like losing my footing in a case. I watch him slip out of the kitchen and back into the living area, where Quinn and Colton’s roommate appear to have completed their interview.

I pick up my notebook, but before I close it, curiosity demands I first glance down:
Meet me tonight. The rope room. Wear red
. Then below the note, his number.

Shit. My stomach knots, a deep need tightening my muscles. Shaking the feeling off, I pull out my packet of gum and stuff a piece into my mouth, my teeth grinding the mint flavor out before I’ve even left the apartment.

O
bsession
.

It starts with a spark. A flicker. At the strike of a match. Lying dormant in most of us, obsession feasts on the fumes, breathes in the smoky scent, curling around and in on itself. Building.

We pet it, nurse it into existence. It is ours. All ours. A coveted perfection.

And when it refuses to be ignored, it rages. It roars to life. A blazing inferno. Consuming.

We are but pawns to its deceptive power. Though we attempt to guide it, caress it tenderly into a loving beauty, it cannot be controlled. It’s a haunted, vengeful lover. Like a wildfire devouring life in its path, we can only follow its carnal trail.

Slaves.

Obsession rules us. Our master.

And we submit.

Obsession can be our paramount joy; sweet, sweet love. It can also be our utter hatred. An ecstasy of sorrow.

Our pain becomes like a festering scab, and though it hurts to continuously scrape it open, the compulsion to do so is overwhelming. One second of pleasure when we tear the wound wide and then our guilt eats us alive.

But, oh—for that brief moment the relief is divine.

“No! No!
Please
—” Her bare feet kick out at me as she writhes, twisting and struggling against the rope binds.

Building…building…like the peak of a volcano, the pressure cooks. With her every scream, a gratifying shiver slithers up my back. It’s so close to that seductive pull you feel right before you climax. When your gut tightens. Your jaw clenches.

The wider her eyes become the closer I get, the more fear shines in the whites. Glossy like glass, shimmery with tears. I tilt the candle, and wax drizzles over her thigh, eliciting an orgasmic cry. It barrels through my senses until I’m helpless, and I drive the fire into her flesh.

Her back arches off the table. Her muscles lock tight. A piercing scream hangs in the air around her, suspended by the agony of unbearable pain.

Suffering.

It’s an aphrodisiac. My eyes roll into the back of my head as I reach out and touch her trembling body.

I am but a slave to obsession. Owning that is freedom, and soon my love will know that freedom, too.

But first… I slide my zipper down. Her whimpers and pleas for mercy only heighten my desire. In order to gain control over the beast, I must possess her. Overpower her. Control demands it of me.

As her sobs fill the air, my thrusts decimate her fragility.

Shoved in her mouth the clue goes. My hand clamps over her thin lips to force her mouth shut. There’s always sadness at the end. Not remorse; rather a farewell to a beloved toy.

Shiny metal slices into creamy, soft skin as I drag my blade across her neck. A wet gurgle escapes her mouth, eyes wide with horror. The acceptance of the inevitable.

Without obsession, we may be free. Peace could have a chance. But what would life be without obsession? Hollow vessels, bored and impotent.

Death. It is obsession’s ultimate price.

A small tribute to pay to our beast.

D
isguise
. It only works to conceal you for so long, and it’s impossible to keep hiding from yourself when you’ve been made. So why bother with the wig now, when one of the members of The Lair knows exactly who I am?

Because it’s more than for protection; a disguise is a defense, a shield. Much in the same way a cop feels his authority when he flashes his badge. It offers no more cover than his weapon, but the power behind the shield infuses him with courage.

And I wrap myself in courage, my camouflage, each night that I embark on this dark underworld. Or maybe that’s a lie…maybe I am hiding. I’m honest enough with myself to admit the possibility.

So why the red? Why give in to Colton’s whims and slip on this dress? I guess I’ll find out the answer to that as soon as I discover his elusive job. That’s why I’m here. To get the answers.

The bouncer nods to me and unclips a link from the rope, moving it aside so I can step into the unknown. The rope room. I’ve passed by it many times, but never entered. Only brave enough to go where I know I won’t be touched.

This room is darker than the voyeur. Dim purple and blue lighting streams down the walls, illuminating mounted brackets and hooks. Along one wall, different lengths of rope coil and stretch, enticing members to select their preference. All colors, materials, widths and sizes. It’s a playroom for erotic rope fetish.

Bondage.

My chest constricts, and I’m suddenly in a black, chilly basement. No windows. No way out. I’m turning and leaving before the smells can pull me under…but a man steps in front of my path.

“Miss B?” His deep voice is questioning, but he says this in a way that lets me know I’m exactly who he’s seeking. B, an initial, but not my full name. Colton was conscientious enough not to reveal my full identity, but he wasn’t going to allow me to use a pseudonym, either.

Once I nod my head to the tall man, he turns and leads me toward a partially enclosed corner table. Sheer black curtains run the length from ceiling to floor, and they’re held aside by thick bands of rope. Neutral in color, the ropes decorate everything, falling from the ceiling, running along the seams of the black cushions. They’re the focal point.

As soon as I’m seated, a drink—pink champagne—is set before me by the waitress.

Anger bubbles up in my chest, lava-hot. This was my reprieve. My secret. The place where I could disappear and allow the haunted demon inside me to roam. Taste a little freedom before I buried her again in the daylight.

Now that one shelter has been stripped away.

The loud industrial music fades out, and a low hum fills the silence, vibrating the air. As the slow, melodic tune builds, the crowded room parts, creating a ring. I wrap my fingers around the flute stem and grip. Anticipation mixes with anxiety as a beam of light blinks on, illuminating a single rope descending from above. Slowly, it lowers toward the center of the divided crowd. A single, silver ring dangles from its length.

Two figures emerge from the other side of the room. A robed woman. And Colton. He guides her toward the open area, his hand at the small of her back. I’m acutely aware of the jealously festering at that simple touch. Craving the feel of his skin against mine…but that’s all it is. A carnal desire. I know all too well that desire can’t withstand the fear.

As soon as contact is made, my body tenses and panic flares. Primal instinct switches on like the flip of a button.

So I sit and watch. Able to harness some sort of surrogate connection through voyeurism. I didn’t start out this way…I was made. Fashioned into an untouchable creature out of horror and pain.

My thoughts abruptly cut off when Colton’s stony blue gaze captures mine. Dressed in all black—from the V-neck shirt molding perfectly to his leanly muscled arms, to the black denim hugging his long legs—he stands behind the robed woman, his hands hovering over her shoulders, but his eyes touching mine.

As the beat increases, my heart rate ramps, and so do his movements. Purposely running his hands along her arms, he reaches the neck of the robe and begins to peel it away from her body, revealing her beautiful, naked figure.

And as he reaches above her head to grasp the silver ring, he loops a long length of rope through, then brings the rope before her to capture her around the chest. She remains silent and still as he repeats this act, twining the rope around her, above and below her breasts. The rope skillfully sliding through his hands to bind her.

My breath hitches in my throat. My eyes tear…but I don’t look away. His fingers expertly loop and tie until the woman is wearing a harness of rope. Her breasts peek between the tightly wound bands, her arms trapped behind her back.

All the while, as Colton is threading this elaborate binding, his eyes keep mine. As if he’s testing each knot against my reflexes. Reading me, studying me. I’m more than vulnerable; I’m exposed. With every twist of the rope, his proficient hands tear away a painstakingly constructed piece of my armor.

It’s like he knows my fears and wants to exploit them for all to witness. Shame suddenly fills me, and I go to stand, but Colton makes a similar move. He steps to the side, as if he’s going to pursue me if I bolt.

Fine. This is his production. Resigned, I sit back down. So he’s watched me, analyzed me. So he’s figured out my defect. That’s not a very difficult thing to do in my case. It doesn’t give him the right to lord it over me.

I take a sip of champagne and press my back into the cushion, forcing my muscles to relax. It’s difficult enough having to battle these confusing, erotic impulses while staring at crime scene photos…this was the one place I felt safe. Hidden. Where I could free those demons that I keep buried so far down. Now, Colton’s gone and shone a light on them, and he’s feeding off my pain.

But even as I’m thinking this, building a case against him, breaking him down and stripping him bare to reveal his malevolent intentions, a small voice inside my head starts to sing. A tiny clarity that whispers truth.

As he runs the rope over the model’s skin, causing her to quiver with need, this whisper grows into a chorus. His gaze penetrates me, his voice a light brush against my ear.
I won’t touch you
.

The promise rushes through me with a spike of adrenaline, and then I’m fixated on his movements, intently watching as he crosses more rope around the woman’s torso. Then drops to his knees, where he begins winding a long thread around one thigh, then the next. Standing, he pulls the ropes taut, and the woman is suspended in the air, her back arched, hair falling around her bowed head.

With fluid movements mimicking a dance, Colton runs his hand along the span of air just beneath her stomach, all the way to her foot—where he catches her ankle with a loop and brings it up toward her wrists. He ties the length of rope off to the silver ring, and she becomes a work of art.

An extension of his mind, of himself.

I realize the bond of trust created and tethered between them. I yearn for it. And as he tugs on the rope, molding and shaping her, she starts to spin. There is no audience, no sound. But I feel the collective awe rising above the room as the woman spirals into her own world of pleasure—her subspace.

Passion—laced as tightly as the rope binding the model—coils inside me. It’s an overwhelming rush of emotion that snaps each thread of rope—one by one—until my insides burst free, and I feel a tear fall from my eye.

She’s so beautiful, in all her freedom, and somewhere deep within me longs desperately to feel that. And when my eyes meet Colton’s again, I can’t hide. He sees it.

He sees me.