KING (Mistress & Master of Restraint) (2 page)

The millions of dollars’ worth of property
don’t fill me with the pride that that single thought alone does. I’m about to instigate change. This is for the betterment and health of my family. I can do this, I
need
to do this. And not because I am the only one capable, but because I
want
to do it- I crave it.

The anxiety bleeds out of me as we crest the knoll that takes the bus through the final gate- large and looming, stone walled with a black iron,
ornate double gate that electronically opens, revealing the foreboding Misery Castle with its flying buttresses.

A sharp gasp emanates from my companion
s- all who have never been here before and some that are frequent visitors. My family lights up with pride and the thrill of homecoming. As of late, the Whittenhowers aren’t as wealthy as the Zeitlers. But that was until my grandfather pulled Regina into our family through coercion, intimidations, and threats. Almost twenty years ago, he saw the potential of a young woman who would irrevocably change our lives.

Misery
Castle was built over a hundred years ago when the Whittenhowers were at their peak- revolutionaries; innovators who influenced the direction of our great nation. My grandfather’s father was a great man- the original- Wilhelm Daniel Whittenhower- the man we were all named after. My grandfather is Daniel, as I am Daniel, and my son is Daniel. And with that name, Whittenhower Estates is rightfully ours.

The bus rides the circular driveway, giving its passengers a slow view of the large, sprawling manse.
Whittenhower Estates, known to me as Misery Castle, a moniker Regina aptly created, looms four stories overhead. One of the largest privately owned homes in our country. Its stone masonry and arched leaded-glass windows lend to a gothic, gloomy appearance. But not as much as the gargoyles that sinisterly hang from the eaves and line the walk to the entrance of the estate. Double doors, each nearly four feet in width and heavier than a bastard, rise almost ten feet on the front of my familial home.

I pause for a moment as the bus idles at the walkway to the limestone staircase that leads to the entrance of my home.
My eyes linger on the malevolent splendor, drinking in
my
home.

Gazes- expectant gazes- draw me from my confusion. Oh,
right, it’s my home now, so I’m the one in charge. I have to lead them. I have to invite them.

I stand with my shoulders drawn back and all sound ceases, even
breath from our lungs. My boyfriend and cousin stand to allow my exit. On my way by, I kiss my cousin on her cheek. She freezes in surprise. Whitney and I were never close growing up, closer now that Regina demands it, but never bonded. She follows me as I’d hoped.

I pause at the seat where my daughter sits with her mother. Regina hands the twins off to Ava and Spyder. Mother and daughter join Whitney and me in the aisle. My son in
stinctually knows what to do. Niel grabs his cousin’s hand, Priscilla, delicate Prissy, who at fifteen looks like a tiny sprite or faerie.

As my family and I exit the bus, I change my mind. I refuse to storm my own home. I have no need to take
by force what is rightfully mine. I don’t know where this revelation is coming from, but intuitively I know the Whittenhowers are already mine, without ever having to fight for it.

My companions empty from the bus and stare up at the imposing manse. As if sensing the change in me, they all stand back; no one will enter the great doors until I offer the invitation. They won’t pass its threshold until I am the King of Misery Castle.

~Chapter Two~

I link my hand with my
wife’s; her warm, dry hand lends me strength to persevere. Niel, gaining his chivalry from me, not our mutual birth father, links his hands with the younger girls. He knows it’s for the best not to touch Whitney. Both girls’ hands fling out seeking Whitney’s attention. Misty-eyed and confused, Whitney clasps her sister’s hand.

We begin our ascent into our home, our ascent to the Whittenhower throne. A heavy gaze bores into my back, trilling up my spine and drilling into my brain. This isn’t part of the plan, but I’ve thrown that plan away. I raise my hand and cock my finger in a come-hither motion.
I don’t bother to look to see if he follows. The soft click of the car door latching is signal enough. He’d ridden separately from the group- our trump card- driving himself in a heavily tinted, top of the line sedan.

The shocked gasps that emanated
from the viewing of Misery Castle have nothing on the confusion that flavors the air as the crowd watches a long-dead Grant Whittenhower emerge from the car, resurrected as James Atwater- Jamie.

A small portion of the crowd watches expectantly, knowing about Jamie’s rebirth since he was Grant, but the rest spiral in a cyclone of
what the fuck?
My wife and children patiently await our cowardly bastard while Prissy looks faint and Whitney’s blue eyes cast hellfire our way for betraying her.

Regina’s arched brow silently communicates that I must look to my father. I grudgingly turn, staring down the man that I loved like no other and now hate with equal passion. He and I are identical in looks: same wispy sandy-blond hair, pink skin, and vibrant blue eyes. Whereas
, my eyes hold contempt, his hold regrets and pride. Our faces, that all call beautiful, are mirror images, even with age and disfigurement marking us as different. The similarities end there. My frame is broader, and my height is taller, lending me the strength to shoulder the responsibility of the Whittenhower family name. I am our strength and he is our weakness.

Thank you, son,
Jamie speaks with his hands through ASL. All who know Jamie learned sign language so that we could communicate with my mute sire. I wanted to rebel, but my need to express my anger in his own language trumped my need to be insolent.

“It felt wrong to do this without you,” I murmur, hating the emotions that lace my voice- not one of them resembling animosity.

My daughter breaks Niel’s handhold and rushes to her true father.
I am her dad
screams throughout my mind-
not you!
Ella is a loving, mild-mannered yet bullheaded, teenage girl. She is the only one who has embraced Jamie with open arms. Niel is resentfully suspicious of Jamie’s motives and Regina has a love/hate relationship with the father of her children. I can’t even suffer his presence in this world with me. How I will cope with sharing a home with him is beyond my scope. A hundred rooms will never be enough to separate us.

“Dad,” Ella’s girly voice chirps, d
eeply cutting me. For nearly five years that was the name she called me. We couldn’t allow Ella to find out about Jamie in a scary, abrupt fashion. We sat her down and introduced the daughter to her father. Since that day, she’s called him Dad. The only reason I haven’t torn him to shreds is Ella. I won’t hurt her like that. I understand Regina’s reasonings better. She chose her children’s welfare over her need for vengeance.

I call him the cowardly bastard. Niel calls him Father. Regina calls him Jamie. But it’s hearing Dad out of my daughter’s sweet mouth that wrenches my heart.
If she called me Whitt I would have killed him, consequences be damned. But she’s started calling me Daddy, so he lives another day.

My possessive nature rears its head.
My wife, not Marcus’. My children, not Jamie’s. My house, not the eldest Daniel’s.

Mine!

Standing before the grand doors, I kiss my wife. Regina squeaks, a sound of pure feminine surprise that delights me. I chuckle against her silky lips. It is a kiss born out of desperation, possession.  Regina has avoided my intimate touch for years. She punishes herself by going without the comfort and pleasure I offer her. She pushes me into the arms of others. No amount of convincing will change the stubborn woman’s mind. It’s not about sex, age, or orientation. I simply love her. I have since the moment I met her. Too bad she’s in love with Marcus as I am with Dalton. Neither male changes a damned thing for me- Regina is my Queen, and I will harm whoever gets in my way.

“Sunshine,” she breathlessly
whispers against my parted lips. Her pale cheeks are a brilliant shade of scarlet. I love that I turn this strong woman into a bashful girl. I’m the only one who can.

“My Queen,” I gesture to the heavy
vestibule door, my gentility demanding nothing less. “Welcome home… again.” I bow, flashing my dimples in a devilish smirk.

Her shuddering breath creates a devious glint in my eyes. I am known as the gentleman, but that isn’t who I truly am.
Whitt is a facet of my personality- a happy-go-lucky gentleman who oozes kindness and goes with the flow. He was my coping mechanism growing up in the Whittenhower family. Never allow anyone to know your real strength. Daniel Whittenhower II is wholly me, a combination of refined strength and gentility. And when it comes to Regina, I will always be Daniel.

Acting on an undeniable impulse, I lunge fo
rward and sling my bride of four years into my arms. At six feet and built like a man with long, lean muscles, she’s far from a waif. I’d take her no other way. As a gay man, I pride myself that my wife is manlier than most men. It’s a good thing I’m stronger than she is.

“Whitt,” she yelps in surprise. “Put me down!”

I ignore her protests, silencing her with my descending lips. I fiercely kiss her as I step over the threshold and continue the kiss as I softly place her feet on the foyer’s marble floor.

Prissy’s high-pitched shriek draws my attention from the insane need to take my wife on this floor- show her who
is king of her castle.

“Niel,” Priss’ delighted gigg
le flows through the foyer as Niel mimics me by drags his wiggling cousin over his shoulder and walks into the house.

Niel and I both race out to capture another Whittenhower lady, but he who shall remain nameless, cradles my daughter to his lanky chest. I’m impressed, because like mother, like daughter. Ella is no wilting flower. She is petite in stature, but a beautiful, big girl. Jamie gives me a pleasured smile from his gnarled lips
, and emotions erupt that I refuse to acknowledge. I step back and allow my father to carry his daughter for the very first time in his life.

Whitney stares at her perfectly buffed Mary Janes. “No need, I’ve walked in here th
ousands of times,” she whimpers dejectedly, trying to hide her true feelings.

My son is a notorious shit. His eyes cut to the side, looking at his seething girlfriend. I could alleviate the issue by carrying my cousin, but
where’s the sport in that? Niel pecks an innocent kiss to Whitney’s forehead, inciting rage from his cunning girlfriend and not-so-innocent feelings from his cousin. He gently scoops up the waif-thin girl, who would look frail if it wasn’t for the mental fortitude shining from her cold blue eyes.

Niel smirks at me, mischievousness
glowing from his emerald peepers. He strides into the house with Whitney in his arms. Without glancing back, he kicks the heavy door shut with a large bang- the sound of finality.

We are finally home.

“Grandfather,” Niel shouts a battle cry as he settles Whitney on her wobbly legs. She’s too affected by her cousin’s attentions. One day soon, I’ll explain that what she feels isn’t real. Niel is just the only man she’s ever been close to, that’s all.

“I’m positive he knew we were coming anyway
,” Niel replies to his mother’s glare. “I mean, if the three sets of gates opening didn’t clue him in, I bet the bus in the driveway did,” he snickers. “It is Grandfather we’re talking about here, remember? He probably knew we were coming to reclaim our home before we even had the thought.”

“It’s eerily quiet,” Regina’s
whisper echoes in the two-story grand foyer.

“It’s only because Grammy took Martha with her to Albany. Other than Grandfather and a few of the staff, the house has been empty since you pulled us out,” Whitney explains.

It’s strange to be here without the woman that I thought was my mother. With her absence, Priscilla Whittenhower’s pleasant demeanor and soft spoken words leave the house feeling cold and empty, devoid of a mother’s loving warmth. It’s for the best that she’s staying with her daughter, with her life-long personal maid accompanying her. Martha Harris, Kristal’s mom, is more like family, a trusted best friend, more so than a paid servant.

“Where to?”
Ella asks, nibbling self-consciously on her bottom lip. She looks up to me instead of her father. She knows it’s either her mother or me who is in charge.

“I guess we go to Grandfather’s study and give our demands,” I say with a shrug. “Once I devia
ted from the plan, inspiration didn’t strike to give me another one,” I humorlessly laugh. “This seemed more refined than using a battering ram at the front doors.”

“Plus we have a key,”
Prissy giggles, dangling a set from her
Tiffany’s
key ring.

“Grandfather didn’t throw us out, either. Don’t forget that, Whitt,” Niel firmly says from over his shoulder as he strides towards the closed doors of the study.