Love Is The Bond: A Rowan Gant Investigation (2 page)

“Good,” she thought to herself. “He’s ready,
and so are we. Almost…”

She moved forward, slowly stepping over his
prone body but not without dragging the toe of her shoe hard across
his heaving chest, taking a moment to relish the sudden yelp the
scrape elicited from her slave. She then continued on with a
high-heeled swagger that bordered on obscene then strode over to
the bureau and stood with her back to him.

An airline bottle of a popular brand of
rum was all she had on hand; she hadn’t had time to purchase any of
the really good stuff. This session had come about far too quickly.
The man on the floor behind her wasn’t even the real reason she was
here. He was serendipity incarnate, spur of the moment and a fully
unexpected bonus. Even more—dare she even
think
the cliché pun—almost literally “right out
of the blue.” But, still, he was one she couldn’t pass up;
they
needed to be fed—all of them,
including her. And, at least she
did
have rum, so she was certain that
Papa
would understand. He always did.

She looked down and opened the aluminum
attaché that adorned the scuffed top of the bureau. Latching the
lid upright, she proceeded to arrange the contents within, just as
she had done countless times before. But even with her practiced
ease, there was still an absolute reverence in the solemn task.

The sweet itch was all but ravaging her now,
morphing into a luscious burn that couldn’t be quenched, and she
knew it was only going to quicken. She reached to the surface of
the bureau and retrieved the man’s pilot’s wings. She had taken
them from his uniform earlier while he was dutifully prostrate
before her, face down in the carpet and begging pathetically for
her sadistic attentions. She laid the prize amidst the other items
in the attaché—money clips, rings, watches, and even some things
that defied description; those were the most frightening. Some of
them actually looked vaguely organic; some appeared as though at
one time they should have repulsed the casual observer, even if
they did not do so now.

She carefully thumbed through a small stack
of photographs, propping them around the items so that she could
inspect the images at her leisure. They were simply more mementos
of her conquests, but looking at them made the itch swell yet
again.

She felt her hand slipping between her thighs
as if by its own volition, and she knew it was time. Consciously
stopping the hand before it could go any farther, she allowed
herself an anticipatory sigh.

She reached up to the bureau and picked
up the miniature bottle of rum. With a flourish she twisted the cap
from it then pressed the opening against her lips and tilted her
head back. She quickly swished the caramel-colored liquor around in
her mouth, letting its alcohol-burn tingle for a brief moment, and
then carefully spit it into a shot glass. She gently placed the
glass jigger directly in the center of the assorted items. With a
soft touch she fingered a partially smoked cigar, which still
possessed a band proclaiming
Cohiba
and that was underscored by the word
Habana
—true Cuban contraband. She rolled it back
to rest against the measure of rum and then allowed herself a
fleeting, girlish smile.

As she looked up, she listened intently to
the room. She could hear her slave’s breathing from his position on
the floor behind her. He was finally settling into an even rhythm
as he continued to come down from the rapid sexual high she’d
inflicted. She looked straight into the mirror and flipped a shock
of her waist-length auburn hair back over her shoulder then
carefully turned her head side to side, checking her makeup. With
the tip of her finger, she made a practiced swipe against the
corner of her lower lip, blending a spot she felt needed attention.
Then, she inspected it again before letting out a satisfied
sigh.

“So,” she purred as she turned and began
slowly sauntering forward until she stood over the man. “You
weren’t lying, were you? Asphyxiation really is your kink, isn’t
it, worm?”

“Yes,” he muttered as he tried to give her a
nod.

“Yessss?” she questioned with a raised
eyebrow, allowing the word to hiss between her teeth.

“Yes, Mistress,” he replied.

“Yes, Mistresssss…?”

“Yes, Mistress Miranda.”

“You like being choked by women, don’t
you?”

“Yes, Mistress Miranda.”

“Especially beautiful women.”

“Yes, Mistress Miranda.”

“Tell me I’m beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful, Mistress Miranda.”

“Yes, I am… Aren’t I.” She uttered the words
as a statement of fact.

She squatted next to him with fluid grace,
displaying exquisite balance on the teetering heels, and ran her
gloved fingertip along his chest, down his abdomen, stopping just
before the upper reaches of his pubic hair.

“Then…” she began, pausing as she eyed him
seductively. “Since you like it so much, maybe you would want me to
do it again?”

“Oh, yes, Mistress,” he answered, an excited
catch in his throat.

“Then… Beg me to love you,” she ordered
quietly.

“Mistress?”

“Beg me to love you,” she demanded again.

“Please, Mistress,” he murmured. “Love
me.”

“Excellent,” she trilled softly as she
smiled. “We do love you.”

“We, Mistress?”

She didn’t answer. In fact, she didn’t say
another word. She simply scooped the end of the leash into her hand
and stood. Taking a stance that would ensure her steadiness, she
then lifted one foot and placed the sole of her shoe against his
throat as she began bearing down. She watched his face as he fought
for air, yet in the midst of it all, he curled the corners of his
mouth into what could almost be a smile. She more than sensed the
sexual energy pulsating outward from him as he began to gurgle once
again, and she let it join with the insane burn that was racking
her own body. Immediately, it began feeding on the intensity and
sent her inner fire flaring to near ecstasy.

In that moment, she knew she commanded his
absolute devotion.

Looking to the side, she could see that he
had stiffened yet again and was now throbbing in time with her own
racing heartbeat.

In
that
moment, she knew she held captive his innermost
desire.

But, for
her
, that simply wasn’t going to be
enough.

She continued to lean forward, placing all
but the smallest amount of her weight onto the one foot, all the
while twisting the sole of her shoe against his throat. It didn’t
take long before he gurgled a barely intelligible utterance that
resembled more than just random sounds but a group of deliberate
syllables—a phonetic string that sounded like it might possibly be
his “safe word.”

She knew it was meant to be her cue to cease
the torture. But, it was a cue that would go unheeded. She simply
smiled down at him and continued to inflict the deliberate cruelty
with renewed fervor.

A flicker of realization lit behind his eyes,
and he began to struggle, but she had him pinned—held fast and
completely at her mercy. There was no way he could break free of
the bonds she had so carefully applied. He tried to buck against
her, but it was obvious that he was already growing weak from the
lack of oxygen. She now brought her full weight to bear on his
collapsing windpipe, laying her gloved hand against the nearby wall
for support.

In that final moment, she knew she had his
fear, and it was delicious.

During the quiet minutes after that, as his
eyes turned glassy, staring sightlessly upward to the stained
ceiling, she knew she had the last thing she—and they—needed from
him.

When she felt the very essence of his
terrifying death seep into her own soul, satisfying the gnawing
hunger for a time, she stepped down and slowly lifted her foot from
his throat. She barely heard the quiet hiss of his trapped breath
as it quietly escaped his lifeless form.

Then, and only then, did she receive her
reward.

She
now allowed
the fury to run rampant through her body as she stepped forward and
collapsed on the bed, writhing with an ecstasy not entirely of this
earth.

11 Months Later

Thursday, November 3

7:23 A.M.

St. Louis, Missouri

“You knew I was taking these classes, Rowan.”
My petite, Irish-American wife made the statement and then paused
to poke her head through the neckline of a sleeveless, pullover
sweater then tug it down over her blouse. Quickly sliding her
thumbs along either side of her jaw, she gathered her recently
shower-dampened spirals of auburn hair and pulled them from the
back of the garment then allowed them to spill over her shoulders,
falling almost to her waist. She looked back at me and gave her
head an exaggerated shake. “So what’s the problem?”

“I never said there was a problem,” I
replied.

“You didn’t have to,” Felicity stated.

Her normally soft, Celtic lilt was taking on
a far more discernable edge, and the colloquial speech of her
heritage was starting to add itself to the mix. While the undertone
was always there, it didn’t usually present itself so clearly
except under particular circumstances—such as being overtired,
inebriated, or surrounded by her relatives. Since I knew she was
none of the above, it could only mean one thing. She was getting
perturbed.

“I’d call it more of a concern,” I told
her.

“Semantics,” she chided.

“Not really.”

“So, you don’t have a problem with this
then?”

“No… Yes…” I almost stuttered, fighting for
some middle ground with regard to my feelings. “I don’t know. I
just wish you’d said something earlier instead of springing it on
me like this.”

“I’m not springing anything on you, Rowan,”
she returned. “I just took some photography classes, that’s
all.”

“You’re the most sought after freelance
photographer in Saint Louis, Felicity,” I objected. “You
don’t
just
take some
photography classes.”

“If I’m going to maintain that reputation,
then I have to keep up on new techniques now, don’t I?”

“Quit dancing around it. You specifically
took certification courses on crime scene photography.”

“Fine,” she spat. “Yes. I took classes on
forensic, crime scene, and evidence photography to be exact. And,
yes, I’m certified now.”

“Why?”

“Because I passed the final exam.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Because it’s an aspect of the business I
wasn’t familiar with.”

“And it doesn’t have anything to do with Ben
mentioning the freelance consultant program for the police
department?”

She tried to sidestep the question. “You were
sitting right there when he asked me if I was interested, and you
didn’t object then.”

“No, I didn’t.” I gave a slight nod. “But,
that was what? Seven, maybe eight months ago? As I recall, you said
you were going to think about it.”

“Aye, I
did
think about it,” she shot back. She fixed her
jade-green eyes on me and arched her eyebrow, daring me to
challenge her response.

“And, apparently you came to a decision,” I
said with a half-hearted shrug.

“Aye, that I did.”

“And now you’ve taken these classes, which
tells me your decision is that you’re going to sign up for the
consultant gig.”

She nodded. “Probably.”

“Probably?”

“Okay then. Yes. I am.”

“Felicity, it’s not like we need the money.
Between my business and yours, we’re in great shape. The house is
paid for, our investments are stable, we’ve…”

She didn’t let me finish. “Money isn’t the
point, Row. It’s something I want to do.”

“You WANT to take pictures of dead bodies?
Victims of violent murders? Suicides?” I asked with more than a
note of incredulity in my voice.

“It’s not likely to even come to that,” she
explained. “The freelance program is for specialized photographic
techniques that the regular crime scene unit doesn’t do. Infrared,
ultraviolet, painting with light, and that sort of thing. Primarily
for evidence.”

“So you would never be photographing dead
bodies?”

“Well, maybe not
never
.” She shrugged. “I suppose it all depends
on what they need then.”

“Well, don’t you think you should give this a
little more thought?”

“Why?”

“Maybe because when you look through a camera
lens, you see things most people don’t.”

“Then I should be pretty good at it,
shouldn’t I.” She was telling, not asking.

“Probably too good. That’s what I mean… Think
about who you are for a minute.”

“Who I am? What do you mean by that?”

“Come on, you’re a Witch.”

“So are you. What’s that got to do with
anything?”

“Gods, Felicity!” I exclaimed. “Are you
trying to tell me the last few years have only been my imagination?
Because if you are, I’m not buying it.”

“You’re the one who carries on conversations
with the dead, Row, not me.”

“Excuse me?” It was my turn to raise an
eyebrow. “What do you think I meant about looking through a camera?
Besides, have you forgotten your last little brush with the
ethereal?”

“That was different.”

“Really? Do tell.”

“Kimberly was my friend. We had a connection.
And, besides, that was more than two years ago.”