by Bea Paige
Contents
Bea Paige’s Books
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Accacia’s Curse
The Prophecy
Prologue
Chapter One
Avalanche of Desire
Chapter One
Copyright ©: Kelly Stock writing as Bea Paige
First Published: 18th November 2018
Publisher: Kelly Stock
Cover by: Skye MacKinnon
Kelly Stock writing as Bea Paige to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Bea Paige’s Books
The Sisters of Hex series
(paranormal romance / reverse harem)
Prequel to The Sisters of Hex series:
Five Gold Rings: https://books2read.com/FiveGoldRings
Sisters of Hex: Accacia
OUT NOW:
#1 Accacia’s Curse https://books2read.com/AccaciasCurse
#2 Accacia’s Blood https://books2read.com/AccaciasBlood
#3 Accacia’s Bite https://books2read.com/AccaciasBite
Sisters of Hex: Fern
Out Now:
#1 Fern’s Decision https://books2read.com/FernsDecision
#2 Fern’s Wings https://books2read.com/FernsWings
#3 Fern’s Flight https://books2read.com/FernsFlight
Finding Their Muse
(dark contemporary romance / reverse harem)
#1 Stepshttps://books2read.com/Steps
#2 StrokesComing Soon
#3 StringsComing Soon
The Brothers Freed Series
(contemporary romance / reverse harem)
#1 Avalanche of Desire https://books2read.com/AvalancheOfDesire
#2 Storm of Seduction https://books2read.com/StormSeduction
#3 Dawn of Love
https://books2read.com/DawnOfLove
The Soul Guide series
(Urban Fantasy)
#1 Divided Souls https://books2read.com/DividedSouls
#2 Soul Ascendance https://books2read.com/SoulAscendance
Links to Bea Paige’s Social Media
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/groups/BeaPaige/ Instagram:https://www.instagram.com/beapaigeauthor/ Twitter: https://twitter.com/BeaPaigeAuthor
Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/bea-paige
Web:https://www.beapaige.co.uk
To Sergei Polunin, for being my muse. And to Courtney and Janet for always believing in me. Steps is dedicated to you three especially xx
Prologue
Ivan
Standing in the dimly lit dance studio, bare chested, covered in a sheen of sweat I wonder if I’ll ever be able to see myself differently from the broken man before me. Whether I’ll see someone other than the man who no longer burns with passion, but with a very real hate for everyone and everything, including himself.
The low bass of the music vibrates through the shiny wooden floor and up through my bare feet. Dark bruises already flare over my chest and back, colouring my olive skin a shade darker.
I’ve already pushed myself too far, but it isn’t enough. It never will be.
The memories of her…
I squeeze my eyes shut and let the music wash over me. I push away everything but the sound of the music as it blasts out of the speakers and concentrate on the feel of the floor beneath my feet as I run across it. I ignore the blisters, the warm slickness of blood as the torn soles of my feet bleed. I ignore the scream of my muscles as they protest at the abuse.
I’m not even sure how long I’ve been in here torturing myself. An hour, two? More? All I know is that the physical pain from the exercise blocks the other kind. The kind that fucking haunts every waking moment of my life.
Today, would’ve been our eight-year anniversary.
Instead it’s two years since she’s been gone. This very room, where I bleed now, is where her heart bled out. A knife to her wrist.
I was too late to save her. I was too fucking late.
In the centre of the studio, I can still see the stain of her despair, a dark shadow pooling across the floor. No amount of scrubbing has been able to get it out.
So, this is all I can do. I add my blood to hers now and in some sick, twisted way, I feel close to her.
Even when I slam my body into the wall, I feel close to her.
Her pain and mine intermingled forever.
Another kind of dance to the one we used to share.
I can no longer use this room as it was originally intended. I will never dance again.
It’s no longer my sanctuary but a place to come and torture myself. A place to remind me that I can never be happy again, not whilst there’s breath still in my body.
The room is still beautiful, with high vaulted ceilings and windows set above the mahogany panels that make up three of the four walls. The fourth is covered in a run of mirrors, the soft wood of the barre running along its length. The same barre her delicate hand would move across, perfect white alabaster skin against the darkened wood.
Ten years ago, I had the grand hall of the manor converted into this dance studio for my wife.
Back then, we would dance here together. Prima ballerina and principal dancer, a match made in ballet heaven.
Until she took her life, that is.
Svetlana and I would make love on the bare wooden floor, our ballet shoes and clothes discarded like scattered petals across the vast hall. This room held our love once. Now it is filled with despair and twisted moments of pain.
I slam into the wall so hard that the wooden panel splits under the impact, a shard of wood embeds itself in my skin. But I don’t stop. I can’t.
This is my punishment.
This is where I come to remind myself why I must never dance again. Why I am not worthy of anything or anyone but the pain I choose to inflict on myself.
I crave pain now.
Svetlana is gone because of me. She would be alive today if I hadn’t betrayed her.
Slamming my fist into the wall, making the dent I’d made with my body even wider, I scream until my lungs burn.
I drove my wife into the deepest pits of hell. I deserve every second of torture.
Turning my back on the hole I’ve made, I lean against the wall until my feet can no longer hold me up. Sliding to the flo
or, I collapse into a heap. Sweat drips from my chin, falling against my bare chest.
Even after all this time the tears don’t come, just the empty hollow of loss and the swirling pit of grief. It takes me a long time to calm myself enough to do what I must.
Across the room from me, tied to a wooden chair with swathes of red silk is a woman. I’d almost forgotten about her.
Almost.
Her eyes are pressed shut, her scarlet lips parted on a rapid breath. Her chest is heaving with anticipation, with fear? Probably both.
That’s why she’s here after all. She wants domination. She needs to feel alive, just as much as I do.
And I’m going to fuck her until all thought leaves her mind.
This woman is another one of the many who’ve passed through these doors on my search to fill the void that sits like a chasm within my chest. My addiction to the sins of the flesh is what got me into this mess, and what keeps me from being free.
I see the pink slash of her pussy pressed against the hard wood of the chair. Her full breasts and tight nipples, as hard as marbles. She’s been in this room with me before. She knows what to expect and her physical reaction to me tells me she is more than ready to be mine.
I both want her and despise her for what she represents.
My wife is dead because of my sins, because of my craving for something darker than her sweetness was able to give. It should’ve been enough, and it was for a while.
I loved her… but there was something I needed, and it was something she was unwilling to give. So, I sought it out elsewhere.
I’m a bastard. I know that, I’ve accepted that.
I can’t fight the demon inside of me. No amount of physical pain will ever quell the desire in my heart. After all, my wife’s pain didn’t stop me. So, I seek out my other release hoping that one day it will be enough.
I get up on unsteady legs, my cock painfully hard, and pull off my trousers. The silky material pools to the floor. Stepping out of them, my cock falls free, seemingly the only part of my body not covered in purple bruises.
“One word, that’s all I need,” I say, stalking towards the nameless woman on the other side of the room.
I watch as her cheeks flush. The pink of her tongue wets her bottom lip in anticipation. But I never kiss these women. That’s too personal. There’s too much emotion in a kiss.
I fuck them. I dominate them. I take everything they’re able to give, and they all give it willingly.
Stopping before her, I slide my finger along the curve of her breast.
“Say it,” I murmur.
A smile plays across the lips of this woman whose name I do not know. Even though she’s been here before, I don’t know anything about her life. But I do know every curve of her body, every moan and sigh. I know where she likes to be touched, licked, caressed. I know her limits, I know what makes her pussy twitch with pleasure. I know what scares her but thrills her at the same time. This nameless woman who comes alive beneath my hands is mine to play with.
I’m going to fuck her until I get the release I so crave, those few seconds where nothing but the potency of my orgasm fills every thought. Where neither my past nor my future is clear and only the present takes control. Where I find peace.
“Say it,” I demand, grasping her chin and making her look at me. Heavy-lidded, deep blue eyes gaze back. There is fear in them, but excitement too. I can smell it.
Her mouth parts, she pulls against the constraints. A single word falls from her lips…
“Brisé…”
Chapter One
Rose
Placing my hand against my pounding head, I groan loudly. The bottle of red wine I drank by myself last night probably wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had.
“Way to go, Rose, just what you need on the morning of your interview,” I say to myself.
The digital clock next to my bed is flashing eight forty-five am. I have less than an hour to get ready and up to Browlace Manor, and given my car died its final death last week, I’m going to have to walk. That’s a good mile on an unseasonably cold September morning. Thanks goodness it’s Saturday tomorrow. I can sleep in without feeling guilty.
Ripping back my duvet cover I stumble from my bed, instantly regretting moving so quickly as a sharp spasm almost cripples me. I bite down on my lip, trying to override the arthritic pain in my hips and lower back with the sharp cut of my teeth. It doesn’t work.
I stretch my hand out, resting it on the chest-of-drawers next to me and fight the overwhelming need to throw up. Being hungover and in pain isn’t the best combination frankly.
Drawing in deep breaths I slowly straighten my back, ignoring the agony I feel and hating that my body has betrayed me yet again. Most days I feel as though I am ninety years old, not a woman of thirty.
Fuck this body of mine.
My eyes catch the pair of satin ballet shoes hanging from a hook on the back of my bedroom door, a constant reminder of my past. They are well worn, the platform dirty, the ribbons frayed. It has been over a year since I wore them last. A lifetime in the ballet world.
Even if I were fit, it’s highly unlikely the company would take me back. Most ballet dancers retire in their mid-thirties having started their career around nineteen.
The cruel reality is, I’ll never be able to dance again, professionally or otherwise.
Sighing, I haul myself upright with as much grace as an ex-ballet dancer with arthritis can muster. I refuse to call myself disabled, even though that’s what my doctor had implied. He’d been so matter of fact about my condition. There was no breaking it to me gently. Even now, those words still sting.
“Your body is tired, Rose. I’m afraid your blood tests show a high rheumatoid factor. I’d advise against continuing to dance because this condition isn’t going away. There are no drugs that can cure it, only ones that can help alleviate the pain and inflammation around your joints. You have an autoimmune disease. Even if you weren’t a ballet dancer, it would’ve happened anyway. As it is, the physical stress you’ve put your body under may well have contributed to it developing earlier. I’m sorry, if you ignore what I have to say you will be in a wheelchair with no hope of ever dancing again, even for pleasure.”
At the time I’d refused to believe it was true, returning to the company without giving them the full picture. The doctor had been right of course. Six months after my diagnosis I had been asked to leave the company for ‘my best interests’ after messing up on stage when my knee had given way beneath me. Another six months on, here I am living in my family home in a quaint village in Cornwall, burning a hole in my inheritance.
Home? This place isn’t my home. I feel sick waking up here most days. The memories embedded in the bricks and mortar haunting me daily. If I had a choice I would leave this place and never come back. The first thing I did was take down the photos of my parents and burn them when I returned. It was satisfying for all of ten minutes, but the memories I have, they can’t be disintegrated so easily.
Dad had passed when I was a teenager, and my Mum two years ago of a sudden illness. I can’t say I miss either of them very much, but right now that’s a wound I’d rather not pick.
I haul arse into the shower, wash myself as quickly as my aching joints will allow and get dressed. Less than twenty minutes later I’m as presentable as I can be in a knee length, black skirt and red silk shirt. Pulling on a pair of boots and thick woollen overcoat, I head out in the dank Cornish air and make my way, hopefully, to a future that is probably about as exciting as working in the local library. Not that I have anything against libraries, on the contrary. It’s just that the one in my village consists of a few dog-eared classics and a dozen or so Mills & Boon books for the racier villager. I’ve read all the books, three time over now. They really need to get a better collection.
“Morning, Rose. Going out somewhere nice?” Mrs Samson calls from the front step of her house. She’s smoking a pipe, a strip of her grey hair yellowe
d from the nicotine.
“That’s right,” I respond, not willing to give her, or the rest of the village, any more gossip. Since I’ve returned home, my name has been on everyone’s lips. The local girl turned star, turned cripple. The girl whose past still has the ability to ruin her future. All the whispered talk remains, even years after his death.
“Going somewhere nice?” she persists, interrupting my dark thoughts.
I stop at her gate, an ingrained politeness forcing me to respond.
“An interview, Mrs Samson.”
She looks at me, her beady eyes narrowing with interest. “Interview you say?”
“That’s right. I must be off, or I’ll be late,” I say quickly, pretending I don’t hear her next question as I rush off down the lane and towards my destination.
It takes me another forty minutes to reach the sprawling grounds of Browlace Manor.
The cold air has already settled in my joints, making my body stiffen further. I know my condition enough to know that if I don’t get into the warm soon then I will be in bed for a week straight. The ease and grace that I was once accustomed to is less and less apparent these days. I’m like the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz, in desperate need of lubrication to loosen my rigid muscles and ease my painful joints.
