Dillon's Universe: A Perdition MC Novel

by Isabel Wroth

  It was Dillon's turn to be surprised, and while she wasn't going to argue—therapy wasn't cheap—she had to know.

  “Why?”

  “I have practically begged Nasa to come in for regular sessions, and I am not the type of man to beg.” Dillon silently agreed. Dr. Thompson definitely didn't seem the type.

  “Now, I have sixty-four hours coming to me because Nasa likes the way you defend your territory, and all it cost me was some minor negotiation and a potential eyesore in front of my building. We're going to call it services rendered for the good of mankind.”

  “I also feel like putting my boot up your ass, jerkoff,” Nasa interrupted rudely, which only made Dr. Thompson grin like a sugar-deprived boy who'd been given a giant red slushie.

  Dr. White appeared seconds later, somehow managing to glide silently across the hardwood floor in a strappy pair of white heels, looking fresh and immaculately clean in her white suede pencil skirt and her ruffled white blouse.

  “Is it happening?” Dr. White asked, looking at Nasa with wide eyes, her manicured hands clasped to her chest in hope. “Is hell freezing over?”

  “Laugh it up,” Nasa warned. “Here I am, willing to let Teague pop my therapy cherry so I can put up some goddamn barriers that will prevent one of your stalker asshole patients from driving their truck through the front door, and y'all are giving me shit. I feel very attacked and seriously unappreciated right now.”

  Dr. White smiled brilliantly, bouncing on her toes with a girly squeal of delight. “I heard it! He said, 'I feel,' twice! Oh, my god, Teague, it's really happening!”

  “If you're done taking the piss,” Nasa snapped rudely. “You have an actual patient in need of your professional insights.”

  Dr. White's expression of delight only brightened. “A patient I'm very glad to see. Hello, Dillon.”

  “Hi,” Dillon answered, feeling none of the usual anxiety she had before her sessions. Whether it was the effect of holding Nasa's hand, the banter between the three people who clearly knew each other well, or the soothing energy of the waiting room, Dillon couldn't say. But when Dr. White asked her if she was ready, Dillon said yes and meant it.

  Before he let her go, Nasa gave her a penetrating look, all sarcasm and teasing aside.

  “I'll be here when you're done.”

  “You don't have to wait for me,” Dillon said, purely out of habit to remind people she was strong and capable of standing on her own.

  He gave her every ounce of his gaze, his tone dropping to the unique, special rumble that hadn't yet failed to soothe her. It wasn't as smooth or velvety as Dr. Thompson's, but it didn't lessen the impact it had on her.

  “One thousand feet. I'll be here.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Nasa watched Dillon disappear around the corner, glad to see the relaxed set of her shoulders, and the easy swing of her denim-clad hips.

  Last night was the first time in nine days Dillon hadn't set off the motion sensor alarm after having come awake due to a nightmare.

  Nasa had barely slept himself, lying in his bed with his fingers laced behind his head, watching the flatscreen on the ceiling and the image of Dillon sleeping two floors above him.

  She’d slept on her back, one hand curled up by her cheek, the dark blue sheets emphasizing her fair golden skin and the shine of her hair.

  She'd even worn an ice blue tank top and a pair of matching panties to bed, knowing full well at any minute he could tune in and watch her.

  Every day, Dillon did things to let him know she was getting more comfortable in his world.

  Best of all, their connection was getting stronger. Slowly but surely, Dillon was softening toward him.

  Trusting him. Responding to the deeper timbre of his voice, allowing him to take the lead, to take care of her. Cooking for her had been a huge step, and not making so much as a squeak of protest when he'd called to get an appointment for her with Collette was another.

  The way Dillon responded to Teague just a few minutes ago was only mildly annoying. The guy was too damn handsome for his own good, and even more of a Dom than Nasa was.

  Nasa suffered a moment of jealousy, certain Teague wouldn't look so pretty with a few teeth missing and blood all over his starched white shirt, but Dillon had slayed the urge when she'd looked up at him with soft eyes and warm cheeks.

  One compliment on defensive architecture, a subject they were both passionate about, and Dillon had eyes only for him.

  “Not one time in the twenty-three years I've known you, have I ever seen you hold a woman's hand.”

  So intent on staring after Dillon like a puppy, Nasa hadn't noticed Teague standing beside him, looking in the same direction with a frown on his face, and his hands tucked into his pockets.

  “Has it been twenty-three years?”

  Teague nodded slowly. “I remember our first meeting fondly. You, thirteen years old, sitting on the bench in the hallway, waiting to see the principle after you'd busted apart three of the school computers to make one big one because they were too slow to keep up with the project you were working on.

  “Me, on the bench waiting for my mom—the ever-cool high school counselor—to finish up so I could go home and watch Xena.

  "We struck up a conversation, and I couldn't believe you were a senior, or that it was possible for us to be the same age or that you were already over six feet tall.”

  Nasa barked out a grunt of laughter. “You called me a liar, and I beat the shit out of you in front of your mommy.”

  Teague grinned, chuckling right along with him. “You did, and once the teachers got us separated, Mom made us hug it out. I'd never felt so emasculated in my life.”

  “I really miss your mom,” Nasa confessed with genuine fondness.

  Terri Thompson had been warm and generous with her affection and her praise, serious about her hugs, where Nasa's own mother had been about as warm and cuddly as a Saguaro cactus.

  No matter how far Nasa advanced, it was never far enough for Ingrid Magnussen, nor was it enough for his father, the great Sig Magnussen who had immigrated to the US to build the most advanced robotics and tech company of his time.

  Even when Nasa had worked his way into a prestigious and coveted position at DARPA, Sig hadn't given his only son a clap on the back or a single word of pride for accomplishing something no one his age had accomplished before.

  All Sig had to say was, 'You should have come to work for your father.'

  When Nasa had gone to prison, his parents disowned him and refused to entertain the idea he might be innocent.

  Nasa hadn't known until after his release that both his parents had died in a freak car accident on their way home one night.

  There was no way to know if he would have been welcome home after his exoneration, but Nasa doubted it, seeing as dear ole' dad had completely left him out of the will.

  Truthfully, the death of Teague's mother as a result of undiagnosed ovarian cancer hit Nasa harder than his own mother's passing.

  “Me, too,” Teague answered quietly. “Tell me about Dillon.”

  Nasa would rather talk about his alleged paranoid delusions of being watched by satellites than discuss what he was starting to feel for Dillon.

  It was private, intimate, and even though Teague had seen him in all manner of intimate situations— hell, he'd seen Nasa balls out naked on several occasions getting sucked off by an eager submissive—talking about Dillon when Nasa wasn't sure how to quantify his feelings felt... wrong.

  “I met her a little over two weeks ago. Ghost broke into her home, drugged her and the dog, and wrote me a message in permanent marker on her chest.”

  “What message?” Teague asked, all of the warmth gone from his voice.

  Raised by a single mother and taught from a young age to respect and protect women, Teague took the news of her attack personally.

  “'Stop searching for my little bird, or you'll have more than one Ghost haunting you.' Ghost sent her to Perdition f
or protection, and we haven't figured out his motive yet.”

  In an effort to keep Teague focused on the outside forces threatening Dillon, Nasa told Teague everything that happened since meeting Dillon.

  Everything, minus the feelings growing between them. Nasa also kept the details of the torture Dillon had suffered at the hands of a rogue FBI agent to himself, not wanting to betray her confidence.

  When he finished, Teague stood beside him in silence for a good, long while, processing in his quiet, reserved manner.

  “She's important to you,” Teague finally said. As it wasn't a question, Nasa didn't answer. “Are you going to train her as a submissive?”

  The very idea of someday proving himself worthy to a woman like Dillon, worthy enough to be called her Master, made his cock surge to attention.

  The desire was there. The need. The hunger to introduce her to his world of dark, sensual delights. To teach Dillon to crave what he could do for her, and where he could take her.

  Unfortunately, there was every possibility she would reject him and all he had to offer because of everything she'd suffered.

  “I'm not sure she can handle it, given her situation.”

  Teague made a rude sound of disagreement. “You don't give women your hand or your affection beyond the aftercare you provide post-scene. I've seen your play partners crawl after you and beg for more, and you don't even bat a lash.

  “You engage in a scene and you give it your all, but anyone looking close enough can tell you find little joy in it anymore.

  "You're just going through the motions, and still the women are willing to crawl after you if it means another opportunity to kneel at your feet.

  “You would offer to help any woman if they were having trouble getting an appointment with Collette, but you wouldn't personally drive them here or hold their hand.

  "If you offered to wait for them and they told you they were fine, they could handle it, you'd leave without a second thought. So, I say again: she's important to you.”

  Nasa gave his friend the look of annoyance he deserved. “I never said she wasn't.”

  Like a dog with a bone, Teague turned to face him fully, unwilling to budge from the subject.

  “You met this woman two weeks ago. Why did you hold her hand and walk her in here yourself?”

  Jesus. Nasa sure was glad he'd left out the part about giving Dillon the smart watch he'd programed.

  Teague would probably read into it and ask him what date they'd set for a wedding.

  “First of all, because I hate it when Cher shakes her tits at me, and for some fucking reason, you won't fire her for the nine thousand and one reasons I've brought up before—”

  “Being disagreeable in the face of your overbearing attitude hasn't been a fireable offense,” Teague cut in. “In fact, it's one of her more sterling qualities to not buckle under the pressure of dealing with you, but I understand why you find her unattractive.”

  Nasa went on as though he hadn't been rudely interrupted, “And because I had hopes Cher would come to some wildly over-exaggerated conclusions about my taste in women.”

  “You are so full of shit,” Teague declared with a shake of his head.

  “Really? Is that your professional diagnosis?”

  “Oh, we'll get to that later,” Teague promised ominously. “So, you asked Dillon to hold your hand in order to spare you a sexual confrontation with Cher, is that right?

  “And you wonder why I haven't been keen on therapy.” Nasa hissed impatiently, back to considering planting his fist in Teague's face. “Did the shit for the game room show up?”

  Teague didn't answer the question, patiently staring at him in such a way Nasa knew he wasn't going to escape this conversation.

  For all his tenacity, Teague had the patience of a saint, and this wasn't going to be over until Teague got what he wanted.

  Nasa whipped his hat off and raked his hand through his hair, looking back down the hallway where Dillon had disappeared.

  “Dillon was extremely anxious about coming to this appointment, and I hoped having a hand to hold would help her relax.

  "Yes, she's fucking important to me, but I'm not discussing the details of why with you before I discuss it with her.

  “Yes, I would love to train her. She responds beautifully to the sound of my voice in the middle of a panic attack—thank god—and despite my confidence in my ability as a dominant, despite knowing I have the tools to possibly help her face her fears and conquer them, she has no idea why she feels the way she does around me. Considering what I know of her past, I'm taking it slow.”

  “Slow is good,” Teague confirmed. “You've fortified this warehouse with every top-of-the-line gadget, device, and system to ensure what happened to Collette in Dallas never happens to any of us here.

  “You've never mentioned placing defensive barriers in front of the entry way doors before today, and I assume it's because you had the steel shutters installed.

  "The concrete planters are overkill, here and at the compound, so what crossed your mind the second you decided to build them?”

  Nasa grimaced, not because the answer was difficult, but because it was a dead giveaway about the true measure of his feelings for Dillon.

  “Don't think about it,” Teague ordered. “Just say what's on your mind.”

  “When I bring her here, I want Dillon to walk past the planters, through the doors, and know without a doubt that I did everything I could to make it safe for her to relax and let me take care of her.”

  Teague gave one of his signature Zen style nods and shocked the shit out of Nasa by wrapping up the conversation instead of probing deeper.

  “If there comes a time when you're not sure how to proceed, let me help you, because if you fuck it up with her, she will never give you this opportunity again.”

  “I'm going to rely on Dillon to ste the pace, but I'll...” Nasa winced, because saying the words physically pained him. “Ask if I need help.”

  Teague nodded slowly, relief evident in his expression. “I have one more question—”

  “Of course you do,” Nasa muttered darkly.

  “If you answer me honestly, no bullshit evasions, I'll only make you sit through thirty-two hours of sessions.”

  Nasa let his eyebrows slide up incredulously, but he knew better than to open his mouth and pop off with some smart-ass remark.

  Teague was offering him a stellar deal, and Nasa wasn't dumb enough to fight him on it.

  He waited for Teague to get to the punchline, because for all his stubborn, invasive, pestering questions, Teague was a good guy.

  “Gee had paint all over him when he came for his session and mentioned you'd put away all your dungeon furniture, all your toys, redecorated the space, and asked him and Ruckus to help you paint the basement white. Did you do that for Dillon?”

  “It was too dark down there and she was so scared she couldn't make it past the door. Fuck yeah, I did it for her.”

  *****

  Dillon took a ragged breath as she came to the end of her story, having recounted everything she'd experienced since waking up paralyzed in her own bed.

  She confessed to having lied about her backstory and being a victim of a serial killer at the behest of a man with dead, doll eyes.

  She talked about the nightmares that plagued her: being back in the black site chained to the post and bleeding or twisted up on her side on the freezing cold concrete, her wrists and ankles zip-tied together.

  Or the times when she had been shivering, buckets of icy water dumped over her as she was relentlessly questioned about Georgia Styles and her children’s whereabouts.

  She told Collette what it felt like to take a life, how seeing Tobias sent her off the deep end, how it felt to be around him now, how it felt to be around Nasa, and how confused she was by her sexual responses to him.

  Tears pressed hard at the back of her eyes as she came to the end of her purge, but Dillon ruthlessly forced them back, co
unting each heartbeat, her breaths, matching the rhythm of the ticking clock across the room.

  “Is that a new watch?” Dr. White asked casually, causing Dillon to frown in confusion.

  She'd just unburdened herself, told her therapist she'd lied about the foundation of why she needed therapy, and Dr. White wanted to know about her watch?

  “Nasa gave it to me in the truck before coming in. The watch is linked to his, and has a sensor that tracks my heartbeat and my GPS location.”

  Dr. White made a sound of understanding. “I'm going to make an observation, and then ask you a question.”

  “Shoot,” Dillon rasped, leaning her head back on the thick couch, focusing on the texture of the ceiling paint.

  She couldn't cry. Once she started, she feared she might not stop. Dr. White wouldn't judge her, it certainly wouldn't have been the first time Dillon had a breakdown in her office, but today, Dillon couldn't let go of that final bit of control.

  “Usually, you've got a constant hand on Elka, petting her, holding onto her collar, sitting on the floor with her plastered across you to keep you steady. We've been in here for almost two hours, and you've gone through some extremely disturbing memories.

  “Today, Elka has laid across your feet and hasn't moved. Instead of reaching out to her as you normally do for comfort and reassurance, you've been rubbing your thumb back and forth across the band of the watch. Why do you think that is?”

  Dillon immediately opened her mouth to say she didn't know, but despite nearly three whole years without a session, she knew answering in haste would mean extended discussions to delve deeper into the reason why.

  “Honestly, I think I’m too worn out to have another panic attack. And I’m not worried about any of the things I’m usually worried about.

  "Nasa noticed I was anxious about coming into unfamiliar territory, and he gave me the watch because said he wanted me to feel safe.”

  “Do you?” Dr. White's voice was calm and pleasant, pitched to soothe.

  Dillon nodded, not stopping herself when she reached to worry the band at her wrist again.