Diary of a Submissive (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 4)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “She bought a fucking dildo,” he confides. “Thinking, I don’t know…that it would be her power move.”

  “And how did my ass behave for her?”

  “She wasn’t you, but you know, I let her do it because I let Kaci do it, and I figured why the hell not?”

  I kneel on the floor to do some push-ups. “Tell me you aren’t comparing them.”

  “It’s hard not to,” he says, spinning the bag like he’s going to knock the fuck out of it in a hot minute. “Kaci was full of a wicked head game. Iris is just a wicked game. I had no idea she was bringing in Brethren.”

  I pause, not knowing what to say. “... They’re using you as bait?”

  “I guess so.” His head lowers, resting against the bag, and I know this is the moment I’ve waited for…this is the moment he needs to break down…and why he never does it in front of Iris, I don’t know.

  I am his person.

  And I am her person.

  My only question is—who the fuck is my person?

  I can’t keep my eyes off of Sal, not because I’m turned on by the dripping, rock hard muscles—I mean, I am—but I’m more worried he’s about to lose his shit.

  Break his hand. Cause irreparable damage. Kill the bag.

  “Do you love Cat?” he randomly asks. “Enough to marry her?”

  I give up on the notions of push-ups and fall back onto my ass. “There is honestly only one bitch I’d ever consider marrying, and I’m looking at her.”

  “I ought to hit you.”

  Sitting butterfly, I slowly stretch my legs. “For being honest?”

  “No,” he replies, staring at the bag.

  “For calling you a bitch?”

  “No,” he mutters, still loving on the sack—seriously, he is bracing his arms and torso against the punching bag. “For not telling me sooner.”

  “Does it matter now?” I bark out, rhetorically. “You got ice in the safe.”

  He repeatedly bangs his head against the leather. “Are you jealous because I have a ring for Iris or hurt because I don’t have one for you?”

  “I’m not doing this with you.” I hop up and dash for the door, but he grabs my arm. “Don’t make me level you, man. Not when you can’t swing.”

  “Can’t doesn’t mean I won’t.” I see the struggle in his soul. “Answer the question, Cruz.”

  “I don’t know,” I yell out, louder than I intended. “There isn’t a handbook on how to be this way under these specific set of circumstances. Did it hurt? Yeah, it fucking hurt. It hurt because I love her. It hurt because I love you. It hurts because no matter what anyone else says,” I stress, waving my arm wide and pulling a quasi-daego move, so he comprehends. “I am not looking to find some random girl to marry. It’s not going to happen. I don’t want to date. I don’t want that obligation. Not now. The only girl I would even consider marrying is Iris. And she is yours.”

  Gripping the bridge of his nose, he loosely teeters around. “Did you love Cat?”

  “I love Cat, but not like everyone seems to want me to,” I confess, wrapping one hand around the other. “But she doesn’t love me like that either. We have…had…a good time hooking up.”

  “Allie? Georgia?”

  “Allie was special, but we weren’t ever going to make it long-term,” I say, feeling like I’m in the dating hot seat. “Georgia is fun to have phone sex with.”

  “She is…” he agrees, glancing up. “Until her cuckoo clocks go off.”

  “God, don’t I know,” I admit, laughing. “One night, while you were in Japan, I was desperate for a fix. She called to tell me about some fax she sent over. One thing led to another, and I was just about there when the clocks struck midnight. I didn’t come for a week after that.”

  “What about Amber?”

  “Stardust,” I say, trailing my finger under my nose and snorting. “I only have room in my life for one addict. He is you. You are enough. Thank you very much.”

  With a despondent, broken haze in his eyes, he asks, “Is that what you truly think about me?”

  “I believe some bad people did some bad shit to you, add in your genetics, and yeah, you’re fucked up now,” I gently comment. “It’s not enough to make me want to run the other way, but I have been dealing with your bullshit since Kace died. I am accustomed to your melodic rhythm of descent.”

  “… Iris isn’t.”

  And there it is.

  His fear.

  It isn’t about being man enough. Or alpha enough. Or dirty daego enough. Or Dark Prince enough. But his mental glitches hinder his ability to drop down on one knee.

  I wondered why he hadn’t asked yet.

  Quinn was right. He’s too smart for his own good.

  Taking off his shirt, he slumps to the floor, and I follow. We’re two pumped up, sweat-laden dudes on the floor of a home gym, and the only thing I know is how much he means to me. Not just love. We’re so far past love, it’s ridiculous.

  We’ve dealt with loss, family, love, cheating, betrayal, mergers, weddings, funerals, births, shootings, stabbings, surgeries, prison, deceit, whores, drugs, sex, more drugs, murder, sexuality, alcohol, depression, no lube, money…Dom…Ma…his having sex with my ma…his having sex with Dom…

  God, it must be fun being the bad boy.

  I know it comes at a price, but damn.

  “We’re practically married, you and I.”

  “I know,” he mumbles as we lean against the wall. “And that fucking scares the shit out of me.”

  “Because if it came down to a choice, we’d both choose the same thing?”

  “Yes,” he replies as the darkness creeps in, and he rocks, quietly crying. I wrap my arm around him. “And it isn’t about love anymore. It’s about function. Survival.”

  “Fight or flight.”

  “You got it,” he agrees, laying his head on my thigh. I pet his soaked hair. “What kind of guy in The Commission would choose that over the Lotus Queen?”

  “One who knows how to hide his heart from everyone but one.”

  “I didn’t ever plan on you, getting stuck with being my one,” he confides, showing his pain. “And, I’m sorry.”

  I chuckle once. “You seem to think I mind,” I softly speak, playing with his wet curls. “I don’t mind at all. But can I be honest with you?”

  “Yes, baby.”

  “You, stanky, Sal,” I taunt, and he laughs. “Stanky!”

  A quiet minute passes with my hand in his hair, where it is just myself and the beautiful devil that is Sal Raniero. These moments are the intimacy Iris covets, the times when he will drop his guard, set the gargoyles free, and welcome me into his chambers of darkness.

  And this is why he is the great love of my life.

  “Iris and I are embezzling money from Cristos with Nicky’s help.”

  “Not that this matters, but how much?”

  Rolling over, he flutters those long lashes over the beseeching sea green moss shrouded eyes. “Enough to pay for two tickets to the shrine of the Gods...”

  “Shit…When are you starting?”

  His blank expression scares me as his eyes tilt towards me, and a pinch of a dreadful smirk rises at the corner of his mouth. “It’s almost done. I started layering as soon as I first found out about it.”

  Sal is exceptionally fast at what he does, but he’s built the infrastructure to support it with Georgia and Jas and the rest of his team in Nebraska. He won’t just steal the money and leave the target on his back, though. He’s too smart for that. “… Who is your fall guy?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “Jesus, no…not Cesario…”

  “He has nothing to give me but weak knees or lump in my throat. His only saving grace in the entire bracket is because of his alignment with Cristos.”

  “You’re not just trying to kill two birds with one stone…”

  “I am taking down the whole fucking flock.”

  I take a deep breath. “What can I do for y
ou?”

  “Cristos is running narco subs up from South America. I can have Vega run interception, or I can have the merch delivered straight to your door.”

  “What the fuck are you, Postmates?”

  He breaks his steadfast resolve and snickers. “No, I am the Capo.”

  “And I am your hands.”

  “Yes, you are Cruz.” His tongue darts out of his mouth, serpentining, as he thinks. “Iris wanted Cristos’ elimination from the board before finding out his involvement with The Spider, but now it’s her only focus. She is out to destroy him. When you wonder why she bridged the gap between you and The Preacher, you know. It is her version of offering you immunity—a grace if you will.”

  “She is a ruthless Queen.”

  He snorts. “This is her pre-game show. She hasn’t even formally taken her position.”

  “I’m selling my RE shares, and she’s tying me to the tracks while the Immortal train barrels straight for me—for the Amber stunt. Publicly, I’ll be in a weakened position with few associations other than The Commission. Cinco will surface as a hero until Lotus swoops down to carry me back to the lair. They’ll be left with their hand in the cookie jar, Immortal sees them, and Cinco’s only choice will be war or unification.”

  I rub my eyes. “Entrapment of Cinco…”

  “Elimination of Cinco,” he corrects. “Either way, they are done. They either get sucked up and start wearing Immortal cuts, or they’ll be destroyed.”

  “Did you two come up with this plan? While you were making croissants?”

  “No,” he replies. “We were stoned out of our fucking minds and fucking while it snowed in Virginia.”

  “Literal, snow?” I ask, seeking confirmation. “Or is Iris sucking shit up her chimney too?”

  “Snow from the sky, dumbass.”

  “This is…almost enviable….”

  “Thank you,” he praises grinning. “We do try to be an impressive power couple despite our personal issues. Iris succinctly gets her point across that she is not to be fucked with. I am the bait. The best way to guard Iris is to be close to her—you, me, and Morpheus—and she can summon three brand new motherfucking kings to her castle.”

  The news hits hard. “Mother of God, you’re both needing straight jackets…maybe even some electroshock…are you FUCKING insane?”

  “I need you, Mr. Saint Cruz, to not rescue me.”

  “That’s like asking to watch you bleed out…

  “I am not asking you,” he rumbles low, demandingly. “I am telling you. Do not come to save me.”

  28

  My Insides Are Burning

  His Butterfly

  I arrive back at The Dollhouse close to seven o’clock with shopping bags and leftovers in tow. I drop the keys for the Raptor on the counter and glance around as I take off my coat.

  “Why the hell is it so dark in here?” I mutter, glancing out the window and thinking maybe the boys are out by the pool stargazing.

  It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Hearing a rhythmic noise, I pause and tiptoe closer to the source. I sneak into the library and spot the door leading down to the cellar. I touch the knob, usually always locked, and it twists in my hand.

  Oh my God…

  I take a breath and creep back out of the library before flying—while keeping a light as a feather step on the heavily shellacked wooden floors—to the Master bedroom.

  Licking my lips, I flick on the closet light. I rummage through all of Deacon’s recent purchases until I find the perfect black dress with a plunging V-dip almost to the navel.

  I quickly change, pull my hair down, and shake it. I dab a little extra lip gloss on and snag a pair of sex heels from the closet before rushing back to the library. I am not sure what the fuck I am thinking of imposing myself on their scene.

  My plan of action is simple. I’ll take a few steps down the spiral staircase only enough to see them and sit closest to the wall. I just want to watch it. Worst case? I get caught, and I’ve got this killer dress on to help remedy the situation. Maybe. It might work. Hopefully.

  What I am about to do is in direct violation of what Sal wants—time alone with each of us. I am encroaching—trespassing—into their scene. But they refuse to share, so I’ll act accordingly, using my new attitude in all things.

  If people do not share, I steal.

  I close my eyes, say a brief prayer, and slip into the dungeon. I carefully shut the door without a peep and take four steps down before I sit. My eyes widen at the sight of Sal tied to the bed, face down/ass up, as Deacon paces around with a whip in hand. Paralyzing shock runs through my veins as I set the sex heels on the step below me and cover my mouth.

  Sal is in a submissive position.

  And nothing could have prepared my mind for the visual impact.

  Deacon draws back the whip, and Sal arches up, showcasing his divinely sculpted muscles, as the leather smacks with a severity like I have never seen. Light bloody marks line Sal’s back, but he only welcomes more with groans of guttural ecstasy—intoxicating my soul.

  But trouble waits in my inability to look away from Deacon. He’s dressed like a Master made for reckoning in tight leather pants. He looks like a damned God of mayhem thrashing against the mischievous dreamy playboy that is Sal.

  Beneath my hand, I bite my lip, fully aware I will have bruises. I don’t care. It’s all too much. Too much lust from Deacon’s firm stride. Too much desire from the buckle in Sal. Too much sensuality in the fluidity of their erotic act.

  “What do you want, slut?” Deacon hisses. “Say it.”

  “Hurt me. Fuck my ass. Own me.”

  I clench my teeth so hard; I fear my jaw may break.

  “I’m going to make you beg for it, Boston.”

  “Please, Sir,” Sal pleads, straining against the chains. Deacon has the untamed animal captured. “Claim my monster.”

  “I will,” Deacon growls. “In my own time.”

  He tosses the whip in quick succession with perfect figure eights. Cracking the leather against the sides of the bed, he narrows the throws to land on Sal’s back and ass.

  The echoes wail in the chilly tomb as my thighs dampen at their ritual. I’ve witnessed a lot of impressive scenes in my time, but there is something about Deacon and Sal that sends an emotional paralysis through my spine.

  They are in love.

  Deep. Unrelenting. Profound. Unconditional. Boundless.

  Love.

  Aroused to the point of uncontrollable tears streaming down my cheek, I reach the edge where my barrier exists, and theirs begins. I should be mad. I should be furious. But all I want to do is hold those two little boys, tell them how beautiful they are, and protect the fuck out of them.

  Without warning, Deacon sends the whip spiraling, spinning from his hand to land near the stairs. I stare at the nefarious beast like a vicious striking snake. The leather is marked with my man’s blood. No doubt his cum too.

  This isn’t their first time at this rodeo.

  Walking to the head of the wrought iron frame, Deacon releases the cuffs, and immediately Sal, once stretched so taut, springs back to the foot of the bed on all fours.

  With an intimidating swagger, Deacon paces back, undoing his fly and palming his thick cock. “Who do you belong to?”

  “You, Saint,” he fiercely answers. “Always you.”

  “This is going to bite like a motherfucker.”

  “Good,” Sal replies. His voice staggers, teetering on edge between a subspace high and reality. I expect Deacon to move, but he doesn’t until Sal roars, “Take me. Now, you fucking bitch!”

  Holy shit.

  With a magnificent thrust, Deacon crosses the bridge and sends Sal pummeling to the void. I see it. I recognize it. This place I long to go in my surrender—to be lost in my own submission, but I am uninvited, never welcome, or wanted. I am the misfit, the menace, and the misbehaving girl. I’m not welcome in the boy’s club or allowed to view the abundance
of this taboo love.

  And now, I am the thief.

  The grunting sounds emit from deep in their chests, sending waves of pleasure to me. But I am a greedy bitch and need more. Lifting my dress, I find my slit drenched in wetness from their unholy act. My clit is ripe, and my hollow swallows my fingers with ease.

  Every rock of Deacon’s hips matches my thrusts as I imagine I am in the middle of their hypnotic, tranquil love. I scoot my hips to the edge of the step and buck against my hand. I glance at the shimmering sweat covering these men I am in love with as they succumb to the darkness.

  I want the strokes of their whips and cocks. I need to be a part of the sordid intimacy they share. It’s cold out here, left alone, where no one even knows I am there. I want them to take my mind and body so far that I spill over the edge and trust their vast wings to carry me home.

  Spreading my legs wider, I fuck my hand with desperation, accidentally knocking one of my shoes off the step. It falls with an ominous thud to the ground floor of the dungeon.

  “Shit!” I gasp as they both look back and spot me. “I’m so sorry!”

  “Stay!” Deacon commands to Sal as he spins towards me, but I don’t listen. The ravaging storms brew in his eyes as he stalks closer with a terrorizing gaze. “Why are you in my dungeon and interrupting my scene, whore?”

  Damn. Shit. Deacon. No.

  Cruz.

  Saint-fucking-Cruz is awake and on the hunt.

  “Fuck!” I scamper to my feet and run as I hear Sal snickering. I fly fast through the library and into the living room. I snatch the keys for the truck off the counter and bolt for the door as he appears on the opposite side of the galley kitchen.

  “What are you going to do, pretty girl?” We’re almost exactly ninety degrees to the door. “Are you going to test me or willingly crawl forth? Careful which you choose. Can you run faster?”

  Tears stream down my face as I know I won’t get away. He’s faster and bigger than me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Make your decision, princess.”