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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “Thanks,” I say, twirling it between my fingers and handing it over. “They’re handcrafted for Lotus, exclusively.”

  “The black and red are stunning,” Nicky maintains, testing the blade on his arm. “I’ll do your deal for one of these.”

  I offer my hand. “Consider it done, but do not leave it anywhere. You wouldn’t believe how we had to smuggle this one in.”

  They all laugh. Everyone but Sal.

  “Jesus Christ,” he mutters with a broken expression. “What did they do to you…”

  “Cold chambers, Nero,” I gloat with a fierceness. “A long few months and a whole lot of cuts. Don’t make me show you what I can do with a katana. And for sure, don’t put a butterfly knife in my hands.”

  From behind Nicky, Sal challenges, “You can twirl a balisong?”

  “Yes,” I confirm, leaning to look him in the eye. “I can.”

  “Here you go,” Nicky says, grinning ear-to-ear as I note the curl on one side of Deacon’s mouth. “Thank you for letting me see your blade.”

  “Anytime.”

  “Do that trick again,” Deacon orders as Sal crouches down. His elbows are on his knees as his hands steeple on his lips. I roll the blade between my fingers, as slow as I can go, and grin. “How many hours?”

  “Years,” I answer. “But I am shit compared to my brother. He can two-hand, but I am very much right hand dominant. Any more questions?”

  “How many men have you killed with that blade?” X asks as Sal sighs.

  “None with this one,” I reply with a grin. “I have a set at home.”

  “… Home at the princess castle?”

  “Yes!” I laugh. “And more men than you want to know.”

  Deacon smirks.

  I pivot around, biting my lip as the blade revolves in between my fingers. I don’t stop moving it as I say to the first rapist, “Stand up.”

  He rises, completely unaware.

  “You’re a tall one,” I observe, blinking up to him as I tug his zipper down, pull out his dick, and sever it clean.

  “Oh, God!” X yells. “Don’t piss her off, Nero!”

  The boys laugh as Nicky watches with a sick adoration. Sal stays low to the ground, and Deacon, ever curious, remains focused on me. I toss the member into the nearby pail and push the moaning asshole down into the chair. I wipe the blade on my pants and go to the next one.

  “Get up!” He roars with terror from deep in his chest. “Get the fuck up!” Deacon takes a few steps to come save me when I raise a flat hand to him with my gloved hand. With a heaving jab, I plunge the blade into his balls. “Get the fuck up, asshole!”

  He barrels over in agony.

  “Holy shit, this is so hot!” one of the guys comments as Sal glares and shakes his head.

  With the first one still wailing, the second one finally decides to stand. “I hate it when you bitches piss yourself before I do this.”

  “How many times have you done this?”

  “This will be my fourteenth rasetsu…castration,” I reply as he tries to knock me over.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Iris!” Sal yells, pulling his gun from his side as Deacon takes in my show. “Move!”

  I stumble, but catch myself, only to kick my leg into his gut and send him to the floor. I straddle over his midsection and slit his throat. Blood splatters all over the cream suit. I unzip his pants, cut off his penis, and toss it from a good distance to the pail.

  “Nice shot!” Neil compliments, clapping. His adoration gets the entire Tennessee Twelve on their feet with a round of cheering and applause. I wipe the blood on my pants and stand before Sal and Deacon.

  “Apologies, I only left one,” I say, handing my blade to Deacon. “Mine is yours with honor and respect. Kill the motherfucker.”

  “You are the fucking Lotus.”

  “Yes, I am,” I whisper. “And you are the Saint.”

  “No Queen needed.” He bows before me, and I do the same.

  Wrapping my arms around him, I whisper, “That means a lot to me.”

  I glance at Sal, popping his jaw. He sets the gun on the ground, and I don’t quite understand why until he comes rushing at me. I land on my ass and skid back onto the floor as we violently scrimmage.

  “You think you are such a fucking badass,” he snaps, trying to pin me. I kick my leg out from underneath him and we roll. I glance at Deacon and shake my head. “You’re nothing, lil girl!”

  I do not need any help.

  Let me give this bastard a chance at redemption.

  “You were stronger before you started snorting that shit up your goddamned nose!” I bait, wanting Sal to fight me. “Give me your best, Pretty Boy!”

  “Holy fucking shit!” X mutters as the guys stand up, ready to draw on one of the great loves of my life. Deacon quietly raises a hand as he studies all that I have become.

  “This is so wrong,” Nicky mutters with a chuckle. “And so very right!”

  We struggle, horizontal dancing in our force of wills, striking in tactical, brutal, hand-to-hand combat. I knock him back, and he grabs my camisole, shredding it. “You’re in love with Cruz!”

  “And you like sticking your dick in Irish pots,” I rebuke with a grimace as I tumble out from beneath and straddle over his chest with my crotch on his chin. For a brief split-second, we pause, and he flicks a brow to me.

  “I could hurt you.”

  “I know,” I whisper, low enough that no one can hear. “But you’re too hard to think about killing me, and you aren’t Nicky. I conflict your mind and body. I blew up the fucking program in you, Salvatore.”

  I know he will win.

  It isn’t about that. He hates my competition. He always has. And he hates not being needed. He wants to kill for me. And I hate his antiquated views that I am in constant need of a bodyguard. In that, he forces my time to be spent with Deacon.

  Grabbing my hips, he tosses my bruised body like a rag doll before catapulting his rock-hard body onto mine. Everywhere aches as I get steamrollered by a very well-trained black-ops assassin. His mental glitches are repairable if he’ll let me in, but we won’t survive if his crutch is a nine. He’s got to be better than that. He’s got to try to do more than that.

  I groan as he smashes one-hundred-ninety pounds of angry fucking muscle on top of me. I certainly never practiced with guys like him in the cold chamber.

  It is glorious.

  And I ride the high.

  There we go—fight for me.

  Any bastard can point a gun and shoot it; it takes a real man to fight. Whether with words or fists, honor doesn’t come cheap. It is earned, and pulling a gun is nothing but an admission of weakness.

  On my back, he pins my wrists down as his fingers jerk my pants down. In an instant, I feel his hard cock thrust inside of me—in front of everyone.

  “I am your Master.”

  And I seethe, “That’s more like it!”

  With the Tennessee Twelve gawking, Dom ushers them away from the homicidal lunacy unfolding into a live-action porn scene.

  Sal’s heavy breaths hit my neck as he kisses my skin and seeks solace in my waters. My fingers trickle over his sweaty back, finding his damp curls. I welcome his struggle; his parlay in trying to change is an investment well made.

  Turning my cheek to the cold floor, I blink at Deacon, alone, in the warehouse. His fierce composure and rugged regard awaken a need inside of my soul I didn’t know existed. We’re quiescently meandering in our journey to find ourselves. All the while, we redefine our relationship every step of the way.

  After setting the blade on his cut, he strips off his shirt, puts on leather gloves, and swings at the man who said offending words to me. The chair crashes onto the floor as Deacon’s rhythmic punches land swiftly against the flesh and red paints a new picture—the color of his love.

  And I am the crazy bitch turned on by his wicked yet holy act.

  His fists are his only weapon, the tool of his trade, and his figh
t is unmatched. I gasp at the punishing thrusts of Sal, soaring my soul to a place where heaven and hell no longer exist, and we are one.

  The blood and tissue ooze surrounding the men with the viscid truth. With barely a hushed breath, I come, knowing Deacon’s rings are marked from his vibrant love for me.

  At the hands of a mouthwateringly delicious sadist, I watch one man die as his skull is shattered against the floor—repetitiously, like the pulse of my blissful orgasm. At the same time, a Dominant lays claim to my shelter as his own. The monster—a mean fucking machine—upholds my honor and pledges devotion with every bash of knuckles and breadth of his soul.

  We make love without touching as we were set forth on a trajectory meant for a collision.

  This is who we are—Deacon and I.

  Bound. Evolved. Implemented.

  Soaked in crimson, he rises with labored breaths, rippling through his glistening washboard abs. With a frown, he vehemently glares as he dangles a smoke from his lips and nods at his avenging sweet kill.

  His sad blue eyes effortlessly pluck every chord in my heart, but words remain unspoken.

  And Deacon “The Saint” Cruz walks away, twirling my blade.

  45

  Alone

  His Ride

  In the parking lot, Dom waits against my truck. Under the one dim light, he scans over the mess covering every inch of me. “You look like someone spilled a gallon of red paint on you.”

  I chuckle. “Good times.”

  “I sent the boys back to Lakeside.”

  I toss my jacket in my old truck and nod. “Thanks, man.”

  “You know you have a problem on your hands.”

  “I am aware of many things,” I banter with the cigarette between my lips. “One of which is I need a shower.”

  “She is in love with you,” he stresses. “And I do not want to be in the middle of that war.”

  “There is no war,” I reply. “She’s in there fucking Sal…doesn’t look like there is any problem to me.”

  “And she’s thinking about you.”

  “That’s not on me. That’s on her.” I shrug. “The ball is in her court. I’m just a spectator.”

  Scraping the tip of his cane in the gravel, he heartily laughs. “You’re the motherfucking coach of the goddamned team, and we both know it. I didn’t raise you to bend.”

  “I don’t bend.” I glance up at the light as a moth buzzes around. “You will side with your famiglia. And I will be left out in the cold to starve. Same as it’s always been.”

  He takes a step forward as the anger constricts his face. “I will side with whoever makes Iris the happiest and most complete person she can be. I have a loyalty to Sal that is deep because of our regional family tree, but I have a lot of respect for the underdog.” He lifts his cane and smirks. “Resilience is sexy as fuck. But if you would have asked me a few hours ago, I would have sided with Sal.”

  “… What changed?”

  “I’m not so sure he deserves her to be honest.”

  “Doubts lead to fears,” I murmur as I glance at the blood and grime under my fingernails. My gloves leaked. “And those fears turn into inescapable grievances.”

  He moves away from the truck. “I’ll let you go, just make no assumptions on where I will fall. She egged him on in there, and he fell for it. Did he need it? Probably—all that and then some.” In a show of respect, Dom lays his hand on my bloodied arm as I am taken aback. “But what I have to admire is the strength it took in you to not react. You got a hell of a pair, boy.”

  “I thought about it,” I admit, looking at the warehouse. “Especially when he tossed her against the floor. It was uncalled for and not a choice I would have made.”

  “Different Dominants, different rules.”

  “I’m not a Dominant,” I contend, snarling. “Just a well behaved submissive.”

  “You may not see it, but I guarantee she does—because you own it.”

  I hug him, and we part ways. I appreciate his blessing, but I’m not sure I need it. I’m going to do whatever I want regardless of popular opinion.

  On the way home, I decide I don’t want to deal with the onslaught of questions from the guys, so I go back to the Swamp Shack. I stop at the end of the drive to get the mail, and Serendipity, the pit bull bitch from next door, waggles to sniff my hand.

  I fucking killed a man while my best friend got off—with the girl of my fucking dreams—how fucked up am I?

  It hits—hard.

  With a troubled sigh, I drive to the house, toss the mail on the table, and take a shower. Blue water spills with red as I wash the evidence away. I wrap a towel around my waist, meander through the house with a sense of dread, and gulp a glass of water over the kitchen sink. Seeing my reflection in the window, I stare into the darkness before noticing a shard of glass from the coffee cup she broke.

  “Iris…”

  Closing my eyes, I hold it tight between my thumb and forefinger until the blood comes. My phone lights up with messages on the counter that I ignore as I get dressed, grab the keys for the bike, and leave.

  I have a history of taking long ass rides at night. When I’m alone, I can calm my demons on a bike and an open road. The moon is my guide, and the stars are my friends, and while that may sound corny as hell, it’s incredibly accurate.

  I drive through Sugargrove, wandering like a lost spirit, and doing no harm. I take the Harris Road viaduct over to the back entrance of the White Rose Cemetery. I prowl around the loop and notice a car.

  It’s after two in the morning and probably just some kids out drinking and fucking. I decide to leave them alone until I notice a girl with long hair not too far away from Kaci’s grave. Sal doesn’t own visitation rights to Kaci Hope; she is the mother of my son.

  A son I don’t know.

  I park the bike and trek over to where she sits. “… Hannah?”

  “Hi,” she says with a smile, scooting over to make room for me. We talked at R&T for the first time tonight, which seems like days ago.

  Sal brought her into The Unholy, much to the chagrin of most. No one understood why the girl from nowhere with no mafia connections meant so much to him unless he liked roller skating.

  It made zero fucking sense.

  But I supported him because I’m his bitch.

  His bitch. Not hers.

  She’s got a bottle of tequila in one hand and a smoke in the other. “It’s so weird for someone not to call me Skeeter. What are you doing out this late?”

  “Just thinking,” I reply, pulling out a smoke and stealing hers to light mine. “What about you?”

  “Same,” she says. “I broke up with Cody two weeks ago, and I’m fucking alone. There are only so many bowls and binge-watching a girl can take.”

  I laugh because I get it….God knows I do. “I was surprised anyone was out here. It’s usually dead.”

  “It’s dead,” she snarks, giggling and shaking her head. “That’s why I love it.”

  On the other side of the bench, her phone vibrates. “Sorry, it’s Sal.” She sends a quick text. “He’s been talking me through the breakup.”

  Setting my jaw, I nod, fully understanding the hidden meaning in that statement. He’s getting blown by Irish girls and fucking roller derby queens. He is coming apart at the seams, and with each frayed thread, more hatred pumps in my veins.

  I used to not give a shit about what he did with who, except now—there is an Iris. An Iris I love and cannot have because she is so wrapped up in the game of a future King that she’ll never see the Saint.

  I’m good for a confession and not much more.

  Typically, I would have offered to take the girl home and left it at that, but I’m kinda perturbed. “May I have a swig?”

  “Knock yourself out,” she giggles, handing the bottle to me. Our hands brush against one another, and I smirk like I’m the devil’s only sin. I take a generous gulp as she chimes in a southern twang, “You’re a cheeky little bastard, ai
n’t you?”

  Holding back my laughter, I smile, tightening my lips and trying to not swallow or choke to death or be a complete numb nut by spewing all over the poor girl.

  We end up laughing and talking, drinking, and getting stoned. I just want to fucking forget that she is with him, and they are together. And no matter what, I will never figure into their equation as Mr. & Mrs. Salvatore Raniero.

  Half an hour later, we’re flying amongst the dead as she quizzes, “Where are you from?”

  Rolling her hips to some heavy fucking grunge, she dances to the music from her continuously humming phone. I’m a little drunk and a little pissed off when I grab it and text Sal, “Why don’t you stop being a pussy hound and leave some for the rest of us, fucker?”

  Hannah is in a happy place of the cross-fade—still aware but warm and giddy—and she doesn’t care that I’m texting on her phone.

  I’m working the new Sal Raniero image because I’m fucked—no matter what—I lose at least one of them. Most likely, both.

  My swamp floods.

  And I come unleashed.

  “My mother is from London, and my father was born and raised on the Alabama State line. We lived in Georgia most of my life,” she says, smiling. “What about you?”

  “I was raised in Houston, but my dad lived in New Orleans.”

  “Texas, boy!” she marvels. “A real cowboy!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I reply. “Through and through, but those ties to the Louisiana quags are thick. And I don’t know about the cowboy part. I’m a little rebellious for that.” I pick the edge of my cut up and wink.

  She nods as a spark flickers in her eyes. “You got anything else thick?” She bites her fucking lip and lifts a brow. And while I’m a sucker for a tantalizing number like her, I usually don’t go this far.

  “Yeah,” I mutter, a little inebriated and too far gone to give a shit. I stand up and unzip my jeans as she drops to her knees and sucks my cock like she was born for this moment. I mean, this fucking girl in the damn Unholy can suck dick like a pro. I know why Sal brought her in, and I’m getting angrier by the second when I growl, “Let me fuck you, baby.”