Salvation

by Jane Henry

  Verge is clean, though, thankfully. Impeccably so. Still, kneeling on the floor with the cool tile at my knees is mortifying.

  Maybe I caught a stomach bug. Maybe it was something I ate. All I know is that I’m sick, violently and nearly instantly.

  And then Noah walked in. Or at least someone who bears a striking resemblance to Noah.

  But no. It’s got to be him.

  He called me by name, and I’d know that voice, those eyes anywhere. The man I fell in love with.

  The man who ruined my life.

  It’s been seven years.

  He looks so different now, though. He’s covered in tattoos, and the hair I once knew as dark is speckled with gray at the temples. I thought he was a man when I knew him, but he’s aged. Time has been good to him. His body is leaner, more defined and muscled, and he holds himself erect.

  God, he was hot when I knew him. Now, he’s grown into his looks and my belly tightens. He’s beautiful.

  I don’t know if I can trust myself to speak.

  “I don’t go by Noah anymore,” he says, and I recognize a firmness to his jaw I’ve never seen before. “Name’s Axle. But we can talk later. What the hell are you doing sprawled out on the floor like this?”

  I glare at him. “Examining your tile,” I quip. “What do you think I’m doing, besides emptying the contents of my stomach and wishing for instant death?”

  A corner of his lips quirks up, but he quickly sobers. “Let’s get you out of here. Then, we talk.”

  I clutch the toilet. “If you move me, I could make you regret it,” I say with a grimace. “I’m violently ill.”

  He shrugs and his voice drops. “Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.”

  No. Don’t. My mind pleads silently with him. He’s quoting The Princess Bride. We watched that movie together until we could quote it back to front, and I’ll never survive an onslaught of memories with Noah. It almost killed me when he left me, and he doesn’t know what I did in the aftermath. How I saved him. How I killed myself in the process.

  I can’t help myself. I close my eyes and whisper, “What fresh hell is this?” It’s my favorite quote from Jane Eyre.

  But no. The old Noah and I related with literary lines. It’s a closeness we shared that was dashed to pieces, and it’s stupid and trite to conjure that up once more.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” he says in wonder. Then his voice hardens. “Get the hell out of the bathroom.”

  I blink up at him in a daze.

  He’s glaring, his jaw hardened, and eyes narrowed on me. Oh, wow. I don’t remember this side of Noah, but then I remember.

  We’re in a BDSM club.

  Is he a… dom?

  He shakes his head, stomps over to me, and hauls me up by the armpits to standing, then he lifts me into his arms. What the hell?

  “Noah!” I protest.

  “Axle,” he corrects.

  “I’m—sick. And I didn’t give you permission to pick me up. Put me down!”

  “No. I’m taking you to my room where there’s a much more comfortable toilet should you need to empty your stomach again.”

  “Oh, ew,” I say. “This is the most epically disastrous reunion known to man.” I let my head fall back dramatically, which earns a chuckle from him.

  “Damn, Chandra, you’re just as cute as you were when I knew you.”

  Oh no he doesn’t.

  “Put me down,” I whisper. “Please.” I can’t stand being this close to him. The sound of his voice… his clean, powerful, masculine scent… the way he says my name, Chandra, like it’s a prayer. It isn’t a prayer, but a form of torture. We tried prayers, and they fell on deaf ears. I loved this man once, and I’ve had to put a wall up around my heart for survival. I won’t let him tear that wall down. I can’t.

  “I’ll put you down when I get to my room,” he says. “You came into this club unescorted. Am I right?”

  “Well…” I begin. “Not really. I came in here with Marla.”

  “Jesus Christ,” he mutters. I blink in shock. The Noah I knew not only had no tattoos, he did not swear. What’s happened to him? “And where’s Marla now?” he asks.

  “I told her to go home,” I say.

  His brow furrows. “And she just went? Just left you?”

  “Well…” my voice trails off.

  “Chandra,” he chides.

  “I… may have texted her and said I already went home,” I whisper.

  “So, you lied.”

  “Well, yes, but it was for her own good.”

  “It’s still a lie,” he says sternly, but before he can continue his lecture, my stomach lurches again.

  “Noah,” I moan.

  He understands what I need and brings me to his bathroom. And to my utter misery, I christen it by emptying my stomach again. I want to die. I want to absolutely die.

  He doesn’t even grimace, though. He kneels beside me and holds my hair. When I’m spent and panting, he wipes my head with a cool cloth, then helps me to my feet and leads me to bed. It’s so tender, my eyes water, but I tell myself it’s just because he caught me at a weak moment. I can’t fall for him. I loved once, and I can’t go there again.

  “Into bed with you,” he says.

  What?

  “I need to go home,” I whisper. My stomach churns, waves crashing on rocks.

  “You’ll go home eventually,” he says with a sigh. “But tonight, you stay here. There’s a blizzard warning in effect, and it isn’t safe to travel, plus I want to be sure you’re healthy again.” He walks over to a refrigerator and removes a cold bottle of water. He opens the top, hands it to me, and orders, “Drink.”

  “I can’t sleep here,” I protest. The thought of being close to him, when I’m sick and weak, terrifies me. I need to be strong to resist his pull. Even now, when he’s tender and kind and firm with me, I want to give in. I take a sip from the bottle just to appease him, and then lift my head and say with determination. “I must go home. Though I’m ever so grateful for your kindness, staying here is not an option.”

  His eyes narrow. “Why not? Why the hell would you go?”

  Why not? Is he high?

  “I don’t owe you an explanation,” I grit out, pushing myself to sitting and swinging my legs over the bed.

  He takes a step close to me, and it dawns on me that we’re in a BDSM club. Why is he here?

  “Noah?” I ask, eying him warily. “What exactly is your role here, anyway?”

  “No changing the subject,” he says. “I said you’re staying here, and I mean it. So first, we agree to that.”

  “No,” I tell him, giving him the same heated glare he’s giving me. “I said, I’m going home. We have a history, and I’m not—” I freeze and nearly bite my tongue to stop me from saying I can’t do that to myself again.

  I let him go. I had to. It was a necessary but brutal decision.

  A little part of the old Chandra died when that happened.

  He steps closer, his eyes smoldering. “You’re not what?” he asks. He’s so close, I feel the vibration of his breath on me. His voice, as rough as sandpaper, grates against my frayed nerves. “Letting me defile you again?”

  “I didn’t say that,” I say, and to my horror, my throat tightens. “God, you can be an ass.” Then my stomach flips and I barely make it to the toilet before I’m sick again. When I’m done, I wipe my mouth and close my eyes, not even bothering to stop the tears. This is miserable. It’s painful. And I want to let the floor swallow me up whole so I never have to look into his beautiful, terrible eyes again.

  “Chandra, come on now,” he says softly. “I’ll get you something in case you’re sick again so you can rest in bed.” He helps me to my feet, and I walk on trembling legs back to the bedroom. I’m just weakened, I tell myself. It’s just the situation.

  And I’m so damn sick, I can’t stand it.

  “What the hell happened to you, anyway? Is it just a
stomach virus or something?”

  I shrug. “No idea.”

  “Anyone you know sick?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Well, no.” We reach the bed and I sink onto the mattress, grateful for the softness but mad that he’s right. Like it or not, I can’t go home. Not in this condition. I lay on my back and close my eyes.

  “How much did you have to drink?” he asks, correction in his tone.

  “Dude. Like two drinks? Not enough to make me this sick.”

  I can feel him glaring down at me even though I don’t open my eyes.

  “Who served you?” he asks.

  “The bartender. Duh,” I say, waving my hand in the general direction of the door. “Travis?”

  “Yeah.” His voice is harsh, unyielding.

  “Anyone sit near you?”

  I blow out a breath and roll to my side. “For God’s sake. Who knows.” I’m sick, exhausted, and here even though I have no interest in being here, so my patience is wearing thin. Not to mention the fact that I just met a ghost from the past who’s making me feel happy and sad and wistful all at once. I can’t look at Noah and forget the painful scars I’ve long since buried. So when I respond, my voice is angrier than I intend. Tight. Snarky.

  “And who the fuck cares if someone was sitting next to me? What the actual fuck? Leave me alone, Noah.”

  His hand smacks my ass so hard and fast, it takes my breath away. My eyes fly open and I spin back around to look at him, which is a mistake since my belly clenches and aches.

  “What the hell?”

  He doesn’t look even the smallest bit regretful or sorry. “The girl I knew didn’t have a potty mouth.”

  “You should talk!” I protest, but my ass is burning from the sting, and to my utter horror, I’m way turned on, which shouldn’t be possible in my miserable state. “You talk like a truck driver.”

  He just frowns and shakes his head.

  “Well, you can’t just spank me,” I say, rubbing my ass. His gaze travels to where my hand rubs, and he swallows and lets out a breath.

  “I smacked your ass. You’re a little girl who’s in way over your head.”

  “I’m not a little girl anymore,” I protest through gritted teeth. “And I’m not yours to punish. That’s how we got in trouble in the first place.”

  I don’t mean to say it. I shouldn’t have.

  He leans down and even though his eyes still smolder, when he touches me, it’s gentle and sweet.

  “Get some sleep,” he says. His voice hardens. “You’re not leaving. If you try? I will take you straight over my lap and give you a real spanking. If you don’t believe me? Do it.”

  There’s nothing but sincerity in that gaze, and I know it to be true. I don’t understand how this can both infuriate and excite me all at the same time, but it does. God, it does. My pulse races even as I clench my jaw.

  He turns away from me and fiddles in the room, gathering blankets and clothes. I feel better now. My stomach has settled down, and I hope the worst of it has passed. Now that my stomach is slightly better, I’m so tired. It’s warm and comfortable in here. I try to look around the room to see where he’ll sleep, but my eyes are so heavy, I can barely keep them open.

  He approaches me with a blanket and drapes it over my body. “You need anything else?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “I’m good,” I whisper.

  And as I float off to sleep, I swear I hear him say, “you always were.”

  Chapter Four

  Axle

  I watch as she sleeps. I can’t help it. Her dark lashes flutter on her cheek as her eyes stay closed. Her skin’s as dark and creamy as milk chocolate, her thick black hair shiny and full. Her parents—strict, demanding, and ruthlessly conservative—hailed from India. Though she was born and raised in America with not a trace of an Indian accent, she’s a true exotic beauty, almost out of place wearing jeans and a t-shirt. She should be dressed in saris of emerald and ruby, magnificent swaths of luxurious fabric.

  Her petite, curvy figure is covered under a blanket, and her shoulders rise and fall with slumber.

  Why was she so sick? There could be many reasons, but I can’t help being suspicious as her illness came on so suddenly and severely. Since Club Verge lies at the heart of NYC, and though we vet our members and have strict protocols, it’s not unheard of for strange things to happen here.

  My own eyes are heavy with the need to sleep, but before I do, I want to be sure one last time everything’s locked up tight. I go to the hall, which is vacant, and with a grim smile, check every bathroom and stall. No one’s here. It’s just me and Chandra. I shake my head and go to the dungeon. Everything’s been put away. The tools and implements hang on the walls and in the cases as they’re supposed to, already sanitized and replaced.

  I lean against the doorframe of the dungeon and let my mind wander. What the hell is Chandra doing in a BDSM club? What has she tried?

  What does she want to try? The image of her beautiful, curvy figure stretched over the cross or a bench assaults my mind. Part of me wants to wake her ass up and bend her over that spanking bench to punish her just for coming here.

  I remind myself she’s old enough. She can do this if she wants to. Then I grit my teeth and flex my palm, itching to punish her ass for darkening the doorway of a BDSM club.

  When I knew her, she was a young little thing. Legal, but barely. Seven fucking years ago.

  It was why her parents hated me so much. They wanted to press charges when they found out what was going on.

  She was of age, though, and there was nothing they could do about that. Not legally, anyway. They were fully capable of making her life a living hell, and fuck did they ever.

  But I was a man of the cloth. Sworn to a vow of celibacy I broke so badly it was irreparable. I shake my head, trying to clear my mind of the thoughts that assault me from my past.

  That was then. This is now.

  I can control myself now. And controlling myself means not allowing the wicked thoughts that tempt to surface.

  I give one more look around the room and shut the dungeon door and decide right then and there, the next time we open, I’m scening with a sub. Doesn’t matter who she is, it just matters that she’s unattached. Not looking for things like commitments and anything more than a one-night-scene. There are plenty single subs available and I’ll seek them out. I need to exert my control over someone. I need to exorcise these demons and erase Chandra from my memory.

  I groan inwardly. The best damn way to do that is to invite her to my bed. God. Why do I have to have such a goddamn hero complex? Shaking my head, I walk to the bar area and scope it out good and hard. The pool tables are bare and brushed, the floors swept and clean. And nearly everything at the bar looks good.

  But when I walk closer, I see something a little amiss. I tip my head to the side and narrow my eyes, trying to hone in on the details. What is it? The counter’s clear, the glasses neatly washed and put away. The bottles themselves look fine, and the stock of nuts we serve at the counter are covered and put away. What’s amiss? It takes me a minute before I realize the video camera Tobias has trained over the bar is covered. It’s so subtle, it’s barely recognizable, but as a Type-A dominant, when I was hired for this position, I covered every single base. I went over the cameras with Tobias and made sure I knew how every one of them worked. Every member who steps foot into Verge signs an agreement that all but the private rooms are subject to video surveillance. Tobias keeps the feed on in his office.

  I stand on one of the bar stools, frowning at the camera, climb onto the bar and tug at the black film that’s covering the camera.

  What the fuck is this?

  I pull it off. It’s a flimsy piece of opaque material. I hold it in my hand as if it holds the clues to what happened. Who did this?

  I climb down off the bar and head to Tobias’s office. The lights are off and the door’s locked tight. I frown. He never locks his door when he’s here, but
he does when he leaves. Do I have the keys? I shake my head. This isn’t my place to pry. I need to call the police. I could try Zoe or Zack, both officers with the NYPD and regular club members, but when I glance at my phone, I realize it’s well past midnight. I tuck the fabric in my pocket and go to head back to my room. I nearly collide into Chandra, who’s standing in the doorway.

  “Jesus,” I mutter, my heart slamming in my chest. “When did you come out here? And who the hell told you to get out of bed?”

  She shrugs and her cheeks pink. “I wondered where you went,” she said. “And what’s the big deal about me leaving the room?”

  “I told you to stay,” I say with a frown, taking her by the elbow. “You need rest.” The real reason is that I want her tucked away and kept apart from this place. I love Verge, but it’s no place for a beautiful, innocent girl like her.

  She lets me lead her back into the main bar area, but she’s frowning. “And I listen to you why?” Her eyes are a little wide, though. She’s trying to give me shit but she’s a good girl and it doesn’t come naturally to her.

  “Because I have every tool at my disposal,” I tell her. I’m barely resisting the urge to sit on a bench, swing her out and over my knee, and spank her full, beautiful ass right here and now. For talking back. For coming here. For being even more beautiful than I remember.

  She frowns, but the pink in her cheeks deepens, as we make our way to my room. When we get to the dungeon doors, however, she freezes.

  “Show me, Noah?”

  “Axle,” I correct. “Noah’s dead.”

  She blinks and nods. “Okay. Axle,” she says haltingly. “Since no one else is here, will you show me around the dungeon?”

  Hell no.

  “Not tonight,” I tell her. “You need rest, and so do I.”

  Her full lips turn down in an adorable little pout. “Please?” she asks.

  God, the power this girl has over me. She gives me puppy dog eyes and I almost cave.

  “No,” I say, more firmly this time. “And I’ve had enough of the back talk, little girl. Off to bed with you.”

  “I’m an adult, you know,” she reminds me, but she allows me to lead her down the hall. She shrugs my hand off her elbow, though. “And we might be in a BDSM club, but I don’t remember saying I’d submit to you.”