Reckless: A Dark Romance (The Masters Book 1)

by Sansa Rayne

  We start eating; his lobster rolls smell amazing, but I wouldn’t trade my bagel for anything. Perfectly toasted, loaded with cream cheese and salty lox, egg fried just right — it’s perfect.

  “Twenty-two, actually. I was so mad I didn’t speak to Dad for a month. How would you feel if your most shameful memories were fodder for the bestseller list?”

  Ingram’s expression sours at some recollection.

  “I’d be pretty upset,” he admits.

  I sigh.

  “I was. But Dad assured me people would sympathize with us both. ‘Everyone remembers what it’s like to be young and reckless,’ he said. I guess he was right.”

  “It was never a problem for you, professionally?” Ingram asks.

  “No. I chalk it up to respect for my dad. And since I’ve worked at LPN my whole career, I’ve never had to worry.”

  “It’s nice to have an organization behind you, isn’t it? You could do whatever you want and LPN would go along with it.”

  I snort.

  “As long as I don’t threaten their profits.”

  “True,” says Ingram.

  “What about you?” I ask. “You must have some ignoble secrets from your teen years.”

  He laughs.

  “Sure I do. None that I’m going to tell, though.”

  “That’s not fair. My life is an open book — literally.”

  “What makes you think this is going to be fair?”

  I polish off the last of my bagel and wash it down with the tea.

  “You’re right,” I grunt. “What was I thinking? You don’t care about what’s right, do you?”

  Ingram darkens and pushes aside his plate.

  “You want to hear about me? Fine. But not here. Follow me.”

  “Sure,” I say, getting up.

  Ingram takes my leash and leads me out. As we go, I can’t help glancing at Victor Sovereign.

  He stares right at me, brows knitted.

  Teeth bared.

  We walk for half an hour, leaving behind the center of the island for the high cliffs at the far southern end. It’s a pleasant walk — breezy and scenic. The land slopes upward the further south we go, making for a little exercise. Waves crash against the rocks beneath us, and though there are wooden guardrails along the edge of the path, it wouldn’t be too hard to go over it. I try not to think about how many women have jumped, seeing it as their only way out.

  “Was this a volcano?” I ask, noting the black, rocky soil.

  “Yes, though it’s been long dormant.”

  “That’s too bad. The Masters could have had a legitimate volcano lair.”

  Ingram chuckles.

  “It’s still a volcano,” he notes. “It counts.”

  “Agree to disagree.”

  He gives my backside a soft slap. I snarl at him.

  “If I say it counts, it counts.”

  “Whatever.”

  Ingram swats my ass.

  “Try that again, pet.”

  “Whatever, sir,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “Better.”

  Once we reach the edge of the island we take our seats on a long, wooden bench. Green paint cracks and peels — the only sign of wear-and-tear I’ve seen in this place.

  “So, what do you want to know?” he says, unlocking my handcuffs. “Pretend you’re interviewing me for a 60 Minutes feature.”

  I smile. That’s exactly what I’d like to do. I’ve interviewed despots and entertainers, saints and sociopaths. There’s no telling who will open up easily and who has a shell to crack first.

  I turn as if facing an unseen camera.

  “Ingram Dent. It’s a name few people have heard and a face few have seen. As one of the world’s top international operatives, he lives in the shadows. Traveling by private jets and limousines, he works with a small team of trusted ex-military accomplices. Soldiers, saboteurs and assassins, they’ve carried out the will of a secret organization known only as the Masters. Mr. Dent agreed to sit down with me to discuss his past, and his future.”

  Ingram rears back in his seat and gives my performance a loud clap.

  “Oh, that’s fantastic. Just how I always imagined,” he says.

  “Mr. Dent, if most people knew what you did for a living, they’d call for your arrest. They’d want to see you tried in the International Criminal Court. The image of you on trial is the one most people see when you’re mentioned. If you could give them a different image, what would that be?”

  He leans forward, rubbing his hands together.

  “There isn’t one. I’ve never cared about what strangers think of me.”

  “Why is that?”

  He shrugs.

  “Because it doesn’t matter. I’m not trying to win any popularity contests. The people who are in a position to affect my life don’t care about my personality — just my capabilities.”

  “Most people want to be liked,” I argue. “It’s only natural.”

  He laughs.

  “And they go through life so concerned about what other people think, they never make themselves happy.”

  I sigh, and look out at the horizon.

  “Are you happy? Are you living the life you want?”

  “You could say that. It’s not the life I envisioned as a young man, but I’m satisfied with how it’s turned out so far.”

  Interesting. That’s my in. Would he have mentioned his youth if he hadn’t wanted to talk about it? I doubt it.

  “What did you envision as a young man? Tell me about where your journey began.”

  He gets out his phone. He scrolls around, then shows me a photo of a young man, clearly him, and his parents. It’s a professional portrait, shot in a studio in front of a velvet blue backdrop. His parents look attractive and affable, though only his mother smiles. His father’s stoic expression robs the moment of any warmth, and Ingram, even in his early teens, strongly took after his father.

  “It probably won’t surprise you that my father wasn’t an affectionate person. He worked seventy hours a week and never vacationed. He owned a factory that assembled vacuum cleaners. It wasn’t glamorous but we were never poor. I never once doubted that he cared about me, but he showed it by providing, not by being my friend. He also supported his union employees and gave jobs to ex-cons — the neighborhood depended on him.”

  This is all new to me. Investigating Ingram’s operation to figure who’s trying to kill him, I only went back ten years. Nothing from his upbringing struck me as particularly relevant, compared to his recent work.

  “Did you expect to take over the factory after your father?” I ask. “Is that what you wanted?”

  “I wanted to own a hundred factories,” he replies. “I wanted to prove I could do better.” He laughs. “I had to make Father proud, like all boys do.”

  “So what happened?”

  Ingram balls a fist and lets it go.

  “Our buyers started squeezing us for every penny. One year after another they paid a little less, because they could. Everyone in the industry was undercutting their suppliers. If we demanded more, the retailers just found new sources from overseas. My father had no choice but to cut hours and lay off more staff. Eventually, they stopped buying altogether, and that was it. We had to shut it down.”

  Damn. I wish I was surprised.

  “That must have been difficult for your family,” I say, prompting him. If I had to guess, he’s been waiting to spill all this to someone for quite a long time. Who would have asked?

  “We had enough savings for Father to retire early. It was enough to put me through college and keep Mother perpetually tipsy.”

  “I get the impression retirement didn’t suit your father.”

  Ingram shakes his head.

  “Not at all. He hated it. When he started showing symptoms, I knew that losing the factory was killing him.”

  “Symptoms?”

  “Alzheimer’s,” he says. “He’s in a nursing home now. He hasn’t recogniz
ed me in three years.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s awful.”

  “Thanks.” He nods, keeps nodding. His eyes narrow in what I think qualifies as an emotional reaction for Ingram. “I joined the Army out of high school. When I was discharged, Father was fading fast and Mother couldn’t cope. Two stints in rehab didn’t help. They had very different diseases but the effect was the same.”

  I blink away tears, glad not to be on camera. Normally I try not to let my responses show, to maintain that air of professional distance. In truth, it feels good not to hold back.

  “Once I got out of the Army, I never wanted to be in a position where some assholes in suits could destroy me or my family. No more making fucking vacuums. I have no illusions that my upbringing made me callous and cold. I chose a path few would, but for reasons that were justified.”

  “Do you regret those choices?” I ask, regaining my composure.

  Ingram waves to a patrol boat skimming through the waves out in the distance. It cuts through the sea at high speed, leaving a plume of spray in its wake.

  “Regret? No,” he says at last. “I’ve made some mistakes. I feel guilty about operations that went wrong and colleagues I’ve lost, but I’m not sorry I became what I am. No one has fucked me over, and I’ve moved on. I have people in my life I care about, like Jamison and Colette. That’s what matters, right?”

  “That’s what people say.”

  Not that I would know, seeing as how my actual friendship circle can be counted on one hand. While my friends from high school have all married and popped out a kid or two, I haven’t even had a steady boyfriend in years.

  “Kate, I’m truly sorry for what’s happened to you,” says Ingram. “When I read your dad’s books, it actually meant a lot. They made me appreciate my father. So, thanks, I guess. The least I can do for him is keep you safe.”

  “I’m sorry you had to lose your parents like that,” I say. “It fucks you up pretty bad, huh?”

  At least mine went quick and peacefully.

  Ingram smiles.

  “Yeah, no shit.”

  That fucking smile. I could swim in it.

  He stares at me, and then he’s leaning toward me. There’s so much more to him, to who he is, than I ever thought I’d know. Is he bad for me, or is this just a bad situation? His lips press together. Hope and need shine through his eyes. My heart quickens at the thought that I could hurt him, right now, if I turn away, if I brush off his advance.

  The roar of the surf hushes. He reaches for my hands. I let him take them.

  Then he kisses me, and I kiss him back.

  I’m not gonna pretend to understand it, or that I’m going through some kind of episode. I’m not worrying that this is happening too quickly, or that Ingram is still a monster. This feels right, even if it’s wrong. He wraps his arms around me, holding me close to his chest; his heart beats against mine, as if they’re entangled. I let his tongue into my mouth, and inhale his sporty cologne. The masculine aroma mingles with the sea’s, filling me with hunger for his touch. For a beautiful moment in time, I have no fear or anger; I’m happy with Ingram here to comfort me.

  A thought crawls into my head that I could catch him off-guard and try to push him off the cliff. He wouldn’t be expecting it now, would he? Does anyone know we’re here? It could be hours before anyone thinks to look for us.

  But I couldn’t do that. Even if I thought it would work, I can’t do it. There’s no good explanation for my attraction to Ingram, how I could just ignore everything I know about him and everything he’s done to me, but I’ve wanted him since the night we met. This is just one more baffling case of my instinct pointing me in the worst possible direction — but it’s what I need.

  Wind whips at my hair; the breeze cools me, but I’m sweating, I’m so hot. Ingram’s hands travel down my back; his fingers clutch between my legs. I groan into his mouth, no longer angry at my body’s reaction. He says he’s going to protect me, and I believe him. I know a liar when I see one; it’s my job.

  Ingram lowers us down on the bench, pulling me on top of him. I kiss him hard, losing myself in the heat of his hard body. He clutches my head, holding my lips to his as his cock hardens in his pants. Grinning, I reach down, eager to stroke his massive rod.

  “What the fuck is this?”

  I shriek, rolling off Ingram and landing on my ass. Victor stands a few feet away, hands crossed in front of his waist. Before I can recover, Ingram is already standing between me and Victor.

  “Are you kidding me?” he says. “You’re making out now? You should be beating answers out of her, not necking on a goddamn date.”

  Ingram flushes a shade of scarlet I’ve never seen on a face before.

  “Victor, I’m about to kick the ever-loving shit out of you. I’ll say this once: fuck off and leave Kate alone. Or I’ll make you wish you died in that damn helicopter.”

  Victor smirks.

  “Did she tell you that she tried to recruit Bethany to kill me?”

  “I don’t give a fuck,” Ingram growls. “Take it to Jamison if you’ve got a problem.”

  “Fuck you, Dent. Stop thinking with your cock for ten seconds. No matter how sweet her pink little pussy feels, she ruined my life. She needs to suffer, and I’m not going to stand around watching the two of you become an item.”

  Ingram fumes, gesturing for me to back up. I want to — I want to run and not stop until I reach the other side of the island, but I’m frozen. My chest feels tight. I can barely breathe.

  “This is your last chance,” Ingram says.

  “What are you going to do? Run to Jamison? You little bitch. I’m done with your bullshit.”

  Victor reaches into his black jacket and draws a gun, a compact pistol.

  “If you’re not going to-”

  Before he can finish his threat and aim the gun, Ingram charges. I shriek, clutching the bench for cover. Ingram barrels into Victor, knocking the gun out of his hands and tackling him to the ground. All I can do is watch as they scrabble in the grass. Ingram throws punches; Victor shoves back — toward the edge of the cliff.

  “Stop!” I shout at them both. Instinct and fear shut down my brain. I don’t want to get in the way; what if I make things worse? I’m not exactly a match for Victor. Unless…

  The gun.

  Ingram lands a devastating uppercut to Victor’s jaw, so I leap for the weapon. The grip’s feel grounds me; it brings back my self-defense training. After a second I inhale. Clarity comes back. I look to check the safety; there isn’t one. It’s heavy; I assume it’s loaded. I point the gun down, not wanting to risk hitting Ingram.

  Victor groans, rubbing his jaw. Ingram moves in for a chokehold; his biceps bulge as his arm closes around Victor’s neck. I don’t react at first when Victor throws a wild fist, punching Ingram square in the nose.

  Dazed, Ingram falls. Blood flows from his nostrils.

  “Stop!” I scream again, words failing me. “I swear!”

  Victor’s jaw hangs as he gets up. He spits blood, then a tooth. Both eyes black, one swollen shut, he totters in place, but has enough balance to deliver a hard kick to Ingram’s side.

  Coughing, Ingram curls up on the ground.

  “Victor, stop or I’ll shoot!” I shriek.

  He either doesn’t believe me, or he’s in tunnel vision — so focused on Ingram he’s not paying me any attention. Victor reaches for one of the large, flat rocks lining the path and lifts it high over his head.

  My first shot catches Victor square in the chest, exactly where they tell us to aim. He drops the rock at his feet and staggers a step back. He’s a dead man, but I fire again. Red mist sprays out his side. The third shot pierces his neck. The fourth goes through his ribs, passing an inch from the first bullet.

  Victor falls, going over the guard rail. My fifth shot may have hit him, it was too fast to see. The sixth and final shot only hits air. The trigger clicks a few times before I stop squeezing it.

  I rush to
Ingram. He sits up, holding his bloody nose.

  “I’m okay,” he says. “Are you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He stands up and looks out over the railing. I join him.

  Victor’s body lies on the rocks below. He doesn’t move as the waves wash over him.

  Ingram takes my hand.

  “Kate,” he says. “What have you done?”

  Madeleine’s firm, round ass quivers as I run my hand up her thigh. She breathes heavily. Her hands buck against the solid wooden yoke locking her wrists and neck in place. The stockade keeps her in a torturous position: knees bent, backside hanging out. Her legs must ache fiercely. She’s stood here quietly for an hour, though — a credit to her discipline. She obeys without question.

  She’ll do nicely.

  I spread a coat of lube on my cock and press it between her petite cheeks. She’s not tight like the college girls in Manhattan, and my rod slides in easily. Madeleine squeals, bouncing her hips, as if she could escape my inward thrust. I smack her ass hard, landing one hit after another until she’s howling in pain. Then I ram her ass deep, and pump it like a machine right from the start.

  Madeleine trembles in place, wailing at the top of her lungs. I cup a hand over her mouth to muffle her, but the noise is still deafening. There’s no fucking way I’m listening to it for more than a couple minutes, so I pound wildly, aiming to hit my peak as fast as possible.

  Does Madeleine enjoy it?

  No. But she doesn’t have to. That’s not why she’s here.

  My cock throbs as I release my load in her ass. She sighs as I pull out, either in relief from the pain or in disappointment for not getting to come.

  “I hope you enjoyed yourself, sir,” she says, relaxing her body.

  I’m not even officially a Master yet, and she’s already treating me like one. That’s sweet.

  “We’re not done yet.”

  Our room at the harem boasts an expansive selection of restraints, toys and torture tools. I’ve only used the stockade; there’s so much more to play with. I take my time scanning the selection of whips, canes and more before settling on a rectangular, wooden paddle. Swinging it for practice, it feels fairly light — a low-quality, surprisingly cheap toy.