Reckless: A Dark Romance (The Masters Book 1)

by Sansa Rayne

  Finishing his drink, Jamison lights another cigarette and inhales deeply. He turns to the window to blow out the smoky cloud, keeping the smell from filling his office.

  “We’d have to put it to a vote,” he says at last. “Even if you get Kate on our side, I can’t force anyone else to accept her. That’ll be your job.”

  “Of course,” I reply.

  Admitting a new Master to the group requires a unanimous vote. That won’t be easy. At least Victor no longer has a say.

  “If I can change Kate’s mind about us, I can change their minds about Kate. But I’m concerned about Anton Ford.”

  “Oh?”

  I tell Jamison what happened with him, and his failure to calm Victor down. If anything, Ford riled Victor up.

  “It could have been a mere misjudgment,” Jamison says. “Maybe Ford’s strength isn’t in playing peacemaker. Trust me, we’re keeping an eye on him already.”

  “Good,” I mumble, getting up to leave.

  “Ingram. One more thing.” He waits for me to stop, then says, “I believe your story, but the others will need more proof. They won’t go easy on Kate.”

  “I know,” I say, clutching a fist.

  They’ll do whatever they must to ensure she’s telling the truth. It’s not going to be pleasant, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  Colette runs a cool sponge across my back. The bathwater’s lost its heat and my skin wrinkles from soaking. Lavender-scented soap bubbles float around my knees. My hair hangs over my face.

  When I close my eyes, I can see his body jerking as the bullets punch through. I can recall that last expression on his face before he disappeared over the edge: primal fear and unbridled hatred. In my mind, he looked right at me, though that could be my imagination. All of it might be, I suppose. Even after thinking about it for hours, it’s hard to believe that really happened.

  I’m going to sit here like this until Colette makes me get out. The cold makes me shiver. I let it.

  Does she expect me to act like a traumatized puppy? If so, I’d rather her keep thinking it. There’s no way I’m telling her that I draped my hair across my face to hide an uncontrollable smile.

  I killed Victor Sovereign. The last thing he saw before he died was me, pointing his gun at him and pulling the trigger again and again. Or maybe it was the blue sky and cliff wall, racing upward until he hit the rocks. Did he feel the impact, or was he already dead? Either way, he probably died knowing that I killed him — and that makes me so fucking happy I can’t describe it.

  Wiser people than me have warned against seeking revenge. What’s the saying? Dig two graves? Maybe Victor should have listened.

  Right now I don’t even care about the consequences that will follow. That could mean I’m more messed up than I think — perhaps I’m in shock. But shouldn’t I be jubilant? An evil, abusive man is dead and gone. No matter what happens to me now, Victor will never hurt anyone ever again, like Bethany. They could execute me, but Victor will stay dead. I keep telling myself in a few hours Ingram will take me home so we can pop open a bottle of wine and I can sleep in his unbelievably comfortable bed. No more staying in the cage for me — not after what I did.

  I’m going to milk saving his life for everything I can. Why shouldn’t I? If Ingram has any decency, he’ll treat me like a fucking queen from now on. I may be stuck on this island, but if I want to spend all day lounging on the beach with a good book and a bottomless margarita, he’s going to make it happen. If I want to sleep until noon, smoke a fat blunt and watch SpongeBob, he’s not going to say shit about it.

  If he really wants to repay me, he’ll get me off this damn island, but I’m trying to stay realistic.

  I can’t help wondering if I should pretend to feel guilty right now. Probably not, or Ingram would have told me to. I’m not an actress; it would have come across as fake. Better to seem shell-shocked.

  Hopefully, Jamison’s belief in me will be good enough for everyone else. I have the truth on my side: I protected Ingram. In the moment, that’s all that mattered.

  “Come on,” says Colette, finally rousing me from my thoughts. She twists a flange to drain the tub, forcing me to take a towel. I wrap it around my shoulders and hold still as Colette gets another to dry off the rest of me. I don’t say a word.

  After dressing, she walks me to the rec room. Most of the women whisper to each other as we enter. They turn our way as we pass by, not hiding their curiosity. I don’t care if they do. I find my way to a couch and curl up on the cushions. Colette takes the love seat next to me. After a few minutes, the whispers turn to voices and then to conversations. I tune them out.

  From the corner of my eye, I spot Bethany looking at me. She turns away as soon as our eyes make contact. Fresh bruises darken her cheeks. A bandage covers her nose.

  Fuck am I glad Victor’s dead.

  I’d love to march over to her and tell her Victor will never lay a finger on her again. More importantly, I’d apologize. I shouldn’t have made trouble for her. My intentions may have been pure, but she didn’t have any way of protecting herself from Victor. She suffered because of me. I shouldn’t have made things worse for her. I hope that if I can’t tell her how sorry I am directly, that it gets conveyed another way.

  Without needing to talk to anyone or participate in anything, my adrenaline rush finally wears off, and I doze. It can’t be too long before I’m woken, though. The chatter stops abruptly, replaced by the dozen footsteps of several men marching.

  A sea of green fatigues washes over me, and before I can react two men pull me to my feet.

  “Hey!” I shout, trying to wrench out of their grasp before they can zip-tie my wrists. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Quiet,” says one. Middle-aged but muscle-bound, with leathery tanned skin and buzz-cut blonde hair, he watches the others. I guess he’s the squad leader or something. Drawing a cattle prod from his belt, he presses the prongs into my side. “Trust me, you don’t want to know how this feels.”

  “Excuse me!” Colette barks, trying to interpose herself between some of the guards. “Where are you taking her?”

  “Ma’am, we’re authorized,” says the leader. “We have orders from Mr. Hardt.”

  “It’s fine,” I mutter. “I’ll go.”

  Colette nods, her expression reminding me to be brave.

  “I want to see Ingram,” I say as they lead me out of the harem.

  No one listens.

  Two men hold my arms. They walk fast, forcing me to keep up. We head down a path I haven’t yet taken on the island, and after a few minutes we reach a door built into a block of cement — like some kind of bunker. If I’d come across it on my own, I would have assumed it to be a storm shelter.

  They take me inside and lift me in the air, not even letting me walk down the stairs on my own. We descend a full flight and emerge into a well-lit corridor. Dank and dusty claustrophobic cement walls lead to a spacious chamber. Bright bulbs and long chains hang from the ceiling. Three wooden chairs line the back wall; they feature conspicuous cuffs on the legs and armrests, as well as strategic cutouts in the seats. Blades and needles glimmer from a locked wire mesh display case, and an array of electrodes and prods sit on a small table. In the corner at the other end of the room, the cement gives way to white tiles, with a grated drain at the indented center. A pair of coiled, green garden hoses hang from their connected spigots.

  It’s an interrogation room, like something out of a CIA black site. My throat dries out. An overpowering instinct to run tugs at my heels. Before I make a move, the guards grab my shirt and pull it up over my head.

  “Fuck you!” I scream, squeezing my arms to my chest.

  The leader seizes my wrist and twists until I’m sure a bone will snap.

  “Don’t fight,” he growls.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, raising my fists. “Where’s Ingram?”

  “Not here. It’s just us.”

  I glance around, no
ting several security cameras positioned throughout the room. We may be the only ones here, but we’re not alone.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Garth. Don’t worry about the rest. Don’t ask for Mr. Dent. You’re dealing with me. You’re going to tell us what happened today. You’re going to answer our questions, and you’re going to do as you’re told. This will take as long as it takes. Understood?”

  I spit on the floor.

  “I’ll answer your questions, but I’m keeping my clothes on, fuck you very much.”

  The guards again take my arms, but only to hold me steady. Garth grabs some kind of long, black baton from a collection of weapons along the wall. Without hesitating, he prods my stomach, releasing a jolt that sears like lightning.

  Screaming, I thrash against the powerful grip holding me in place. My knees fail, leaving me dangling. I gasp for air.

  “Undress her,” says Garth.

  He grins as his men strip me down. I want to fight back, but the shock hit hard. I’m still dizzy by the time they finish.

  They toss my clothes away and drag me into the tiled corner. One guard brings over a chair, and together they sit me down and bind me in place. Thick, iron rings lock my wrists, ankles and neck to the arms, legs and back of the chair. In less than a minute, I’m completely helpless and exposed.

  Days ago I figured I’d have to get used to being treated this way, but it’s still not easy. I can’t help bucking against the restraints, trying in vain to free myself.

  Garth waits for me to cool down, slapping the end of the stun baton against his palm. I flinch every time the weapon strikes his skin. Once I finally stop convulsing, he steps in close and says, “Begin.”

  I comply, explaining in detail what happened with me, Ingram and Victor Sovereign. When Garth stops me for clarification, I answer him.

  “Yes, Ingram and I were intimate.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “I don’t know exactly. We talked for a long time.”

  He asks questions as if Mr. Hardt hadn’t relayed any of the details before this interrogation. Maybe that’s what happened.

  “How did Sovereign know where to find you?” Garth asks.

  “I don’t know. It’s a small island, maybe he just looked until he found us.”

  He nods to one of the other guards, who brings over a folded towel and a hose.

  Oh fuck.

  I have no time to react as two guards hold the towel over my face. Before I can inhale through the thick fabric, a jet of ice water blasts against it. Soaked instantly, my body heaves against the sudden cold. I panic.

  I wail into the towel, struggling wildly. The water keeps pounding against my face for what feels like hours, though it could really only be a few seconds. When the stream cuts out, the guards pull away the sopping towel. I inhale deeply. Choking, locked in a spasm, my heart races. Water drips down my arms and legs, running past my feet on its way to the drain.

  “You and Dent lured Victor out there to kill him!” Garth shouts.

  I can barely speak, my body trembles so violently.

  “N-n-no! It’s… n-n-n-not… t-t-t-”

  Before I can finish, the guards bring the towel back and spray me again. This time they aim up and down my body, leaving me frozen to the bone. Even though I know I can’t escape the waterboarding, I can’t help struggling. It’s an innate reaction — no matter how much I know they won’t kill me, the process induces pure, unimaginable terror.

  I’ve done stories on rendition and torture for LPN before. None of it prepared me for the actual experience. How could it?

  “Where did Ingram get the gun?” Garth asks, holding the baton far too close to my chest.

  Would the water make the electric shock worse? Could it kill me?

  “It w-w-w-was… V-v-v-v-”

  “Victor has been here for months because of you. He couldn’t have brought it in. You and Dent just arrived. So how did he get the gun past security?”

  “He d-d-didn’t! It was V-v-v-”

  Once more, they bring back the towel and the spray. Coughing and choking, my eyes burn with tears that get lost in the frigid current. All I can do is endure until they release me. I try wiggling my fingers, but I can’t feel them.

  “You killed Victor for revenge, didn’t you?” Garth says.

  I shake my head.

  “No! To s-s-save Ing-g-g-”

  “You wanted him dead, so you killed him!”

  “No! I- I- I… swear!”

  He jabs the baton into my side.

  I shriek, but no electricity comes out.

  “I swear, I only… thought of… Ingram!”

  Garth steps back, sighing. He runs a gloved hand over his scalp, then hands the baton to another guard. He touches his ear, looks up at a security cam and nods.

  “Get her out,” he says.

  I break into tears as the men release my bonds and toss me a dry bathrobe. Shivering so hard my teeth chatter, I curl up in a ball and weep. Hatred and fury join my relief. All I can think of is killing Garth and his men as dead as Victor. This time, it won’t be in defense of anyone. It’ll be payback, pure and simple.

  They head out together, but before they can go Ingram enters the dungeon. He glares at them, brows deeply slanted. The rage on his face blazes as intensely as mine, his lips raised in a sneer. Balled fists shake at his sides.

  The men stop, staring right back, hands moving to their batons.

  Then Ingram looks at me, and the anger in his face defuses. He pushes past Garth’s men, rushing to my side.

  I’m still too weary to move, but Ingram picks me up.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, voice low and calm.

  There’s only sympathy in his eyes now. His touch eases my chills.

  I shake my head and press my face against his warm chest.

  “You’ll be okay,” he says, kissing me. His lips burn like a brand, but at least I can feel it. Soon we’re outside, his powerful arms cradling me tightly.

  “Is this… over?” I ask.

  “The interrogation is done,” Ingram says. “But even if it was in my defense, you killed a Master. The consequences will be determined at your trial.”

  They come for me the next morning. Ingram lets me sleep, but gets me up just before Garth and his men arrive. We kiss as long as we can. I record every sensation — I’ll need something to hold onto, a place within myself I can go. His hard body beneath me, his lips pressed to mine, his musky scent — I save it all in perfect detail.

  I don’t fight Garth and his men this time. They march me back to the dungeon, though instead of the main torture chamber they take me to a small cell. Inside I find a bed, sink and toilet. A security camera hangs from the ceiling, guarded by a steel cage.

  They leave me in there for four days.

  Twice a day they bring food: plain scrambled eggs or a turkey sandwich. The camera swivels to follow me whenever I pace. There’s no sheet on the mattress, so I can’t cover myself. I get used to nudity. I spend as much time as possible lying down, on my back, trying to sleep.

  If this is a psychological tactic to break down my defenses, it won’t work. I can retreat within whenever I want. Ingram is here with me. I can feel it. He’ll stay with me until this is done.

  On the night before my trial, I receive my first real visitor.

  Instead of a guard bringing me a sandwich on a paper plate with a cup of water, Jamison Hardt enters my cell with clothes and a bowl of creamy pasta. It smells like bliss; I salivate so hard, drool spills out my lip.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, wiping my mouth.

  “Don’t be. Get dressed and eat,” he says.

  After days of frequent shivering and shitty food, I don’t waste a second. The plain white t-shirt and sweatpants cover me like a suit of armor, and the first bite of buttery fettuccine tastes like the rapture. I’d shovel it down if not for the almost useless plastic fork.

  “I’m sorry you’ve been here for so lon
g,” Hardt says after I’ve eaten half the bowl. “All of our members must be present in person for this, and several were away on business. We had to wait for them to return.”

  But I had to be kept here, like this?

  “The rest demanded you remain in custody until then,” Hardt adds, as if reading my thoughts.

  “Are they going to believe me?” I ask. “I only wanted to save Ingram.”

  “I can’t make any promises. I believe you, and that will count for a lot. Whatever I can do to convince everyone of your innocence, I will. For your sake, and for Ingram’s.”

  I guess there’s no point in pretending Ingram and I aren’t involved. Does that make my case stronger or weaker? It’s hard to say. How many of these men have killed for someone they cared about? More likely they’ve killed for power or greed. Or revenge.

  Or fun.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  Putting my fate in the Masters’ hands doesn’t fill me with confidence, even if I do trust Ingram.

  “How did it happen?” Hardt asks.

  Seriously?

  “I told you! Victor found us there-”

  “I meant with you and Ingram,” he cuts in. “How did you develop feelings for him? You’re his captive. You hated him. He’s a demanding man, too. What changed?”

  Despite everything, I laugh.

  “You think I understand it?” I say. The way he’s treated me — the indignities I’ve suffered since he took me away from my life… do the most incredible orgasms I’ve ever experienced make up for being bound, caged, stripped and humiliated? Is this all just my tormented psyche latching onto something for survival?

  “I’ve gotten to know him,” I continue. “There’s good in him. It’s buried under years of ruthlessness and thirst for power, but it’s there.”

  He didn’t become the person he is today without being shaped by his past. I’m hardly one to judge in that regard. If his family hadn’t fallen apart the way it did…

  The fact that he’s stunningly handsome and built like a god doesn’t hurt, but I’m not telling Hardt that.

  “I may have a problem with being drawn to the wrong kind of men,” I admit. “It’s not a new thing for me.”