by Shandi Boyes
Links: Book Two in the Bound Series
Shandi Boyes
Copyright
Copyright © 2018 by Shandi Boyes
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Editing: Mountains Wanted Publishing
Cover: SSB Designs
Photo: Shutterstock Account - model form signed.
Written by Shandi Boyes
Contents
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Also by Shandi Boyes
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
To be continued
Acknowledgments
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Facebook: facebook.com/authorshandi
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Instagram: instagram.com/authorshandi
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Email: [email protected]
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Reader’s Group: bit.ly/ShandiBookBabes
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Website: authorshandi.com
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Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/cyEzNv
Also by Shandi Boyes
Perception Series:
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Saving Noah
Fighting Jacob
Taming Nick
Redeeming Slater
Saving Emily (Novella)
Wrapped up with Rise Up (Novella - should be read after Bound)
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Enigma:
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Enigma of Life
Unraveling an Enigma
Enigma: The Mystery Unmasked
Enigma: The Final Chapter
Beneath the Secrets
Beneath the Sheets
Spy Thy Neighbor
The Opposite Effect
I Married a Mob Boss
Second Shot
The Way We Are
The Way We Were
Sugar and Spice
Lady in Waiting
Man in Queue
Couple on Hold
Enigma: The Wedding
Silent Vigilante
Hushed Guardian
Quiet Protector
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Bound Series:
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Chains
Links
Bound
Restrained
Psycho
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Russian Mob Chronicles:
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Nikolai: A Mafia Prince Romance
Nikolai: Taking Back What's Mine
Nikolai: What's Left of Me
Nikolai: Mine to Protect
Asher: My Russian Revenge
Nikolai: Through the Devil's Eyes
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RomCom Standalones:
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Just Playin'
The Drop Zone
Ain't Happenin'
Christmas Trio
Falling for a Stranger
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Coming Soon:
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Skitzo
Trey
Dedication
To my darling readers,
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Do you know there would never be a book without you guys! So thank you from the bottom of my heart for continuing to inspire me to write.
Forever grateful.
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Shandi xx
1
I love my home. This is the place my story began. Nervous butterflies fluttered my parents’ stomachs when they walked through these very doors twenty-six years ago with a slightly jaundiced screaming bundle of pink. I took my first steps here, said my first words, and kissed my first boyfriend on the porch out front. Just yesterday, there was no other place I felt more secure, safe, and welcome than my family home. Marcus stole that joy from me. He stripped away my security, leaving me vulnerable and exposed.
I hate that.
I hate that a man who's only known me a matter of weeks has so much power over me he can change my perception so considerably. I hate that even while showering, my eyes scan the small, dingy space for signs of a hidden camera. I hate that no matter how much I scrub my skin, I can still smell him on every inch of my body. But more than anything, I hate that I can’t hate him for making me feel weak, helpless, and exposed. Hate is a wasted energy—nothing good ever comes from it. So, as much as I want to hate Marcus for breaking my trust and grossly invading my privacy, I don’t. I may despise him and loathe that I foolishly believed things would be different between us, but I don’t hate him. Hate is easy. Love is complicated.
If I stepped back and evaluated the entire picture, I would have realized weeks ago this day was bound to happen. My relationship with Marcus built at such a breakneck speed, there was no other option for it but to crash and burn. I was hoping we would break the stigma attributed to instalove, but the only thing that ended up broken was my trust, and, unfortunately, my heart.
I can’t believe how much has changed in such a short time. Yesterday, I was basking in the high of two mind-blowing orgasms. Today, I'm waking up with a hollow space where my heart used to belong. But no matter how glum I feel, I will survive this. I’ll come out of it bigger and better. Because it isn’t what we have in value that defines us; it's how well we rise after falling that shows our true spirit.
More determined than ever, I switch off the faucet and step out of the shower recess. My muscles pull taut, still suffering the effects of a sexually adventurous weekend. Pretending my aching joints are from a night of dancing, I snag a towel from under the leaking sink and commence patting myself dry. The stiff board-like material scratches my delicate skin, but I keep my chin high, refusing to compare the stark confines of my bathroom to the luxurious one I used yesterday.
There is no comparison, anyway. No amount of Italian marble and priceless granite can equal the memories of a family bathroom. I can still recall in crystal clear detail watching my father bathe Tate for the first time in the vanity sink of this very bathroom. I was six and in complete awe of the little boy who was so eager to join the world, my mother gave birth hunched over a wooden chair in our formal dining room. I was already wide-eyed from Lexi joining our family only eleven months earlier that I didn't think anything could top it.
I was wrong. So very, very wrong.
I was always an inquisitive child, but inquisitiveness grew tenfold after watching Tate enter the world. It wasn’t the wonderment of birth that had me intrigued; it was watching the dynamic between my mother and father. My mom was understandably panicked; she didn’t want to give birth at home. She was frantic, screaming and saying things I’d never heard leave her mouth before. Do you know what my dad did? He rested his forehead against her sweat-drenched one and stared into her eyes. He said nothing. Not a single word. Within ten seconds, the panic marring my mother's face cleared, and the determination in her eyes rampantly grew with every second that
ticked by.
I was spellbound. I thought my dad was a wizard, and he’d placed a spell on my mom using mythical powers. It was only as the years went on, and I watched them more and more, did I realize what he’d done that day. He silently requested her trust. Even beyond panicked and in an immense amount of pain, my mom gave it to him. It's days like today I realize what I saw was magic. It was just minus the smoke and mirrors many people use to lure you into their trap. My father loved my mother, and she loved him. There is no greater illusion than loving someone wholeheartedly.
After running my fingers under my eyes to ensure no sneaky sentimental tears spilled, I pad to the vanity mirror. Gripping the edge of the cracked porcelain sink in a white-knuckled hold, I release a longwinded breath before raising my eyes to the foggy mirror. A broad set of wrinkles line my forehead when I spot my reflection in the mirror. A twenty-minute shower did nothing to ease the dark circles plaguing my hollow eyes. My naturally tanned skin looks splotchy, and my pupils are swamping my cornea, making my eyes appear nearly black in color.
“There is no bigger dampener to a woman’s beauty routine than having her heart torn out of her chest,” I mumble to my disheveled reflection.
Blowing an unruly hair from the front of my eye, I set to work on removing hours of restless sleep no amount of primping will ever erase. I cake a dense layer of concealer onto the rings around my eyes before cracking open my compact powder. Fire engine red lipstick adds an edge of sexiness to my kiss-swollen lips while the shimmer in my gold-flecked eyeshadow compliments the red hue gracing my cheeks. Although I spent a majority of my night struggling to contain my sniffles, a stranger will be none the wiser to my dour weekend activities. From the outside, I look well put together. If only I could say the same thing about my insides.
Once I’ve placed my cosmetics back into my makeup bag, I trudge into my room to get dressed. With Jackson collecting Lexi for a family outing to Fosterfields Living Historical Farm nearly an hour ago, my house is eerily quiet. Not a peep can be heard. I felt sorry for Jackson when he was wrangling Lexi into the passenger seat of his truck. He believed Lexi’s desire not to attend the Collard’s yearly outing was solely based on not wanting to leave me alone. It wasn’t. Lexi is the very epitome of a modern-day woman, one who has champagne taste on a beer budget. The idea of being surrounded by farm animals is more frightening to Lexi than battling the crazies at a 90% off flash sale at Bloomingdales.
Smiling at Lexi’s pleading face when Jackson carried her to his car while wailing over his shoulder, I pace to my wardrobe. Because the weather cooled overnight, I dress in a thick woolen skirt and a long-sleeve pleated cream blouse. After zipping my knee-high black boots, I turn to face the mirror. Although my insides are bristling with betrayal, my outside appearance matches the socially acceptable Cleo I’ve put together every morning for the past four years. I am as fraudulent as ever.
Disappointed and regretful, I turn away from the phony glancing at me in the mirror. This weekend, for the first time in years, I snubbed the need to be socially accepted. There was only one man’s attention I wanted, so I gave it my all and went after what I wanted. Foolishly, I thought Marcus liked me for me, so that’s what I gave him—the real Cleo—not the fake one I’ve presented most of my adult life.
I thought Marcus was my reward for my new approach to life. He brought me to the pinnacle of ecstasy with charm, wit, and incredible talent in the bedroom. For hours, I lived in a bubble of bliss, a place far away from the reality I've been living the past four years. It was beautifully serene. . . until his deceit stripped it all away.
Gritting my teeth at my stupidity in believing I was special to Marcus, I snag my cracked cellphone off my bedside table, shove it into the pocket of my skirt and amble to the door. When I catch sight of the time on the clock halfway down the hall, my quick strides increase. It's nearly 11 AM. The last thing I need added to the muddled mess of my life is an unemployment status.
Although shocked by Delilah’s request for my attendance today, I’m not wholly stumped by it. In the world of journalism, a sense of urgency isn’t a necessity, it's a requirement. Typically, the push to get a story broadcasted is based on two facts: another media company is about to break the story, or the story is soon to be nonexistent. Considering the latter probabilities are sitting at zilch, the more plausible reason would be another media company has caught wind of the scandalous activities occurring right under their noses a minimum of once a month the past two years.
It took Mr. Carson sacrificing a majority share of his foreign equity company to get an invitation to Chains, so I’m flabbergasted another media company had the gall to put up the same collateral. Although being investigated is never a walk in the park, this whole endeavor could be a silver lining for Marcus. While the media vies to break the story of the century, Chains pockets a mindboggling amount of money. If I didn’t know Chains’ profits go toward funding Links, I would have said it was a brilliant marketing move on Marcus’s behalf.
I’m not surprised by the media’s interest in this story. By keeping his guest list top-secret, Marcus created intrigue, which in turn encourages curiosity. And since there is no thinner veil than that of anonymity, the stakes are dangerously high in a world that can’t comprehend the word “privacy.”
That's why Marcus's breach of my trust hurts so much. I thought he understood the value of privacy. The discretion guaranteed to the members of Chains is the very apex of his business. It's the reason his club is so successful. So why didn’t he extend that same level of respect to me?
My pace slows even more as a bitterly cold chill runs the length of my spine. For the quickest moment, I forgot my place. In Marcus's industry, I am nothing more than a commodity. A slave stripped of her rights, my sole purpose in life to obey my master. Aren’t I?
Honestly, if you had asked me the same question prior to discovering Marcus was spying on me, I would have vehemently denied that a sub is a slave with no power. This weekend was an eye-opening experience, one I would have never been brave enough to venture into without the help of Master Chains. It taught me not everything you read is true; sometimes even a thoroughly researched article can be filled with misconceptions and bias when it's written by someone outside of an industry.
It also demonstrated what my mother always preached, “Be who you are, not what you think someone wants you to be.”
That would be a whole heap easier to do without a knife being stabbed in my chest.
2
With gloomy storm clouds putting a damper on the day, my commute to New York wasn't as hair-raising as usual. Although the train was still packed with riders, it wasn't the usual mix of commuters I've come to expect the last five years. The stiff, robotic, professionally clad regulars were replaced with a rousing blend of tourists and locals excited about spending their Sunday in the wonder of New York. Despite the drizzly conditions, their enthusiasm was electric, a stark contrast to the foyer I am entering.
I spent the entire commute to New York trying to clear some of the muddled mess of confusion in my brain. Forty minutes of deliberation gained me an additional forty minutes of chaos.
Being Sunday, an eerie quietness prickles the hairs on my arms when I walk into the bulletproof foyer of Global Ten Media. Other than a small handful of security officers mingling in the vast space, the area is void of its usual hum of activity. My already brisk pace quickens when I spot the time on the large art deco clock on the far wall. I only have ten minutes before I surpass the deadline set by Delilah this morning.
As my hand delves into my oversized clutch to obtain my employee ID, I catch the impish gleam of Richard standing at the side of the foyer. This is the first time I've seen him since our disastrous run-in three months ago. Although I was curious as to his whereabouts, I never voiced my interest. Showing interest only raises curiosity—something I already have in abundance.
“Cleo,” Richard greets me, his tone as haughty as always. “Can I help you with
anything?”
Smiling, I shake my head while scanning my employee ID into the security panel. Gratefulness pumps into me when the security light switches from red to green. Thankfully, my inclusion in the New York Daily Express team means my security rights were adjusted to include twenty-four-seven access, or I would have required Richard’s assistance to enter the secure facility.
After placing my ID back into my clutch, I glide across the polished marble floors. I can feel Richard’s eyes tracking me the entire time, but my outward appearance doesn’t give any indication I’ve spotted his insolent stare. I keep my head held high, refusing to let an arrogant man like Richard believe he has me startled.
As I wait for the elevator car to arrive at my floor, I take in my wide-eyed expression in the mirrored doors. My eyes are dull and lifeless, and the blemish on my cheeks gives away my confused state. I exhale harshly, wishing I could fast forward into the future so I could see how this all pans out. Maybe then I’d have a chance in hell of settling some of the confusion fogging my brain.
