by Bree Dahlia
I knew the words came from my mouth, but they sounded as if they were spoken from a pair of wax lips. Something you’d find in a novelty store.
“Whenever the belt strikes you, do you suffer?”
“Yes.” Silly question.
“Did you agree to let me hurt you?”
“Yes.”
“And do you have the power to end it?”
I contemplated that while floating around in my timeless bubble. “Yes.” Ian.
“Did you choose the pain that fills your heart?”
“No.” So many questions… I could formulate responses in my brain, but making them out of my head was the problem.
“You’re choosing it now.”
I was euphoric. I could handle anything.
“That pain is yours, and you can let it go as easily as your physical pain. They’re one in the same because you bound them together.”
Yes, I did.
“The rules have changed. You no longer have to say your friend’s name. All you need to do is release it, and it all goes away.”
It was crazy enough to make sense. He was offering up the secret of the universe, and all I had to do was accept.
“You’re strong and you’re whole. Prove it.”
Worthy.
“I’m worthy.”
And I believed it. As soon as the words tumbled out, all my pieces flew towards me, entering me, fusing me back together. I felt pure. Deserving. Worthy of pain, of pleasure. Worthy to feel. To be human.
“You’re beautiful.”
I wasn’t sure if he’d said it, or if it’d come from a part of myself, but I reveled in it all the same. I had never felt so alive. The scent of fresh rain wafted through the air, cleansing my outside to match the inside.
Cool hands eased my torrid skin, bathing it in moisture. My back, my bottom, my legs. My breasts. I was ravenous, entitled to his touch. I’d earned it.
When his caress swept between my thighs, I shook and wept, not from pain but from pleasure. And when he penetrated me, I felt liberated.
He fucked me like a woman deserved to be fucked. Sweet and dirty. Harsh and savagely gentle. All-consuming. He ravished me like I was powerful enough to take it, breaking me over and over and over.
And knowing I was strong enough to fix myself.
***
I shifted to the side and rummaged my hands underneath the sheets, convinced I’d rolled over on a dog bone. It took another few minutes before I realized I was in a hotel room, I didn’t own a dog, and the hard object digging into my hip was just... my hip. I groaned. I felt like a giant bruise.
Groggy and achy and starving and… Wait. I searched for my morning companion, the one who had woken up beside me every day for the past six months. The one who’d whispered in my ear and lulled me back to sleep until I was forced to get up and go through the motions with a smile.
I delved into my head, my gut, and most importantly, my heart. She was nowhere to be found. I stretched my arms above my head and wondered if I was coming down with the flu. My muscles burned as if they’d been ransacked.
A virus would also explain my unusual state of mind. And it’d be the perfect excuse to hole up away from everyone. If only I felt like it. I rocked over to my back and winced.
Falling, falling…
Wisps of memories wove together, and I began to recall the previous night. Well, there goes my illness theory. That was shot to hell. God, had anyone heard us? I squashed the pillow over my face, berating myself for taking such a risk with a man I’d just met. I would’ve never been so reckless if I’d been emotionally healthy. But if I’d been emotionally healthy, I wouldn’t have needed to take a chance. I tossed the pillow aside, cutting myself some slack.
Falling, falling…
I remembered the excruciating pain, the bulk of it coming from my heart. I remembered the exquisite pleasure that followed. The feeling of gliding down in a secure parachute with no fears of crashing to the ground.
I was wrapped in a blanket, forced to drink strong, sweet tea. I hated sweet tea.
Falling, falling…
But I’d loved the connection. To another person, and most of all, to myself.
I pushed up and sat against the headboard. Deacon was nowhere in sight, and I was grateful he’d honored my request. Except for the sandalwood in the air, there was no indication that anyone had been in my room besides me.
Until I glanced over at the nightstand and saw my bottle of lotion, my hairbrush, and a... long-stemmed red rose?
I picked it up and smiled, pressing my thumb to a thorn and inhaling its scent. If this was from my beautiful stranger, I was in awe of his resourcefulness. He’d proven that many times over.
I set it down and noticed the paper, black script on hotel stationery.
Only the whole can be broken.
Epilogue
Five years later
“At this time he is alive but too weak to be interviewed.”
My hand froze on the coffee pot. Deacon. I set the carafe on the counter and turned up the TV, catching the tail end of whatever gossip news show I’d had on as background noise.
“…being evaluated to determine if she’s a threat to herself or others after allegedly attacking her therapist. As you heard it here first, Miss Drazen has been admitted into Westonwood Acres, an elite psychiatric center known for treating the rich and famous, after allegedly stabbing Mister Bruce and attempting to take her own life. Next up—”
I clicked it off and poured my coffee. I wanted to stay up to date on Deacon’s condition, but I was sick of the media circus. The obsession. The Drazen name was synonymous with wealth and power, and people were wired to eat up dirt like a feast.
The press called Fiona Drazen an out-of-control celebutante, now a violent one, after stabbing Deacon in the chest with a hoof knife, of all weapons. It’d been shocking news, but until I heard proof otherwise, I was going to assume there was more to the story than sensationalism.
And I was going to assume Deacon was in perfect control of his situation.
I curled up on the loveseat with my mug and my folders, stacking them in front of me. It’d been a long, twisty road, but I’d recently earned my surrogate partner certification in addition to my clinical sex therapist license. I was currently working in an established practice, but the plan was to start my own as soon as I had the experience and means.
My case files weren’t going to read themselves. But damn, my mind kept drifting.
I’d never expected to see his face again, but ever since he’d moved to L.A. and began associating with Fiona, he’d become famous by proxy. Before that, anytime he’d popped into my head, it was of my own volition.
For he was the one who’d used my suffering to heal my suffering, playing a pivotal role in the direction my life had taken, and such a man wasn’t easy to forget.
Only the whole can be broken.
I’d kept the paper with me over the years as a reminder that allowing myself to break was a strength, not a weakness. That acknowledging and feeling my sorrow didn’t cause bad things to happen but burying it did. And that denying my pain was the worst hurt of all.
I’d never claim he healed me fully that night, but he did send me straight into acceptance. And from that place, I was open to receiving further help. Deacon had condensed a year’s worth of therapy into a matter of hours. It was unconventional, and it worked.
And that changed the way I thought about everything.
I got up to freshen my cup, stopping along the way to peer out the blinds. Ian had called earlier and invited me to lunch, and I was expecting him at any time. I’d planned to get some work done first, but hearing the news report had detoured me down memory lane.
He is alive but too weak… It was unreal, unnatural. I’d use a lot of words to describe Deacon Bruce, but “weak” was not one of them. I drained the last of the coffee from the pot and took a long sip, curving my lips as I imagined drinking sweetened tea instead.
I set my empty cup in the sink and added more water to the vase. The mini-bouquet was a sweet gesture from a client of mine, and I treasured such thoughtfulness. I pulled out a carnation and brought it to my nose, closing my eyes and stroking the smooth stem.
The morning I’d awoken and found the note, Ian had come into my room shortly afterward. I’d let him hold me while I cried, while I apologized for shutting him out all those months. He’d confessed to keeping a close eye on me while Deacon was in the room, ensuring my safety. There were several times he’d wanted to put a stop to it, but he held back, identifying a method to the madness. In many ways, my cathartic release that night had changed Ian too.
For as cruel as Deacon’s methods had appeared, there’d also been moments of kindness. He’d sat in the chair and watched me until nearly morning, voicing a “thank you” before making an early exit, respecting my wishes.
I never did find out where he got the rose.
I slid the flower back into the vase and returned to my files, opening a folder. I had a soft spot for what others deemed abnormal. I was drawn to what society called twisted. I envisioned a safe space where people could play and love without shame, express desires without ridicule.
I wanted to be an ugly light in all the beautiful darkness.
~~The End~~
Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story. Jacqueline was first found in my Transforming Julia series, and Broken is part of her backstory. To check out the series, along with my other books, you can visit me on my Amazon author page.
Author’s Note
First and foremost, I want to thank C.D. Reiss for this amazing opportunity. To write in your world is an honor.
The first book I read of Christine’s was Forbidden. I remember starting it on a Friday and refusing to do anything else until I finished. I ignored everything. Needless to say, I was hooked and have since devoured anything she put out. She is my one-click author.
It seemed only fitting I chose Deacon Bruce for my story since he is a character from Forbidden. He fascinated me and just so happened to fit in perfectly with one of my existing character’s backstory.
My readers, if you haven’t picked up any of C.D.’s books, do it now. I’ll wait.
Back? I knew you wouldn’t be disappointed :)
I hope you enjoyed the mash-up between Deacon and Jacqueline. For those who have read my Transforming Julia series, Jacqueline (Jacque) hardly seems like the same person. But can any of you really say you’re the same person as you were 15+ years ago?
This story was a bit darker than my usual erotic romance (and WAY darker than my rom-coms), but the pain and darkness had a purpose. It wasn’t just thrown in for the fun of it. But I did enjoy exploring characters who weren’t in love and wouldn’t end up together. It was a whole different experience.
And finally, I want to give a shout-out to the other KW authors who released with me: Milana Raziel, K. Nilsson, J.M. Kelley, C.C. Heywood, Delaney Foster, and Kayti McGee. I came in a little late to the party, but I loved meeting you all, and I look forward to getting to know you better. I have a feeling this group release is only the beginning…
As always, thanks for reading,
Bree
About the Author
Bree Dahlia is an unconventional romance junkie. She loves reading it but adores writing it even more. Her stories range from lighthearted to sizzling with that satisfying Happily Ever After ending and a touch of the unexpected. She favors themes of friendship, forgiveness, and unconditional love with alpha characters and eccentric tastes.
She holds degrees that she does nothing with and has experienced a long string of jobs that have left her unfulfilled. Only as an author has she truly found her passion. When not crafting stories in her small Wisconsin town, she hikes unbeaten trails, watches hockey and baseball games, and wishes she didn’t detest cooking so much.
Dahlia is her middle name. Her last name is more suitable for a horror writer.
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