by Gemma James
Contents
Copyright
Acknowledgement
1. Confrontation
2. Drowning
3. Dream
4. Checkmate
5. Jody
6. Christmas
7. Flight
8. Gamble
9. Lion's Den
10. Confessions
11. Surprise Party
12. The Price of Sin
13. Epilogue
Epiphany Sneak Peek
About the Author
RETRIBUTION
Copyright © 2013 Gemma James
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover images used under license from www.bigstockphoto.com
Cover design by Gemma James
NOTE TO READERS: RETRIBUTION is a novella with a BDSM edge and contains material that is only suitable for adult readers. If dark and edgy erotic fiction isn’t your kind of read, you might not enjoy this story. Part three of a three-part series. These stories are not stand alone reads. For a better reading experience, I recommend beginning with ULTIMATUM and ENSLAVED, book one and two in the DEVIL’S KISS series. Approximately 21,000 words.
SUMMARY:
Kayla Sutton thinks it’s over. She now holds the leverage she believes will end her contract with her blackmailer, but Gage Channing isn’t going down without a fight. He’s turned the tables on her, cleverly making her submit under the guise of giving her a choice, and Kayla soon discovers that retribution isn’t so black and white when everyone around her has secrets.
She faced sexual servitude in Ultimatum. In Enslaved she was seduced into craving it. Now she must find the strength to either accept the part of her that craves him still, or walk away for good . . .
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
For my husband, who doesn’t enjoy reading but took the time to become invested in this story. Thanks for loving me, despite my craziness. To my kids, who understood that the headphones meant mom was at work. I have the best husband and kids in the world!
I also owe a huge thank-you to my best friend Crystal Richter. You’ve been there from the beginning tossing ideas back and forth with me. You’re the most awesome friend anyone could ask for, and I love our late night trips to the coast.
And saving the best for last! Thanks to the readers, for without whom this story would have remained in the land of obscurity. Your words of encouragement and support mean more than you know. You guys continually amaze me with how much you’ve embraced this dark world my naughty muse created. Thanks for taking a chance on my work—you guys are the best!
1. CONFRONTATION
Power was an interesting thing. It rose in me now, spurring me forward and stomping down the timid, scared woman Gage had molded with his thirst for domination. I clutched the manila folder—the source of my salvation—in one hand and knocked on his door.
No answer.
I pounded harder, using enough force to bruise my knuckles. The bastard was going to face me. After everything he’d put me through, he owed me that much.
“Open the door, Gage! I know you’re in there!” Another few seconds of blatant knuckle abuse passed, and I finally yanked on the handle, surprised when it turned. The evening shadows darkened his foyer, but not so much as to hide the destruction of his home. I halted, stunned as the scene in front of me gave an alarming visual. Overturned furniture littered the space, picture frames had been knocked from the walls, and glass was strewn across the hardwood floor. My sneakers crunched on a piece of lightbulb as I took a cautious step into the living room. The area opened into the kitchen, which didn’t look much better. Several dishes lay in pieces, and one of the cabinets had a gaping hole in in the dark wood.
“Gage?” Silence greeted me—an unsettling void that raised the hair at my nape. The urge to flee was strong. I was stupid for coming, especially after what he’d done the night before, but I wanted to shove what Ian had found down his throat and see him cower for a change.
A quick scan of the dining room revealed empty space. After finding the same in his bedroom, I moved on from the sight of his bed—from the memory of the night we’d spent there—and stopped at the basement’s entrance. The door stood wide open, like a cavernous mouth inviting me into the bowls of hell. I flicked on the light to chase the darkness away, and then questioned my sanity as I descended the stairs. The basement didn’t fair much better than the rest of his house. His collection of whips and paddles were scattered across the floor, and the St. Andrew’s cross had been torn from the wall.
“Go home, Kayla.”
I clenched my jaw and closed the distance between us. Looking down, I realized two things: he was still wearing the same clothes from the previous evening, and this was the first time Gage Channing had ever sat at my feet. He kept his head bowed toward the bottle of rum clutched between his hands.
“I’m not going anywhere until I’ve said this.” I threw the folder at his feet. “You’ll find enough evidence in there to send you to jail for a long time.”
“What evidence?”
“Proof of your embezzlement. How ironic that you blackmailed me for doing what you’re guilty of yourself.” I let out a bitter laugh. “Isn’t this a tidy little circle we’ve got here? You steal from your clients, I steal from you. He blackmails you, you blackmail me.” I gritted my teeth. “If I didn’t have Eve to think about, I might find some humor in it all.”
“Why are you here, Kayla?”
“The rules have changed.” I paced a few steps before stopping in front of him again. “I’m here to call a truce. End our contract, pay for Eve’s care, and I’ll consider us even.”
“Fine. You can go now.” He tipped the bottle back and took a swig.
“That’s all you have to say?” A tremor laced my voice. Dammit, I’d wanted so much to remain calm, just as cold and detached as him. He was more of a master at cold and calculating than he was a “Master” in anything else. “Look at me, Gage.”
He raised his eyes, and I reached up and unhooked the buttons of my jacket. I stood before him without makeup, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt because anything else hurt too much. My fingers disappeared under the hem, and I inched it up, removing my clothes and watching his reaction as I revealed the welts and bruises he’d left behind.
He took another swig, and something in his expression shifted from indifferent to pained as his gaze wandered over my body. My breasts and bottom had taken the brunt of his rage, but every inch of me showed evidence of his cruelty.
“Is this why you’re hiding in that bottle? Did your conscience finally claw it’s way out of the grave?” I wouldn’t look away or back down. I wanted . . . no, I needed him to acknowledge the line he’d crossed. I tapped my foot and waited. “Dammit, say something!”
“What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry?”
“Are you?”
He sprung to his feet, so unexpectedly that I jerked back. “I’ll never be sorry for fucking you in front of him.” He hurtled the bottle against the wall, and the sound of shattering glass competed with the warning going off in my head. I shrank away as he advanced, but he grabbed me anyway. His hands dug into the bruises and welts. “I’d do it again and again until he gouged his fucking eyes out.”
“Let go, you’re hurting me!”
“Then stop me.” He caught me in his vice-like embrace, and his mouth crashed onto mine, his tongue infusing my taste buds with the bitterness of rum. I struggled until every ounce of strength seeped
from my bones. Finally giving in, I sagged against him and submitted my mouth.
He tangled his hands in my hair and tilted my head back, and I was helpless against the lure of him, split down the middle between logic and need.
With a groan, he pushed me away and staggered back a few feet. “Go home, before I fuck you again, and no amount of crying or begging will stop me.”
“Why are you holding back now?” My voice cracked. “What’s so different?”
He collapsed to the floor and buried his head in his hands, and he said nothing. I told myself I hadn’t glimpsed a seed of remorse in his expression, that he was an ice cube underneath all that anger, incapable of feeling anything real. Problem was . . . I didn’t believe it. I’d been ready to let his actions shatter whatever I might have felt for him, but then I’d walked into his disaster zone and seen the image of a broken man.
“If there’s a speck of humanity in you, Gage”—I reached up and removed the collar—“you’ll do the right thing.”
The thin strip of leather drifted to the floor, and still, he said nothing. I dressed, and his silence followed me up the stairs and out the door.
2. DROWNING
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gotten drunk, but that’s exactly what I was, and the culprit was a continuous supply of some fruity drink I found too easy to consume. It was like drinking Kool-Aid, only better. Kool-Aid didn’t give me this amazing floaty sensation; weightless and free. I didn’t have to think or feel.
Who was Gage Channing? Who was Ian? Who the fuck was I?
A persistent hand landed on my thigh, and I had to stop and think about who it belonged to. Oh, right . . . the guy who’d bought me the last round of drinks. What was his name?
Kyle?
Kevin?
I settled for calling him “Guy.” Did it matter if I remembered his name? Likely not. Nothing mattered, which was how I wanted it. Guy’s hand inched upward, and I was thankful for the ugly sweatpants I wore. He leaned in, and his beer breath overwhelmed my senses.
“Wanna get outta here, baby?”
I shook my head and stumbled to my feet, experiencing a sudden and urgent need to use the restroom.
“Hey, darlin’, where’re you goin’?” he protested.
I broke into laughter and had no clue why. “The lil girls’ room. You can’t come.”
“Aw, that’s not fair . . .”
His voice faded as I hobbled toward the bathroom. I pushed the door open and stalled at the sight of my reflection in the mirror. I looked like a zombie from a horror flick with bloodshot eyes and traces of mascara on my cheeks . . . right . . . I’d given in to a crying jag earlier. I should’ve stuck with bawling; drinking only made me look like hell, and in the end it was a temporary fix anyway. Tomorrow morning I’d feel just as miserable, if not more so. But I didn’t indulge in alcohol often, and if Gage Channing could drown his demons in a bottle, why couldn’t I?
Why do I let him get to me?
I squatted over the toilet and considered the question. I’d been prepared for all kinds of scenarios upon walking into his house. Rage, disbelief after seeing the evidence, and even his usual smugness followed by his demands, because even though I held power in my hands, surely something like the threat of jail wouldn’t cause him to back down.
I’d expected a fight, only I’d gotten my first real glimpse of remorse, and it reminded me that underneath all his complexity, Gage was still a man. I finished taking care of business and crashed through the door of the restroom. I’d hit cab status long ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to regret this foolish indulgence.
“There you are.” Guy pulled my body flush with his, and we fell against the wall outside the restrooms. His mouth and hands were everywhere, and my first instinct was to push him away . . . until I realized that I needed to know. I needed to know if someone else could spark the same all-consuming feelings in me as Gage. I pulled him closer and gripped his hair, wrapped my leg around his calf, and rubbed against the bulge in his pants. His mouth plundered mine, slick and wet and all wrong, and his body moved against me, too rough and too fast.
I shoved him away. “I can’t do this.”
“Sure you can.”
I jerked my face away as he descended again, and he slobbered on my cheek. Lifting my knee, I blindly aimed for where I knew it’d hurt most. I must have found my target, because he struggled for air. I slipped from his grasp, and his voice sounded odd as he called after me. I ignored him. In fact, I ignored everyone. Keeping my head bowed, I headed for the exit. He didn’t follow. Maybe he figured I wasn’t worth the trouble. And I wasn’t. I wasn’t worth anything. Not after what Gage had turned me into.
His whore.
Icy air hit me as I stumbled from the bar, though it was exquisite relief to my flushed cheeks. The sidewalk spun, and the brick wall of the bar blurred in my peripheral vision, as if I’d entered a funhouse . . . except the word “fun” didn’t exist in this carnival. I fell into the wall and pounded my fists against the rough texture of the brick. Who was Gage, that he could propel me to hit bottom like this? The pain in my knuckles failed to register, and that was my problem; I was attracted to things that hurt me, even now in the way I chose to unleash my anger. Finally spent, I slumped to the ass-numbing concrete and pulled out my cell. He was the last person I wanted to face . . . and the one I needed to.
He’d come; I knew he would.
Ian pulled up twenty minutes later and hurried to where I sat on the deserted sidewalk. “Are you okay?” He helped me to my feet, and his gaze fell to my hands. “What happened?”
“I’m drunk.”
“I can see that.”
“The wall pissed me off.”
“You really did a number on your hands.” He put his arm around me. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
I tripped over my feet and grasped his jacket. “I don’t wanna go home.” My empty apartment was the last place I wanted to go. “Take me home with you.”
“Kayla . . .” His voice dropped in warning. “You need to sleep it off.” He opened the passenger door of his SUV.
“I need you.” He moved to shut the door, but I grabbed his hand and laced our fingers together. “Make me feel something.”
“Not while you’re drunk.” He extracted his fingers from mine, and the door slammed with an echo of finality. I settled into the seat with a sigh as he rounded the vehicle.
“I went to see him,” I said as he slid in beside me.
“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t go alone.”
“No, you told me not to go alone.”
“How did he take it?”
“He was drunk.”
“That seems to be a theme tonight.” He ran a hand through his short, brown hair. “Are you all right? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“He kissed me.” Why was I telling him this?
His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. He turned onto the road and stomped on the gas. “What did he tell you?”
I laughed. “Absolutely nothing.”
We fell silent, and I stewed the whole way to my apartment. He deposited me on the doorstep and straightened my jacket collar, as if I was a wayward ribbon on a present that needed fixing. Too drunk to unlock my own door, he did it for me. Nothing but loneliness and despair awaited me on the other side.
“I’ll come back in the morning and take you to get your car.”
“Don’t leave.” I gripped the front of his jacket, willing him to come inside, though I hadn’t thought much on what we’d do once we got past the door. “Please, don’t go.” I collapsed into his arms and sobbed, body shaking violently as I let it all pour out of me. “I’m such a mess. He fucked me up, Ian.” Gage was still in my system, a parasitic itch I still wanted to scratch. He’d wanted to own me, and now he did. Underneath the fear, the hatred and rage, lurked a sense of gratitude. He’d saved my daughter’s life . . . how could I hate anyone who’d done that?
I gulped in mout
hfuls of air, but it wasn’t enough to calm me. Hesitantly, he tightened his arms around me, and I sensed him battling with himself. He closed and locked the door, decision made. My heart skipped as he picked me up, but then he set me on my feet next to the couch.
“No, take me to bed.”
“Kayla—”
“Just hold me,” I interrupted. “Please. I want to wake up with you tomorrow morning.” I wanted the warmth of his body next to mine, then maybe Gage wouldn’t haunt my dreams while I slept.
He cursed under his breath and lifted me again, and the last thing I recalled as my head sank into the pillow was the safety of his arms surrounding me.
3. DREAM
The gentle way he touched me bespoke of reassurance. His fingers glided along my skin, igniting want and need in their wake. He pushed a little deeper, past the resistance of my innocence and into the center of my heat, and I knew I was dreaming . . . dreaming of the night Ian made love to me for the first time. The one and only time.
I cried out, overcome by him filling me, pressing into me, devouring me. Never before had I dreamed so vividly in life-like detail. His skin slid against mine, hot and damp, and something beyond the physical touched me. Maybe it was the way he trembled as he grasped my hands and held them to the mattress, as if he needed to hold on to something to keep from coming apart. We hadn’t needed words. The brush of our lips, the tender union of tongues, the claiming sensation of his thrusts—the way we came together said more than words ever could.
The dream evaporated, and as the light of day seeped behind my lids, I recalled how the morning after—so many years ago—I’d ended up puking. I’d puked every morning after that for a few weeks. My eyelids fluttered open, the dream still a tickle at my conscious mind, and he was looking straight at me. The previous evening came flooding back. Oh my God . . . had I really begged him to take me to his place? Or even worse . . . had I let some random stranger stick his tongue down my throat?
