by Trent Evans
Kurt’s finger raised her chin, his thumb stroking her cheek. “I think I might have something that will help.”
He moved behind her and she straightened, dropping her head, expecting the strike of the whip. Yes, this was right, this would have to be right. To run, to suffer, to cry, to obey. All thoughts banished but putting one foot in front of the other, faster and faster. More speed, more obedience, more surrender.
“God, I missed you, Breanna.”
Her eyes shot up. “Derek!”
She leaned toward him, the weight of the cart holding her back.
His warm palm cupped her breast, lifting it with a gentle squeeze. “God, I’ve missed this body too.”
“It’s all yours, Sir.” She looked up at him, looking into those eyes of his, hoping. “Please—”
“Shh,” he said, holding finger to her lips. “You need to be quiet and listen to me now.”
Her clit throbbed at the tone of his voice, at the way his hand tightened around her breast. Proprietary. Admonishing.
“You don’t know how many times I talked myself out of this. Out of coming here today. Because of what I had to say, the choice I … needed to make.”
“No, you don’t understand—”
“I do understand. I finally understand all of it.” Derek stepped close, his male scent washing over her, his shadow a comfort and a threat both. Just the way she liked it.
“What I have to do, what I should’ve done a long time ago. Let go.”
Oh God, no …
Derek inhaled a long shaking breath, the big Adam’s apple working as he swallowed. “After today, I’m going back home.”
“Oh, Derek. Sir. Please don’t do this …”
Her fear was irrational, and overpowering, the loss a twisting ache in her chest.
“I’m going back home, and I’m packing my things, Breanna.” He palmed her chin, a gentle, yet possessive caress. “And I’m moving in with you.”
“You — you are?”
She smiled, even as the tears poured forth. “Derek, I love you. I love you so much! Thank you. Thank you for saving me, for saving us. Thank you.”
He held her head to his chest, his voice thick, breaking on the words. “I don’t know how the hell this is gonna work, Breanna. But I’m taking that chance. I’m … not afraid anymore.”
Derek lifted her face to his, and his soft lips pressed to hers, all the hurt, all the fear, all the sorrow flowing away at the love she felt in that simple kiss. It was really happening! She kissed him back, savagely, staking her claim to him as much as he had to her.
My Sir. Finally.
Derek pulled back, his long finger tracking her moist, swollen lips. “I’m not running anymore, Breanna. I’m so in love with you. And I’m here to claim what’s mine.”
“Ours,” Kurt said, stepping close, a whisper of his lips against her ear. “Always ours, Breanna. Always.”
Epilogue
George Trask watched them through the one-way glass.
The room beyond was entirely bare, lit overhead by two banks of fluorescents, the sickly white glow lending extra pallor to the occupants’ faces. On one side of the stark, gray metal table was Quinton, looking more boyish than George had seen him in a long while. His jeans were faded, the hems threadbare over black boots. His white t-shirt was tight, straining at the shoulders and chest. His hands stayed on his lap, under the table. The boy was keen to keep the cuffs around his wrists hidden. George knew the cuffs humiliated him. George wished handcuffs would be enough to get through to the boy.
Seated across from his son was a woman of striking black hair pulled into a single neat plait, her clear pale skin accentuated by dark, almost black lip-gloss and kohl around her eyes of pure jet. Her deep brown eyes watched the boy as she spoke, her lips a tight straight line as she opened the manila folder, turning it, one long finger tapping the paper, the gloss of the French manicured nail catching the light. Her black suit coat was fitted, not quite hiding the generous swell of her breasts, the white blouse underneath displaying a tasteful, but obvious cleavage.
She’d switched off the audio when sitting down, giving the one-way glass a pointed look. Now, as Quinton grew more agitated, shaking his head, his face reddening, George cursed her for it.
“Isn’t there another option, George?”
He turned to his wife. “Cordray was very clear — either this, or a jail cell. I’m lucky I got him to even consider this.”
“He needs discipline, George, of course.” Elaina sat down on the thin couch, the gray cushions worn and stained. She winced as she tried to find the least uncomfortable position, her caning that morning no doubt leaving her bottom still tender. Finding a tolerable perch, her back ramrod straight, she looked up at him, pulling her light woolen coat closer around her shoulders. “It’s just that … I’ve heard stories. There’s discipline — then there’s her.”
“I’ve heard them too, Elaina.” George chuckled bitterly, scrubbing a palm across his jaw. “Which is probably why Cordray demanded her for the job.”
The woman inside the room with Quinton crossed her arms, sitting back in her chair, her expression impassive, her eyes unblinking. Quinton leaned over the table at her, his face beet red, the fury of his words not lost on George even with the sound cut. It wasn’t going well. He’d feared this, that the boy wouldn’t see reason.
Closing her folder and slipping it into a black leather case, the woman’s long fingers clicked the sound back on.
“We’re done here, I think.”
Quinton’s enraged squalling was silenced as she cut the audio again, standing and walking toward the door without another look at the boy.
“She’s not going to do it,” George said, turning from the window.
“How do you know?”
“He was screaming at her in there. Would you want to deal with that?”
Elaina looked down. “He’s not my son, George — but prison? The stories, the scandal…”
“Cordray agreed to discretion about all of it — if she agrees to do it. It’s all academic anyway at this point. You saw him in there. She’s not going for it.” George buttoned his coat, then held out a hand. “Let’s go, Elaina. This place makes me claustrophobic, secure or not.”
The door behind him opened, and he turned to the clack-clack sound of heels on the cracked tile.
“Mr. Trask?” The woman in the black suit coat held out a hand. She stood nearly George’s height in her heels, her curves subdued, but not hidden, by the coat and slacks.
“George, please, Ms. Shaw,” he said, shaking her hand. “I’m afraid Cordray didn’t give me your name though.”
“Anna.”
“Oh, Anna. Thank you.” He turned, indicating his wife. “This is Elaina.”
Anna took a seat on the couch next to Elaina, crossing her legs, the dark heels gleaming under the light. “Are you his mother?”
“No, I’m … no.”
Anna’s dark brow lifted. “Interesting.” She looked to George, who took a seat in the faded leather chair opposite the couch. “Where is his mother then?”
“That’s not relevant, Ms. Shaw.”
“Oh, I think it’s entirely relevant, Mr. Trask.”
George cleared his throat, his fist to his lips. “Let’s get right to it, shall we?”
The woman’s clear brown eyes regarded him for a moment. “I have a few questions.”
“Will you do it?” George glanced at Elaina. “We don’t — we don’t want the alternative, of course.”
“But do you want this option?”
“I don’t think I’ve got much choice in the matter.”
“No, I suspect you don’t.” Anna’s head swiveled slowly toward Elaina. “Has the boy attempted anything with you?”
“What?”
“Has he tried to fuck you? Hurt you?”
George scowled, leaning forward, arms on his thighs. “Just answer her.”
“Of course not. He’s — he’
s lived with us since he was a child.”
“Do you see him as a son then?”
Elaina’s cheeks colored. “No.”
“Has he seen you naked? Has he seen you being … trained before?”
“Not by my husband, no.” Elaina’s cheeks flushed scarlet and she looked down. “But yes, he’s seen me being… trained. Only in the past two years or so.”
“Why only recently?” Anna glanced at George. “The boy is part of the Trust, is he not? The son of a Prime?”
George’s jaw clenched. “His mother … made things difficult. But he chose the Trust. This life.”
Anna pulled out the same manila envelope from her case, opening it, flipping pages. “Are these photos accurate? This girl the boy purchased for a Term?”
“Yes, that’s her.” George straightened one of his cuffs. “Genna.”
“Is she still under your guardianship?”
“She is, for three more months, per the Term documents. Brayden — you’ll see him in your file there — is … overseeing her care.”
Anna looked at the pages for a minute, then snapped the envelope shut. She set it down on the couch between she and Elaina. “I’ll do it. And at no charge to the Trust.”
George’s shoulders relaxed, and he met Elaina’s gaze, giving her a weary smile.
“I have conditions however.”
“Name them.”
“No interference from the mother — or you.”
George inhaled. “Done.”
“You understand that my methods are … unorthodox.” Anna met Elaina’s gaze, a small smile playing at her dark painted lips. “Some would say, extreme.”
Elaina paled, her gaze sliding away.
“As long as he’s not harmed, you have my word. No interference.”
“Define ‘harmed’,” Anna said, fixing George with unblinking eyes.
George steepled his fingers together. “No … permanent harm.”
“You haven’t answered me, Mr. Trask.”
He glared at Anna for a long moment. “What did you have in mind, Ms. Shaw?”
“Corporal punishment. Severe, if necessary.”
“Yes.”
“Tattooing.”
“Yes.”
“Piercing.”
“Yes.” A muscle in his jaw flexed.
“Branding.”
Elaina gasped. “George, for God’s sake, what—”
“Quiet, Elaina.” He locked gazes with Anna once more. “That’s rather, permanent. Are you intending to actually brand my son, Ms. Shaw?”
Anna clasped her hands over her knee. “That all depends upon the boy. I need to know if you’re serious about this.”
“Nothing permanent, I said.”
“It would be in areas covered by clothing. Do you define scars as harm or merely marks, Mr. Trask?”
“Jesus,” George said, scrubbing his eyes with his palms. “Yes.”
“Then it’s agreed.” She plucked the envelope from the couch, slipping it back into the case. “I’ll take delivery of the boy in one week.”
“Where does he need to …”
“I’ll arrange it.”
George glanced to Elaina. “How long?”
“Six months. Maybe more.”
Elaina cursed under her breath. George sat back, running his hands though his hair. “Six months?”
“At least.” Anna’s eyes glittered, her black painted lips pursed.
“Can we visit him?”
“No.”
George met Elaina’s gaze, her face ghostly pale. He sighed, looking down. “Okay, Ms. Shaw. I agree.”
Standing, Anna straightened her coat, the black case tucked under one arm.
He looked up at her, two points of color high in his cheeks. “I need Quinton back before it’s too late. Please help me find him.”
Anna stood close, laying a hand on his shoulder, her brown eyes suddenly warm. “You’ve already lost Quinton, Mr. Trask. But I’ll bring you back your son.”
###
Did you like what you just read? Would you like to be informed as soon as the next Trent Evans book is released? Join the New Release Alerts mailing list.
No spam — just new books!
From The Author
Authors, including this one, love to hear from their readers. If you loved the story, let him know (and please consider leaving a review with your preferred retailer).
If you hated it, tell him why, so that (hopefully) he can make the next one better for you. Thank you for reading!
The author can be reached anytime at [email protected] or on Twitter @TrentEvansTales.
Interested in writing, or wondering when the next story will be released? Follow Trent’s blog at http://trentevansletters.com/
Free fiction, excerpts, humor, random bloviation on kink and the publishing industry in general. Visit Trent and fellow BDSM writer Sheri Savill at their group website Romancing The Kink.
