by Mari Carr
“Rose, they’re just cuffs. I didn’t want you to hurt yourself.” Weston squeezed into the room. He was a big man, broader than Caden was.
Had been.
Than Caden had been.
She blinked and more tears spilled.
Weston sat on the mattress next to her and cupped her forearm, using the hold to tug her wrists toward him. Her skin tingled where his fingers touched her.
Weston unfastened the cuffs, briskly rubbed her wrists, then bent and undid one ankle restraint. “I can’t reach the other one.”
“Order me,” she said.
“What?”
Rose turned her head, staring at him. She knew it was Weston; there was enough left of the young man she’d known and loved to recognize him, but he was different. Scarred.
Weston Anderson was missing his right eye. It had taken her a minute to realize it, but his right eye didn’t move—it was false. There was scarring all around the eye socket, the brow bone a little misshapen. His hair, a warm honey blond, was long, probably to hide the fact that his right ear was half gone, his earlobe mostly missing and what there was of it fused to his neck. The skin of his ear, back of his jaw, and the right side of his neck looked like wax that had melted and then hardened again.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” He met her gaze unflinchingly.
Rose’s heart lurched and she looked away. “Why don’t you order me to remove it, Sir?”
“Don’t ever call me that, Rose. And we don’t have time for this. We’re in the eye of the storm.”
“I will remove the restraints if that is your wish.” She used her submissive voice.
Weston made a disgusted sound, stood, and sidestepped until he could walk out the door.
“You can walk, just drag the other one along if that’s how you want to play it.”
Rose stood and followed him out of the room. The calm she’d tried to wrap herself in felt fragile, as if it were only a thin layer of ice instead of the glacier-like wall she wanted it to be.
She hadn’t been in an attic closet, but rather in the small room under the stairs. There was a Harry Potter joke in there she was too numb and heartsick to make. They emerged into a small sitting room. A tan couch was positioned across from the fireplace, a worn wingback chair next to it. There was a window above the couch, the warm sunlight that poured in through it reflected in the mirror above the mantel and making the whole room bright. The floor under her feet was hardwood, the walls a cheery robin’s egg blue.
Rose stopped and looked around again.
To her right was the front door and the foot of the stairs. A small coat stand stood beside the door and a pair of tall rubber boots was on the other side of the small foyer space. To her left was a doorway leading into another room, with bookcases and a low-backed comfortable chair.
“I’m going to take you away…I’ll buy us a house. It’ll have to be a little one, out in the country. With a library.”
The ice she’d encased herself in was melting, leaving her vulnerable. In her imagination, the cage that protected her true self warped and melted, the icy, gilded bars becoming sand that slid though her fingers, the whole thing collapsing around her.
“This house,” she whispered. Wes had promised to buy her this house. To take her away from the Andersons.
Heat replaced the cold inside her, and it took her a moment to identify the hot feeling.
Rage.
“Rose?” Weston stood in the middle of the little sitting room, his big body bathed in light. He wore brown pants, and a thin sweater that clung to the muscles of his shoulders and upper arms.
She looked down at herself—rumpled slacks, wrinkled shirt. Her feet were bare and there was a bondage restraint around one ankle. She was dragging the other restraint behind her.
Rose took a breath. She was so hot. It felt like there was a vise around her chest.
“Rose, calm down. You’re going to hyperventilate.”
Rose looked up, and it was as if she were looking at him though a paper towel roll—he seemed far away, yet close at the same time. The edges of her vision were getting dark.
“You’re alive.”
“Yes.”
“But you died. You died and you left me.” Rose stumbled back, nearly falling but she hit the wall.
“Rose!” Weston leapt toward her.
Her body shook from the intensity of her anger. “They murdered you, so we stayed, we obeyed. I obeyed. I mourned you, and then I obeyed.” Rose closed her eyes, sliding to the floor.
Chapter Three
Thirteen Years Ago
* * *
Rose was here—there were jeweled flip-flops by the door. Rose was the only one who could get away with leaving shoes out like that. And the only one who wore jeweled flip-flops.
Weston dropped his bag and raced up the stairs. He checked her room—no Rose. The bed was perfectly made, as if she hadn’t slept in it. The maid must have come in today—Rose was not an accomplished bed maker. He dashed back down the stairs, keeping an eye out for his parents. The door to their wing of the house was closed, and the main living rooms were all empty. If she wasn’t in her room or the TV room, she’d be swimming laps in the grotto.
The grotto at his parents’ house was totally ridiculous—three glass walls and a glass ceiling. One wall could be opened when the weather was warm enough, connecting it to the large redwood deck out back. There was a lounge pool with a swim-up bar and a beach entrance, a separate twenty-five meter two-lane lap pool, and a massive hot tub. Everything was made to look as if it was natural—edged in gray rocks, rather than flat concrete. There were ferns everywhere, thriving in the greenhouse-like atmosphere.
Since his parents were in a trinity, Barton’s job as head of an import/export empire and Victoria’s charity work meant they had to hide their relationship with their third, Elroy, so the three of them spent a lot of the time at home. The massive, contemporary-style abode had been custom built for them just before Caden was born. Weston had only vague memories of the house they’d lived in before this one.
Rose was, as he’d predicted, swimming laps. Her feet kicked up small splashes as she swam freestyle, moving faster than most, but not at her fastest. When she was trying she could really move.
He waited for her to reach the end of the lane and start her turn, then reached down and grabbed one ankle, grinning as she thrashed.
She flipped around, jerking her ankle out of his hold and came up sputtering. He was already dancing back, his heart thumping happily in his chest. The splash she sent his way got his pants below the knee.
“I could have drowned, you know.” She pulled off her goggles and wiped her face.
“Maybe you’re not that good a swimmer.”
“Wanna race, college boy?” She made a pathetic face at him. “I’m sure you’d beat me, I’m just a high school girl.”
Damn, he wished she’d stop reminding him of that. He knew he was too old for her. She was seventeen and he’d be 21 in a few months. But that didn’t stop him from loving her.
He smiled, then came to the side of the pool, kneeling carefully on the artistically natural stone edging.
“Hi.”
She swam up. He could see the lines around her eyes from the goggles. With her hair under the tight swim cap, she looked different, but no less beautiful.
“Hi,” she replied. She tugged off her swim cap then dunked under the water, wetting her hair. When she surfaced, she looked like a beautiful, dark-eyed mermaid. Not the Disney-princess kind. No, she was the kind of mermaid who lured men to their deaths in the depths of the sea.
She glanced around.
“I think they’re in their suite,” he said.
At that, she planted her hands on the rock and, with a few kicks, popped out of the water high enough to kiss him.
Weston was ready for it. He grabbed her by the waist, and lifted her straight up out of the pool, standing even as he lifted her. She squeaked in surprise.
&nb
sp; “Wes!”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist.
“Impressed?” he asked. He’d been lifting weights all semester, and had imagined this very scenario—lifting her dramatically out of the pool—a thousand times. It was even more amazing in person.
“I am impressed.” She leaned in and kissed him again, more aggressively than he was used to.
Weston cupped her ass with his hands, fingers slightly tentative. He was touching her butt. It wasn’t like he wasn’t familiar with female bodies, but this was Rose.
He started to end the kiss, but she kept her lips pressed to his. Okay then. Her tongue slid into his mouth, tasting him. He returned the motion, instinctively taking control of the kiss, battling her for dominance.
She pulled back, lips pink. She unhooked her legs, wet body sliding down his now soaked front. Weston held still when he realized his erection was pressing against her stomach. Rose was a virgin. Would she even know that’s what she was feeling?
Her eyes widened and she took a half step back.
She knew.
Weston shoved his hands in his pockets, forcing the wet front of his slacks away from his crotch.
“I’m hungry,” he blurted out.
Rose took a deep breath, let it out, then smiled up at him. “Gina made some salads and stuff.”
He returned her smile, relieved. “Meet you in the kitchen?”
She arrived fifteen minutes later, wearing a white mesh bathing suit cover up and a black bikini. She’d changed out of her one-piece suit into a bikini? Wait, had she done that for him? He fumbled the piece of bread in his hand and it dropped to the floor. They’d been kissing and stuff since last summer. She’d been a bit weird at winter break—going to bed early, getting up late, and spending most of her time curled up on the couch reading books. He’d thought maybe she was missing her mom, though that was the second Christmas since she’d gone missing.
Rose hopped onto the counter and swung her legs, her heels tapping together when they met in the center.
He went back to making a chicken salad sandwich. He hadn’t been kidding about being hungry—he’d already made and eaten one.
“Caden’s at some coding camp,” she said. “He’s not coming up for two more weeks.”
“Just us, then.”
She bit her lip. “I’m glad you’re home.”
“I am, too. But I thought you were going to go abroad for the summer?”
Her expression melted away, leaving her face blank. “I tried, but nothing…nothing worked out.”
Rose’s remaining parents—the Hancocks—were total assholes. They were a big deal in New England, and they were married. Their third, Rose’s biological mother, had raised Rose as a single mom. The Hancocks might be Rose’s parents in the eyes of the Trinity Masters, but they didn’t seem to want anything to do with her.
When she’d been alive, Rose’s mom—a famous anthropologist and professor at the University of Washington—had traveled so much that most of the time Rose spent the holidays with Weston’s family. The Hancocks wouldn’t let her stay with them—that might raise questions and damage their reputation.
Just before Rose’s fifteenth birthday, her mother disappeared. She’d been declared dead last year, and the Hancocks had kept right on ignoring Rose, who was officially an emancipated minor, but unofficially his adopted sister.
Even thinking the term made him wince. He did not have brotherly feelings toward Rose.
He only saw her for a few weeks of the year—Christmas, summer, and, if he was lucky, the occasional long weekend. Berkeley had a different spring break than her school, so he hadn’t been able to see her then. The “residential school”—aka boarding school—she went to was one of the best in the country and lots of legacy kids went there.
That fuck Devon Asher went there.
Weston smushed another spoonful of chicken salad onto the bread, imaging he was shoving it into Devon’s stupid face.
Devon would marry Rose. The Grand Master had already decided that. He, Rose, and Caden would all be members of the Trinity Masters, like their parents, and that meant they didn’t get to fall in love. They would marry who they were told, when they were told. But until they were called to the altar, they were free.
“If you needed someone to pull some strings, you should have asked my parents,” he said.
“I’d rather not.”
“Stubborn.” He finished the sandwich, cut it in half, then passed her one half.
“No thanks, too many calories.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No one wants a fat woman,” she said, staring at her knees.
Weston put down his sandwich very slowly. “Did Devon say that to you?”
Her head jerked up. “Devon? No.”
“Who said that?”
Rose shook her head. “I shouldn’t have repeated it.” There was something haunted in her eyes.
“Rose?” The sandwich he’d already eaten turned to lead in his stomach. He tentatively put his hand on her knee. She gasped and grabbed his hand with hers, squeezing. Thinking he’d scared her, he tried to pull his hand away.
“No, please, please.” She fumbled as she laced her fingers with his. “Stay with me.”
“Hey, Brown Eyes, what’s wrong?” He stepped closer.
She shifted her legs to the side then reached out for him, arms circling his neck. She buried her face against his shoulder.
He kissed her wet hair, stroked her back. In that moment, he felt about ten feet tall, suffused with the need to protect and care for her.
“Shh, I’m here. I’ve got you. It’s okay.”
She lifted her head, eyes luminous with tears. “Sorry, I’m just…really glad you’re home.”
“Is this about your mom?”
She shook her head then reached over, grabbed half the sandwich and took a big, defiant bite.
He picked up his, and they tapped sandwiches in a modified cheers. The moment of…whatever that had been…passed.
“How were finals?” she asked between bites.
“Eh, okay. I could have studied more.”
“What a shock. I got a lot of drunk texts.”
“I regret nothing.” Okay, he regretted a few of them.
He’d also taken a fair number of dick pics to send her, but always managed to stop himself. He didn’t want to be that guy.
“I can’t wait to send you drunk pictures next year.” She grinned.
“You’ll still be seventeen.”
“I turn eighteen next spring, and more importantly, I’ll be a senior. Seniors get to drink. It’s tradition.”
“Drinking age is still twenty-one.”
“And I believe you’re still twenty for a few more weeks.” She put her wrist against her forehead. “Underage drinking! The horror.”
He had decided at twenty-and-a-half to just start saying he was twenty-one. Weston snorted. “You’re lucky I like weird girls.”
“You’re lucky I like big dumb jocks.”
He flexed his arm. “Look at these guns.”
“Weston.”
He and Rose both froze, turning to one of the kitchen doorways.
“Father,” Weston said.
Elroy Cloud had dark hair, a lean, handsome face, and a razor intellect.
Barton was distant and stern. Mom was a bit cold—she’d been great when they were little, but the older they got, the more distant she seemed. But Elroy…
Elroy was terrifying. He seemed to always know what you were thinking, as if he were psychic. The worst was when he caught you doing something wrong. He wouldn’t just yell at you, he’d question you until you felt small and stupid.
Elroy nodded to Weston, but his focus was on Rose. She’d gone still, like a rabbit hiding amid tall grass. “Rose,” Elroy said in a cold, hard voice. He pointed at the floor.
She set her half-finished sandwich down with fingers that trembled.
“Is that
how you greet a Dom?”
Weston’s whole body went cold. Dom—dominant. That was a word he knew all too well.
When he was fifteen Elroy had started “training” him on the BDSM lifestyle and how to master women. He’d escaped to college, desperately happy to avoid the weekly “training session” at the condo where his parents kept their submissive “Pet”—whom Weston had finally gotten to tell him her real name, Lynn. It was creepy and weird that he’d touched and been touched by his parents’ submissive, and even creepier that she’d given him gentle feedback about his spanking technique, while Elroy looked on.
Weston had headed directly to a counselor freshman year, who’d looked shocked by his sordid tale, and at first hadn’t believed him. But they’d talked, week after week, and Weston had come to a weird kind of peace about it. His counselor had gotten him articles about cultures where it was considered normal and appropriate for men to lose their virginity to a prostitute. He’d read up on the BDSM lifestyle and told himself that maybe Elroy really did think he was doing something good. The rumor among all the legacy kids was that once you were a grown up, but before you got called to the altar, you were supposed to go out and have tons of weird sex, so that you’d be ready for your trinity.
Rose turned wide, horrified eyes to him. Whatever she saw in his face made the color leach from her cheeks and lips.
“Rose,” Elroy snapped. “Unacceptable.”
She dropped her gaze and slid off the counter. She started to fall to her knees.
“You know better than that.” Elroy’s voice dripped with disgust.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.
Rose pulled her bathing suit cover up over her head, then untied her bikini top and slid it off. Weston jerked his gaze away from her. His ears were ringing.
Elroy walked out of the kitchen.
Rose made a small sound. Weston turned to look at her.
She was totally naked.
She was kneeling like a submissive.
Her fingers were laced together behind her neck, her elbows spread wide. “It shows off their breasts and makes them feel vulnerable,” Elroy had told Weston.
