by Mari Carr
“But the more I dug, the more it seemed like the three of them were a trinity, put together later in life. I managed to track down a descendent of William Hamilton—the ambassador.”
“That’s where you really went that summer?” she asked gently.
After the horrific night in the kitchen, he’d stayed in his parents’ house for three weeks, when he’d only planned to be there for two. He lied and said he’d postponed his internship. For the weeks he’d been there, they’d hid in his room, sneaking out only to get food.
They’d made love, Weston taking his time to learn every inch of her skin and giving her pleasure every way he knew how.
Once Caden was home from his camp, and Elroy gone on a business trip, Weston left to get the answers, and the help, they so desperately needed. He’d promised to come back, and prayed that because Caden was home, and Caden didn’t know anything about BDSM or what they were doing to Rose, that even when Elroy came back, Rose would be safe.
“I went back to Cal. Then, once I’d made contact, to England to meet with the Hamilton descendant. It took a while, but finally I was put in contact with someone from the Masters’ Admiralty. I told them who I was. Told them I was a Trinity Masters legacy, and that I needed help.”
“I spent a lot of time thinking about that day. The last time I saw you.”
It had been a warm, sunny summer day—not too humid, which was nice. She’d clung to him with desperation when he’d hugged her goodbye. To this day, if he closed his eyes he could feel her sun-warmed hair under his cheek, and see her in his mind’s eye—slender and lovely, wearing jeans and a tank top, her long dark hair loose around her shoulders. Caden had frowned at them, his dark brows drawn together. Weston had whispered to her that he’d be back, he’d keep her safe. That no one would ever hurt her again.
And when he’d finally broken the hug, her face had been wet with tears. He’d told Caden to take care of her, throwing out some vague statement about how she was having a hard time.
Caden had wrapped one arm around her, trying to draw her into the house, but Rose had insisted on staying, watching his car drive away.
He knew because he’d watched her in the rearview mirror.
Weston straightened away from the wall. Two steps and he was beside her. “I failed you, Brown Eyes.”
She held up one hand. “Don’t. Please.”
“Don’t call you Brown Eyes?”
“Don’t…make me feel. I’ve already cried more today than I have in years. It’s taken me a long time to learn how to be numb. Caden’s death…” She was trembling, the same way she had when she was seventeen. “I’m raw right now. I can’t handle being reminded of that summer.”
“Because I left you?” Weston clamped down on his feelings, keeping his tone emotionless.
She whirled on him, her hand raised as if to slap him. He caught her wrist on reflex, jerking her hand down. “Stop it, Rose.”
He deserved the slap, and so much more, but there wasn’t time. This was the eye of the storm, a temporary respite. Caden’s death, and her actions following it, meant that he was racing against a clock. He’d hoped to pick the time and place to take down his parents, but he’d lost that option.
Her gaze flicked to his fingers, and her trembling ceased, replaced by a tense stillness.
“I’m going to Dorset tomorrow. I’ll get proof about the Esperanza. Then we can confront them.”
She didn’t respond.
“My parents, the other purists, the Grand Master—all of them.”
“All of them,” she repeated quietly.
“The Esperanza is the key.” After all these years, he was more than ready play the trump card he held, to strip Elroy and Barton of their power. “Once we have proof of what they’ve been keeping secret, we’ll approach the purists from a position of power. Once we know their secret we’ll hold it over them, like the sword of Damocles. If they try and call my bluff I can prove that the Masters’ Admiralty will listen to me. We’ll be the players, Rose. Not the pieces. It’s checkmate—they’ll have nowhere to go, because if they do anything, we’ll tell the Masters’ Admiralty, who will come for revenge. The purists would lose that battle.”
He grinned at Rose, who was looking at the floor.
“Checkmate. Game over.”
Chapter Seven
Let go. Let go.
Rose stared at his hand, where his long fingers were still wrapped around her wrist like a manacle. How many times had she been held like this, how many men had grabbed her this same way, sure that she would obey, would submit, because of who she was?
What they’d made her into.
Let go, Wes. Please, let go.
She heard him, understood what he was saying—if he was right about the Trinity Masters having stolen a ship full of wealth that belonged to this Masters’ Admiralty, having proof of that would make them untouchable. They’d be free.
You fool. You’ll never be free. You can’t escape what you’ve become.
She could feel the heat of his body, and perverse, fucked-up creature that she was, she wanted to slip closer to that warmth, yet she also wanted to yank her hand away and deliver the slap.
She was still shaking with shock at what she’d almost done. A submissive never touched a Dom without his permission. She’d almost slapped him.
But oh, she was hurting, as if her insides were filled with glass shards, and every time she breathed, those jagged, sharp edges pressed deeper into her innards, rending more than just flesh, but her soul.
Whatever was left of her soul.
“I’m going to Dorset tomorrow,” he said again.
Yes, Sir.
She bit her tongue to stop the words. His voice carried a tone of command. Was he doing it on purpose? Did he know, did he remember that she couldn’t help but obey?
“Rose?”
His hold on her changed, his thumb rubbing across the inside of her wrist. Could he feel the scars there, from when it had all been too much?
“Safety cuffs.” Her voice was calm, and she was proud of that. She thought it would tremble—she was so cold she was surprised her teeth weren’t chattering.
“What?”
“You had safety cuffs. BDSM-style restraints.” She had to pause to keep her voice level. “I woke up first tied to a chair, and then chained to a bed.”
“I…I wasn’t sure if you’d fight me again. I knew it was going to be a shock when you saw me.”
“BDSM restraints,” she repeated.
“Look at me, Rose.”
It was a command, and she obeyed.
His gaze searched her face. “What are you thinking? What are you asking?”
“Why, Weston? Why do you have those?”
He shook his head. “Nothing nefarious, Rose. They’re just easy to order online, and I knew they wouldn’t hurt you.”
That was a totally reasonable explanation. And she didn’t believe him.
“That’s the only reason?” She whispered the question.
He paused, his good eye sliding away, the lid lowering over the fake eye. “I know you and Caden…I thought you’d feel safe with them. Or at least familiar.”
Her body flushed hot. Her cold fingers and toes tingled as the fire of her rage chased away the numbing cold.
“Safe,” she spat. “Familiar?” She took a half step back, yanking her wrist from his hold. “Let go of me.”
Weston’s gaze snapped back to her, his jaw clenching. He was so big, so battle scarred. Caden had been lean and darkly elegant. More than once in her life she’d been told she and Caden matched—both with dark hair and eyes, with the lean builds of runners. And both of them so fucked up they were barely functional.
She and Weston didn’t match. They had once—he’d been her knight, her protector.
Now he was large and imposing, scarred and stern. But she hadn’t forgotten how he’d held her when she’d wept and sobbed.
“You were Caden’s submissive. I know you w
ere both active in the lifestyle.” He sighed. “I should have realized that so soon after his death, you wouldn’t want to be reminded of having lost your Master, and—”
Your Master.
Rose wanted to throw up. She pressed her hands to her stomach. “Shut up,” she snarled. “Shut up, you son of a bitch!”
Weston turned to keep her in sight with his left eye. “Let’s go back inside. I’m sorry to have upset you.”
“To have upset me?” Rose couldn’t stop herself. She threw her head back and laughed, but it wasn’t amused. It was a horrible, desperate sound. “You’re an idiot, Weston. You were then and you are now. You have no idea…”
No idea what your brother did to me. No idea how much I’ve been hurt. No idea that I never stopped loving you.
“Enough, Rose. We don’t have time.”
The reprimand hit her like a physical blow. She thought she’d gotten ahold of herself. For a few minutes there, when he’d been explaining what he found out, she’d forgotten the events of the past week, caught up in the unraveling mystery.
But that hadn’t lasted.
She dropped her hands to her sides, bowed her head submissively, and said, “I’m sorry, Sir.”
Weston made a disgusted noise, and she flinched.
“Enough, Rose. I told you. We don’t have time for this. Stop playing.”
Rose inhaled and slowly raised her head. “Playing?” Before she could stop herself, or before her submissive self could censor the movement, she took a step to the side, raised her arm, and slapped him with her left hand. He hadn’t seen the blow coming, because she slapped his damaged right cheek, the side where he didn’t have an eye—a cruel, calculated move.
Weston’s head snapped back.
Her palm stung, and it felt good.
There were so many things she wanted to say, that she wanted to scream at him, but more than that she wanted to get away from him. She settled with spitting out, “Go to hell.”
And she ran.
She could move fast—she was out the door and blinking in the sunshine almost before he’d recovered. She heard him pounding after her, but she’d seen him favoring his right leg. He wouldn’t catch her.
Barefoot, she ran through the grass. The lack of shoes would become a problem at some point, but the little cottage—their cottage, the one he’d promised her so long ago—was in the middle of rolling green hills. She ran downhill, paralleling the gravel driveway. She’d have to follow the road to a town. From there, she’d…
Rose had no idea what she’d do from there.
Her steps faltered and she almost stumbled, but after a few awkward steps, she found her rhythm again. For now, she would run. Later she would figure out what to do.
There was a buzzing noise, and she slowed a bit to look up, her instincts humming. She thought she saw something small in the air above her but the sunlight was bright and she had to look away. Had to look at where she was running.
* * *
Was that her?
Marek looked at the image the drone was transmitting. He’d been surveying the small cottage where local gossip said an American war veteran with only one good eye lived. A few seconds ago, a door on the side of the house had opened and a figure darted out. He tapped the controls, dropping in elevation to get a better look at the figure.
A slender, dark-haired woman was running barefoot through the front garden.
Marek jumped off the hood, throwing the laptop and drone control panel into the backseat as he slid behind the wheel.
This was going to be one of the easiest rescues he’d ever done.
Gravel sputtered under his tires as he took off.
* * *
There was a car coming, one of those little compacts everyone in Europe seemed to drive. The driveway met the road about twenty yards downhill. She used the grade to her advantage, picking up speed, wincing when she hit an uneven bit of ground or a rock.
Right before she was getting ready to start waving her hands like a crazy person, the car—which was going way too fast on the little country road—skidded to a stop, gravel kicking up from under its tires.
The driver’s door opened and a handsome man jumped out. He raced around the front of the car and met her where the grass of the field gave way to dirt and gravel.
He looked at her bare feet, and without hesitation, stooped and put an arm under her knees, his other at her back. He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the car.
Rose opened her mouth and then closed it. God bless good-hearted strangers.
When he got to the car, she reached down and pulled the handle. He pushed it open with his knee, then carefully set her in the passenger seat.
“Please put your seat belt on, ma’am.”
Rose blinked up at him, then fastened her seat belt. He closed her door. She watched him race around and jump into the driver’s seat.
Rose stared at the magnificent stranger, aghast in the best possible way. He was handsome, with vaguely Asian features. His hair was cut in a conservative side-part style and he wore clothes that looked pressed and fresh.
He put on his seat belt, checked his mirrors, and then gunned it, starting from second gear. The place where Weston’s drive met the road was in a small dip in the landscape. The house was up the hill on the right, and both in front of and behind them, the road rose up at a gentle incline.
For some insane reason, she started to giggle.
He shot her a glance out of the corner of his eye. “It’ll be okay, Ms. Hancock.”
Rose’s fingers clenched and she gasped. “What did you just say?”
“I was sent to rescue you.”
Gravel spat as the car gained speed. The man shifted gears with smooth grace.
“Rescue me?” There was a too-familiar sinking feeling in her stomach.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m glad I got here in time to aid you. Clearly you didn’t need rescuing since you escaped, but I’ll be able to help you from here.”
Rose’s dropped her right hand to the seat belt buckle. “Who sent you?” She hoped he didn’t hear the tension in her voice.
“A mutual friend,” he said carefully.
“Who?”
He didn’t reply. The little car crested the rise of the hill. The road turned gently to the right, keeping them within sight of the cottage.
“How do I know I can trust you?” she pushed.
“Our mutual friend wore an interesting piece of jewelry. A Celtic knot symbol with three points.” He paused, looking at her again, then added, “A triquetra.”
Rose slammed her fingers into the buckle, releasing the seat belt.
“Ms. Hancock!” He stomped on the brakes, reaching for her with his left hand. Rose dodged his hand and threw the door open. They were still moving fast, though the car was slowing. This was going to hurt.
She could handle pain.
Rose leapt from the moving car, aiming for the soft shoulder. She didn’t quite make it, hitting the gravel first. She skidded, then rolled off the gravel and onto dirt. Her momentum kept her going, and she rolled into a small ditch on the far side of the road.
She stared up at the blue sky and fat white clouds, opening and closing her mouth. The first impact had knocked the wind out of her and it took a moment for her body to remember how to breathe. She finally gulped in air. She was hurt, but didn’t have time to catalogue the pain.
She rolled onto her side, took another few breaths, the smell of earth and crushed grass strong in her nostrils, then rolled onto her knees. That hurt. Hanging her head, she pushed the pain away, then lifted her head just enough to see out of the ditch.
Fifteen feet farther on from where she knelt the small car was stopped. It was angled across the road. The driver door was open, and her dark-haired “rescuer” was stopped with his hands up. He was closer to her than the car was, so he’d probably been running toward her when he’d been stopped by…
Rose turned, looking at the expanse of grass betwe
en the road at the cottage. Weston stood ten yards up the gentle rise, a massive black gun held up to his shoulder, his cheek pressed to the stock so he could see through the sight.
Damn it. Damn, damn, damn.
Rose indulged herself, staying down in her ditch, catching her breath.
“Sir, you need to put the gun down and turn yourself over to the authorities,” her “rescuer” called to Weston. He had a wonderful voice—his accent a mixture of sounds, with the precise pronunciation indicative of British English on top of it all. There wasn’t any fear in his voice.
Rose looked at him. Did he have a gun? Why was he so calm?
“Who are you?” Weston demanded.
“My name is Marek Lee. I’m here to take Ms. Hancock home. Let us leave, and I will wait until we’re back in the United States to notify the authorities of your location.”
“You think I’m just going to let you walk away with her?” Weston’s voice was hard, cruelly amused.
“Yes, sir, you are.”
Time to intervene. Rose stood up, brushing grass off her hands. The first few steps hurt, but she kept going, climbing out of the ditch.
Marek took a step toward her, but Weston barked “Stop,” and Marek nodded once in calm acquiescence.
She had to cross the gravel road, wincing with each step. With a little leap, she jumped onto the field on the other side. She walked toward the men.
“Ms. Hancock, please stop. I will keep you safe,” sexy-voiced Marek called out.
“Rose, get behind me,” Weston commanded.
Right. “Both of you can go fuck yourselves,” she snarled.
Weston growled, “Damn it, Rose.”
“Language, please.”
Rose and Weston both stared at Marek. She turned to Weston and her lips twitched. Weston smirked, but didn’t lower the gun.
With a sigh, she positioned herself between Weston and Marek, putting herself in the literal line of fire.
“Move, Rose.”
“No, Weston. Let him go.”
