Her Dom: A Dark Romance (Beauty and the Captor Book 3)

by Nicole Casey

  Her Dom

  A Dark Romance - Beauty and the Captor Book 3

  Nicole Casey

  Copyright © 2017 by Nicole Casey. All Rights Reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronically, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the proper written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  The Trilogy

  Beauty and the Captor series:

  Her Beast

  Her Savior

  Her Dom

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Scarlett

  2. Derek

  3. Derek

  4. Derek

  5. Scarlett

  6. Scarlett

  7. Derek

  8. Derek

  9. Derek

  10. Scarlett

  11. Scarlett

  12. Scarlett

  13. Derek

  14. Derek

  Epilogue

  More Information…

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Scarlett

  No more intrigue. No more murder. There’d been enough of that, don’t you think?

  There was just here. Now. Me. Derek—the man who would help put me back together, even if he didn’t know it yet.

  He was going to break me down into my most basic parts so I could put them back together again. And then this nightmare would be over. Done. Finished. We could put our tumultuous pasts behind us and finally, we would be free to live.

  At least, that’s what was supposed to happen.

  Things have a funny way of never turning out how they’re supposed to, don’t they?

  1

  Scarlett

  Another week had gone by. Another week of lying here, staring at the wall without seeing it. I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t see anything but the horror that replayed over and over again in my head.

  When he held me close and I could feel his heart beating against my back, it was better. Never gone, but better. I could believe life did exist somewhere outside that cell, but still, I couldn’t see it.

  I knew what I needed, what would slowly banish the nightmare I’d lived from my mind. And the man who could help me was right here, but how could I ask it of him? I’d opened my mouth so many times to let the words out, but every time they got stuck in my throat. How could I ask him to do the things he’d sworn to never do again?

  He was a different man than he’d been when this had begun. He was Derek now, not my master. He was the man who stroked my arm and whispered soothing words in my ear when I couldn’t hold back my tears. He was the man who held me close and demanded nothing of me. He was the man I loved with every piece of my broken heart, but I needed my master back. I needed my master to fore the pieces back together. Maybe that made me weak. Or perhaps it made me stronger than most to know what I needed to be whole again.

  But I wasn’t strong enough. I didn’t open my mouth. I didn’t ask him for what I desperately needed. I stared at the wall and watched in my mind’s eye as the devil tore the flesh from my body with his whip.

  Another day passed, and then another. I took the pills Derek gave me. I ate when he brought me food. I let him help me into the shower and I laid in the bed that was like a silken cloud in comparison to the cold, stone floor where I’d thought, no, I’d prayed, not so long ago I would die.

  Maybe I was getting better on my own. I wasn’t grateful the fates had sent Derek to rescue me, but the bitter resentment I’d felt in the first days had deflated. It wasn’t an overwhelming presence now. It was small, an echo of regret that floated in the back of my consciousness. Not gone, but better. I was getting better.

  Derek was still asleep. I could hear the even inhale and exhale of his breathing and felt the steady beat of his heart against my back. I slipped from beneath his arm as quietly as I could and stood up. My ribs still screamed in protest, but I could get up on my own again. Better—I was getting better.

  When his breathing remained even, I tiptoed into the bathroom and closed the door quietly behind me. I would shower, without his insistence and without his help, because I was getting better.

  I let the unbuttoned shirt I wore slip off my shoulders and turned on the faucet. Before I could step in though, I caught sight of my reflection in a broken shard of mirror that hadn’t smashed to the floor with the rest of its pieces. It was a small shard, smaller than half the size of my hand, but the unfamiliar person it reflected back at me made me curious. It was a morbid curiosity. Nothing I saw there would make me feel better, but I needed to look.

  I pried the shard loose, forgetting about its sharp edges until a thin rivulet of blood dripped down the glass. It wasn’t a sight that shocked me anymore. I’d seen more of my blood drip from my body than any person should ever see in a lifetime. A few more drops made little difference, and the sharp sting from the source was little more than a tickle. I wiped the blood away with a cloth and held up the shard in front of my face.

  Only, it wasn’t my face. Not the one I remembered, at least. Most of the bruising had faded to hideous shades of green and yellow, like a poorly applied camouflage mask. My cheek though—the one that had been ground against the stone floor relentlessly—resembled something from a horror film. Scabbed and crusted, with shiny, white edges where the skin had begun to heal. The green eyes that stared back at me weren’t my own. They were dull, almost lifeless, despite the shimmer of fresh tears welling there.

  I forced myself to move on, lowering the glass an inch at a time. Faded bruises. They crept out from beneath the bandages, around my ribs and spread out like ugly, obscure tattoos down my abdomen and up over my breasts.

  But I couldn’t see what I wanted to see most—what I needed to see. I’d spent so many hours beneath the cut of my tormentor’s whips and canes that I already knew the damage to my back would be irreparable. It would stay with me forever, but I didn’t even know what it looked like. How strange was it that I didn’t even know what a part of my body looked like?—how it would forever look.

  The need to know burned bright and I positioned myself in front of the shattered edges of the mirror that still clung to the wall. I lifted the shard in my hand behind me; though my hand shook so hard I nearly dropped the glass. Eventually, by turning this way and that, I was able to catch a glimpse of the grotesque canvas that was now mine. Mutilated flesh scabbed and puckered. God, I was hideous. He’d made me hideous.

  I dropped the glass and my knees gave out, though I was able to get my hands beneath me before my body clattered and broke like the glass. I sat on the floor, gulping air and trying to stop the scream that rose up in my chest. I couldn’t let it out. I was getting better. Screaming would be worse, not better.

  The blood from my finger dripped onto the marble tile, and I forced my attention onto that. It was just a tiny cut. It would heal. Look, the drips were already starting to slow. One, and then another…and then another. It didn’t escape my attention that if Derek walked into the room at that moment, it would look like I’d clearly lost my mind. Sitting on the floor, naked, and watching my blood pool on the perfectly level surface. Maybe I had lost my mind—in my first prison, or somewhere along the road of our escape, or in t
he dark, dank dungeon.

  No, I couldn’t accept that. I was getting better.

  With renewed determination, I picked up my shirt and pushed myself up off the floor. And my legs didn’t buckle when I walked toward the door. I’d lost whatever urge had compelled me to the shower, and it seemed like a wasted effort to go back to turn off the faucet. I put my shirt on though and even did up the buttons. The blood smears left by my finger seemed inconsequential. I opened the door, intending to slip back into bed before Derek woke up, but I froze before I could take a step out into the room.

  He was awake, and he wasn’t alone. My heart raced, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs.

  “Scar, it’s OK,” he said as he crossed the room in four, long strides. “Breathe. It’s just Dr Fuentes. He’s come by to make sure you’re healing well.”

  I couldn’t move. I recognized the man now, but I didn’t want him here. I didn’t want him to touch me. This wasn’t better. This did not feel better. What difference did it make if I healed? My body would forever be a horrid mess. Did it matter if my ribs didn’t heal right? Maybe he wanted to check the places where I had stitches. No, I did not want him to do that.

  The doctor approached and I wanted to dart into the bathroom and lock the door, but aside from the way my whole body had begun to tremble, I couldn’t move. There was no sense in running. It never helped. It never stopped what was going to come next.

  The man stopped two feet away and he stood there looking at me. I dropped my gaze but I watched him surreptitiously through my lashes. He exchanged glances with Derek, but I couldn’t see enough to know what the look conveyed.

  “Why don’t you have a seat on the bed, ángel, while I have a word with your master,” the doctor said kindly.

  I liked his voice. I liked, even more, the opportunity to put as much distance between me and the kind voice as possible, so I locked my wobbly knees and headed straight for the bed. My ribs had healed enough that though it hurt to sit down, I could manage it with minimal grimacing.

  “She calls me Derek, Vicente. Not master,” I heard him say tersely.

  “Is that so?” the doctor replied with amusement in his tone and a chuckle.

  I caught Derek’s cold glare, and the doctor’s laughter quickly died away. Then I could hear only the murmur of their voices as they spoke quietly—no doubt they were talking about me. I sat perfectly still, trying to make out bits and pieces of the conversation. Though I was tempted to wriggle closer, I didn’t. I could decipher little more than the occasional word until the doctor’s voice rose to an agitated whisper.

  “Look at the poor girl—she’s a frightened shell. Unless you want her to remain that way, she needs more help than you can give her.”

  What was he suggesting? That I needed more than Derek to get better? That he wanted to take me away?

  “No!” I cried, backing up to the other side of the bed. He couldn’t take me away. Not again. Please god, not again.

  “What’s wrong, Pet?” Derek crooned as he made it behind me before I toppled off the edge of the bed.

  It was something I’d noticed ever since we’d escaped that night in my first prison. Derek kept reverting back to that name. I liked it. I didn’t know why, but it was comforting and I allowed myself to relax my body back into his arms.

  “I don’t want to go with him. Please don’t make me go.”

  “I won’t. I promise,” he soothed. “Dr Fuentes is only here to make sure you’re healing physically. Isn’t that right?” His eyes shot up to the doctor’s.

  “Yes, that’s right,” he said to me with a sigh.

  Then he came closer again, and I pressed harder against Derek’s arms as if I could disappear inside them. I didn’t disappear, and he kept coming, but he stopped a foot away this time and crouched down in front of me.

  “Of course I won’t take you anywhere you don’t want to go, ángel. But do you know why I took this job—working for Derek and the man who employed him?”

  I shook my head.

  “Because if I didn’t, there would be girls—girls like you—who would never get the medical attention they needed. Do you understand?”

  Yes, I did understand what he was saying. He didn’t agree with what happened to them—to me—but this was the only way he could help them. The only way he could help me. He wanted to help me—that’s what he was saying. That was good, but still, I didn’t want to go anywhere with him.

  I nodded but kept myself as close to Derek as I could.

  He eyed me for another minute. The silence was tense as if both of them were waiting for me to say or do something. I didn’t move a muscle. I barely breathed.

  “All right,” the doctor said with another deflated sigh. “Will you let me have a look at your wounds, ángel?”

  I didn’t want him looking at me, or touching me. I didn’t want to move from the safe cocoon of Derek’s arms. Did I have to do this? I needed my body to heal, didn’t I? Did I even have any say in the matter? It was too much. Just too damn much.

  Do it, a voice whispered from somewhere in my head. It was the place that was strong. The place that knew what I needed to heal. And it wasn’t telling me to send the doctor away or to lock myself in the bathroom. That wasn’t what I needed.

  “Tell me what do to,” I whispered. Maybe that made me weak, but I didn’t think so. I was making the choice to hand it over, to trust him. It wasn’t being taken from me this time. My choice.

  He looked down at me and brushed the hair back from my forehead. Then his eyes closed and he nodded. Did he understand? Could he see what I really wanted to ask of him?

  “Stand up and face the bed, Pet,” he said then, though partly a moot point since he was holding me tighter in his arms and helping me to my feet.

  He positioned himself in front of me and kept his eyes on mine as he unbuttoned my shirt. I shivered when he slipped it from my shoulders, but I didn’t try to stop him. Instead of letting it drop to the floor though, he held it around me, part way down my back.

  I felt the doctor’s hands on me then, on the flesh, Derek had exposed. He pressed gently in various places until he’d reached where my shirt still covered me. Only then did Derek lower it further, revealing the wide bandage wrapped around my ribs.

  More light touches until the bandage fell away. Goosebumps prickled my flesh, only in part from the room’s cooler air on my warm skin, but I remained still and kept my eyes locked on Derek’s. He never looked away, not once, as if he knew I needed him to keep me anchored like this.

  Of course, he knew. He’d always known me, probably better than I knew myself. So, how did he not know until now what it was I needed? Or had he known? Had he resisted this?—or not wanted it at all?

  The doctor pressed on my ribs and I drew in a sharp breath as the pain made my eyes water. It hurt, but at least it didn’t hurt as much as it had before.

  Then my shirt slipped lower and I couldn’t hold back the tear that escaped. I tried to focus on Derek instead, wondering how he could know when the doctor was finished with one area since he eyes never left mine.

  Soft touches on my backside and my thighs, and then he was just about finished. Derek refastened my shirt before he leaned in closer.

  “Turn around so Dr. Fuentes can look at your cheek.”

  I did as he told me, but despite the kindly expression on the doctor’s face, I closed my eyes and kept them closed until he was. A few, feather-light touches, and then he was taking a step back. I sighed my relief. It was done.

  “Lie down on your back, Pet,” Derek said then in a strained voice.

  I whipped my head around to look at him, but no words came out when I tried to object. He was holding out his hand and I took it, and I didn’t resist when he helped me to do what he’d said.

  He leaned over me when I was flat on my back, and his frame blocked out my view of everything else. All I could see was Derek, and I tried to tune out all but the too handsome face
in front of me. I tried not to think about the hands on me down there or the men who had used me. None of that mattered. All that mattered was the man leaning over me.

  Then it was over. It had to be—there wasn’t any more of me to examine.

  Derek pulled the blanket up over my body to my chin and then pressed a gentle kiss to my lips. “Good girl,” he whispered before he stood tall and turned toward the doctor.

  “There is no sign of infection and I’m satisfied her ribs are healing well. I see no reason she won’t make a full recovery…physically,” he added the last sharply.

  “That’s enough, Vicente. You’ve made your thoughts known. Do not forget who you’re speaking to,” Derek warned in a calm, cold tone I knew all too well.

  It didn’t frighten me now—maybe in part because it wasn’t directed at me. Either way, it was reassuring to know he was strong in ways I wasn’t, and even more comforting to recognize that tone meant there was no way in hell the doctor would be taking me away with him.

  “Very well. My apologies, my friend,” the doctor said, though the insincerity in his voice was loud and clear.

  Hopefully, Derek would let it slide. As much as I wanted him to leave, I did not want the doctor to suffer because of me.

  Derek nodded, and I released the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

  “Am I too presumptuous to assume money is no object when it comes to her recovery?”

  “No, you would be correct.”

  Money? I hadn’t even considered that. Money wasn’t something I’d thought about in months. But how much was it costing Derek for a doctor to make private house calls?