by Shelly Bell
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Shelly Bell
Cover design by Elizabeth Turner. Cover image © Shutterstock. Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Bell, Shelly, author.
Title: At his mercy / Shelly Bell.
Description: First edition. | New York : Forever, 2017. | Series: Forbidden
lovers ; 1
Identifiers: LCCN 2017003017| ISBN 9781455595976 (softcover) | ISBN
9781455595952 (ebook)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Romance / Adult. | FICTION / Romance / Suspense.
| FICTION / Romance / Contemporary. | FICTION / Contemporary Women. |
GSAFD: Romantic suspense fiction. | Erotic fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3602.E4552 A95 2017 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record available at lccn.loc.gov/2017003017
ISBNs: 978-1-4555-9597-6 (pbk.), 978-1-4555-9595-2 (ebook)
Printed in the United States of America
LSC-C
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Epilogue
About the Author
His to Claim
Newsletter
For Melanie
My sounding board, my buddy reader, my best friend.
You are my rock. Remember, no matter where I live, I’m only a phone call away.
Acknowledgments
First, I have to thank my wonderful husband. We’ve weathered a lot of changes this year, and through it all, you’ve shown tremendous strength and patience. You’ve taught me that together, there’s nothing we can’t face. Thank you for continuing to encourage the voices in my head. I can’t wait to spend the next sixty years with you.
To my parents, thank you for never reading my books but buying them anyway, and for being two of my greatest supporters. I hope you know how much I love you.
To Jessica Alvarez and the team at BookEnds, thank you for always going above and beyond for me. I couldn’t have asked for better champions, and I’m so glad to have you all in my corner.
To Megha, who saw the potential in Tristan and Isabella, thank you for making my dreams come true. I’m thrilled to be working with such a gifted editor.
To all the bloggers, reviewers, and readers, thank you from the bottom of my heart for not only reading my books but for telling your friends to read them too. Word of mouth means everything to an author, and I’m grateful to have the most passionate readers. I couldn’t do this without all your support and, more importantly, I wouldn’t want to. I hope you love Tristan and Isabella as much as I do.
And last but never least, to Patty, Meghan, Heather, and Reem. Without you, there’d be no Tristan and Isabella. You’re an amazing group of women, and I’m proud to call you my friends.
Prologue
18 months ago…
Consciousness came slowly, creeping into Isabella’s mind like the first rays at dawn. A steady drum pounded in her temples, pain banding around her head as tight as a noose squeezing a neck. She tried to swallow, but her throat proved useless.
Still, she could breathe, which meant she wasn’t dead.
At least not yet.
But death felt imminent, hanging over her like the blade of a guillotine.
Why couldn’t she move?
Her eyes wouldn’t open. No. They couldn’t open, sealed shut by an unidentifiable glue. Her heart banged a staccato beat against her breastbone, panic surging.
There was something wrong.
Something she should remember…
“Shh, Izzy.” A gentle hand patted the top of her head like her father used to do when she had a bad dream. “Don’t cry. I’m here now.”
She was crying?
Rather than soothe her, the voice, soft and sweet as a lullaby, sent her pulse racing into overdrive. It was as if she was stuck in that place between asleep and awake, unable to escape the violent nightmare that chased her. That voice was hauntingly familiar. At one time it had brought her such joy to hear it. Then it had brought only tears. Now, it brought something else…
Fear.
Memories of the last few weeks slammed into her.
She remembered.
She remembered everything…
Everything but how she had gotten here.
The breakup. The hundreds of calls and texts that had followed.
“Leave me alone,” she said.
“I don’t know how,” he responded, his eyes filled with tears.
“Then pretend I died.”
Words had power, didn’t they? She’d known from the moment she threw those words out into the universe that they would come back to haunt her.
With every ounce of strength she had, she concentrated on getting her lids open. If she didn’t do it soon, she might never get the chance again. She needed to look into the eyes of the boy she’d once loved.
The boy who decided it wasn’t enough to pretend she had died.
She knew it in her bones.
He was planning on making it a reality.
Her eyes opened. The rays from the setting sun gleamed through the window, bathing her captor in light. He looked down at her with undeniable affection even as he held a butcher knife to her throat. “Hello, beautiful. I missed you while you were asleep.” He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers, a long, chaste kiss that caused her stomach to revolt. “I thought maybe I gave you too much ketofol and you wouldn’t wake up in time.”
In time for what?
She
tried to move, but it was as if her body was encased in concrete.
What had he done to her?
A whimper of fear escaped her throat.
He lifted her limp wrist. “I decided you were right. There’s no way I’ll ever be able to live without you. But I don’t have to. I figured out a way we can be together forever.”
The sun caught the blade of his knife as it arched through the dusty air.
A silent scream shrilled in her head.
Without control of her limbs or the power of voice, she couldn’t escape the inevitable.
She was at his mercy.
Sharp pain exploded up her arm as her blood spilled down her wrist onto the pristine white sheets.
She didn’t want to die.
But as the world spun around her and the sun began to set once more, she realized…
She didn’t have a choice.
One
If there ever was an unassuming location for a sex party, the quaint Tudor-style house in front of her definitely fit the bill. For Pete’s sake, there were children’s bicycles on the neighbor’s lawn.
Her cousin, Dreama, must have given her the wrong address.
Isabella Lawson rifled through her purse, cursing the starless night and wishing for the umpteenth time that someone would invent a purse that lit up when you opened it. After digging her way to the bottom, she finally located her cell.
A black screen.
Of course it was dead.
She leaned on her grandfather’s old Buick and growled in frustration. Would anything go right?
Tonight’s event was going to be her first sex party. And probably her last. But since Isabella couldn’t call Dreama for the right address, her plans to screw were screwed.
“What are you wearing?” asked her cousin.
Startled, Isabella spun around and pressed a palm to her chest as if trying to keep her racing heart from flying out. Her cousin had scared the stuffing out of her. She glanced down at her outfit. “What I’ve worn all summer.” Even she could admit that black stretch pants and a pink T-shirt with her family bakery’s logo probably wasn’t standard sex party wear.
Dreama blew a ring of smoke into the humid air, then took another puff of her cigarette. “That isn’t what I meant. I’m wondering why the hell you’re still wearing it.”
Fanning away the smoke, Isabella fake coughed. “I came straight from work. I didn’t have time to change. Not to mention, everything I own is in boxes.” About to leave for her freshman year of college, she’d packed up the majority of her clothes. “And I wasn’t about to ask Mom to borrow something of hers. She would’ve grilled me for information until I told her the truth.” Isabella plucked the cigarette from her cousin’s mouth, dropped it on the concrete, and ground it out with her shoe. “Would you have preferred if I’d told your aunt that you’re taking me to my first sex party?”
Dreama shook her head, a little laugh escaping her lips. “That’s all I need. Aunt Maria not only blaming me for corrupting her innocent daughter, but hauling my ass to church to confess my many sins.” She jumped up onto the hood of Isabella’s car and fished through her purse. “And I didn’t bring you to a sex party. It’s a play party.”
Isabella raised a brow in both confusion and at the fact that her cousin had just added another dent to the car’s collection. “There’s a difference?”
Dangling a cigarette between her fingers and rolling her thumb over her lighter, Dreama smiled. “Yes. Intercourse isn’t permitted at a play party.”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
“Sure I did,” Dreama said, bending to light her cigarette.
What was the point of being here then? She could’ve not had sex anywhere. The idea of coming to this thing was to experience BDSM in a relatively safe environment.
Isabella snatched the cigarette from her cousin and stomped on it. “No, I think I’d remember a detail like not getting laid at a sex party.” If the party wound her up, how would she get any relief? She’d already packed away her vibrator.
“Play party,” Dreama repeated, jumping off the hood of the car with a pop. “And don’t worry. There are other ways of getting off than intercourse.” Cracking up, she lewdly wiggled her fingers and stuck out her tongue.
Isabella’s cheeks heated. “Oh.”
Dreama placed a hand on her hip. “Maybe I shouldn’t have brought you here. You’re so innocent.”
She ran her fingertip along the pink scar on her left forearm. She’d always thought innocence referred to the status of your virginity. How wrong she’d been. Innocence was a state of mind, and she’d lost hers the hard way. Her scars would always remind her of that. “I’m not innocent,” she said quietly. “Not anymore.”
As her cousin was one of the few who knew the truth about what had happened to Isabella last year, her eyes clouded over with sympathy. “No, I suppose you’re not.” She curled her hands around Isabella’s shoulders, concern etched on her face. “Are you ready to go in and get a firsthand look, or would you rather go get a drink somewhere? I’m good either way.”
“Isn’t your Dom in there waiting for you?” Isabella asked.
Dreama’s lips tilted up in a smile. “Master Jamie is inside, but he’ll understand if I go get a drink with you. He knows you and I won’t get to see each other for a while.”
“I want to go inside,” she said. And she did, despite her racing heart and her sweaty palms. “I need to do it. You know I do.”
After surviving what she and her parents referred to as “the incident,” Isabella found that she’d lost her ability to trust anyone, especially herself. As a result, instead of having gone away to college as planned, she’d allowed her parents to convince her to stay at home and work in their bakery full-time. Her life in limbo, she’d spent her days at the bakery and her nights either in therapy or at home, hiding away in her bedroom.
But everything changed the night she’d hung out at Dreama’s and stumbled upon her huge collection of BDSM books.
After a long conversation with her cousin, Isabella realized she wanted to learn more about BDSM and borrowed a few of the books. Something about the lifestyle had resonated with her. Warmth permeated throughout her limbs at the idea of a man giving her structured rules to follow and at knowing there were established boundaries neither of them could cross. The sensation was so foreign, she almost didn’t recognize it.
Until she realized it was peace.
The unsettling feelings she’d harbored since puberty didn’t mean there was something wrong with her. Other people fantasized about being restrained and punished by a lover too. Of course, things like that weren’t spoken about in her large Italian-Irish Catholic family. No, she was expected to do her duty for her husband with her legs spread and her eyes shut tight without complaint. Husbands weren’t supposed to tie their wives to the bedpost and take them every way imaginable while she cried “no” and thrashed beneath him, all the while violently coming over and over.
She’d spent the following six months researching BDSM and discussing it with her therapist. At first, she hadn’t understood how she could want to be dominated or why she craved a little pain with her pleasure. Shouldn’t her past have turned her off to those yearnings?
For days, she’d walked around feeling both shame and guilt until she’d finally accepted that her sexual inclinations had little to do with what had happened to her. Yes, she was submissive. That didn’t mean she was weak or asking to be a victim.
Now, with eight weeks of her local BDSM group’s introductory class under her belt, she was ready to participate in her first real power exchange with an experienced Dominant. Dreama had assured her that she knew almost all of the Doms at the party, and with rules in place, Isabella would be perfectly safe.
In Isabella’s opinion, giving up her power to a Dom tonight would help her reclaim control over her life. Tonight, she’d take back what she’d lost and become whole again. And damn it, if it went as she suspected it woul
d, and she got off on being dominated, then she’d accept that her sexuality was different. But it was hers, and she’d own it.
Dreama released her hold on her. “Yes, I know all the reasons you need to do this, but once you get a taste, you may develop a particular palate. Life will become a lot more complicated.”
Isabella shrugged. After tonight, her particular “palate” would have to wait four years for another taste. It wasn’t as if she would have time for a Dom/sub relationship in college, even if she did manage to find a compatible partner in the Michigan Upper Peninsula’s small college town of Edison. “I’m not worried, but thanks for the warning. I’ll be sure to take that into consideration.”
Scrutinizing her, Dreama pursed her lips. “Before we go in, we need to do something about your outfit.”
Spoken like a true fashion maven. Dreama was wearing one of her own creations, a black bustier with metallic blue ribbons and an attached lace skirt. No one would ever guess from her clothes tonight that during business hours she was a buttoned-up, by-the-book parole officer.
But even with her cousin’s skills, Isabella’s outfit was hopeless.
Isabella pulled her shirt taut, showing off the logo for her family’s bakery. “Unless you have something in your car, I think I’m stuck with what I’m wearing.”
Dreama scanned her up and down, smiling. “We’ll make it work. Slide your arms out of the sleeves.” When Isabella did what she was told, Dreama folded and tucked the sleeves into the opening at her neck. “Now take off your pants.”
She raised a brow. “When I thought about attending my first play party, somehow it wasn’t you I pictured ordering me to remove my clothes.” Giggling, she shimmied out of her black pants and twirled around wearing nothing but a shirt made into a dress and white cotton boy shorts. “What do you think?”
Her cousin whistled. “You look hot.”
She laughed as she picked up her pants and tossed them into the backseat of her car before locking it. “I look like a stripper.”
“You’ll fit right in.” Dreama winked and threw her arm around Isabella’s shoulders, leading her to the front door. “Ready to play?”
Play. An innocuous word for such decadence. Was she ready to become part of it?
