by Ally Vance
Unlike Warren. I’ll never refer to him as master anything. Unless he demands it, in which case, I won’t have a choice.
I shudder at the thought and focus on adding some therapy salts to the bath. I choose the eucalyptus-scented one. It’s a new package, left by whoever stocks my bathroom. I used to think it was the staff. Now, I’m not so sure.
Lately, I’ve actually started to wonder if the person who leaves me the books is also the one who puts all the healing lotions and bath products under my sink.
Whoever they are, I love them. Or him.
Master Kaiden flashes in my mind again, his smoldering gaze from tonight sending a prickle of renewed heat through my veins. He never smiles. He rarely talks. But he oozes possession.
My arm tingles with the memory of him brushing by me on his way out of the party. He does that sometimes, ensuring I feel his presence.
Then Warren ruined it by calling me over to “entertain” his friends.
All three of them at once.
And they all wanted anal tonight.
I shiver, my thighs still drenched in the aftermath of their fun and my agony.
Bath, I remind myself. It’ll help.
With a rough swallow, I hoist myself up and over the edge. My lower body burns as I slide into the tub, my sore ass throbbing from the things they inserted into me.
The blood will forever stain the ruined sheets. Fortunately, I know they’ll be replaced by the time I leave the sanctuary of my bath. Warren’s staff are always thorough, especially when cleaning up my husband’s sins, and those of his friends.
I shiver, and another tear escapes my eye. Go to your happy place, I remind myself. Solitude. Peace. The scent of the sea.
It’s so natural to me now. I often fall into this fantasyland inside my mind when trying to escape during the act. The relief was short-lived when I tried to do this earlier tonight. Warren and his three friends knew exactly how to yank me back into the present. However, they’re no longer here now.
I sink deeper into the tub and close my eyes.
And allow myself to float away to a place of peace and quiet.
Everything is white for miles. Sand.
The sound of waves churns in the distance. Ocean.
Warmth blankets my skin. Sun.
I sigh, content with the thoughts of the only place that has ever truly pleased me. Home.
I rarely visited as a girl, the bridal program consuming most of my life. It was essentially a fancy boarding school for girls. The program started with a variety of foreign language classes, political science and government courses, and an assortment of other core educational lessons, like math and literature.
But when I turned eighteen, the focus of my training shifted to the sexual arts.
Starting with an elite member taking my virginity, then another being assigned as my personal trainer.
I knew from a young age that my purpose was solely to please a male member of society.
However, nothing could have prepared me for the trials of my eighteenth year.
And none of that compared to what Warren did to me on our wedding night.
I groan, the memories flooding my thoughts and drowning out the happy place of my youth. No. Not now. I push them away, fighting to the surface and yearning to return to the beach home my father allowed me to share with my mother for two weeks a year.
She used the time to drink her weight in wine. I merely sat on the porch and watched the waves.
They tumbled across the sand, over and over again.
So soothing.
I yawn, relaxing more into the tub, my skin ignoring the cooling liquid around me. I’ll stay here all night, just as I have many times before.
The lip of the bath cradles my head, lulling me into a relaxed state.
Hours pass.
The water is chilly now, cooled by the air conditioner.
It’s a warmer time of year, causing the systems to work harder to keep the estate temperate. A few minutes out on my balcony will cure me of the chill streaming through my veins. I just need to manifest the will to move.
After several attempts, I finally manage to force myself out of the tub. But rather than go outside, I just wrap myself up in a robe and go to the bed.
It’s freshly cleaned, the maids having silently come in while I bathed to strip the soiled linens and replace them with new sheets. The blood on the floor is gone, too. However, the memories are not. And the bruises are only just starting to form.
I ignore it all and cuddle deeper into my robe on top of the satin sheets.
Tomorrow is a new day.
Where I’ll probably endure this all over again.
Sweet dreams, I think. Whatever that means.
Chapter Three
Kaiden
I stroke my thumb across my bottom lip as Camilla snuggles deeper into her sheets. She looks so innocent and demure, her lashes fluttering across her cheeks as she loses herself to whatever fantasies lurk inside her mind.
Or perhaps nightmares await her.
Warren and his friends weren’t easy on her tonight. But they’ll never touch her again.
She’s mine now.
My toy. My bride. The future mother of my heirs.
She just doesn’t know it yet. But she will tomorrow, once the sun rises and the authorities bring news of her husband’s brutal car accident. He took a turn too hard and flipped his car. And the fire that followed destroyed everything inside.
Such a pity.
No one will ever know how he wept in his final moments, dreading the blade I held poised against his throat.
A beautiful sight.
A dream I’ll take to my grave.
Oh, there will be questions. Some may even say I had a motive. But the plan worked just as I intended. Rumors will fly without any proof, and I’ll ignore it all. As will my beautiful, sweet wife-to-be.
My brother left her with nothing, something she’ll quickly learn.
But I’ll fix it all.
I brush a finger across the screen, smiling as she trembles in her sleep. It’s as though she knows the real monster is about to claim her. The one still wearing her husband’s blood.
“I’ll make it all better soon, sweetheart,” I promise her. “You’ll see.”
Chapter Four
Camilla
Whispers.
Coy looks.
Pity.
I try to ignore everything as I make my way to the dining room. Warren told me to meet him for brunch today. He said last night that he has a surprise waiting for me, one involving my fate.
I know he wants to return me. He claims I’m broken because I can’t procreate, and now he wants a new bride. He thinks the program lied to him, but my fertility was tested as part of my bridal preparations. And I was—at that time—fertile.
I suppress a sigh and turn a corner toward the main hall. The whispers from the staff are louder today, likely because of how much I bled last night. I shiver, my body still sore from last night’s events.
Hopefully, Warren won’t notice. Otherwise, he’ll exploit my pain for his benefit and just make it that much worse.
The whispers grow into voices, conversation flowing freely below as I reach the grand staircase. I freeze at the top, confused by the chaos flooding the foyer by the front double doors.
Several pairs of eyes look my way, everyone pausing to gift me with more of those pitying stares.
Annoyance bristles inside me.
Last night wasn’t the worst of my experience. Why are they all looking at me like a dead woman walking? Do they know what surprise awaits me in the dining hall?
My jaw clenches.
Well. There’s only one way to find out.
I lift my chin and force a regal air as I descend, not bothering to acknowledge anyone around me. It’s how I survive. How I keep moving forward. How I put up with Warren and his cruelty.
The Elite Bride program taught me how to force a smile and maintain an el
egant air outside of the bedroom. And how to accept the kinky complexities of my husband and his friends.
That doesn’t mean I enjoy it.
On the contrary, I loathe every minute.
But it’s my fate. There is no alternative for one of my upbringing.
I pivot at the bottom of the stairs, ignoring all the commotion, and start toward the dining hall, only to halt as a deep voice says my name. Goose bumps pebble along my arms, my body aching at the memories of last night.
Grayson Thompson presses his palm to my lower back, the move proprietary and knowing and completely inappropriate in front of the staff. But he’s never cared about appearances. Just like Warren. They’re old friends. And they share a lot… including me.
“Where are you wandering off to, Cami?” he asks against my ear as his touch moves to my hips.
“Brunch with Warren,” I reply.
He freezes against my back. “You haven’t heard yet?”
I frown. “Heard what?”
He spins me in his arms, causing my five-inch heels to catch against the marble floor. I right myself by grabbing his suit jacket, my balance threatened by the abrupt movement.
Ow, I think, annoyed.
Then I meet his simmering gaze, his intensity causing my lungs to stop working. And not in a good way. What is it? I want to ask him.
Except a group of police officers choose that moment to enter the house without knocking. “What’s going on?” I whisper, my brow furrowing as one of the cops catches my attention. His kind brown eyes narrow at the hold Grayson has on me, and he moves our way with an authority that makes my knees lock together.
“Mrs. Graves,” he greets with a tip of his chin. “I was just on my way to find you.”
“That won’t be needed,” Grayson interjects. “I’ll talk to her.”
“I’m afraid that’s not our protocol, Mr. Thompson,” the male replies, his voice a deep baritone that brooks no argument.
But Grayson isn’t one to adhere to rules or propriety. Instead, he folds me into his arms as though we’re long-lost lovers and levels a look at the dark-haired officer. “Warren would have preferred a friend break the news to her, not a stranger. So if you’ll excuse us, we’ll be in his office.” He grabs me by the elbow and tugs me along with him, until two more cops step into his path.
“Problem, Quinn?” one of them asks, the question directed over my shoulder to the cop behind me.
“Not one I can’t handle,” he replies, stepping around me with danger in his eyes. “I recommend releasing her, Gray. Unless you want to be arrested for interfering with an investigation.”
The informal use of Grayson’s name suggests these two know each other. But I’ve never seen this cop before in my life. Nor do I understand what’s happening.
“Can someone please tell me what’s going on?” I ask.
Grayson flashes me a look of annoyance. But I’ve only been taught to bow to him in the bedroom, not in the grand foyer of my husband’s house.
“There’s been an accident,” Officer Quinn says softly. “And I need to ask you a few questions about it.” His gaze leaves mine for Grayson. “So if you could please remove your hands from Mrs. Graves, I would appreciate it.”
“She’s going to need a friend.”
“And she’ll have one,” the cop replies. “You’re more than welcome to wait here.” He holds out his hand. “If you’ll follow me, Mrs. Graves.”
I swallow, but Grayson releases me, his aggression a brand against my skin. Somehow I know I’ll pay for this later.
However, I’m more concerned with the present. “What kind of accident?” I ask the officer as he leads me through the foyer, down a corridor, and then turns into a sitting area that’s only two doors away from the dining hall. Warren refers to this room as his cigar room, which is evidenced by the subtle aroma of tobacco in the air.
The doors at the back of the room are open, revealing the wraparound balcony that overlooks the courtyard below. But the space is otherwise vacant, and the officer shuts the hallway door, leaving us alone in here.
“Warren’s dead,” he says without any introduction or calming words to lead me into the news.
I gasp in response. “He’s dead? How?”
“Car accident,” he explains, slipping his hands into his pockets.
My lips part on a reply that I can’t voice. Because I don’t know what to say. “I…” I blink, then swallow again. “I don’t…” The room spins a little. I try to shake it off, but that just makes it worse.
This isn’t… How?
Warren’s dead?
Is this some sort of sick joke? A test? A prank? With Warren, anything’s possible. He’s the most vile male of my acquaintance. Maybe he just wants to see how I’ll react to something tragic. That would explain Quinn’s familiarity with Grayson.
This is probably just an elaborate ruse to play with me. To give me a glimpse of hope. Because that’s the resounding feeling inside me—a hope that it’s true. A hope that all of this has finally come to an end. But what will that mean for me? Warren wouldn’t put me in his will. So if this is true—and that’s a big if—where does that leave me?
Something warm and soft covers my shoulders, causing me to flinch.
When did I sit down? How?
Officer Quinn kneels before me, his hands helping to draw the blanket tighter around my upper body, his expression one of concern.
What game is this?
What role am I meant to play?
The clearing of a throat has us both looking to the balcony, and my heart stops. Master Kaiden. He’s standing just inside the doors, his body clad with his usual expensive flair. Today’s suit is all-black. Fitting for death.
“She’s in shock,” Quinn says. “I’m not sure if it was the news or Gray’s manhandling in the foyer.”
Master Kaiden arches a solitary brow. “Grayson touched her?”
“Yes. He claimed to be the friend she needs right now.” The sardonic quality of Quinn’s voice isn’t lost on me.
This has to be a cruel joke of some kind, and I’m the punch line. I just don’t understand the purpose. Is this Warren’s way of relieving me of my duties? Is he going to send me back to the Elite Bride program? Can he even do that?
“I see.” Master Kaiden slips his hands into his pockets. “You can leave us, Quinn. I’ll take it from here.”
“Of course,” the officer replies, standing once more.
My brow furrows. Hadn’t he mentioned something about questions for me? But he’s gone before I can ask, leaving me wrapped up on the couch with Master Kaiden only a few feet away.
He takes Quinn’s place before me, squatting to stare up into my eyes.
His dark green irises swirl with intensity, his nearness causing the air to catch in my throat. However, unlike with Grayson, my lungs stop working for an entirely different reason.
Master Kaiden has always maintained this bizarre hold over me. All I want to do is kneel for him, to beg him to take me away from this hell and grant me a new reality. It’s frivolous and irrational. A fantasy I’ve clung to these last two years, since he met my gaze while I spoke the marriage vows meant for another man.
He claimed me in that moment.
Yet it was Warren who took me home, not Master Kaiden.
He holds my gaze for another moment, then stands to walk to the other side of the room. I watch him warily, waiting for the game to reveal itself. Yet all he does is retrieve a bottle of water from a fridge behind the bar then brings it back with a single-worded command of “Drink.”
I know better than to argue, so I do what he says, not stopping until the contents are gone. He takes the empty bottle from me and sets it on an end table, then settles beside me on the couch. His arm stretches out along the back, his fingertips brushing the blanket swathing my shoulders.
My eyes remain focused on the floor while my stomach rolls with hunger. I’m exhausted and depleted after going so long without food.<
br />
Warren didn’t allow me to eat dinner last night.
He stated I would live on the cum of his friends and nothing more.
I grimace, recalling the way they fed it to me from my—
“Camilla,” Master Kaiden says. “Look at me.”
It takes serious effort to comply, but denying his command isn’t an option. I meet his gaze, and my mind goes blank from the potency of his stare.
He’s mesmerizing.
Powerful.
Breathtaking.
My throat goes dry, his nearness intoxicating and overwhelming. I don’t know why he has this hold over me, but I thank him every day for it. Because it grounds me in my darkest moments and gives me a reason to survive.
Which is incredibly moronic.
And just a tad fanciful.
“The lawyers will be here soon with the requisite paperwork,” Master Kaiden says softly. “I’m going to have a lot to sign, as I’ve inherited everything my brother owned.” He cants his head to the side. “Do you understand what that means?”
“He’s dead,” I whisper, needing to say those two words again. Because that’s what he’s implying. And yet, I still don’t believe it. A car accident? Really? It seems too trivial, too easy. Warren has a garage of sporty automobiles, all of which he’s a master at driving. Wrecking one is so out of character for him.
“Yes.” He pulls a phone from his pocket while keeping his opposite arm stretched out along the couch behind me. His long finger swipes across the screen to reveal a photo of a bright red car wrapped around a tree. Then he shifts again to show Warren’s bloodied head and vacant eyes.
I study every inch of the image, even reach forward to enlarge it, needing to ensure that it’s real. If someone staged it, they did a brilliant job, because the man looks like my husband. “There’s bruising around his throat.”
“Yes, the seat belt strangled him,” he explains.
Something about that phrase lacks truth. I can’t say how or why I suspect that. Maybe it’s the glimmer I catch in Master Kaiden’s gaze. However, I choose not to question it.
