Bonds of Hope

by Lynda Aicher

  He scrubbed his face and buried the thoughts deeper. Buried everything. He scanned the line of submissives who waited along the wall. Some were kneeling, others standing, all members who were waiting for a Dom to play with. Public play with experienced people provided a level of safety that gave unattached partners the chance to fulfill their needs.

  And tonight, Marcus’s need was one of escape.

  The same one he’d been hiding behind since Quinn. He might not reach the same level of fulfillment that he used to get, but the focus he gave each Scene took care of his mind for a while, and that was the best he could ask.

  He eyed up his choices, picking off the desires and needs of the ones he’d played with in the past before deciding on a big-boned, brown-haired woman. A long, slow seduction with a flogger would give him the workout and center he was seeking. If he exhausted his mind and body then maybe he’d be able to sleep that night. Maybe.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Quinn stood to the side of the set, waiting for the call from the director. She tightened the belt on her robe and closed her eyes. The shout of the stage manager overrode the chatter of the cast and crew who milled about, but she tried to block them out. Her hands shook, which was why they were shoved deep within the robe pockets.

  This was the last scene she had to film before they broke for Christmas. And her first Dungeon one. She needed to find her character, sink into the role and get through the filming. That’d been her mantra from the start and she’d yet to succeed. She was an actress and her role called for her to play the part of a submissive. But in her heart, she was still Marcus’s sub. Pretending to belong to someone else was proving to be the hardest thing she’d ever done.

  Her phone buzzed, the sudden vibration making her jump. She jerked it out of her pocket and tried not to hope. Her breath hitched then released. She bit her lip to hide her disappointment before she remembered her lipstick. It wasn’t Marcus.

  Why was she still holding on to the chance that he’d contact her again? He’d sent a brief text the week after the tabloid pictures were out, checking if she was okay. Their short exchanged had given her an optimism that was both foolish and stupid to believe in. But she couldn’t make herself stop.

  “Clear the set.” The call boomed across the space, and people slowly started to shuffle out. The director had called for a closed set for the next scene. This was her first one where she wasn’t one of the people leaving.

  “Shooting starts in ten.”

  Her stomach rolled and swallowing did little to hold back the rising nausea. She turned her phone off without replying to Martin, stuffed it back in the robe pocket and inhaled deep breaths through her nose that did little to calm her nerves or settle her churning stomach. It was just a part. She left the robe on her stage chair and stepped onto the set, hands clenched tightly at her sides.

  The concrete floor was cold under her feet and matched the overall atmosphere of the set. It had none of the warmth or community that she’d experienced at The Den’s Dungeon. The fake Dungeon was complete with a St. Andrews Cross, a spanking bench and a wall of prop tools from the BDSM trade. In the center was a large table that reminded her of a portable massage table with the added accessory of cuffs dangling from both ends.

  The prep went quickly. A last dusting of makeup, the adjustment of her wardrobe and finally her positioning. People talked around her, but their voices were only a buzzing in her head. The vinyl was warm on her bare legs and arms, the lights heating the material before she’d gotten there. But goose bumps sprung up on her arms when her wrists were buckled into the cuffs over her head.

  Her ankles were next and the tremors almost started then, but she held them to a single shiver. Her hair had been styled into a high ponytail, exactly positioned for the Dom to grab during the scene.

  They’d run through it all in rehearsals yesterday with an “expert” consultant advising them on every action. It was all very mechanical and scripted. The Dom actor would gag her, strip her and use a flogger on her back and bottom. She knew exactly what was coming, yet it didn’t help.

  But she had to do this. It was what the part called for, so she would.

  Her heart pounded and the chemical smell of the disinfectant that had been used on the table stirred her stomach more.

  “Ready in five, four...”

  Three, two, one counted down in her mind, and they were on.

  * * *

  The lights beat down on her back, raising the temperature beneath her leather corset to a sweltering level. She’d lost track of what take they were on or how long she’d been on the table. She’d fuzzed out some after the ball gag had gone on. Her mouth was spread wide and it pulled on her lips while testing the limits of her jaw.

  It took all of her focus to keep her gag reflex from triggering. She was thankful now that Marcus had used a similar one on her. It’d prepared her, even if it was almost unbearable. But it was called for in the scene, so she would endure it without panicking.

  She closed her eyes and focused on taking long, slow breaths through her nose. A path of drool slid down her cheek in a distinctly disgusting way that solidified the humiliation clawing its way out of her chest. Each inhalation was a chance to escape into the part, and it still wasn’t happening.

  The director had praised her acting, loving the emotion she was bringing to the character. The approval was rewarding and she’d put on her professional face, working every take until the director was happy. Yet she was the only who knew it wasn’t an act.

  On set, in front of the cameras, for the first time ever, she wasn’t acting. The headspace wasn’t there. Instead of the role she sought, she only found herself.

  Her, Quinn Andrews, the submissive.

  Sweat dampened her nape and a single trail of it ran down her forehead to merge with the slick side of her face that pressed against the vinyl covering. She tossed her head and tried to swallow but couldn’t. The ball pressed on her tongue and reinforced the choking sensation that fed the rising panic she was trying to push back.

  “How’s my little slut?”

  She cringed at the deep rumble of the other actor. His voice was wrong and his tone held that flint of disrespect that made her want to hide. She knew what was next and steeled herself to hold still when his hand slid up her back before grabbing her hair.

  Her chin was lifted, her throat arched and her breaths came too fast. Her saliva made a backward trek in her mouth and threatened to drain down her throat before he released her. She pressed her face into the vinyl, the drool draining around the ball to leave a puddle on the table.

  She could do this. Inhale. She wouldn’t wreck the scene. Exhale. It wasn’t that hot. Inhale. Her hands weren’t numb. Exhale. She wasn’t trapped. Inhale. She wasn’t going to choke.

  The smooth pad of a finger stroked down her cheek and broke her focus. She jerked away, hating the touch, but the cuffs pulled on her wrists, keeping her from escaping. The whimper rushed out before her throat undulated in warning.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. I can’t do this.

  The bile rose so fast she choked and gagged on the first rush. Her head spun, her throat burned and she pulled on her bindings, trying to get free. She kept screaming “saffron” over and over, but it wasn’t helping. It wasn’t stopping. The word resounded in her mind, but it couldn’t escape her mouth. She opened her hands, but there was no scarf. No safety net for her to trigger.

  “Missy! Missy!”

  The frantic calls made no sense to her scrambled brain. The hands that touched her were wrong. All wrong. Hard and abrupt. Not caring. Not Marcus. No. She had to get away.

  Everything decreased until the world came at her from a long, muffled tunnel. People yelling, scrambling, running at her. She couldn’t get away.

  Her stomach heaved and there was nothing she could do. No way to stop it. The vomit burned her throat and spilled around the gag onto the table, but there wasn’t enough room for it to escape. She inhaled, frantic for air,
and choked on the vomit trapped in her mouth before it spilled out her nose.

  No. Her lungs were on fire. She couldn’t breathe. She tried to inhale and got nothing but liquid. The stench of throw-up was ripe in her nasal passages, inducing another heave. Then her mouth was freed, and the vomit spewed out. Again and again her stomach spasmed and clenched, emptying its contents across the stage and down the side of the table as she gasped for air.

  “Missy. Shit. Breathe, honey. Breathe.”

  Tears streamed down her face, and someone held her up as she leaned over the edge of the table. She needed air but couldn’t get any. Each inhale was cut off by another heave from stomach. Her hands shook uncontrollably and a round of coughing interrupted her struggle to get a breath. Every part of her chest and throat was on fire, each shuddering gasp for air resulting in jabbing ribbons of pain.

  This was wrong. So wrong. She needed Marcus. Wanted him there. He never would’ve let this happen.

  “Hold on, Missy. Come on, breathe for us.” The panic edged voice of her director bounced off her thoughts, but she couldn’t grasp them. The voice was wrong, the tone too high. “The ambulance is almost here. Just hang on.”

  Hang on? How? It was too hard. It hurt too much. But Marcus wasn’t there. He couldn’t catch her if she let go. She was falling, and he wasn’t there to keep her safe.

  “Over here. Quick.” Deep voices, pressing hands, dark, dark world. “Shit. Help her.”

  “Missy, can you hear us?”

  Different voice. Still wrong. Not Marcus. He wasn’t there because she’d pushed him away. She ran. And he’d let her go.

  The darkness was a blessing and she scrambled for it, letting it encompass her, seeking sanctuary in a world gone mad. Maybe, if she was lucky, it would protect her since she was so, so alone.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Marcus glanced at the text message and groaned. Shit. He scratched at his beard, annoyed at the scruff that he’d forgotten to shave for the last two days. Why did Vanessa want to meet with him now?

  He glanced around at the merry holiday decorations and the grumbling shoppers and calculated how long it would take to get home. At three days before Christmas, the traffic out of the mall would be horrendous. It’d taken him twice the normal time to drive there, probably longer to get back.

  He stepped out of the flow of the pedestrian traffic and shuffled his packages around so he could answer her text. After the Quinn debacle, Vanessa had been surprisingly supportive, given how against the relationship she’d been.

  Fortunately, the flurry of attention from the tabloid articles had ended almost as fast as it’d started. But one week of being in the spotlight had been more than enough for him. Vanessa had been a goddess at spinning the pictures and keeping them from damaging The Den.

  He shifted back into the hustle of the crowed and checked his mental list of needed gifts. This last-minute buying wasn’t typical for him and he’d reached the end of his patience anyway. Vanessa’s text was a valid excuse to flee. His stomach growled a reminder that he hadn’t eaten today, but he ignored it and threaded his way through the crowd to the parking lot.

  As expected, the drive back to the club was long and bordered on torturous. Between the insane drivers, the snow-slicked roads and the constant barrage of Christmas music, he was exhausted. He usually enjoyed the Christmas seasons, but like everything else this past month, it was one more thing he simply had to put up with.

  Inevitably, his thoughts shifted to what Quinn was doing for the holiday. Did they have a tree? Did she remember Christmas with snow? Did she miss him? As much as he’d tried to bury the hurt and anger under work, the ache in his heart hadn’t eased. The anger had finally faded to leave behind the gnawing fact that he’d caused his own pain.

  He dropped the bags in his loft and tossed his jacket over the back of the couch before firing off a text to find out where Vanessa was. He headed down to the ground floor, thinking he’d get a drink as he waited for her to respond. The club had opened a few hours ago, but they expected a lighter crowd and he had the night off. Or in truth, he’d been ordered to take one off.

  The buzz of his phone stopped him before he reached the bar. Meet me in Seth’s office. Shit. He spun around and head back down the hall. His stomach clenched in warning when he entered Seth’s office to find Jake and Deklan there as well. At least it wasn’t the entire line of partners.

  “What’s up?” He shut the door, locking the beating thump of music out with it, and forced his voice to stay casual.

  Seth waved him over. “Have a seat. There’s something we need to discuss.”

  Marcus stood by the door, feet stuck to the floor. The immediate tension that gripped his muscles had no real merit, but every instinct told him this wasn’t good. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes and no.”

  Seth’s answer did nothing to ease Marcus. He glanced at the other men. Deklan leaned against the wall, Jake on the counter behind Seth’s desk. Neither man was dressed for the club or scheduled to work that night, meaning they’d come in specifically for this meeting. Their firm faces and stiff postures gave every indication that the discussion was going to suck.

  Vanessa turned around in the other chair and motioned him over. “Sit down, Marcus. There’s something we need to tell you.”

  “No. Just tell me.” A hundred different scenarios flashed through his mind of what was wrong. His gaze ran over each person, searching for clues that weren’t there. Anything with his family wouldn’t come through them, so it had to be club-related.

  Vanessa rose from the chair, her long, black skirt swishing around her legs as she came around to stand before him. As usual, she looked stunning in her full Domme gear. The red leather vest displayed a tempting plunge of cleavage and showed off the toned muscles in her arms. Her dark hair was braided in a single tail that hung down her back.

  “I got a call from Quinn’s publicist.”

  The immediate rush of panic wasn’t logical, yet it was there, burning the back of his throat and fisting his hands. He clenched his teeth to hold back the barrage of questions that would reveal too much. Instead, he gave Vanessa a short nod, hoping she’d go on.

  “Reports are out that Quinn was rushed from the film set via ambulance and taken to a private hospital early this afternoon.” She stepped forward and gripped Marcus’s bicep, but he hardly felt it. Everything inside him had gone cold. “Her publicist said that Quinn was stable, but the doctors are worried enough to keep her in the hospital. She didn’t give me any details on what happened.”

  No. That seemed to be the only word he could think of. No, this wasn’t happening. No, she wasn’t hurt. It was all bunched up inside him, ready to explode, yet he held it in and managed to ask, “Then why’d she call you?”

  Vanessa glanced back at the other men and hesitated. A hint of doubt passed over her face before she smoothed it behind the normal show of confidence. “Quinn is asking for you.”

  The strength left his legs instantly. The door rattled as he dropped against it and he braced his hands on his knees to keep from falling. Quinn needed him. In the next instant he bolted upright and had his hand on the door handle.

  “Just wait a second.” Deklan’s deep baritone order shocked Marcus enough to get him to pause. “You need to listen to us before you run down there, half-cocked and full of anger.”

  Marcus spun around and glared at all of them. “Why? None of you supported our relationship. Every one of you thought it was a bad match from the very beginning. And you—” he pointed at Vanessa, “—even tried to scare her off.”

  “That’s not true,” Jake said, the calmness in voice countering the anger that gouged at Marcus. “The problem was we all saw how right you were together.”

  “What the fuck?” Marcus glared at them. “That makes no sense.”

  “No?” Jake asked. “Then tell us we were wrong to worry as we’ve watched you work yourself numb this last month, trying to forget her.”
>
  “I’m fine,” Marcus mumbled, but there was no heat behind the words.

  “Do you still care about her?” Vanessa asked.

  “Of course I do. I gave her my collar. She left with it on, damn it.” He thrust his arm out, pointing uselessly in the direction the retreating SUV had taken.

  His chest heaved with the flash of remembered pain and the knowledge that he’d said too much. But there was no point in pretending anymore. It didn’t matter anyway. There was nothing they could say that would stop him from going to her.

  All in—that was how he’d played his entire life. Until Quinn. He’d let her run and had given up on them when he knew they weren’t done. There was more to their story and he was damned if he wasn’t going after it.

  “I love her.” He stepped forward and dare each one of them to contradict him. “She belongs with me and if that means I have to leave here to make that happen, then that’s what I’ll do. She needs me and I won’t abandon her.”

  “We thought so.” Seth picked up a folder from his desk and held it out to Marcus. “Here’s your flight schedule and hotel booking. Rock got the hospital information and included a map, her room number and entrance options. The main entrance will probably be packed with paparazzi.”

  “I’ll contact her publicist to tell her you’re coming and ensure your name is on the visitor list,” Vanessa added.

  Marcus was stunned. He stared at them, hearing what they said but not understanding. “Why?” It was a stupid question, but it came out anyway.

  “We take care of our family,” Deklan said. “You’re included in that circle.”

  “Here.” Seth brought the folder around the desk and handed it to Marcus. “Your flight leaves in two hours. Throw some stuff in a bag and meet Jake in the garage. He’ll drive you to the airport.”