Captive Heart (Club Risque Book 6)

by Poppy Flynn

  There, on the porch, was a pair of Wellington boots. She stood there, her eyes glued to them while her legs shook with the cold, and the throbbing ache in her feet seemed to become more pronounced, the longer she considered the footwear.

  She swallowed and realised tears were stinging at the back of her eyes. She had never stolen anything in her entire life, but she was so desperate and so very cold.

  Could she do it?

  Could she bring herself to take them?

  Steal them?

  Except…how much further would she get if she didn't find some kind of protection from the elements? Already, the adrenaline which had brought her this far was beginning to wane and the bite of the harsh chill was taking its toll on her body. Her extremities were numbing once again. Faster, this time, because of the sweat that slicked her body.

  Was a life or death situation a reasonable excuse for theft?

  She came to the eventual hard-won conclusion that, actually, it was.

  As she looked all around her, once more, she psyched herself up to dart across the clearing in front of the cottage. She took deep breaths as she tried to rationalise her actions, even while tears of guilt and self-loathing prickled behind her eyes.

  As she made it to the other side and pressed herself up against the shadows of the front wall, she became aware that she was trembling almost uncontrollably; however, it wasn't through cold this time, but fear. She knew she was crying still, because she could feel the tears chilling on her cheeks after first warming them.

  Giving herself a mental slap, she crept to the porch, darting out her hand to grab the boots. She was about to about to spin away again, when her gaze lit on a long, thick scarf draped over a peg. She stared at it for the length of a heartbeat.

  Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. She wept some more as her heart broke just a little at what she was about to do. But needs first, and she snagged the scarf as well before sneaking away with her ill-gotten haul and sprinting for the gateway she had spied.

  "I'm sorry; I'm so sorry. I'll make it up to you, I promise!"

  She kept up the murmured litany under her breath as she ran away from the dimming pool of light around the perimeter and didn't stop until she had cleared the other side, taken stock of her situation, and pinpointed a new target to head for.

  She ran clumsily, lumbering along with her limp, doing her best to clutch the tarpaulin around her while hitching the Wellington boots under her arm. She bundled the scarf up in front of her and desperately tried to avoid dragging it along the wet ground and getting it soaked, but she couldn't bring herself to stop until she was out of sight.

  The soft wool already felt warm and somehow comforting under her hand as she headed for the horizon where the land dipped enough to be certain that whatever was beyond remained hidden from the view of the cottage she had just robbed.

  When she got to the banked edge of the field, it was steeper than she had imagined. Her tired limbs were having trouble keeping her upright, and the strain of maintaining her balance on the steep slope was more than her beleaguered body could handle. Her feet slid out from beneath her and she landed on her butt. The slick tarp had her slithering down the bank and gaining momentum until all she could do was hold on for dear life, try to stay upright, and wait until she came to a sprawled halt near the bottom of the hill.

  "Well, at least that speeded things up," she groaned as she righted herself and made a grab for the boot she had dropped.

  It was so damn tempting to just stay where she was. Her limbs seemed warmer now and her eyes were heavy. The thought of picking herself up and moving on again held little appeal, now the adrenaline was gone. She could just stay right here.

  This side of the hill sheltered her from the worst of the wind, or did it? She wondered as a wet gust picked up the edge of the tarp and fluttered it into her face, bringing her to her senses momentarily.

  She groaned out loud, that pesky survival instinct blaring a warning bell inside her head. She needed to move. The only reason she would be starting to feel warm would be the onset of hypothermia. She needed to cover up and find some shelter.

  When she looked around, she spied what looked like a barn away in the distance. Could she make it that far? Or was it a house? She didn't want to risk going near another house; she still wasn't far enough away. No more than a mile, maybe a tiny bit more...or less. Who knew?

  She took a resigned breath and attempted to pull on one of the boots, only to find the opening blocked by something that stopped her getting her foot in. There was next to no light to show her the problem, so she resorted to feel.

  Jamming her hand inside, she pulled out some soft, wadded fabric. She peered at it through the dim gloom and realised it was a sock, and the lethargy that had overtaken her changed to excitement as she pulled it over her poor, icy foot. It was long and thick, reaching to her knees, and the warmth it imparted was instant. As she struggled to pull on the bulky Wellington before her lovely surprise got wet, she realised they were considerably too big, but that was better than too small at least. Bolstered by the small comfort, she struggled to her feet and managed to wind the long scarf around her head and neck. Then, she hitched up the tarpaulin, and since there was no better direction to take, she set off toward the darkened shape of the building and prayed that her eyes weren't playing tricks on her.

  As she got closer, she realised that she was approaching a house and not a barn and almost turned away, except…there was something unnatural about the way it sat in the landscape. As she drew close enough to see, she realised it was abandoned and partially ruined. The windows were broken, vines and brush grew in the doorway, and up the brickwork and one wall had been reduced to a large pile of rubble. She wondered if it was safe, wondered if there was any choice but to find out.

  She couldn't go on much longer. It was over twenty-four hours since she had eaten the most meagre of meals, and while she was used to being half starved, she wasn't accustomed to running or even stumbling for miles with so little to sustain her. Her physical reserves had been running on empty for some time now, fuelled by adrenalin and survival instinct alone, and she recognised that the cold was affecting her thought processes, too.

  As she trudged around the perimeter, she failed to find another door, and she didn't want to disturb the vegetation and make it obvious, to anyone looking, that someone had used the only entrance.

  A quick glance at the downstairs windows showed wicked shards of glass from the broken panes sticking out of the rotting woodwork and sprinkled liberally on the ground around the neglected openings. That only left the side of the building that was crumbling. How safe was it? It was difficult to tell in the nearly black of night.

  It looked like the rubble was covered in vegetation, too, as if it had been that way for a while, but maybe that was just her own wishful thinking. A darker rectangle in the corner of the ruined wall hinted at a doorway, and beyond that, was a chimney, close to the centre of the house.

  Had she read somewhere, once upon a time, that the chimney breast was the strongest part of a house? She didn't know, really. Maybe her tired, stressed mind was just making excuses. Nevertheless, she picked her way across the debris, toward what she hoped was an opening. She was proved right, but peering through, all she could see was blackness. Did she dare test her luck any further?

  She looked up and saw a hole in the roof, and maybe God was on her side, because right at that very moment, a feeble shaft of moonlight shone down between the broken rafters and allowed her enough light to see a door on the other side of a derelict but clear room.

  When she hobbled further inside, she found the door of this next room was intact but ajar, and she pushed at it. It didn't want to budge, obviously swollen with damp and decay, which impeded its easy swing, but she pushed again, and it gave a little bit, screeching loudly as it scraped the quarry tiles beneath. Still, it opened far enough, at least, for her to squeeze through to the other side with her tiny frame, and little enoug
h that it might prevent someone bigger from getting through without at least making a noise that would alert her to somebody's presence.

  She waited for long minutes on the other side of the door, willing her eyes to adjust to the darkness a little more. She could make out dim shapes which she took to be furniture and, finally, took tentative steps away from the door, hugging the walls to aid her way through the room.

  She could hear scratching and scrabbling nearby and knew her presence had certainly disturbed some kind of wildlife. She didn't want to consider what they might be. Instead, she shuffled her feet across the floor and detoured around what felt like a chest of drawers and then a wardrobe.

  She cursed when she stubbed the toes of her already damaged foot on something which sounded metallic, but which had been too low for her fingers to connect with. She continued on, swearing some more when she banged her knee on something else made of metal, but the ensuing squeak made her heart jump. Had that been the sound of old-fashioned bed springs?

  As she felt around blindly, she stretched out her arms and leaned lower, only to jump back when her hands came into contact with something soft. She let out a hoarse cry then quietly chastised herself for being so skittish, but the darkness was almost absolute, just a hint of denser shadow on a softer shade of black—the kind of dark where you could barely see your hand, even if you held it right in front of your face. She had never been scared of the dark. It didn't hurt you, and there were many more things in life that did. She had found that out the hard way. But the unknown had her skittish, she had to admit. Things lurked in the unknown and sometimes they were evil. She had found that out the hard way, too.

  She leaned down and felt fabric. When she smoothed her hands across a wide expanse, she came into contact with something firm but with a little bit of give. As she pressed down, she heard that same tell-tale sound of creaking springs. It seemed like an old-fashioned kind of bed or maybe some type of chaise longue. It appeared to have an old horse hair mattress, and there was clearly some bedding as well. It felt surprisingly dry, although almost overwhelmingly musty. She felt what seemed to be a dense, but scratchy, wool blanket. She picked it up and gave it a shake, choking on the cloud of dust that billowed up from her actions. Eyes watering, she felt around again and found what she thought was an antique style quilt. It was thick and smelled disgusting, but she shook that out, too.

  She stripped the tarpaulin from around her and arranged it as well as she could, in the dark, over the small mattress. Beggars might not be able to be choosers, but better the devil you knew…well, in some cases anyway. Melody threw the blanket haphazardly over the top and sank into its lumpy, squeaky, smelly cradle. She kicked off the wellies and rearranged the scarf around her head, knowing that's where she'd lose the most heat, but pulled one long end down her spine and back up her front. It was a stupid thing, but covering that place between her legs made her feel slightly more human, gave her back a tiny shred of dignity, despite the fact that she'd already pulled the acrid smelling quilt over the top of herself and burrowed down the best she could.

  It was a long time before she got warm. The ancient, makeshift bed was uncomfortable, noisy whenever she moved, and stank of mildew and what was probably stale urine, but she didn't notice any of it. The minute she closed her eyes, she fell into a deep sleep that was, in reality, probably close to semi unconsciousness, and she stayed that way for the next fourteen hours.

  Chapter 2

  Micah Flynn shook his head as he pondered the neat pile of cardboard boxes next to a green tarpaulin and could have sworn that he had picked them up just yesterday and placed them into the relevant recycling bins. Then again, they got through a lot of boxes, given the constant stream of deliveries to the club, but the tarp? Damn it, he definitely remembered dealing with that, because he had taken a while to decide exactly which refuse collection it belonged in.

  Picking it all up once again, he sighed at the sight of a badly chipped whisky tumbler which had also not been placed in the designated recycle carton and frowned at its precise placement under a section of drainpipe where it was collecting water, almost as if it had been put there on purpose. But that really was ridiculous.

  When he heard a scuffling noise to his left, Micah looked in the direction of the sound, expecting to see a stray cat or something, but nothing was there. As he turned away, he thought he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked back again, there was nothing but the rustling of a bush. Had someone been there?

  He stood quietly, hands on narrow hips, his curly blond hair lifting in the chilly winter breeze and sending a shiver down his neck, but nothing was out of place and everything seemed quiet once again.

  It must be his mind playing tricks on him. He was overly tired these days and hadn't been sleeping well lately. It was the time of year, he knew. It was the same every year and had been for the last three, no matter that he had moved to a different city—hell, a different coast, even—the weeks running up to the anniversary of Sara's death still haunted him.

  He rubbed his hands over his face and decided to head off to the gym. Maybe he could exhaust himself into sleeping.

  He didn't see the slight figure peering out from the shadowy recesses of the small wood on the edge of the industrial area where the club was located, nor the eyes that followed him as he headed for his car and sped away.

  The following day, Micah looked down at that same glass once again. He knew he'd forgotten to move it, but how could it possibly be empty? It had been raining all night and the glass had most definitely been full yesterday. It stood in exactly the same place, so how could it now be different?

  And why did he have that prickly sensation at the back of his neck, as if someone was watching him?

  Something deeper in the recesses of the double stock doorway caught his eye. He peered from where he was, and squinting his eyes against the gloom, he realised that it was the very same tarpaulin that he had binned the past two days running.

  Micah pursed his full lips but made no move to do anything other than to offload the recycling that he'd come out to this small, private courtyard to deal with. There was definitely something going on and he intended to find out what it was…without drawing any attention to the fact that he was on to it.

  Back inside, Micah headed upstairs to a small store room on the upper floor. Hell, store room was a stretch of the imagination! Right now, it was more of a kinky junk room, full of stuff that had been dumped there during the conversion of the kink club, Perversions, into its current upscale incarnation of Club Risqué, the premier and very exclusive East Coast BDSM club which Micah was the manager of.

  After pushing things to the sides, he finally managed to clear a wide enough walk space for him to get to the small window. The only window on this side of what had previously been an industrial warehouse, which looked out over the enclosed back courtyard that housed the now defunct stock goods entrance and the industrial sized recycling skips.

  The area was only about twelve-foot square, having been fenced off from the adjoining parking area to house and hide their unsightly waste management facilities from the wealthy clientele who frequented the club. It did make it kind of isolated, though, since they were the last building on a small, industrial estate, enjoying a large, private plot and blocked off behind six-foot-high fences which backed up against an area of woodland right on the outskirts of the city.

  The area wasn't locked up or anything, since it only held refuse and could be easily accessed from the woods. The doorway into the club had been bricked up on the inside, so there was no opportunity for anyone to break in. All that remained was the four-foot by eight-foot recessed space which had originally been intended to keep any unloaded incoming goods protected from the elements. When the club had been renovated, a more convenient goods entrance directly into the bar area had been designed, a necessity, since the building was no longer a warehouse. Right next to it, was the new private elevator for the upstairs BDSM
club so that patrons didn't have to parade themselves through the downstairs nightclub and bar if they valued anonymity and which was also used to manoeuvre the bulky kink apparatus.

  When he looked out, Micah didn't see anything amiss, but he was damn sure going to keep his eyes open. That, at least, should be fairly straight forward, since he had temporarily moved into the club after a fire in a neighbouring flat had caused structural damage to his apartment building and he was having to look around for somewhere else to live. Any other time, he would have bunked in with one of his friends but with Joel's wife, Desi, on long term bed rest after an early miscarriage scare, Jake and Charlotte being new parents, Logan and Luanna trying for a family of their own, and Connor and Laurel in the midst of buying their first home together and getting ready to move, he was pretty much out of options. Of course, there was still Trinity, but considering she was newly settled in a relationship with her ex, he wouldn't even dream of asking her to put him up, especially in light of their own history as fuck buddies. That would be sure to put unwanted pressure on her budding relationship.

  He could have moved into a hotel, of course. The insurance would have covered it, but not for the length of time he wanted to take to make sure he found the right place. And who the hell wanted to live in a hotel for months? Not he, that was for sure.

  Nope, his stuff was all in storage but for a few clothes and necessities, and the club had enough basic facilities for him to slum it for a little while. Hell, there were over a half a dozen themed playrooms here, all with a huge, luxury bed. He could sleep in a different one every night of the week if he wanted to, though, in reality, he was sleeping on the sofa bed in the employee lounge since it had a kitchenette and bathroom attached. That was all he needed for now.