by Shandi Boyes
Realizing I'm never going to achieve sleep in this room, I crawl out of bed, collect my bag, then leave the room. Because the house is so unnervingly quiet, the padding of my feet is readily distinguishable. The first door I open is the room Marcus and I prepared in earlier tonight. It has too many memories for me to sleep in there. The second door is the home gym. Other than the bench Marcus lifts weights at, there isn't another flat surface. I close the door and continue my trek, knowing there are only three more doors to explore. Two I’m well acquainted with: Marcus's bedroom and his playroom. Considering I don't plan on stepping foot in either of them, it leaves me only one option: the media room.
Gratitude clears away some of the nerves fluttering in my stomach when I notice the configuration of the room. It has two rows of reclining chairs lined in front of a monstrous projection screen. Thankfully, each chair is void of the armrests found in cinemas. If it weren’t for the small walkway down one side, they would extend wall to wall.
After snagging a cashmere blanket draped over a railing on my right, I dump my bag on the floor and trudge down the small staircase. The bulky chair in front of the large screen is calling my name, beckoning me to it. My steps are sluggish, weighed down by the heaviness of my exhausted muscles. I am truly the most fatigued I've ever been. Even my blinks are long as my eyes fight to stay open.
My muscles sigh in gratitude when I slump in the super comfy recliner. The leather is so voluptuous, it curves around my body, cradling it with comfort. It's so blissful, before I know it, I fall into a much-needed, yet restless sleep.
I don’t know how much time passes before I am awoken by the noise of someone yelling. “Where is she?! You said she was here!”
I blink several times in a row as my body struggles to produce enough saliva to quench my bone-dry mouth. I’ve clearly been asleep long enough my mouth had time to gape open, but not long enough for my thumping headache to relinquish its stranglehold on my temples.
“She was, Sir. She was in your room last time I saw her.”
My pulse quickens when a furious growl rumbles through my chest. “Sir? Stop calling me goddamn sir! How many times have I told you not to call me that?”
A rush of giddiness clusters in my head when I lurch to a half-seated position. It isn’t my temples drilling my skull causing my staggering response, it's recognizing the voice shouting so loud he’ll wake three continents. Marcus.
"I'm sorry, si—ah, Mr. Everett. It's an old habit from my previous employer," Aubrey explains, her tone as low as my heartrate.
Panic clutches my throat when Marcus mutters, "I'll be your previous employer if I hear you say it again. Do you understand me?"
“Yes, I understand,” Aubrey replies dismally.
"Good. Now, where is she?" Marcus’s words are smeared with so much anger, they went to hell and back before they were delivered.
“She was in your room. I swear.” Aubrey’s voice cracks with emotions.
“I checked in my room; she isn’t there!” Marcus yells, his stern timbre shuddering through the thick paneled door between us.
“What about the subs’ room, have you checked there?” Aubrey questions, confirming what I suspected last night. She is aware of Marcus’s involvement in the BDSM lifestyle.
“I checked. She isn’t there either!”
My brows stitch when my ears misinterpret the anger in Marcus’s voice as panic.
"She didn't leave, Mr. Everett. How could she? She doesn't have access to the security codes." I can hear the sheer bewilderment in Aubrey's tone. Clearly, she has never seen this side of Marcus either. Usually, he is calm and collected. Tonight, he is anything but.
“Yes, she does. I gave them to her last week!” Marcus’s tone is wrathful enough to rattle my ribcage. “I asked you to watch her until I returned. You shouldn’t have slept.”
Hating that Marcus is directing his anger at the wrong person—much like I did hours ago—I throw off the thin blanket draped over my shoulders and trudge up the stairs. For how heavy my muscles are, my movements are remarkably quick.
I throw open the door with so much force, it slams into the drywall. “Don’t speak to her like that. Just because she is your staff does not give you the right to disrespect her. Did your father not teach you any manners?”
Marcus and Aubrey's eyes rocket to me in sync. Aubrey's are brimming with relief. I don’t know if her response stems from discovering I’m still present in Marcus’s residence, or because I am standing up for her. Marcus's eyes are as black as the sky, tainted and murky, much like the sludge his deceit created in my heart.
I take a step backward, startled by the blatant fury beaming out of him in invisible waves. I take another step back when I realize it isn't anger being projected from his narrowed gaze. He's panicked.
“Cleo,” he sighs deeply.
I flinch when he charges for me. His movements so fast, the air ripples in his wake. My mouth gapes when he smashes his lips against mine. His tongue slides into my mouth before a smidge of hostility can be announced by my overworked brain. I didn’t think any kiss would top the one he gave me in the driveway of my home two weeks ago. I was wrong. This kiss. . . my god. He kisses me with so much vigor, my brain can’t formulate an objection before it's turned to mush. He kisses me until my mind is blank and my panties are wet. He kisses me until I forget my name. Then he kisses me some more.
When he pulls away, the squeal of my lungs battling to be replenished with oxygen rings over the manic thump of my heart. Marcus places me on my feet before cradling my slackened jaw with his shaking hands. His eyes go crazy, scanning every inch of my face. I return his stare, muted with shock.
“When I couldn’t find you, I thought you were gone. I thought you’d left me,” he mumbles under his breath, his voice drenched with uncontrollable fear, like the thought of me leaving him truly gutted him.
The pure devastation in his tone cuts me raw, but it doesn’t stop me from saying, “I am leaving you, Marcus. Just not until tomorrow morning.”
It's the fight of my life not to roll my eyes over the dimness displayed in my voice. How pathetic have I become that I can’t break up with a man until after I’ve slept on his couch because I have nowhere else to go? I am better than this; my parents raised me better than this.
“I am leaving you,” I say with more determination. “Now.”
It will be a struggle, but I’ll find a way to make it happen tonight, because standing across from him is more than I can bear. Seeing everything I am losing up close hurts way more than I could ever explain.
“No,” Marcus says, shaking his head as his stern eyes dance between mine. “You’re not leaving me, Cleo.”
The anger his kiss dampened steamrolls back into me from the vicious snarl of his words. He replied as if my decision to leave him isn’t my choice. Like he is the only one who has a say on the length of our relationship. Well, I have news for him.
“I’m not your submissive, Marcus, so any stipulated timeframe you force your subs. . .” I overemphasize the “S” on the end of “subs” to enhance my statement. “. . .to adhere to don’t apply to me.”
The rapturous standing ovation of the little voice inside me dims to a faint clap when Marcus replies, “I have plenty of resources at my disposal to restrain you here, Cleo. Don’t test me.”
The veins in my neck thrum, my body choosing its own response to his frisky tease. Annoyed at both Marcus and my lust-driven body, I roll my eyes, pivot on my heels, then head for the door.
“I might have stupidly thought that was sweet when you joked about it weeks ago. Now it's just disturbing,” I snarl, my words wildly reckless.
My knees clang together when Marcus warns, “I’m not joking, Cleo. If you leave me, I’ll hunt you down and tie you to my bed.” His low tone vibrates from the roots of my hairs to the tips of my toes.
Huffing, I continue for the door. I may be head over heels in love with this man, but I am not so down on my luck I'm willin
g to pretend I didn't see what I see. So many women stay in relationships they should have left years earlier. I'm not going to be one of those women.
Gritting my teeth in the hope it will stop my tears from falling, I pry open the media room door. Unsurprisingly, Aubrey has made herself scarce. I don’t blame her. The tension bristling the air is so dense, it has slicked my skin with a fine layer of sweat. And don’t even get me started on the mess it has caused to my insides.
My angry strides into the hallway freeze when Marcus murmurs, “Cleo, please.” I never knew two small words could express such agony.
After exhaling a deep breath, I pivot around to face him. He tries to tuck it away, but I see the quickest flare of emotion pass through his eyes before he entirely shuts it down. For someone who has poor acting skills, he is genuinely portraying that the idea of me leaving him is cutting him raw.
“We could have had something magical.” When he endeavors to interrupt me, I continue speaking, foiling his attempt. “But you ruined what could have been the best thing of your life all because your desire to follow the rules of a BDSM lifestyle was stronger than your desire for me.”
“No, Cleo,” he denies, shaking his head. “Nothing is stronger than the desire I have for you. Not BDSM. Not the rules. Not a person. Nothing. I would kneel before I’d let any of those things take you away from me.”
“She was wearing your collar! Your trademark!” I retaliate, loathing that my voice displays I am on the verge of tears. “You looked at her like you look at me.” The anger in my voice makes way for sheer devastation. My heart smashes into my ribs so fast, it feels like it’s moments away from breaking out of my chest cavity.
Confusion smears on Marcus’s face before he shakes his head, soundlessly denying my accusation.
“I saw you, Marcus. I saw you with her!”
“You saw me comforting a friend. Nothing more.”
I brush a tear from my cheek, hating that it makes me look weak. "A friend wearing a collar everyone in your lifestyle knows belongs to you. I looked like an idiot proudly prancing around in your trademark. The same one she was wearing." My voice is barely a whisper, doused more with shame than anger. I'm not ashamed of myself; I'm disappointed in his pathetic attempt at admitting his mistakes. I thought he was more of a man than this. Clearly, I was wrong.
“Say something. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me everyone didn’t think she was your sub when they saw her collar.”
He remains quiet, breaking my heart even more.
“You’re pathetic,” I mutter under my breath, beyond devastated.
Ignoring the flare of anger detonating in Marcus's eyes from my taunt, I spin on my heels and exit the media room. I'm so rattled with sick outrage I forget to gather my bag from the floor. It can wait. I'd rather wander around Montclair naked than spend another moment standing across from a man so cowardly he'd rather lie to my face than tell the truth.
I've barely made it halfway down the hall when Marcus catches me. He seizes my left wrist in a vice-like grip and yanks me backward. Just like earlier tonight, I act before thinking. My right hand flies toward Marcus’s face so wildly that I don’t stop to consider the consequences of my action.
Everything slows to snail’s pace when my hand connects brutally with Marcus's left cheek. My slap is so firm, his head snaps to the side as a fiery burn incinerates my palm. Although my slap was a spur-of-the-moment decision, I know Marcus had time to stop me. The blaze in his eyes moments before my hand connected with his cheek was all the indication I needed to know he could have stopped me if he wanted. I just can't fathom why he didn't?
Seizing both of my wrists Marcus slaps my hands across his face over and over again. “Hit me, Cleo. Scratch me. Yell at me. But you're not leaving me!” he growls between slaps.
He doesn’t hold back. He uses my hands to hit him continually until the redness on his face matches mine. They aren’t soft taps either. They are so potent, the sound of skin slapping skin echoes off the pristine walls before booming back into my ears. Every hit he inflicts on his face with my hands breaks my heart more.
“Stop it,” I blubber through a sob. “Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.”
I yank away from him when he fails to adhere to my screamed demands. The air leaves my lungs in a grunt when my sudden movement causes us to crash into the same painting we stumbled into the last time we interacted in this hall. With how much my heart is tearing in two, I'd give anything to transport back to that day.
“Stop it, Marcus! Stop it! You’re hurting me,” I barely murmur, my heart broken beyond repair. “Pineapple.”
Marcus releases my hands in an instant, the expression on his face mortified. I don’t know if his brisk response is from me using my safe word or from my declaration that he was hurting me.
I scoop my stinging hands in close to my chest as my eyes roam his red-welted face. I can hardly breathe through the pain curled around my throat when I spot the absolute agony in his eyes. He is truly devastated. His desolate eyes show his heart is breaking as much as mine.
"Why? If you didn't want me to leave, why be with her? Why deceive me? Do you think so little of me you thought I'd stay when I discovered you are cheating on me?"
“I didn’t cheat, Cleo. I don’t cheat. But even if I did, I’d never cheat on you.” The fury of his low tone doesn’t match the sentiment in his eyes.
“I saw you, Marcus!” I roar, my heartache unmissable.
He leans into me, pinning me to the painting with his impressive, suit-covered body. “You saw nothing. Your mind was playing tricks on you. I shouldn’t have sustained your climax. I shouldn’t have teased you. You’re clearly not trained enough for that yet. I played with fire, wanting to ignite your desires, but instead, I ended up getting burned.”
Even confused by his riddle, I thrust against him, striving to break free, hating that he is using my attraction to him to insult me. My efforts are utterly pointless. He is too strong for a woman of my size to contend with.
Using the only weapon I have left in my arsenal, I angrily sneer, “I’m soooo sorry my submissive qualities aren’t up to your standards, Master Chains. I’ll be sure to be more courteous to my next Master.”
Marcus leans into me, crushing not just my body, but my heart as well. He glares into my eyes, his arrogance too haughty for my liking. His body temperature is so hot, a bead of sweat forms on the nape of my neck before rolling down my back.
My lashes blink back tears when he raises his hand to grip my throat. His hold isn't tight enough to impede my breathing, but it's firm enough for my traitorous body to respond to his touch. He curls his hand around the identical spot he did the last time we were in this hallway. I didn't know it at the time, but that was my first taste of sub space. Our exchange that night showed how much I trusted him. I didn't even flinch when my life was placed in his hands. Now he has ruined that. His deceit broke my trust, and everyone knows broken trust can’t be fixed. Can it?
Seemingly reading my inner monologue, Marcus asks, “How can you trust me with your life, Cleo, but not your heart?” His voice sounds tormented, as if he is stuck in an alternative universe, incapable of distinguishing the enemies from the allies.
He tracks his thumb over the vein throbbing in my neck before tightening his grip on my throat. My pupils widen as a feverous current rages through my veins before clustering in my heated core. Although I should be pulling away from his hold, demanding for him to stop this instant, my body doesn’t cite a single protest. Not even my eyes demand for his withdrawal.
“Trust extends much further than a playroom, Cleo. When you trust me, it's the greatest compliment. Just like your distrust is the biggest disparagement.”
He bounces his eyes between mine, the anger in them simmering to a slight boil as he loosens his grip. I keep my eyes locked on him as much-needed air hisses between my parted lips.
“You either trust me or you don’t, Cleo. There is no middle ground,” he murmurs as he drops his h
and from my neck to brush it over my budded nipple, woefully displaying my enticement by his hold. It stiffens even more from his meekest touch.
A bout of shock hits me when his eyes lift to mine. I was expecting them to be filled with smugness, reveling in my body’s inability to deny his touch. They aren’t smug—not in the slightest. They are as tormented as ever.
“Do you trust me, Cleo?” he asks as his beautifully haunted eyes frolic between mine.
My first instinct is to shake my head, but no matter how hard I plead for my body to respond to the prompts my brain is firing, it refuses. It trusts Marcus. So does my heart. It's just my brain begging for me not to get caught in a trap.
“Keira is a submissive,” I mutter, using her name for the first time tonight, wanting to ensure he knows to whom I am referring. My voice is barely a whisper, but it's confident enough to express that my statement was not a question. It was a confirmation.
“I know.” Marcus cradles my quaking jaw.
It's the fight of my life not to lean into his embrace, but I give it my best shot, still scorned by betrayal.
“She was wearing your collar.”
"I know," he repeats, his voice a seductive purr that successfully conceals his bewilderment.
“Because she’s your sub?”
This time there is no doubt my question is a question. Just the heartbreak resonating in my low tone makes it unmissable. My heart cracked more just voicing that admission out loud.
“No,” he denies, shaking his head. He locks his eyes with mine, ensuring I can see the honesty relayed by them as he discloses, “Keira has never been my sub. She will never be my sub." My lips quiver when he presses the softest kiss on the edge of my mouth as he mutters, "I don't need anyone but you, Cleo. I will never need anyone but you."
“Then why was she wearing your collar? And why didn’t you say she wasn’t your sub when I asked you?”