by Shandi Boyes
My body's big shakes echo in my tone when I stammer out, "Two."
I'd give anything for that number to be seven right now. I don't know if I’ll survive another five strikes of that caliber. It burns so much, it feels like my skin is on fire. I wouldn't be surprised if my ass is bleeding by the time we reach seven strikes.
When Marcus fails to strike me with the cane for the third time, I angle my head to the side and peer at him from under the veil of my hair which has fallen in my eyes. From the expression on his face, anyone would swear it was him being hit by the cane. His beautiful eyes are tormented and full of pain, his jaw open and quivering.
When he spots me peering at him, he murmurs, “Say it.” His voice is so soft I barely hear his request over the thumping of my heart against my ribcage.
“Say it,” he repeats louder, ensuring I can’t mistake his request.
More tears fall from my eyes when I shake my head. “No.”
“Goddamn it, Cleo! Say your safeword!” he shouts, his loud words vibrating in my heart.
“No,” I reply, shaking my head more fiercely. “I kissed him. I deserve to be punished. I hurt you. Punish me. Make me pay for my mistake, then we can move on from this.”
The last half of my sentence is muffled by a scream when Marcus strikes me for the third time. His hit isn't as firm as his first two, but with my backside still struggling with the agony of his first two strikes, it feels just as intense.
I try to ride the crest of pain, hoping to shift the fine line between pleasure and pain to a satisfying experience. It's a pointless effort. The endorphins pumping through my body from his strikes are curtailed with so much pain, I can’t trick my brain into believing it’s an enjoyable experience.
Swallowing down the bile scalding my throat, I murmur, “Three.” I hiccup through a sob before whispering, “Four more to go.”
Marcus stands next to me with his broken hand clenched so firmly, the tape Dexter wrapped around it's cracking and crumbling to the ground. His eyes frantically dart between my weeping face and my aching backside as he requests, “Say your safe word. You’ve reached your limit. Say it.”
Hating the sheer agony in his tone, more tears roll down my cheeks. “No.”
“Say it!” Marcus roars, scaring the living daylights out of me. “Stop being so goddamn fucking stubborn and say it!”
I balk at his rare use of a curse word before shaking my head. The pain shredding across my backside is brutal, but it's nothing compared to the pain his eyes held when he peered at me in the moments leading up to him hitting Dexter. I’m not going to say my safeword, no matter how much he begs. Four more strikes and tonight will be forgotten. I can live with that.
When I continue shaking my head, Marcus lifts the cane high into the air. I squeeze my eyes shut and grit my teeth, praying I’ll be strong enough to endure another four strikes. I just want this over so we can move forward.
The bamboo sluicing the air breaks through my pulse raging in my ears. It's the sound of pure pain, equally evil and haunting. A loud crack booms around the room; it's the loudest one so far. I wait for pain to quickly follow it.
It never comes.
I crank my neck to the side, shocked and confused. I’ve only experienced subspace once before, and I’m certain this isn’t it. I was barely lucid last time; this time I’m very much coherent.
I inhale a sharp breath when I spot the cane lying at Marcus’s feet, snapped in two. It's as broken and mangled as Marcus’s beautifully tormented eyes staring at me in shock. He shakes his head before spinning on his heels and exiting the room without so much as a backward glance in my direction.
It's only when I hear him murmur the word “pineapple” as he gallops down the stairs of his palatial residence do I realize the man striking me with the cane wasn’t Master Chains—it was Marcus.
20
I wake up several hours later, curled in a ball in the middle of the four-poster bed in Marcus’s playroom. This is where I crawled to and cried when the sound of Marcus’s engine roaring to life echoed into the room within minutes of him fleeing. I had planned on taking a few moments to gather any dignity I had left, but I guess exhaustion eventually overwhelmed me.
I scoot down the bed, pretending I can't feel the sting of my naked backside when it glides along the smooth, satin sheets. A blanket I don't recall being there falls from my shoulders when I swing my legs over the bed and stand. My muscles squeal, unappreciative of taking the weight of my body. Unlike every other time I've walked out of this room, this time they aren't protesting from exhaustion, they are aching from dehydration. I swear every ounce of moisture in my body was shed last night—that's how much I cried. Losing something you love is never easy, whether it's by death or their choosing. Last night proved that.
Upon entering the main suite, I drift my eyes to Marcus’s bed. I'm not surprised to notice it hasn't been slept in. The house has a dead-quiet feeling, like the entire world has vanished. I pace to the landline phone on my left and snag the cordless handset from its dock. While dialing a number I know by heart, I gather my suitcase from the foot of Marcus's bed and move into the walk-in closet.
“Hey, Cleo, you okay?” Lexi asks weakly, her weak voice exposing I’ve woken her up.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie, my tone low with guilt. “Umm . . . can you come pick me up?”
Lexi sucks in a sharp breath. “Of course I can.” Her voice cracks as if she too is struggling to hold in her tears. “I’ll be right there, okay?” I hear the shuffling of sheets before the sound of bare feet padding on tiles booms into my ears.
When I fail to answer Lexi’s question, she asks, “Do you want me to stay on the line with you until I get there?”
Heat blooms across my chest, warming some of the black sludge sitting in the crevice where my heart used to belong. “No, it’s okay. I’m going to take a shower, then pack.”
“Alright,” Lexi replies, her tone low. “If you change your mind, you know how to reach me. I’ll be there as soon as I can, Cleo.”
"Thanks." I'd like to express more, but the substantial sentiment in Lexi's tone isn't allowing it.
My hand rattles when I place the phone back onto the deck. Although I just told Lexi I am going to shower, I veer to the left instead of the right. Although Marcus didn’t touch me very much last night, I can still smell his unique scent on my skin, and I’m not willing to wash it away just yet.
Nearly an hour later, I descend Marcus’s curved staircase. The clatter of my suitcase wheels thumping down each step announces my arrival to Aubrey. I balk, shocked by her presence. The house was so padded-cell quiet, I assumed I was alone. After placing my bag at the edge of the entranceway, I shift on my feet to face Aubrey.
“Is Marcus here?” My heart may be shattered, but if he is home, I’m not going to be a coward who leaves without saying goodbye.
“No,” Aubrey replies with a curt shake of her head. “He is attending a press conference to announce the cancellation of Rise Up’s world tour.”
“His hand is broken?”
Aubrey smiles a reserved grin before nodding. “He had x-rays earlier this morning. He won’t be able to play an instrument for eight to ten weeks.”
I scan the room, seeking any type of clock. With Lexi's drowsy reply and the tired headache thumping my skull, I assumed it was still early. I startle, stunned by how high the sun is hanging in the sky. Without seeing a clock, I can quickly tell it's nearly noon.
“Come and have something to eat before you leave,” Aubrey says, gesturing her head to the kitchen. “I have a fresh pot of hot chocolate waiting for you on the stove top.”
My stomach churns. Its squishy response has nothing to do with the quality of Aubrey's hot chocolate and everything to do with her acknowledgment that I am leaving. She's acting like she is aware of my departure as if someone updated her hours before my decision. My stomach flips even more violently. Clearly, Aubrey and Marcus's relationship is more stable than I
first perceived.
Aubrey’s steps into the kitchen stop midstride when the sound of a doorbell ringing fills the silence bristling between us. When she heads for the door, I quickly mutter, “I’ll get it.” It’s for me anyway.
Aubrey peers at me, reading the rest of my statement my mouth failed to produce from my eyes. With a shy grin, she dips her chin before continuing her trek to the kitchen. Her speed is so unchecked, anyone would swear her backside was as burning as mine. I wait for her to enter the sweetly aromatic room before heading for the door. Although I'm stunned by Lexi's quick arrival, I am also grateful. Every minute I spend in Marcus's house adds to my grief.
“I’ll pay any speeding tickets you received in your travels,” I mumble, swinging open the large glass door.
My breath traps in my throat when the vibrant chocolate eyes of my sister I was expecting to see have been replaced with the eyes of the devil. Satan has returned with a vengeance, her snarl as vicious as the sharp cut of her bob hairstyle.
“I’ll be sure to take you up on your offer. . . when hell freezes over,” Delilah retaliates before sauntering into Marcus’s property without waiting for permission.
"Hell has already frozen over, Delilah; otherwise, why would you be here?"
Delilah accepts my snotty remark without protest as she removes her elaborate black fur coat. Considering how evil she is, I'd say that's the skin of a real animal—no fake fur for a woman as wicked as Delilah. She folds her coat over her rake-thin arm before moving to the edge of Marcus's entranceway. She inspects his property with the eagle eye of a person who is accustomed to wealth. From my research, I know she and money are close friends. That’s probably because she leeched herself onto one of the wealthiest families in New York City: the Gottle's.
“You have five seconds to tell me what you're doing here, or I’ll use the olive branch Mr. Gottle extended to me last week.” My statement is a complete lie. Although Mr. Gottle assisted in my investigation of Keira last week, I’ve never personally spoken with him.
Delilah’s utter stupidity rings true when she replies, “When you speak with Henry, be sure to tell him I said hello.” She is clearly ludicrous. No one in a right frame of mind would taunt a mob boss.
She scrubs her hands together as if she is ridding them of dirt before locking her eyes with me. "Now that we have the idle chitchat out of the way, why don't we get down to business?"
My pulse quickens when she takes a step toward me. Because her strides are so long, she reaches me in one fluid march. “I knew it would only be a matter of time before you exposed Chains’ identity. I was right. I just had to be patient.”
She thrusts a folded-up newspaper into my chest. The paper has been so recently rolled through the printers, the ink is still sticky.
Air brutally sucks from my lungs when my eyes scan the headline on the front page.
Rise Up’s Golden Boy Not So Golden
In a state of panic, my eyes frantically speedread the document. Every nightmare I’ve had the past three months comes true when detail after detail of Marcus’s involvement in the BDSM community is presented before me. His ownership of Chains, its connection to Links—it even has reports from supposed ex-subs “brave enough to recount their horror of living with a sadist.”
"None of this is true," I snarl, lifting my eyes to Delilah. "He is not a sadist or masochist. He doesn't instill pain for his own pleasure. He does it for his subs' pleasure. You’re going to ruin a good man all because you're a vindictive two-faced bitch who steamrolls anyone who dares to have a different opinion."
Delilah shrugs off my admission, but the quickest blaze in her eyes exposes that some of my words cut deeper than she'd care to admit. "You should be privileged you were awarded the first copy. I thought it was the least I could do since you were the source of the story."
Horrid unease scorches my veins when her finger points to the byline under the scathing headline. Although I’ve dreamed of having my name printed on the front page of the New York Daily Express, I don’t want to achieve it like this.
“You can’t run this story, Delilah,” I plead, my words the sincerest I’ve ever used with her. “I’m imploring for you to just once listen to the little voice inside of you telling you this is wrong. You know this is wrong. Please don’t do this.”
“It's too late,” Delilah advises, spinning on her heels and heading for the door. “The special online edition is scheduled to be released at noon. The print edition will follow an hour later.”
The mirrored frame hanging in the entranceway rattles furiously when she slams the front door of Marcus’s property with force. I stand frozen, muted and confused. My paralyzed stance doesn’t linger for long, only long enough for me to see it's three minutes past eleven. I might not be able to stop the story from going to print, but I can warn Marcus of its arrival, then maybe his media team will have a chance of mitigating the shit storm that's sure to follow.
I charge into the kitchen, startling Aubrey, who is standing near the stovetop. The brush of her hand across her wet cheeks is quick, but not fast enough for me to miss it. Although concerned about what has caused her to cry, my utmost priority must remain Marcus.
Snatching the phone from the cradle, I dial Marcus’s cell phone number. It rings and rings and rings until his voicemail eventually picks up.
“I know I’m the last person you want to speak to right now, but please call me. It's urgent.”
I hang up and redial his number.
When my calls reach his voicemail another three times, I place the telephone back on the cradle before my eyes stray to Aubrey. “Do you have a car?”
She barely nods before I trudge around the kitchen and curl my arm around her shuddering shoulders. "Do you know where Marcus's press conference is being held?"
Aubrey once again nods.
“Good, show me where it is.”
While driving into the city, I borrow Aubrey's cell phone to update Lexi of my change in location. She warns me against approaching Marcus in public, but I shove aside her caution, mindful that things can't get any worse than they already are. I set up a google alert on Aubrey's phone for any articles mentioning Marcus's name with the inclusion of BDSM in the search field before calling his number on repeat.
Thankfully, no pings are received during my travels.
With me expressing the absolute urgency of my plea, Audrey’s car circles the block of the hotel Marcus’s press conference is being held at within a record-breaking forty-five minutes.
"Pull over anywhere, and I'll walk the rest of the way," I demand when traffic becomes so congested near the hotel, pedestrians are moving at a faster speed than vehicles.
“Thank you,” I say to Aubrey when she maneuvers her car to the furthest lane.
I place a quick peck on her cheek before snagging her cell and my purse from the middle console.
"I'll get it from you later," Aubrey advises when my panicked eyes lock on her cell clutched in my hand. "Just go."
I nod before closing the door. The love I have for my sister city is tested when I push and barge my way through the mass of people mingling on the sidewalks. New York streets are always crammed with people, but with having one of the most prolific bands of all time gathered in one place, the swell of the crowd has doubled.
“Excuse me. Pardon me. Sorry,” I continue to plead as I shove my way through the clog of paparazzi standing by the exit of the hotel.
The scene inside the hotel is nearly as frantic. Gushing guests, squealing fans, and over a dozen security officers line the foyer of the elegant hotel. My eyes scan the room, unsure of what direction to take. When I spot a man I've met before, I head for him.
“Hey, Hawke. I’m not sure if you remember me—”
“Cleo, right?” he greets as his face stretches into a welcome smile.
"Yeah. That's right,” I reply, smiling. "I need to speak with Marcus. I've been calling his cell nonstop, but he isn't answering."
"
That's not surprising; Emily makes the guys hand in their phones before every press event or meet and greet. She wants them interacting with real-life people, not an electronic device."
He places his hand on the curve of my back before guiding me to conference room number three. Upon opening the door, a massive brute of a man with a shaved head and an angry snarl drops his gaze to me.
“This is Cleo. Marcus’s girlfriend,” Hawke quietly advises the snarling unnamed man.
In an instant, the sheer terror radiating out of him in invisible waves disappears. He smiles, softening the harsh lines on his face before gesturing for me to enter.
“Thank you,” I whisper to Hawke before merging deeper into the room.
He nods before spinning on his heels and returning to his original position.
Since the press conference is well underway, I move to the far edge of the room, then skedaddle to the row of tables Marcus and his bandmates are sitting behind. Spotting my sneaky approach, Kylie and Jenni wave a greeting before gesturing to the empty seat next to them. I shake my head before continuing my mission.
The confidence Marcus generally exudes by the bucket load isn't present today. His chin is tucked in close to his chest, and his uninjured hand is cradling his bandage-covered one. He doesn't even lift his eyes when a reporter asks for details on how his hand was injured. He leaves Emily the task of responding, citing it was the result of an "error in judgment."
The only time his eyes lift from his hands is when I reach the edge of the table he is sitting at. His narrowed gaze doesn’t swing around the room. They lock straight onto me, proving he can sense my presence as easily as I detect his. I chew on the inside of my cheek when I see the pure devastation radiating out of his beautiful green irises. They are as cold and blank as they were in his playroom last night.
Before I get the opportunity to request to speak with him, the loud ding of a cellphone shrills from my pocket. I suck in a deep breath, conscious it could be my last chance to breathe before digging Aubrey's cell out of my pocket. The prompts of my body are proven accurate when the screen displays 138 alerts on my search of Marcus Everett and the BDSM lifestyle.