Dark Melodies (The Black Combe Doms Book 1)

by Ashe Barker

  “Like I said, if I decide to drown you, you’ll know. I’ll swap you swimming lessons for guitar lessons, though. Deal?”

  “What? You’ll teach me to swim? Why?” I turn around, staring at him, amazed.

  “Why not? Like you said, might be fun. And useful. You might fall off a boat…”

  “I tend to avoid boats. Are you a swimmer? Is that how you keep your body so, well, so perfect?”

  “I scuba dive. And surf a bit. So yes, I do need to swim. But I only do that stuff in warm water so not that often. Since you ask, my main sport is karate. I’m at the dojo two or three times a week. When I can manage it.”

  I’m surprised. I might have seen him as a weekend cricketer, or maybe playing rugby. Definitely working out at some expensive gym. But martial arts? There’s a turn-up. “Are you any good?”

  “Black belt, fourth Dan. So yes, I’m pretty good.” He finishes his tea and puts the mug down, turning to me. “More than a match for you, Miss Byrne, but I think I’ve already proved that. The kick boxing is on soon. I do a bit of that too, but I’m not especially good. Still, I was going to watch it, might pick up some tips.” He nods in the direction of the Olympic coverage on the television, settling into the settee next to me. “Care to join me?”

  “Mmm, sounds good.” I snuggle in, tucking my feet under me.

  We enjoy a few minutes of companionable silence as the divers do their thing. I’m not especially interested in sport, but who can’t be caught up in the patriotism of Olympic fever. London 2012. Inspire a generation. Certainly, something’s inspired me recently.

  Long minutes pass as we watch the athletes’ endeavors in admiring silence. Then, “Don’t you wish you were there?”

  “What? Where?”

  “There. London. You could be seeing all this live if you’d been at home this summer.”

  “London’s not my home. My mother lives there, not me.”

  “Oh. I thought you said you drove up from London. That night. In the rain.”

  “Yes, from my mother’s flat.”

  “I see. Where do you live then? Where’s home?”

  This is it. I’ve been dreading this conversation, but it was always going to happen. Might as well tell it like it is. Well, some of it. “I lived in Oxford until a few weeks ago, at St Hilda’s College. But I left. Suddenly. I can’t go back.”

  I sense his sudden alertness, his attention fixed on me. His tone is harder, more exacting now. “Can’t? Why can’t?”

  “I just can’t, that’s all. Just leave it, it’s not important.”

  Not the response he was expecting, and not what he’s prepared to accept. His body stiffens, he sits up straight. His voice has hardened—the steel is back with a vengeance. Clearly my reluctance to share on this occasion is not going to wash, but I’m not exactly certain why it matters this time. Obviously, it does, though and he’s not letting me off the hook.

  “Were you sacked from your job? The truth, Eva. What happened?”

  Suddenly, from almost nowhere, it’s back. That overwhelming sense of panic, that desperation to escape. That black cloud that I managed, eventually, to crawl out of so many weeks ago is surrounding me once more, smothering me. Choking me. All the suppressed emotion, the thinly veiled terror that has been hovering just below the surface re-emerges with a vengeance. I leap to my feet, start for the bedroom. Anything, anywhere, just as long as it’s away from Nathan. Nathan and his prying questions, his suspicious hostility. Why couldn’t he just let it be?

  He snags my wrist as I pass him and he drags me back onto the settee, close to him, his hand circling my wrist to keep me there. His grip is firm, almost painful, his eyes glittering in sudden anger.

  “Answer me, damn it. Eva!” The command is there in his tone now, and blistering anger.

  I’ve never actually seen him angry before—at least not with me. Even that first night, when his car was damaged, his anger wasn’t really directed at me. Now it is, and it’s terrifying. All the more so for having erupted out of almost nowhere. A chance remark, an innocent question, and suddenly my fragile composure disintegrates. Is everything in my life really so flimsy?

  But even the blast of Nathan’s anger is not as terrifying as the truth. The dreadful, humiliating, reality of why I left Oxford, why I ran so hard and so fast and never dared look back. And it’s not just the utter shame of what happened to me back then—it’s also the impact it could have on the here and now. Always, throughout everything we’ve done together, Nathan has insisted on informed consent. Almost to the point of obsession he’s made his requirements clear, made sure I understood. The whole thing rested, surely, on both of us being ‘of sound mind’. What will he make of my so-called consent now, once he finds out I’m a flake? Will he still believe I knew what I was doing, what I was agreeing to? Maybe not. Probably not.

  So now I’ve no alternative but to lie, evade, defy him.

  “Nothing! Nothing happened. I left. I’d had enough, couldn’t stand it there anymore. I needed to get out. So, I left. Not that it’s got anything to do with you.” All my defenses are on high alert, and the more I resist the more his suspicions are well and truly aroused. I’ve seen him persistent before, but never so brutally relentless. He’s on the trail of something. I know what it is, he only thinks he does. But he’s filling in the blanks for himself. Putting two and two together and making five.

  “Ah yes, your emotional car crash. I’d forgotten about that. And as long as you’re tutoring my daughter, staying in my home, everything about you is my business. So, what happened in Oxford? And if not back there, where will you go when your contract here ends?”

  Pushing away from him I manage to wrench my arm free, or maybe he decides to relinquish his grip. I scoot down to the far end of the settee. My arms folded tightly across my chest, I glare defensively at him, defiant and desperate to head him off. No way am I discussing my work at Oxford, my old life. No way is he getting anywhere even close to my breakdown. Not a sniff. The taint of mental illness is behind me, it’s not a part of who I am now, where I am now. That’s all in the past—it is because I say it is. I’m here now and starting over.

  Made reckless by fear and desperation I toss my defiance back at him. “Oxford’s got nothing to do with you so just leave it. And I’m going nowhere. I’m staying here. Well, Black Combe, or thereabouts. There, I mean. This is my home.”

  “Fuck that. What the hell are you on about? You said you’d never been here, there, before?” He is clearly bewildered, and to be fair that does make two of us. I try to explain myself.

  “As soon as I looked out that first morning, and I saw the moors, I felt I… Well, I felt I recognized the place. That I belonged there. It seemed like home. And that feeling has just got stronger over the last couple of weeks. More compelling. I’ve walked the moors with Rosie. And Barney. And I love it. I think I’ll always love it. So, I want to stay. I want to stay in Yorkshire, stay on the Brontë moors. I love Black Combe. I’ve made some friends already—you, Rosie, Mrs. Richardson. Even your friend Tom seems nice. Me and Rosie went up the Greystones and he showed me round the farm. So… I’ve decided I want to stay here, find work. Settle down.”

  He is silent, staring at me in disbelief. And he is angry. So very, very angry. Even I, emotional cripple that I am, can sense the tension, the sudden chill. Why didn’t I keep my big mouth shut?

  “So, you’re intending to stay. Permanently. At Black Combe. At my home? You’re moving in. Just like that.”

  “No, I only meant…” I had never intended to outstay my welcome at Black Combe. I was thinking of looking around for somewhere to rent, but he’s not listening. His tone is biting, his posture stiff as he stands, looming over me. Without thinking I cringe away, making myself small as I huddle on the settee.

  “Stop that. I’m not going to fucking hit you, even if you do deserve it.”

  He is obviously furious, disgusted with me. And I am genuinely at a loss. What’s brought this on? I
only said I wanted to move into his neighborhood, for Christ’s sake!

  “Please, I didn’t mean…”

  “I’ve heard enough. Enough lies and half-truths. Enough evasion and bloody mystery. I need to know who’s around my daughter, and I’m sick of trying to work you out. Last chance, Eva. Why can’t you go back to Oxford?”

  Desperately miserable, I curl up into a ball. Why couldn’t he just let it lie? “I can’t, that’s all. It’s nothing, not like you think anyway…”

  “Right, I’ve heard enough. Now shut up and get out.”

  “What? What do you mean?” I feel the tears spring to my eyes. How did this happen? “Why? What have I done? Don’t you trust me?” Am I pleading with him? Maybe. I’m no good at this stuff. If this is ‘doing relationships’ it’s not what it’s cracked up to be.

  “Trust you? Why the fucking hell would I trust you? I ask you a few straight questions and you lie through your teeth and tell me to mind my own business. And as for moving in, it’s manners to wait until you’re asked. I didn’t invite you to move in. You’re my sub, that’s all. My current sub. I like fucking you well enough, but I’m not looking for a soulmate. So, I want you out. Out of here. Out of Black Combe.” With one last withering look at me huddling on his settee, cowering in silence, he heads for the door.

  “I’m going out. I’ll be back by six, and I want you gone by then. You. And all your stuff. Gone. Is that clear? Is that clear?”

  I don’t answer. There’s no need. No room for negotiation, for apology, for any further argument. This is me getting dumped. Big style. I hear the door slam and know I’m alone. As before. As usual. As always.

  I sit in stunned silence for a while. I’ve got three hours so no real hurry. It won’t take me more than a few minutes to gather my stuff together, so I allow myself the luxury of wallowing in my grief.

  I’ve never really thought about what ‘heartbroken’ might feel like, but I guess this is it. This feeling of rejection, betrayal, injustice. And of loss, emptiness. And, above all, loneliness. He might be a jerk, a heartless, intolerant bastard, but I did manage to somehow fall in love with him. And now he’s gone. He’s left me, dumped me, because I’m a freak. A bloody stupid, mentally unstable freak who couldn’t keep her mouth shut. And who couldn’t, wouldn’t take the risk of just telling him the truth.

  I didn’t need to have that conversation about settling in Yorkshire at all. All I needed to do was book into a hotel at the end of my contract and there would have been nothing he could have done about it. He might even have been pleased I was staying, if we’d got on well, if I’d continued to be a good lay. But now, he just hates me. And I genuinely have no idea why. No idea what I did or said that was so wrong. He has his secrets, his privacy, and I respect that. And I’m entitled to mine, surely. If I came on too strong, too soon, it was a genuine mistake. I never meant to assume anything. And above all, breakdown or not, I’m perfectly safe to leave alone with his daughter, and in his heart, he must know that.

  I may be a lot of things, but stupid is not one of them. This is just an excuse. An excuse to dump me, to get rid before I become too clingy. He was looking for an exit route and I handed it to him. And now, it’s over.

  Desperately wishing I could rewind, take us back to the easy companionship and passionate lovemaking of just a half-hour ago, I eventually force myself into action. I need to pack. My shredded pride tells me I need to not be here when he comes back. My head aching from crying, I push myself to my feet, giving myself stern lectures about pulling myself together, and make my way to the guest room where my new clothes are still piled on the bed.

  Half an hour later I am ready. Dressed in a smart, black mid-calf-length skirt and plum-red wrap-around top, and defiantly wearing my fuck-me red heels, I drag my bags toward the door. I’ve called down and my taxi should be at the front entrance in a few minutes, so I’d like to get all my gear downstairs. Why didn’t I think to buy a proper case? I curse as I balance carrier bags in a pile by the lift.

  I turn to fetch the last couple of bags, and I’m startled by the low swishing hum as the lift doors open. I glance back in surprise, and Nathan is there. He strides through the sliding doors, glancing sharply at my precarious heap of Harvey Nicks bags as he makes straight for me.

  Three hours. He’d said I had three hours. He said he wouldn’t be back until six. Surely, I’ve not taken too long…

  I back away, not wanting to be on the receiving end of more of his contempt. Maybe I can just shove my stuff into the lift and go…

  “You’re still here.”

  “Yes, but I’m just…”

  “Thank God. I’m sorry, Eva. Please don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

  Before I can answer he is on me, lifting me, carrying me back into his apartment. Kicking the door shut behind us. I am slammed against the wall and he is kissing me. Desperately, hungrily. His tongue is thrust into my mouth, my throat. His hands are in my hair, holding my head still for his assault. He still hasn’t shaved, and his bristly chin scratches my face, my neck. My hands on his shoulders I try to find balance as he lifts me off my feet.

  Totally confused by this U-turn, and more than a bit pissed off at his blowing hot and cold like this, I try to get my hands between us to push him away. Who the hell does he think he is, to treat me like something he found under his shoe one minute and try to lick my tonsils the next? I may be crap at relationships, but even I know I deserved a chance to explain, to defend myself. He just lost his temper, for no good reason that I can see, and ordered me out of his home. Sacked me from a job I love, a job I’m good at. And now he seems to think he can just waltz back in and kiss me senseless, and it’ll all be all right again. No bloody chance!

  I manage to get some purchase on his shoulders and shove hard. It’s nowhere near enough to dislodge him, but I do manage to get my message across that I’m not having this. Not doing this. He ends the kiss, lifting his head to murmur in my ear.

  “Eva, sweetheart, I’m sorry. Truly. Please…”

  It’s enough, feeble, needy creature that I am—that I seem to become around Nathan Darke. I give up the struggle.

  His mouth hardly parts from mine as I am carried to his bedroom and dropped on the bed. “You’re wearing new clothes again, Eva, and you look absolutely gorgeous. Take them off.”

  I stare at him, no longer afraid—after all, I am familiar enough with this side of Nathan Darke—but I’m totally confused. Does he want me, still? Am I to stay after all? Do I want to?

  “Your clothes, Eva. Please?”

  Yes. I do want to. Wordlessly I strip and lie back.

  “Is this to be my punishment fuck then?” I whisper the words, hoping that once he’s done, we can, perhaps, somehow, get back to how we were before.

  “No, Eva. It’s a forgive me fuck. I’m a stupid, heartless bastard, and I want you to forgive me. Let me try again. Can you do that?”

  “I… Yes, yes, I can. And I don’t need to forgive you. It was me, my fault. There’s no need for this. Really, Nathan, it’s okay. We need to talk, not…”

  “We’ll talk later. For now, let me do this. For you. Just shut up, lie back and enjoy it.”

  Kneeling beside the bed he grabs my legs and pulls me toward him, spreading my thighs wide. His mouth is on me, and I stop thinking, stop trying to work out what’s going on. He flicks my clit with his tongue then slips it into my pussy. I can feel his stubble, abrasive against my tender skin. Usually clean-shaven, this is a new and exciting sensation. He tongue-fucks me until I am moaning with pleasure, then suddenly he slips his hands under my bottom, lifting me up. He uses his tongue to rim my anus, and I scream. The pleasure is overwhelming. Quite, quite exquisite. Holding me in place with one hand, easily, he brings his other hand round to stroke my eager clitoris and I am lost. I come, fast and hard, gasping his name as the sensations burst through me, bolts of lightning streaking out through my fingers and toes. I am convulsing wildly, out of control, as he relentlessly wo
rks me with his mouth, his tongue, his fingers.

  Even as the orgasm subsides, he isn’t done. He continues to work on me, his thumb now sliding in and out of my pussy as he gently nips my clitoris, taking it between his lips to suck me, hard. Incredibly, my arousal spikes again, and within moments I am caught up, tossed around in a second orgasmic tsunami. I am thrashing on the bed, nearly mindless with pleasure, and still he continues, relentlessly dragging a third climax from me.

  Exhausted at last, I need to stop. It’s too much. I can’t take any more. And I remember.

  “Red. Red. Please stop,” I whisper, my limbs weak, my breath catching in my throat. He hears me. And he stops.

  “Enough, sweetheart? Am I forgiven?” The gentle question is whispered, soft, compassionate. Caring.

  “Yes, enough. And I told you there’s no need for forgiving.” I lie still for a few seconds, just breathing, my senses returning. Then, my heart rate returning to something nearer normal, I continue. “God, that was incredible. The best ever. But my head’s a mess. I need to rest. I need to recover. And, soon, we need to talk.”

  He lifts his head, looks into my eyes, smiles that sweet, sexy smile, and slides up onto the bed to lie next to me. And I realise he’s still fully dressed. As ever it seems, at my moments of greatest weakness, greatest vulnerability, he is fully dressed and I’m naked.

  “Overdressed as usual, Mr. Darke,” I mutter grumpily.

  “Force of habit, Miss Byrne.”

  “That’s Dr Byrne to you.”

  “Ah yes, Dr Byrne. I’m trying.”

  “Very.” And I turn to snuggle against him as his arm comes round me, holding me tightly against his chest, draped bonelessly across him. And, again, I sleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Get your bloody clothes off!”

  I don’t honestly care whether we’re both naked or both fully clothed, but there’s no way I’m going to even attempt a serious conversation with our respective states of dress—or undress—so unbalanced.