Ashes & Embers Series Collection (Books 1 to 4)

by Carian Cole

“Do you need anything? Any kind of food you want?”

  “No, thank you. I barely eat anymore.”

  “That’s changing tonight. I’m making us dinner.”

  “You can’t make me eat. I’ll use the safe word.”

  “You can’t use the safe word for dinner. That’s ridiculous, and not even funny.”

  She shoots me a dirty look, and I suddenly feel as if I’m living with a teenager.

  “I won’t be gone long,” I tell her, picking up my car keys.

  “Should I expect any random women to show up while you’re gone?” she asks, a touch of sarcasm in her voice.

  I smirk and cross the room to stand over her. “Were you jealous of Evelyn?”

  “Who’s Evelyn?”

  I want to spank this girl so bad I can taste it. She’s such a little instigator. She flip-flops from being quiet and depressed to sarcastic in about two seconds.

  “You’re begging for a spanking, ya know.”

  “Just go already.” She’s not even looking at me.

  “Stand up.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t question me. Just do it.”

  She puts the cat gently next to her and stands up, twisting her hair around her finger and chewing her lip.

  “Kiss me goodbye.” I soften my voice to ease her nerves.

  “I don’t like goodbyes,” she says, her voice thick with sadness.

  “I can understand that. Then just kiss me because you like me.”

  She peeks up at me beneath her messy bangs. “Maybe I don’t like you.” I know she’s only half teasing, but her words cut me and kill my mood. Which is really different for me, because I don’t like many people and couldn’t give two shits if they like me or not. But I want her to like me, and even more than that, I want her to want me.

  “Hey, I’m used to people not liking me. Join the fucking club.” And with that I leave, slamming the door behind me.

  I take the car I keep up here instead of the bike because I can’t cram too much stuff into the saddlebags. On the way to the store, I blast some music to try and raise my mood, but it’s not working. Maybe I should just take her home and stop playing with fire with this situation I’ve created. I shouldn’t be fucking around with the widow of someone I accidentally killed. It’s pretty much the most fucked up thing I’ve ever done. Lukas would kill me if he knew, and Storm would have a goddamn coronary. Ash would try to ban me from the fucking planet. Self-righteous assholes.

  But this girl . . . this little broken doll of a girl that used to smile and write silly status updates like “omg! This cookie is amazing!!” has entranced me. She’s woken my desires and eased some of my pain already. I crave both her dark silence and her sensual innocence. I want to catch her smile with my lips, feel what she feels, see what she sees. I need her to be happy, because I believe it's contagious, and I want her to infect me with it. Giving her up is not something I’m ready to do.

  I pick up a few grocery items, some sweatpants, T-shirts, and panties for her, and then wander into the craft store that is conveniently located next door. She's way too delicate for my usual industrial ropes and chains. Instead, I want to bind her with silk ribbon and long strings of pearls, to tie her beauty within beauty, and then defile her with my ugly darkness just so I can undo it again.

  As I drive back to the house, I play last night over in my mind. I’m surprised at how willingly she came with me and let me touch her. I don’t think I misjudged her in thinking she’s a good girl that doesn’t sleep around. She turned me on like mad and I want to believe that she wanted me just as badly, but I know that’s far from the truth. It must be that she has reached a level of destruction where she wants me to ruin her and is using me to facilitate her own mental demise.

  Shit.

  CHAPTER 11

  TABITHA

  THE BLIND KITTEN PURRING on my lap has a therapeutic effect on me, his internal motor like a lullaby. I gently rub my fingers on his forehead. One would think that a kitten that was tortured and who’d completely lost his eyes would be scared, timid, hiding from people. But he’s not. He’s totally loving and trusting, willing to give life and humans another chance.

  I haven’t had a pet since I was a little girl, but this adorable furball is making me want one. It would be nice to have a sweet cat like this to cuddle with at night, rather than being all alone in the house. I wonder if the guy would let me have him. He really doesn’t seem like the type who would want to have a disabled pet.

  “You want to come live with me, little guy?” I say in a baby voice. He purrs louder and rolls on his back so I can rub his tummy, making me laugh.

  I think I accidentally upset the dominant dude. I didn’t mean to, really—I just can’t seem to control my emotions at all anymore. I’m a total mess since Nick died, and I feel as if I’m flailing off the edge of a cliff most of the time. Just a few months ago, life was so different. We were trying to have a baby. We both had good jobs. We had great friends. We were happy, at least most of the time, and more than most couples I know. A lump forms in my throat as the memories envelope me.

  And now . . .

  Now I’m lying on some guy’s couch, a guy I let tie me up for a blow job and fuck me, a guy who threatened to spank me and wants me to submit to him. There is something incredibly alluring and sexually magnetic about him, something taboo. I want to give in to him, and I don’t even know why. Maybe I’m just trying to punish myself.

  He was right about the release of control and it making me feel better. It really did, so very much, but not in any way that I have ever felt before. It was exhilarating, like falling without a net, yet knowing I would be caught. It felt dirty, too, and as much as I tried to fight it, it turned me on.

  You’re disgusting.

  There is sadness deep in him, a darkness living there that pulls him under. He’s hiding so much from me, not letting me see all of him, and I know there is more to him than he’s letting on, more than I assumed he would be. He’s a Pandora’s box that I should probably not play with, but even after just one day, I feel hooked. I honestly think his need for control stems from a fear of abandonment and loss. If he controls the relationship, then he can’t be blindsided or hurt.

  While he’s at the store, I consider calling a cab and getting the hell out of here before I get in deeper, but I can’t bring myself to do it because I’m too intrigued by him and what he’s offering. I like how he’s melting the ice around me, helping me feel again, awakening feelings I’ve never felt before, helping me find a new me.

  Yesterday I wanted to die, but today I just want to kill the girl I used to be and meet the girl I could be.

  It’s a start.

  A door shutting and the kitten jumping wake me up. I look around, disoriented, and he’s standing over me, holding some bags.

  “I’m sorry. I must have dozed off.”

  “Don’t apologize, I want you to rest. You’re exhausted. And too thin.”

  Still drowsy, I follow him to the kitchen and help him take the stuff out of the bags, which feels strangely domestic and familiar. “I thought men liked thin women.”

  He winks at me and my insides melt for days. “Not me. I like some curves so I can hold on to you. You’re way too skinny. My dick weighs more than you.”

  I make a disgusted face at him. “Ew. That is so . . . ugh. I don’t even know.” I shake my head and busy myself with the groceries while he laughs.

  I check him out as he’s putting things in the refrigerator, his long, black hair cascading over his muscled back and shoulders. Yesterday my head was too messed up and foggy to notice how gorgeous and sexy he is. He’s got the kind of carnal looks that stop a woman in her tracks and make her wet instantly just by looking at him. His dark skin, facial features, and long, black hair definitely hint at him being Native American. And those muscles and tattoos . . . wow.

  “I’m sorry I upset you earlier . . . before you left.”

  He shrugs it off. “I don�
�t get upset.” He’s lying.

  “I thought this worked both ways?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This morning, you said you needed to know what I was feeling. I need to know what you’re feeling, too.”

  “I really don’t talk about my feelings. Sorry.” He pulls bottled water, assorted fruits, and toiletries out of the bag. “I need to know your feelings so I can understand your needs better and help you.”

  I take the milk carton he’s holding out of his hands and put it into the refrigerator. “And who helps you?” I ask him pointedly.

  “I bought you some clothes,” he replies, completely ignoring my question and gesturing towards a bag on the table.

  After dumping out the contents of the bag, all I see are black sweatpants, basic T-shirts, and plain bikini panties.

  “Geez. This is fashionable,” I joke.

  “No need for fashion. I’ll have you naked most of the time and on your knees,” he says, and then pauses. “Or on all fours.”

  My traitorous pussy quivers in response.

  I try to change the subject. “What about my car?”

  “Write down your address and I’ll call a tow truck to have it taken there. I’ll pay for it.” He opens a drawer and hands me a pen and torn piece of paper with a hotel emblem on it.

  “Don’t you have a job?” I ask him, writing down my address. “And a name?”

  He takes the paper from me and gives me that long stare of his, as if he’s looking right through my eyes and straight into my thoughts, making me feel vulnerable and exposed.

  “We’ll talk about that later on,” he finally answers.

  “Seriously? We’re going to talk about your name later?”

  He doesn’t waver. “That’s what I said.”

  “Don’t you want to know mine?”

  “No. I’ll call you what I want to call you.”

  “Fine,” I mutter, and take off out the sliding glass doors in the kitchen that lead to the backyard, sure to close the doors behind me so Sterling can’t wander out. There’s a chilly breeze coming off the lake. All I’ve got on is his thin T-shirt, but I don’t care. There are no other houses around that I can see from here, so no one’s going to see my pointy nipples and naked legs.

  Walking over to the short wooden dock that extends from the yard, I find a dingy tied to it. It’s hard for me to picture him in this tiny boat; he’s just too big and I think he would sink it. I climb into it and untie the rope from the wooden post. There are two oars but I don’t use them; I just let the wind blow me slowly across the water. From the middle of the lake, I can see a few other houses, each with their own docks and boats. I didn’t explore his house while he was gone, but now I wished I had. There were definitely other rooms—I just lacked the interest in seeing them. Maybe there’s a guest room that he will let me stay in while I’m here. Unless he expects me to sleep in his bed every night. With him? I’m not sure I can do that.

  I wiggle my left hand, staring at my engagement ring and wedding band. All my memories feel so far away, and I don’t understand how that can happen in just a few months. Everything feels as if it happened a lifetime ago. I can’t remember the happiness I felt every day before the accident. Now it feels like a movie I watched, and not like it happened to me at all.

  Sometimes I’m not sure if I’m grieving the loss of Nick or the loss of myself.

  I peer over the edge of the boat and see a face looking back at me in the water. I don’t even recognize myself anymore. The girl in the water looks like a sad wreck.

  The boat bobbing in the water is making me sleepy, and I wish I had a blanket and pillow with me so I could just curl up on the cramped floor of the boat and sleep. Better yet, I wish I could fall over the side, float to the bottom of the lake, and just stay there.

  Dom dude is just as much of a mess as I am. Possibly even more so. He seems sad, but also devious and a bit of an asshole, and yet I see fleeting glimpses of care and compassion in him, too. The fact that I got on a motorcycle with him so easily without a second thought and let him bring me here to his house in the woods scares me terribly.

  Turning to look back at the house, I see he’s standing on the dock with a bottle in his hand. I’ve drifted out further than I thought and doubt the wind will be nice enough to lead me back, so I pick up the oars and row back. His eyebrows furrow together when I near, and he grabs the rope from my hand and ties it to the post. I watch his fingers expertly tie the knot, and wetness pools between my legs, thinking of how he tied my hands almost the same way.

  He takes my arm and helps me onto the dock. “What the hell are you doing? I thought something happened to you.” He picks up his bottle of vodka and takes a swig. This cannot be good.

  “What could happen? I was just floating around.”

  “Next time, tell me. You can’t just disappear on me like that.”

  “I wish I could just disappear. And why are you drinking?”

  “Because that’s what I do.” He puts his arm around me and leads me towards the house. “It’s too cold for you to be out here like this.”

  As soon as we walk through the doors, I can smell food cooking, so he must have started dinner while I was out on the boat disappearing. He doesn’t strike me as the cooking type, but I guess he’s just full of surprises.

  “It smells delicious. What are you making?”

  “Chicken cordon bleu and rice pilaf.”

  I can’t hide the impressed and surprised look that must be on my face. “Really? You made that?”

  He takes another sip of vodka before answering me, and I’m starting to worry about why he’s drinking and how much of that he’s going to be doing. I really don’t want to be stuck out here with an angry—or psycho—drunk.

  “Yes, I made it. My grandmother loves to cook, and sometimes I just go to her house and spend the day cooking with her.”

  Picturing that scene brings a smile to my face. I don’t know many men who would hang out with their grandmother cooking, especially ones that look like he does.

  Sterling waltzes into the room and starts to wind himself around my ankles, meowing up at me.

  “Aww . . . he’s talking. He’s such a cutie.”

  He takes yet another drink, and opens a small pantry door, pulling out a bag of cat food. “He’s hungry. This little fucker eats nonstop.”

  I take the bag out of his hand and fill the cat’s dish, laughing at how quickly he runs over to start devouring his food. “Don’t call him a fucker. He’s just a kitten. Maybe he was starved as well as tortured.”

  “Shit, I never thought of that.”

  I put the food back in the pantry and spy more alcohol in there, way in the back.

  I turn around and eye him. “Why are you drinking so much?”

  “This is nothing. Trust me.” Thin red veins are spreading in his eyes, and his words are starting to slur just a little bit. The fuck is he doing to himself?

  “Do you have a drinking problem?” I demand, folding my arms across my chest.

  He laughs. “I have a lot of problems.”

  Irritated, I take the bottle away from him. “I won’t stay here if you’re going to drink.” I pour what’s left in the bottle into the sink, hoping it doesn’t put him in a rage.

  “What the fuck?” he yells. “Why did you do that?”

  I back away from him a little. “I refuse to stay here if you’re going to be drinking. Forget it. No way in hell am I going to let you put a finger on me or be wielding knives and tying me up or whatever crazy shit you plan to do if you’re drunk or high. You said I had to trust you and there is no way I can do that if you’re drinking. I can’t go there.”

  We engage in a stare-off for a few minutes. His eyes are dark with anger and his fists are clenched at his sides. The fact that I don’t know anything about him or what he could do to me quickly comes to the forefront of my mind.

  “You keep fucking walking away from me,” he finally says.


  “And?” I prod, raising my eyebrows at him.

  “And what? I don’t like it. Don’t do it again.”

  “Fine. No more drinking or I’ll walk home.”

  He sighs and blows out a breath, running his hand through his hair. “All right. If it bothers you that much, I won’t.”

  “It does, and thank you.”

  “Come here.”

  I don’t budge.

  “Come. Here,” he repeats.

  I relent and step forward, stopping a few inches in front of him to crane my neck to look up into his face. His hand brushes across my cheek. “Why do you run off?” he asks, his voice low and soft, his eyes fighting to close.

  Shrugging, I lean against the warmth of his hand. “I don’t know, really. I’m constantly feeling like I have to run away . . . like being someplace else will somehow make me feel better. It never does though, and I usually end up just crying or getting mad at myself. I don’t know how else to explain it other than my brain and my heart feel lost.”

  He stares into my eyes for a few moments and I know that he understands. Finally, someone understands. “We’ll even you out and you’ll feel better.” He leans down and kisses me. “Come into the bedroom with me. I need to measure you.”

  Confused, I let him lead me to the bedroom. “Measure me?” I question. “For what?”

  He pulls the T-shirt over my head, as if it’s just the most natural thing to be doing, then guides me to step out of my panties while I hang on to him for balance.

  “I’m going to buy you something,” he finally says.

  Well, that piques my interest. What could he buy me that I would need to be measured naked for? I recall reading about a psycho that kidnapped a woman and kept her in a box under his bed for weeks, taking her out only to abuse her. A flash of fear rips through me at the thought of that happening to me.

  He goes to his dresser and comes back with a cloth tape measure, and begins to measure my height, my chest, my waist, my hips—almost every part of my body. He types it all into a note program on his phone.

  “Okay, you’ve really got my mind going. What are you going to get me?”