Filthy Commitments: A Submissives’ Secrets Novel

by Michelle Love

  “Little bugger,” intoned Tiger, grinning at his mother, knowing it was a ‘bad’ word.

  Bo made a face at him. “Don’t say that in front of your Grandma or I’ll tickle you silly.”

  “No, Mummy!” He yelled a banshee cry, and she chased him back to his bedroom, making him giggle. She wrapped the towel around him.

  “Trust you to run around naked, you little exhibitionist.” She dried him quickly and pulled his pajamas over his head. After she’d tucked him into bed, she blew a raspberry on his forehead then kissed him. “You want a story, punkin?”

  He shook his head. “Mummy?”

  “Yes, precious?”

  “Is Kit in heaven now?”

  God, the pain didn’t get any less agonizing. “Yes, sweetheart, he is. Do you know why?”

  “A bad man had a gun.”

  “He did, and do you know what Kit did?”

  “He saved my mummy.”

  Bo’s eyes filled with tears as she nodded and she couldn’t speak. Tiger reached up and touched her cheek. “Don’t cry, Mummy. Kit still loves us, even if he isn’t here on Earth anymore.”

  The tears spilled over then, but she smiled through them. “Yes, he does, and we love him, don’t we?”

  Downstairs, she turned off the main lights, just leaving the light of the open fire crackling in the grate. She curled up on the couch, listening to the silence of the evening. The property had land for miles around which, usually, she was thankful for. Now, though, she wished there were people closer.

  You have four bodyguards sleeping in the guest lodge, all armed, all highly trained; how much more company do you want? But it wasn’t her safety she was most concerned with. It was being overcome with the crushing grief. She had canceled the rest of her tour—something she was loath to do—but in this case, vital. But now she wished she could feel that adrenaline. Night after night she would sit here, a bottle of wine, and her iPad, watching the videos she and Kit made during their all-too-brief time together. It was torture, yet every night she would put herself through it. Her shoulder still ached from the bullet wound; she’d hardly felt it when it ripped into her. It had all happened so fast.

  Kit’s shout of “get down!”; him shoving her into the car; turning, seeing the bullet smash into his chest. His look of surprise, then of regret as he looked at her, the blood blooming across his chest. Her primal, feral scream as he fell, then scrambling out of the car, not caring if she was shot again, falling onto her lover’s prone body. Holding his head between her hands, begging him to live. There was blood on his mouth. He smiled at her. “I love you, Bo Kennedy. Know that, always ...”

  His eyes closing. The finality of it.

  Bo grabbed a cushion and screamed into it, howling her sadness, her pain. She was so distraught, she didn’t notice a very awkward bodyguard hovering near the door. She lowered the cushion and started as he cleared his throat.

  “God … Simon, sorry.” She flushed, embarrassed. “Just stress relief.”

  He nodded, gave her a smile. “I do that all the time.”

  She smiled gratefully at his attempt to make her feel better. Sweet guy. “What’s up?”

  “There’s a gentleman here to see you; he apologizes for the lateness of the hour.”

  “Simon, I’m really not up for—”

  “It’s Joel Mallory, Miss Kennedy.”

  So many emotions flooded through her—joy, panic, and fear—but she kept her expression neutral. “Okay, then.”

  She walked out with Simon to the foyer, bracing herself for the impact of seeing her dead lover’s twin. As she caught sight of him, something inside her broke.

  Joel looked up and smiled. “Hey, Bo … remember me? I’m Joel...”

  “I remember who you are,” she smiled, her voice cracking, tears dropping down her cheeks. “Of course, I know who you are...”

  She threw her arms around him, sobbing, and he gathered her up, hugging her tightly. “It’s so good to see you again,” Joel said, his voice broken and emotional.

  Simon excused himself discreetly and Bo, finally releasing her grip on Joel, motioned him into the living room. “I have two bottles of unopened scotch. We’re finishing them tonight.”

  Joel chuckled quietly. “That sounds good to me.”

  She poured him a drink, not able to tear her eyes from him. “God, I thought I wouldn’t cope with seeing you, of all the family. But in a weird way, it’s helping. Do you smoke, Joel?”

  He shook his head. “Not for a while now.”

  “Me neither.” She reached into the drinks cabinet and pulled out a sealed packet of Gauloises, waving them joyously. “Terrible for the voice, but the scotch will take care of that. Come out on the patio, mate.”

  They sat under the stars and smoked and drank and shared stories of Kit. Bo felt her heart lift, as if Kit were still here, sitting in the empty, rolling his eyes at his brother for making him look ‘uncool.” She said as much to Joel, who laughed. “He would be incensed, the stories I could tell you.”

  Just after midnight and Bo sighed. “Thank you for coming, Joel. I needed this.”

  “What’s next for you, Bo?”

  Bo flexed her injured shoulder unconsciously. “Get back on tour, then into the studio. Work is the key, I think. Make sure Tiger gets through all of this. He really loved Kit.”

  Joel looked away from her gaze, and she took his hand. “I cannot even imagine how this must be for you, Joel. I only knew him a few weeks, and I feel torn apart.”

  He squeezed her hand. “It’s been …” his shoulders slumped. “I have, to be honest; it’s broken me. I can’t get through a few minutes without remembering he’s gone forever. We didn’t always have the best relationship, but lately it was getting better.”

  Bo steeled herself. “So, they have the shooter?

  Joel nodded and told her exactly what the man had said. She paled at his words. “Wow. So Kit really did save my life. It’s weird; I’ve had stalkers before, but never someone who wanted to kill me.”

  “If it helps, it wasn’t personal. Fisk wants to destroy our family and anyone we love.”

  Bo bristled. “Fucker. If someone wants to kill me, it should at least be personal. Jesus.”

  “I hear ya.”

  A light breeze had started up, and Bo shivered. “Let’s go in. Listen, I have a guest room. Stay the night.”

  Joel smiled. “That’s sweet but I can’t—this time, at least. Listen, none of us back in Seattle want to lose touch with you. It’s almost Christmas— bring Tiger, come out and stay with us. Your mom, too. Let us spoil you.”

  Bo grinned. “I’ll talk to Mum about it.”

  She walked him to the door and hugged him fiercely, not wanting to let go. “I miss him, you know?”

  Joel nodded, his eyes sad. “I know.”

  When she was alone, she went straight to her bedroom, changing into her T-shirt and shorts and got into bed. All those emotions swirling around her mind hadn’t stopped chattering. She lay on her right side and imagined Kit’s gorgeous golden head on the pillow next to hers. Bad move. So much pain.

  “Why did you have to go?” she whispered, and listened for the answer.

  It never came.

  Quilla and Jakob got back home just after midnight local time. Jakob had fallen into an uneasy sleep on the plane, but Quilla could never sleep when she traveled. Her eyes felt scratchy and sore; her mouth was dry; and she felt unreasonably annoyed--not at anyone in particular, just in general.

  Hormones, she thought, and then it struck her. God, not now. She figured out the days since her last period and sighed with relief. It was due in a couple of days. Still, she would snag a couple of pregnancy tests from the drugstore and make sure. After Jakob’s volte-face about kids, she suddenly had doubts herself. She wanted a career first, wanted to make a name for herself in the art world. She wasn’t so naive that she didn’t know the Mallory name would help her, but she actually wanted to do the hard labor herself, inst
ead of just being a figurehead. And children right now would prevent her from giving all of her attention to it.

  She had had the idea on the plane ride home; she would talk to Ran and Grady about a new foundation for arts, independent of Ran’s own foundation, and get Flori and Hayley, with their respective art and architecture degrees, involved.

  She was so absorbed with the idea; she barely noticed when they got back to the apartment and Jakob put his hands on her waist, pulling her to him. Quilla braced herself for another fucking session … and was surprised when all Jakob did was stroke her face, gazing down at her, his eyes soft. She smiled up at him.

  “You okay, baby?”

  He nodded but stayed silent, pressing his lips to hers tenderly, his hands cupping her face. His kiss was sweet, passionate, and heady—after a long moment, she had to pull away for air, bemused by the change in him.

  He leaned his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry I’ve been so angry, that I’ve been so forceful with you. With us.”

  “Ssh,” she said, rubbing her nose against his. “I love you. It’s okay.”

  Jakob smiled. “I don’t know where my head has been; something in me said Gregor would never go this far. Now he has … I have nightmares about losing you, Quilla. He got to you so easily last time.”

  “Last time, we didn’t have any idea that this was his psychosis, his endgame. Now we do, and we have an army, looking out for us. An army.” She grinned, nodding back to the closed door to the foyer. Their security detail waited outside, ready for any intrusion. Quilla held Jakob’s hand and led him to their bedroom. “Best way to get over jetlag,” she promised him.

  They made love slowly, tenderly, this time, taking their time, taking care of the other’s body, and then fell asleep and slept until the middle of the next afternoon. After they’d showered, Jakob went to the office and Quilla, eager to discuss her ideas with Ran and Grady, asked one of her bodyguards to take her to the big house.

  Grady was the only one there and he listened with interest to her ideas. He nodded as she explained how she wanted to set up a foundation which would benefit artists without a college degree or access to art classes. “Kind of like Joel’s community sports centers, but for art.”

  “I like it. And you want to get Hayley and Flori involved? I think that’s the right way to go. After all, all three of you did get your college degrees, but only after adversity. Would you teach?”

  Quilla was surprised. “Do you think I’m qualified?”

  “Hell, yes. And if you’re worried, we’ll poach some people from your alma mater.”

  His grin was so infectious, she couldn’t help but giggle. “Thanks, Grady; now I’m even more enthused. Is Flori with you? Can I talk to her?”

  Grady shook his head. “Afraid not. She’s visiting a college in Vancouver.”

  Quilla was surprised. “Moving to Canada?”

  “Maybe. At least while her course lasts. It’s just one option we’re thinking about, but look, come over tomorrow night for some food and we’ll talk some more. I know Flori would love to do something with you.”

  Quilla flushed with pleasure. “She’s a sweetheart and damn, she can draw.”

  Grady nodded. “The two of you put Pa and me to shame.”

  “Ha.”

  “It’s true. We’re more dabblers; you two are hardcore.”

  She was still thinking about his words later; if she was honest, they made her feel so good. That her work was worth something was a real tribute, coming from a man like Grady Mallory. Yes, he was related, but she knew without a doubt that he wasn’t just blowing smoke up her ass, that he meant what he said. She tried to remember when she’d last picked up a pencil or a paintbrush. Too long. Even at work, she’d been mired in paperwork and essays, her PhD studies having taken a backseat. Not any more, she thought, gazing out a sunny Seattle as they drove towards the city.

  She leaned forward in the seat and spoke to her guard, Rick. “Hey, could we go to Skandar’s place?”

  “Sure thing, Miss Quilla.”

  Quilla grinned to herself. Rick was an old-fashioned guy, straight out of Texas. Miss Quilla. He makes me sound like Jessica Fletcher. She pulled out her phone and called Hayley, asking her if she wanted to grab some food and chat.

  The reply came back. “God, yes, please, Skandar’s still at training, and I’m starving.”

  Hayley was wearing a long plaid shirt and skinny jeans, and her wool hat pulled down over her long blonde hair as she dove into the car next to Quilla and kissed her cheek. “How was Oz? I’m desperate for Skandar to take me to the Open next year, but he says I’ll be a distraction.”

  Quilla grinned. Hayley’s natural enthusiasm was catching. “Don’t take no for an answer. It’s beautiful. Where do you want to eat?”

  Hayley considered. “I am supposed to be on a detox, so ...”

  “Red Mill?”

  Hayley groaned. “You are the Devil. Yes, yes, yes.”

  Quilla chuckled and asked Rick to take them to the burger joint. “I need fries in my life,” she admitted to Hayley. “PMS-ing hard.”

  “Poor you. “

  Rick pulled the car out into traffic and headed towards Ballard. The two women chatted happily, catching up with each other. Quilla told Hayley she had something to discuss with her but, teasing her companion, she kept her mouth shut.

  Neither of them nor Rick saw the SUV until the last minute. It came at them from the side, speeding to over a hundred kilometers an hour and smashed the front of the Mercedes, flipping it over and over.

  Quilla, barely conscious, opened her eyes to see a man with a gun bending down to look into the car. She heard Hayley moan.

  “They’re alive.”

  “Good. Boss wants the Asian one alive.”

  “What about the blonde?”

  “Bring her, too. If he doesn’t want her, we’ll kill her and dump her body. Kill the driver.”

  In horror, Quilla watched as the man calmly shot Rick through the head. Hayley screamed. Then doors were being opened; there was a flash of a knife as Quilla was cut free from her belt. Then, as she was dragged out of the car, a cloth was forced over her nose and mouth. Breathing in whatever chemical was soaking the cloth; Quilla heard Hayley cry out.

  Leave her alone; she tried to scream. Take me, leave her alone … oh God, … help us …

  Help us …

  Part Eight: Take Me

  Now …

  Quilla opened her eyes to darkness. A blindfold; she could feel the rough fabric against her skin. Her hands were bound behind her back; she was slumped on a chair, her ankles tied. Her head pounded with pain; her limbs ached from the shock of the accident. She felt strangely calm—she was in no doubt who was behind their abduction: Gregor Fisk. There was a sense of inevitability about it all. Quilla swallowed, her throat dry. “Hayley?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Are you tied up?”

  “Yes, handcuffed to the radiator. You’re on a chair. Are you okay?”

  “I think so. Aren’t you blindfolded?”

  “No. He … Quilla, he’s tied you up like he wanted to … God ...”

  Quilla didn’t need to hear it. She could easily imagine what humiliation Gregor Fisk was going to visit upon her before he killed her. Because he was going to kill her, she knew that, but she was damned if she’d let him hurt Hayley. She lifted her shoulder, bending her head to push the blindfold away from her eyes. She blinked, trying to get used to the light. Hayley, her face tearstained and bloody, sat on the floor across the room.

  Quilla looked around … an old house, somewhat derelict. She could see out of the window that they were in an isolated place, but the tree line looked familiar—pines, mountainous. “We’re still in Washington, or at least the Northwest.” Had Gregor been close all this time?

  Hayley nodded. “I was conscious in the van, though I pretended to be out. We didn’t travel for more than two hours, and we climbed, I could tell that. Your ear is bleeding.�
��

  Hayley looked terrified, and Quilla tried to smile and reassure her. “It doesn’t hurt.” She looked over herself. Her white dress had been ripped open to expose her underwear, and the ties that bound her crisscrossed over her body were leather straps biting into her flesh. Quilla strained against them, but they were too tight, too strong. She hadn’t noticed at first, but someone had drawn a circle in marker pen on her belly, her navel at the center of it. “What the hell?”

  “He said it was for target practice, the sick fuck.” Hayley suddenly retched and vomited. Quilla felt sick herself. Hayley sobbed for a few seconds, then wiped her mouth on the arm of her T-shirt.

  “He’s going to kill us, isn’t he?”

  “No,” Quilla shook her head. “He is not, Hayley. I will get you out of here, I promise. Jakob and Skandar, they’ll be scouring the world for us. I won’t let you die.”

  Hayley was staring at her. “Quilla … I won’t let him hurt you either.”

  Quilla swallowed the lump in her throat. “Sweetheart, we’re going to get out of here, I promise.”

  The door to the room opened then, and they both started, hearts pounding. Gregor Fisk had the widest smile on his face. Hayley whimpered.

  “Well, good morning, beautiful ladies. Thank you for joining me here. Quilla, my love, you’re up, and looking so ravishing too.”

  Gregor grabbed Quilla’s hair and pulled her head back, grinding his mouth down on hers. Quilla struggled until she felt cold metal against her belly and she froze.

  Hayley screamed, and Gregor laughed. He pressed the muzzle of the gun against Quilla’s skin and winked at Hayley. “Hope you’ve said your goodbyes, girls.”

  And he pulled the trigger.

  Now …

  There were no words to describe how Jakob felt at this moment. Devastated wasn’t strong enough; neither was scared, terrified or angry. There were no words.

  Sickened, he turned away from the body of his employee. Rick, the young Texan security guard, could not have prevented his own death, a bullet to the brain, nor could he have protected Quilla from the fate that had befallen her. Gregor had taken her, and Jakob knew in his bones that he would never see her alive again.