by Angel Payne
It was time to see things clearly again. To push the boulders back into the stream.
He took another long pull of the water. This time, pushed it away after setting it down. “So…you think she’s all right?”
“As opposed to the ninety-eight other times you asked me, Mother Hubbard?” Reb came out of the Magneto pose to balance the opposite way, elbows propped on the desk, tiptoeing the base of the chair. But by the time he looked up at the monitors, his snark dissipated. “You know what? I think she’s exhausted. First, we weren’t exactly about hearts, candles, and Air Supply with her this morning. On top of that, after the details we’ve uncovered here…”
Rhett grimaced. “No shit.”
Two lamer words had never been spoken—in light of the information relayed by the two screens. Rebel pointed at a picture from the Facebook page of a woman named Enya Sabine Monet, dated a little over two years ago. “This has to be the ‘Enya’ she was referring to.”
“Who clearly has to be her younger sister.” The photo served as the no, duh for that. The shot, which looked like it was taken at a club or party, displayed Brynna and Enya along with another woman, only referred to as Nadine. They all wore black cocktail dresses, though Enya and Nadine had finished theirs off with fishnets and pleaser boots that wouldn’t have left any dude at that party guessing about their end game. Brynn, with those incredible gazelle legs, didn’t need any enhancements but the sleek black heels on her feet. As it was, Rhett shifted to readjust his fresh boner. Just imagining her in that dress, with those legs circling his waist and those heels digging into his back…
Focus, you wanker.
Beyond the erotic fantasy value, the picture was a revelation. Though Brynn and Enya stood on opposite sides of their friend, their resemblance was too striking to be ignored. Duplicate kitten eyes. The same high, defined cheeks. Their chins tapering to matching heart-shaped points.
“Beautiful girl.” Rebel stated it as if rattling off mission intel, peering analytically at the monitor. “Looks happy, healthy, fulfilled. Lived about ten minutes from Brynna, and had friends as well as an active social life. According to her tax records, worked a good job as a special events manager at The Wynn—”
Rhett interjected with a low whistle. “Niiiice.”
“But apparently, she was lying to a lot of people.”
Rhett took that as his cue to click open another window. A page from a new social media site appeared, which incorporated element of the popular standard social sites, but with kinkier twists. Photos of Enya Monet also filled the screen—only it wasn’t her name at the top of the page. Hestia Hyacinth was a different creature entirely: a woman who wore latex minis, training corsets, and leather accessories with D-rings for bondage hooks. Her blonde hair was hidden beneath wigs of various colors and styles. Her face was coated in glittering makeup and swirled decals that turned her into everything from a half-naked butterfly to an erotic zombie to a naughty schoolgirl, and everything in between.
“At the risk of being redundant,” Rhett inserted, “no shit.”
Rebel scooted in, a fascinated stare taking over his face. “Check out the dates. Her posts to Facebook faded as her entries on this kink site ramped up.”
“Definitely fits.” Rhett clicked another tab, opening up a detailed credit card purchase history. “Check out the other records I was able to yank.”
Rebel leaned in again. “She went to a lot of the lighter D/s play clubs in town…”
“Until she didn’t.”
The guy’s gaze flared. “Wait a second. Brick and Bondage Corp. Isn’t that—”
“Max Brickham’s company.” Rhett offered the name of the Seattle-based Dom who owned Bastille, the kink club they frequented when they were back at base. Last year, Max had opened a second location in a subterranean bunker beneath the Nevada desert, halfway between Vegas and Henderson. Catacomb wasn’t advertised or promoted anywhere in town—partly because it was successful without the fuss; mostly because it was known for the most hardcore BDSM play in the valley.
Rebel scooped up the pencil again. Tapped it on the desk in a fervent staccato. Rhett tried not to stare but failed. It was almost as fascinating to watch the guy think as it was to watch him fuck. “So she heard about Catacomb. And got in.”
“Looks like it.” Rhett scowled. “But we can only go by the receipt trail. Max is, as we both know, paranoid about security. His firewalls can be cracked, but it would take me three days minimum to do it.”
“Don’t bother.” Rebel started scrolling deeper into the pages of “Hestia’s” kink account. “I think we’ll find what we need right here.”
Scroll. Scroll. Scroll.
Rebel kept going, though some of the shots made him stop and zoom in before shaking his head, looking as stumped as a Jeopardy contestant who had no clue how to answer the Daily Double. Rhett had to admit, his friend’s confusion was oddly reassuring. Rhett had seen a lot of the world, and that included BDSM dungeons from the tame to the bizarre, but even to a jaded guy like himself, the pictorial chronicle of Hestia’s submissive journey was intense. The images depicted the woman in increasingly extreme D/s situations, including fire cupping, public whippings, and even a needle and thread session where the sides of her spine were pierced with eyelets then “laced up” like a corset.
The captions on the photos declared it was all for her Master Peter, a guy who looked like the love child of Billy Corgan and a Harajuku Girl, and did his part for the Vegas BDSM community by ensuring the camera loved him in all the right ways. From his rock star pout and shit-kicker boots to his kohl-lined eyes and multi-pierced ears, Peter baby was all about projecting the brooding rebel guy mystique. He apparently played that way, too. Rhett lost track of how many red flags he set off, all of them overlaid with one resonating word.
User.
His instinct wasn’t soothed as Rebel continued scrolling. The pictures of Enya and her Dom were clearly all captioned by her, in language that made more alarms go off.
He is my sun, my moon, my stars.
I am his to rule forever.
His happiness is mine.
Next to him Rebel grunted. “His happiness?” he scoffed. “Does that guy understand what happiness is, beyond a popular Instagram account?”
The answer came with hardly any notice. Between one mouse click and the next, Hestia Hyacinth’s profile relayed a dramatically different story. Gone was the cute and curious little subbie, as well as the lovestruck woman devoted to the will of her Dom. Gone were photos of the woman at all. Haunting images took over her feed, some borrowed from other sources, others taken with her cell. Moody landscapes. Pining poems. Shots of things like tumbleweeds, cloud-filled skies, lone swans on foggy ponds.
The captions to the images were just as desolate. Rambling and grief-stricken, the texts were filled with pleas and questions, begging Master Peter for an explanation of what offense she’d committed to turn him from her so suddenly. From the looks of things, diva-boy Dom had left her to hang, despite how she begged him for a phone call, a text…a chance.
Rhett pounded down more water. “Why do I suddenly wish this was vodka?”
Rebel cocked back his head, closing his eyes. “Asshole saved all the pretty for the camera.”
“A lot more makes sense now. About what Brynn said.”
“Truth.” Reb straightened, taking in the images with newly scrutinizing eyes. “So what happened after that? These last pictures are dated nearly a year ago.”
Rhett clicked open the window with his original search results for Enya’s name. “I had more hits here…let me see if anything turns…”
“Whoa.” Rebel voiced the polite version of what-the-fuck, as the monitor was filled with a certificate bearing the state’s seal—then three words in ornate script.
Power of Attorney
It was easy enough to skim the legal mumbo-jumbo and locate the names of the key people on the doc.
“Enya gave Brynna her power of attorney?” Rhett fro
wned.
“And not to a parent?” Rebel countered. “Are their mom and dad around?”
Frustration seared Rhett’s chest. He’d shared sexual ecstasy with the woman now embedded into his bone marrow, but barely knew a thing about her life, especially her family. While the connection of this week was hardly going to transfer back to their real lives, the incongruity still felt wrong. “Wait.” A memory blasted in. “Wasn’t Brynn’s mom at Shay and Zoe’s wedding? The funny little thing who sat on the hay bale all night?”
Rebel’s head jerked up. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Right. She was the overgrown garden gnome crossed with Kathy Bates, circa Misery.”
“Only she thought that corner was her little pulpit after a while. I think she quoted every apostle in Jesus’s posse, along with Paul and a few guest stars from the Old Testament too,”
“Right.” Reb snickered for a second. “Thank fuck Zoe wasn’t showing with the bebette yet.”
“Well, that clarifies Enya’s choice. A little.”
“A little.” Rebel used the emphasis to drive in the opposite. There was still a lot they didn’t know about all this. “What the hell isn’t adding up?” He dragged a hand through his hair and turned his gaze out the window, as if the towering cypress and oaks would magically give up the answer. “What are we missing?”
“Or more accurately, what can’t we find?”
Suddenly, Rebel swiveled his head back around. His eyes were brilliant as cut stones. “You mean what we can’t find…legally.”
Rhett returned the stare with rising comprehension. “Things like health records…or sealed court documents.” He tapped knuckles against his chin, thinking deeper. “Or…a restraining order?”
“Perhaps.” Rhett hedged. “But filed by whom? Look at Enya’s posts again. Her desperation adds the detail. She lists everything about her time with Peter except goddamn bathroom breaks. There’s length of their play sessions, depth and intensity of the guy’s discipline—”
“Toy types.” Rhett’s brows jabbed up. “Positions. Climax counts. Christ. This shit is juicy.”
“And just as abundant after their breakup, only the information is different. The little Jane Austen can spin the angst with the best of them.”
“Roger that.” The material would’ve been a little comical, had the heartache beneath not been so palpable. “‘Breathe in, breathe out, but I only swallow glass…top of the world, but I’m sitting in trash…’”
“Wonder if she ever thought of selling to Nashville. Girl could stir herself up a pile of gold.” He held up both hands at Rhett’s censuring glance. “Just sayin’, podna.”
Rhett reveled in warmth from the man’s casual endearment—for a moment. He shoved it aside just as quickly to focus again on the monitors. “So if Peter didn’t file it, and she didn’t—”
“We’re still looking in the wrong place.” Reb started the pencil drumbeat again.
“But still seeking something protected by the court.”
The drumming stopped. As if drawn to the very lightbulb that seemed to blaze to life inside it, Reb lifted his head. “Like psychiatric care?”
Rhett pivoted in his chair. Bam. There was his lightbulb too. “A fifty-one fifty psych hold?” The words even felt right to say. “Or something else? Or both?”
“Not sure it matters. But it sure as hell slides some things into place.” Rebel rose, braced hands to his hips then paced toward the doorway leading to the other den, where the rumpled blankets on the futon were a blatant reminder of what had gone down this morning for all three of them. “A lot of things.”
Rhett nodded. The circuits in his brain kept snapping into place, gears hitting at high speed. “That was the reason for her meltdown, wasn’t it? It wasn’t all just about Zoe.”
It wasn’t a shocker to him—nor to Rebel, judging by the guy’s unchanged posture. After a long moment, the sinews of his shoulders twined and shifted as he reached for the door frame, noticeably clenching the dark wood. “Taking on that kind of responsibility…especially if her sister had a significant breakdown…”
“Because of a Dom who took ‘wham, bam, thank you, subbie’ to a whole new level of ass wad.” Rhett leaned forward, meshing his hands and dropping his head. “Unbelievable.”
“No wonder she’s fighting so violently against her submissiveness.” Reb’s hands glided downward, almost caressing the wood. “Though I’ve never met a woman more perfectly created for it.” He rocked back and forth in the portal, embodying the rate at which both their brains now churned. It all started to fit. The memories of what she’d said, together with the facts they’d just learned, added to some damn confident inferences on both their parts.
Rhett tilted his head up again. “Damn. A natural submissive who refuses to submit.”
“Unless her brain is forcibly locked out of the situation.”
Rhett chuffed. Another unarguable point from the “Look what we learned in bed this morning” folder. The things Brynna had agreed to…the heights they’d taken her desire, once she’d just given up, given in, and surrendered to their full control…
“A situation we managed once.” The argument needed to be voiced aloud. “Fat bloody chance she’ll allow it to happen again. In that gorgeous head of hers, losing control doesn’t just mean surrendering her body. It’s a matter of losing herself.”
Rebel turned around, lifting his hold to the doorway’s upper jamb in the process. “Just like her sister did.”
Damn. Talk about losing oneself. Moon’s stretched, burnished muscles were an eyeful that made Rhett forget his own name for a second. He readjusted his position in the chair, silently cursing the events of this morning—for the thousandth time. And for the thousandth time, taking them back. The revelations they’d known and all the new things he’d seen in this man…he’d never forget any of it, and knew that in time, when the recollections melded into the places of his mind reserved for the most special moments of his life, that an image of Rebel’s passion-drenched face would be there, too.
In the end, he’d be damn glad it all happened.
He wasn’t sure Brynn would be joining him in that boat.
Once more, he decided to finish his musing aloud. “But her tenacity about the control…it’s like clutching greased rope. The tighter she holds on, the more her grip slips.”
“Which we witnessed in full, sobbing Technicolor.”
Rhett stood now, too. Stuffed both hands into his pockets while battling the urge to reach out and just run his hands beneath Reb’s tank. It wouldn’t be for any sexual thrill this time, though. He felt the visceral need to put an outward display on the new things he felt for the man. No, not even for the man. This was just about…the person. The connection to him. The acceptance by him, for him. The better ways they could already read each other, know each other. Their synchronicity on missions, already legendary, was going to be off the fucking charts now.
But it wasn’t possible. Couldn’t be. If he touched just one place, he’d want more. Then Reb would want more. Then a touch wouldn’t be enough, maybe not even a kiss. And it would be amazing. Conflagrating. A bonfire for the ages.
A passion he’d never be able to recover from.
Working side-by-side with the man wouldn’t be synchronicity anymore. It would be hell.
And then there was the matter of the beautiful redhead sleeping across the house. The way he saw her haunting Rebel’s eyes, the same way she dogged so many of his own thoughts and longings. There was so much more to uncover about her…and so few bricks remaining that could be loosened from her walls, if at all. The woman who’d tumbled away from them this morning had been spurred by one motivation alone. Fear. Her remaining barriers would take patience and strategy and time, lots of it, to scale.
Time they didn’t have.
He said as much to Rebel by widening his stance and squaring his jaw. Added a twist of his lips before venturing, “So what do we tell her we know?”
Translation:
How pissed do we risk the woman being, about prying into her sister’s personal shit and using it to analyze her issues about submissiveness?
Rebel started with the human metronome thing in the doorway again. Pretty much expected.
“All of it,” the guy gritted.
Okay, not expected. At all.
“All of—wait—whoa—Moon?” But he could’ve been stammering stanzas of Three Little Pigs, since his friend wasn’t listening. Clearly, the decision had been made—for what reason he couldn’t fathom, but Reb blowing a gasket of common sense seemed like a damn good option right now—especially now that Reb squeaked the floor from his bare-footed turn, then started toward the bedroom wing with determined steps.
“All of it,” he repeated along the way. “This girl needs to learn she can trust us—with everything.”
Rhett felt himself cut loose a grin. “Well, damn. That actually makes sense.”
Rebel chuckled. “You sound surprised.”
“I am. I didn’t think either one of us was thinking straight about her right now.”
“Still not quite sure I am, brother.” Reb paused at the door to the guest bedroom she was using. “But putting her needs first seems like a good place to start.”
Temptation or not, Rhett refused to let that go unanswered. He reached over, delivering a sturdy clap to his friend’s shoulder. “I agree, man.”
Just like that, thank fuck, it was over. He’d gotten through it without wanting to go too much further with the affection.
Too much further…
Stow it, asshole. Deep.
Rhett twisted the doorknob then quietly swung in the bedroom’s door. “Sweet peach?” he called softly. “You awake?”
Rebel rolled his eyes while striding past him. Once the guy got to the bed, he hitched up on it, curling one knee in. “Brynna.” He tenderized the charge at once. “Minette, Rhett and I would like to speak with you.”
There was no response from the woman beneath the covers.
Low blow though it was, Rhett let a chuckle fly.
“Brynna? Mon chou?”
Still not a move. Not a groan, a sigh, or a rustle.