by M. S. Parker
I wished I didn't have to do this, that he'd just tell me what was wrong, but I knew it wasn't easy for him to talk about personal things. I needed to take the lead on this. It was my turn to take care of him.
Still, the words were harder to form than I'd thought. I forced myself to speak just as he did the same.
“I won’t ever be that rough—”
“What’s the matter—?”
We both stopped.
Looking away, I said, “Dominic, you’ve been rougher with me than that and I’ve begged for it. Why are you beating yourself up over this?”
He didn’t answer and I started to suspect he wouldn’t. His head bowed and he pressed his face against the valley between my breasts. I curled my arms around him, wishing I could protect him from the whole world. From anything. Everything. All things. But what had hurt him was his past and I couldn’t fight that.
His breath was warm and soft against me when he spoke.
“He liked to hurt me, punish me if I disobeyed. Sometimes he wanted me to scream. One time, he told me to be quiet, but what he did hurt...” He took a shuddering breath. “It hurt so bad that I couldn't stop screaming, so he held his hand over my face so hard, so tight...I got sick. Choked on it. Passed out.”
I dug my fingers into his hair, wishing it were possible for me to take away his horrific memories.
“When I came to, he was off in the corner. He just stared at me. Then he started asking me a bunch of questions. Like my name. Who I was. What year it was…” A shudder ran through him. “He’d had me for a while at that point, so I wasn’t even sure. But I think…”
The words trailed off and he was silent for a while. I didn't speak, wanting him to finish on his own.
When he did begin again, his voice was a ragged, raspy sound, coming from low in his chest. “I think he scared himself. I think he almost killed me that time. He left that night. And…”
Now he lifted his head and stared at me. Fire burned in his eyes. Fire, fury. The remnants of fear.
“That was the night I escaped. He left in a hurry. Didn’t secure his basement door as well as usual. I waited, kept thinking he’d be back and punish me for trying to run. Make me stand for hours without a break. Beat me. Torture me.” He shook his head. “But I heard the car leave and I took a chance. Escaped.” He looked away. “After what I did, you should escape...before I lose control and hurt you again.” His voice was scathing, filled with something beyond loathing. It was hatred, all directed at himself.
“What he was doing to you wasn’t rough sex, Dominic.” I gripped the sides of his head, forcing him to look at me. Our eyes locked. “It was rape. Brutal, sadistic torture. What you do to me...it's nothing like that.” I brushed my thumb across the side of his mouth. “You don't hurt me. You protect me. You take care of me.”
His hands tightened on my hips, eyes darkening. He reached up and cupped my face between his hands, the touch gentle. Without taking his eyes off me, he pulled my face towards his until our mouths touched. Slowly, softly, he kissed me, so different from the frantic hunger I'd felt from him before.
When he finally broke the kiss, he moved so that we were looking at each other again. “I think I’d go crazy if I lost you,” he said quietly.
My heart lurched. He smoothed his hand down my back, settled it low on my hip. I leaned against him and felt my body relax.
That lasted all of two minutes.
“I went to the club today.”
I jerked upright, barely missing hitting his chin with my head. “You what?”
A faint, but real, smile twitched his lips. “I went to Olympus.”
I tensed. I knew what kind of club that was, what went on there. In theory anyway.
He brushed his thumb across my mouth, wetting my lips. “Relax, Aleena. I didn't go there to have sex. I haven’t since I met you. I was just…”
He stopped and rested his head on the back of the tub. He said nothing for a long time, and I waited. My stomach twisted into knots, but I'd learned my lesson. I trusted him and I was going to give him the benefit of the doubt.
And then he was talking. Telling me about his meetings with a private investigator. Telling me about his mother—his birth mother. Telling me that he thought he just might have been stolen away from her. By the time he finished, I was gaping at him in blind shock.
“So I went.” Dominic shrugged and looked away. Water lapped at his chest, at his arms. His eyes were hooded, staring off into nothingness. “I wanted to get out of my head and then I get there and all I could think about is you.”
I’d been dealing with shock at what he'd said, but as soon as he mentioned the club, a stab of jealousy had gone through me. Now though…I leaned in and rested my head on his shoulder.
“All I can think about is you,” he said again.
I curled my arms around his neck and kissed his ear.
I bit my lip, excitement and anxiety coiling in my stomach at the same time. Not wanting to lose my nerve, I said, “Maybe next time you feel like you need to go to the club, you can take me with you.”
His body froze under mine. For a moment, he said absolutely nothing.
Finally, I looked up to see him staring at me with a shocked expression on his face. “Are you serious?”
I grinned. “Yes, sir.”
Chapter 4
Dominic
I’d never been one to shy away from the hard shit. I might not enjoy it, but if it had to get done, then it had to get done.
Which explained why I had my morning cleared and drove myself to the elegant manor just nearly an hour out of the city to speak with Jacqueline St. James-Snow.
I loved my mother. She might not have given birth to me, but she had raised me. She had stood by me after my father turned his back. She had been there when the vast majority of her friends had whispered behind her back about all the vile things that child must have done while he was…gone.
Because of course it had been my fault. I'd been a wild kid, and had gotten what I'd deserved. They still hadn't found the man who'd destroyed me.
I’d spent a small fortune trying to track him down, but by the time the police had gotten involved, the evidence had been pretty much eliminated and I hadn’t proved to be much use. My memories of that time were mercifully incomplete. Post-traumatic stress had turned my mind into a piece of Swiss cheese. What I did remember was bad enough. I didn't think I could survive remembering everything.
As for everyone else, it hadn't matter that he’d grabbed me, that he’d drugged me off and on for the better part of a year or that he’d held me down, beaten me, tortured and raped me, warped any part of me that might have been normal.
It would've been bad enough if I'd been a woman. People still would've blamed me. I knew how they talked. A girl wears a mini-skirt and she's just asking to be gang raped. As a fifteen year-old boy, I'd already been six feet tall and strong, evidence of the unspoken thought that men couldn't be victims.
You must've wanted it, twisted pervert.
Men can't be raped so stop lying.
Why didn't you fight back?
My mother had always been like that.
Not about me though. She'd stood up for me.
She loved me. I knew that. But after today, I didn't think she would like me very much, but I had to know the truth.
As I pulled up the twining, elegant curve of the drive, I stared up at the house where I’d grown up for bits and pieces of my life. Before the divorce, my family had spent summers and holidays here. After the...incident, Mom had wanted to keep me close so we'd stayed here. It hadn't bothered Dad that he didn't get to see me much.
I hadn't really cared much either, but after a few months of being at the house, I'd started going stir crazy. Mom, however, hadn't wanted to let me go. I knew she hadn’t meant to make it into a prison, but she had.
Sometimes, when I came to visit, I wondered if a convicted man might've felt like this, taking a last gulp of free air as he wal
ked toward a prison, knowing the doors would swing shut behind him, wondering if he’d ever breathe free air again. Logically, I knew I could leave anytime I wanted. But there were parts of me that just didn’t understand logic.
I hated coming here.
Today it seemed even worse and I knew why. It was dread, plain and simple. I thought about what Kowalski had told me and I thought about the questions I had to ask my mother.
Those damn questions. I blew out a breath and shoved a hand through my hair, suddenly realizing I’d already clenched it into a fist.
How likely was it that she'd even answer me? Tell me anything? How likely was it that I'd learn anything?
Except perhaps the truth.
Not that she would intentionally tell me. I didn’t expect that, not in a million years. She would look at me and she would lie. But I would see it. If she lied about the questions I had for her, I'd be able to tell. She had never been able to lie worth a damn. Truth or lie, though, the questions would hurt.
The final few yards lay between me and the massive entryway and each step closer drew my muscles tighter and tighter. I realized some part of me had already known the truth. Not the details of course, but that I wasn't part of this world. Almost from the moment Kowalski had told me what he suspected was going on, I'd started to understand why I’d never fit in.
I wanted to run. I knew how to run away from ugliness. I'd been doing it for a long time. And when I couldn’t run, I found other ways to deal. Alcohol and drugs as a teenager. Sex as an adult. Kinky, controlling sex. Work. My entire life had been about dealing.
The front door opened as I stood there, lost in thought, and I found myself staring into a familiar, ageless face.
George.
I nodded at the older man. Like with Maxwell, the driver who'd spent most of my teenage years chasing after me, I’d taken to George. I’d related to the butler better than I’d ever related to my parents. He’d been the one to tell me about being safe if I absolutely had to go out there and get crazy about the girls.
I’d been thirteen and he’d found me making out with some girl—I couldn't remember her name now—in the pool house in the middle of a cocktail party. He’d dragged me away from her and sat me down for an embarrassing talk about condoms, diseases, pregnancy and some other things that had turned my face red.
As a smile spread across his face, I did something I’d never done. I moved in and hugged him. It was awkward, something I wasn’t used to doing, but I found myself needing that quick, hard hug more than the handshake he’d always offered in the past.
That was when it hit me. That was why he’d started offering me the handshakes instead of a cordial nod. Formal as it was, he'd known I’d needed the contact.
He squeezed me back, just the same way I’d squeezed him, releasing a quick moment before I was going to. “Are you well, Master Dominic?”
There was no point in lying.
“It’s all a matter of degrees,” I told him with a tight smile. “And it’s about to get worse. Where is she?”
He angled his head. “In her salon. Shall I bring refreshments?”
“No.” I gave a grim shake of my head. If I tried to eat anything at the moment, I was afraid I'd be sick. “See to it that we’re not interrupted.”
George acknowledged my words with a quick dip of his head. “Of course.”
My mother’s salon faced out on the sprawling gardens of the estate. She sat on a sofa that was more elegant than comfortable and she reclined there like a queen holding court. A queen of a desolate kingdom, I thought.
When she saw me, she inclined her head. I thought I saw a smile in her eyes, but it was gone so fast, I couldn’t be sure.
“How lovely to see you, Dominic.”
“Mom.” I remained where I was, near the doorway, ten feet away. It felt like an entire universe separated us. Tucking my hands into my pockets, I clenched my jaw. I didn’t know what to say or how to start. When she went to rise, I held out a hand and blurted out, “Did you steal me?”
Okay, that was a little more blunt than I had planned.
Her eyes were wide. All the blood drained out of her face.
“I beg your pardon.”
She sounded offended, but I’d seen something. A flicker in her eyes. Not…guilt, really. But something. Knowledge, maybe.
Taking a step forward, I forced my voice to stay calm. “You heard me. Did you steal me? Was I taken from some girl without her knowledge? Without her consent? Was I stolen?” I said the last three words slowly.
She laughed then. It was a nervous, fraudulent sound.
I was dazed, feeling like I had been cut adrift. I dropped down onto the chair behind me, but I was too far away and stumbled, off balance, almost falling onto my ass. I just barely managed to catch myself, hauling myself more firmly onto the seat. Then I just sat there and stared. She must have seen something on my face because her laughter faded and she jerked her eyes away.
“I hired a private investigator,” I said. The flat, almost lifeless tone of my voice struck me as being out of place. There was a raging inferno of emotion within me, but none of it showed in my voice. I sounded dead.
My mother lifted a hand to her mouth. “But…” She stopped, then tried again, her voice shaking. “I don’t understand. Haven’t we done our best to take care of you? I’ve loved you the best I can.”
“I know that.” Pity welled inside me. Pity and misery. She was telling the truth. Jacqueline St. James-Snow had loved me the best that she'd been able. But it was her kind of love and it wasn’t enough. Her idea of love was based on approval and living up to her set expectations.
I had always failed.
The fact that she'd twisted this around to be about her just showed how completely fucked up that had been.
“Look,” I said and then stopped because I didn’t even know what I wanted to say to her. After a moment, I shook my head. “I’m going to find the truth. I don’t care if it takes a hundred years and every cent I have to my name. I am going to find out the truth.”
Her gaze fell away, lingering on the hands she had knotted in her laps.
“It’s up to you,” I said. “But I’ve got a feeling I’m going to find out some ugly things. Are you going to tell me what you know and maybe, just maybe, come out of this with some dignity? Or am I going to have to find out everything on my own?”
A silence fell, one so heavy, so awful, I didn’t know if she was going to say anything, but she did.
“You have to understand,” she said, each word halting and slow. “I never meant to hurt anybody. And if you were taken from somebody without her consent, I had no knowledge of it. That was never my intention. I did not ask for that and I did not want that.”
I just nodded. So far, it seemed like she was telling the truth.
She didn’t speak for such a long time, I started to wonder if she was done. I was beginning to get restless. I needed to move things along. Leaning forward, I prodded, “What did you want?”
She shrugged, a gesture that was so out of place, so casual, so not Jacqueline St. James that I didn’t know what to make of it. A faint smile crossed her lips and she looked at me with more emotion in her eyes than I'd seen in twenty-eight years.
“I wanted you, Dominic. I wanted a baby, a child. Your father and I had tried for years to have a baby of our own, but we couldn’t.” She looked away. “I couldn't.”
With the two children my father and his new, much younger, wife had, I'd figured that one out on my own, but this was the first time I'd heard her say it.
“We were approached by somebody who told us they could help. Maybe we couldn’t have a biological child, but we could adopt. It could be quiet, completely private. Nobody had to know. They specialized in such matters. Placing children and families...people in…unique situations.”
Unique situations. What the hell did that mean?
She laughed, and it was that nervous laugh again.
“What are yo
u talking about?” I had to fight not to yell now. That’s strange emotionless tone was gone. I feel like my control was slipping fast. I needed answers before I lost it. “What unique situations?”
“Why, what do you think?” She stared at me with an expression that was almost pity. “Dominic, this man worked with families like ours. He found babies from...” Her words trailed away and I could see her struggling to find a way to explain this in a fashion that wouldn’t infuriate me.
My stomach was churning. “Let me see if I can figure it out for myself,” I said, my voice soft, almost polite. “Girls from rich families. Rich white girls who found themselves holding a little stick with two pink lines, right?”
The weak smile on her face told me I was right.
“He made the pregnancies go away,” I continued.
“Yes.” The word was soft.
My head was reeling. Rising, I moved over to the window. My muscles felt like they were locking down on me, so rigid, so tight. “Did the girls know?”
People who specialized in placing babies from problem pregnancies. The New York elite was compromised of some of the most conservative imaginable. Even now, a fifteen or sixteen year-old girl who ended up pregnant caused such a ripple of sensation, it was almost laughable. Except it wasn’t funny.
A memory came to me. One of my father’s old friends had a daughter who was five or six years younger than me. I remembered her because she'd had a crush on me when I was a senior in high school.
About five years ago, rumors started that she was pregnant, fairly far along. Then she was in France. A few months later, she was back. And she wasn’t pregnant.
I ran into her at a party over the holidays about a year later. She was young, had her whole life ahead of her. But she was just a shadow of herself. Haunted, almost gray by the misery that weighed her down. She was also a far cry away from the girl I remembered. She had been bright, happy, and now she was a shadow.
My mother was still fiddling with her skirt and I asked her again, “Did the girls know?”