Lock & Key Collection

by Rebel Rose

  “Miss Grant?”

  He knows my name? “Yes, I’m Emma Lia. It’s lovely to meet you, Mr. Broussard.”

  “Emma Lia. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

  Oh, I can see right now that this one is charming. “Thank you, Mr. Broussard. Tristan tells me the same thing.”

  He returns the photograph to its place on the table. “How old are you, dear?”

  Well, he doesn’t waste any time getting down to it. “Twenty-two.”

  “Mmm… so young. Much younger than my son.”

  “Fourteen years. It felt like a much larger age gap before I came to know Tristan, but now it feels like nothing.” I don’t even think about it anymore.

  “How well do you know my son? Or rather how well does he know you?”

  “We’ve only known one another for a few months, but we spend a lot of time together. We’ve come to know one another quite well.”

  He stares at me, making me feel a bit self-conscious. “I’m not sure what it is, but something about you reminds me of my sweet Lisette.”

  I don’t recall Tristan mentioning anyone by that name. “Lisette?”

  “She was Tristan’s mother.”

  “Oh.” Lisette Broussard. What a pretty name. But the way Joseph Broussard said it led me to believe that he was speaking about a beloved rather than his deceased sister.

  “Tell me, Miss Grant. Does my son know you well enough to see you for the greedy little cunt that you are?”

  Whoa, wait. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re a greedy little cunt who is after my son’s money. At least admit it.”

  This is completely out of left field. “I’m not after anything from Tristan.”

  “Every money-hungry bitch that I’ve ever met has said that.”

  I can’t believe the one-eighty in this man. “I have plenty of my own money. I don’t need Tristan’s.”

  “And where did your money come from, Miss Grant?”

  His tone leads me to believe that he knows quite a bit about me. “That’s my business.”

  “I know who you are. I know your good-for-nothing father, and I know your whore grandmother. All of you are nothing but a bunch of cheats and thieves.”

  We are cheats in the casinos. I can’t deny that, but I’m not going to stand here and be insulted. “Tristan will be home soon. You may wait here if you’d like to see him, but you and I are done talking.”

  I turn to leave, and I’m only about three steps toward the library doorway when I’m grabbed from behind and pushed face-first against the wall, pinned from behind. “No one walks away from me.”

  I buck wildly to loosen his hold on me, but he’s surprisingly stout for a man of his age. “What do you think you are doing? Take your hands off of me.”

  “Listen to me, whore. You are going to leave this house and never see my son again.”

  “Take your hands off of me.” I twist and use my hip to try to knock him off balance, but instead, his grip on the back of my neck tightens until the pain is excruciating. “Stop. You’re hurting me.”

  He chuckles against my ear. “I would expect one of my son’s women to have a higher tolerance for pain.”

  He knows what Tristan is?

  He grasps my arm and twists to the point that it feels like the bone might snap at any second. “Listen to me carefully, Miss Grant. Your relationship with my son ends now. You’ll never see him again.”

  Because my arm is in so much pain, I can hardly hear what he’s saying. I have to make the pain end, and I do so by slamming my head backward, making contact with the center of his face.

  “You fucking bitch.”

  The collision of my skull with his is hard. Maybe a little too hard since I’m seeing stars. But the stars don’t stop me from seeing the drops of blood collecting on the wood flooring. I’m not sure if the blood is his or mine. Probably mine since I suddenly feel lightheaded.

  “Raaay…” I try to call out for help, but my voice is muffled when Joseph Broussard’s hand comes around to cover my mouth.

  He drags me from the hallway back into the library, and I lose one of my ballet slippers on the rug as I struggle against him.

  “Get the fuck off of her,” Tristan roars as his father’s body is yanked off of me. Pure physical exhaustion takes over the muscles in my body, and I crumple boneless to the floor. And that’s where I’m lying when Tristan punches his father, sending him also to the floor. “Never touch her.”

  Joseph Broussard is lying on the floor only a few feet away, glaring at me. “She’s Conrad Grant’s daughter. A cheat. A thief.”

  “Get the fuck out of my house. Now, before I kill you for putting your hands on her.”

  “Son…”

  Ray rushes into the library. “Sir…”

  “Ray, would you please escort my father to the door?”

  Tristan’s arms are around me instantly, lifting me from the floor and cradling me like a baby as he carries me up the staircase. He kicks the door shut behind us when he enters the bedroom and gently lowers me to the bed. But I don’t release my hold around his neck. If anything, I squeeze tighter. “Don’t let go of me, Tristan.”

  I need to feel Tristan’s soothing touch, his gentle, yet firm hold. My Dom’s protective embrace is what I yearn for.

  He stretches out on the bed and lies beside me, pulling my body close to his. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. I didn’t know he was coming, and even if I had, there’s no way I could have predicted that out of him. I’ve never known him to do anything like that.”

  “I don’t understand what happened. I didn’t say or do anything to provoke him. I only answered his questions. I swear.”

  “Your father warned you to stay away from us but wouldn’t tell you why. I’ve never had any kind of problems with Conrad, so I can’t be the reason that he hates the Broussards. It must go back to something that happened between your father and mine. I’m convinced of that after seeing that explosive episode out of my father.”

  I didn’t care why my father hated the Broussards, but Joseph Broussard’s attack changes everything. “I have to know what provoked your father to lash out at me that way. And I’m going to find out from my dad.”

  “I’m going with you; I need to know what happened too.”

  My father opens the front door and pulls me into his arms, squeezing me as though we’ve not seen each other in forever although I just spent the last three days with him and the family. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He releases me and looks me over from head to toe. “Did that bastard hurt you?”

  How does he know that anything happened to me?

  I look at Tristan for an explanation. “I called Conrad while you were changing clothes.”

  Tristan didn’t tell me that he had spoken with Dad.

  I smile, not mentioning that my neck, head, and arm are throbbing and aching. “I’m a tough cookie. You know that.”

  “I know, but you’re still my little girl, and I don’t like hearing that you’ve been hurt in any kind of way.”

  “I’m okay, Dad. Really. Tristan stopped him before he was able to do much to me.” Lie. That man was able to do plenty that hurt before Tristan came in and stopped him.

  “Thank you for protecting my little girl.”

  “It’s my place to protect her, and I hate that I wasn’t there to keep him from laying a single finger on her.”

  A part of me blossoms every time I hear him profess his role as my protector.

  My father looks at Tristan, his eyes slightly narrowing. I’m certain that he’s dissecting his words and what they mean. I pray that he doesn’t suspect the origin. I would die if he ever found out that I was Tristan’s submissive. And then Tristan would die. Because Dad would kill him.

  Dad, Nana, Tristan, and I move into the living room. I sit close to Tristan on the sofa, his hand possessively resting on my thigh. Our nearness and physical contact doesn’t escape my dad and N
ana’s attention. I see it in the way they’re studying us.

  “Do you and Tristan’s father have some kind of bad history?”

  My dad breathes in deeply and sighs. “Not exactly. My history is with his younger sister, Lisette.”

  “You knew my mother?” Tristan asks.

  “Yes. I knew Lisette well. She was my girlfriend. My first love.”

  Dad’s girlfriend? His first love?

  I recall what Tristan said about his biological father—that his mother never named his father—and I immediately have a sickening feeling in my gut.

  Please don’t. Please don’t say those words. Please don’t say that you are Tristan’s father. He can’t be my brother. Not after the things that we’ve done together.

  Tristan’s hand grips my leg, and I know that he must be thinking the same thing.

  “Mom was a blackjack dealer at Broussard’s Vegas casino. That’s where I met Lisette.”

  I look at Tristan, but his eyes stare straight ahead. He won’t even look at me.

  “I was practicing my card-counting skills at a blackjack table one night, and Lisette sat beside me. She threw some hundreds on the table and joined the game. I had no idea who she was or that she was only sixteen.”

  Shit.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  “Damn, she was gorgeous. That olive-tone skin and those pale blue eyes. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.”

  The Broussards. They are beautiful people.

  “A month went by before she told me who she was. But it didn’t matter by then. I didn’t care that she was the younger sister of the casino owner or that she was only sixteen. I was completely smitten with her. But Joseph cared. In fact, he cared a lot. The man cared far more than he should have.”

  Tristan fidgets next to me, unable to sit still.

  “Joseph was sixteen years older than Lisette and had been raising her for a couple of years following the death of their parents. At first, I thought Joseph was simply an overprotective brother, but as time passed, I began to see a very unnatural relationship between them. Joseph didn’t act like her older brother or even a father figure as one would expect. He behaved like a jealous lover.”

  Tristan’s grip tightens on my thigh and when I look at him, I see that the carotid in the side of his neck is pumping like crazy.

  “Lisette didn’t tell anyone that she was pregnant with you. She was sixteen and scared to death… so she did what a child does. She lived in denial for months, pretending that the pregnancy wasn’t real, but there came a day when she was too far along to deny it anymore. Everyone thought I was the father, but that wasn’t possible. I never touched her that way. But I know who did.”

  I place my hand on top of Tristan’s, wrapping it around his tightly. He’s gone thirty-six years without knowing who his father was. And now he’s finally going to know.

  My dad moves to the edge of his chair and turns so he’s directly facing Tristan. “There is no easy way to say this to you.” My dad looks at Nana and then back at Tristan. “Joseph Broussard was sexually abusing your mother. And he is your biological father.”

  “No,” Tristan says beneath his breath.

  “She confided in me when she could no longer hide the pregnancy. I told Mom and we reported the abuse, but Joseph had more than enough money to make his problems go away. He fired Mom from her job as a dealer and had some of his thugs beat me to within an inch of my life. They beat me to the point where I almost died. I imagine that this episode with him tonight stems from my knowing his dirty little secret. He wanted Emma Lia out of your life because he’s afraid of exactly what’s happening right now—his exposure. I don’t enjoy causing you pain, but nothing gives me more pleasure than exposing that sick bastard for what he did to Lisette.”

  “He told me she died in a drunk-driving accident.”

  “There was no car accident. She overdosed on sleeping pills.”

  Tristan is silent and unmoving for a moment before he pulls his hand away from mine and stands. “I need a minute to myself if you’ll excuse me.”

  My heart hurts for Tristan. It truly aches in a way that I’ve never experienced for another person until this moment. I can’t imagine how Tristan must be feeling right now.

  “I know you don’t like Tristan, but still, that must have been a gut-wrenching thing to tell him.”

  “Tristan is part of Lisette, and I cared for her dearly. For that reason, it’s not possible for me to hate him, but he does have his father in him. And that part inside him scares me for you.”

  “Tristan is very good to me, Dad. He treats me like a queen.”

  “He’d better,” my dad says. “I wouldn’t tolerate you being mistreated by him. And I’ll kill Joseph if he puts his hands on you again.”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Not after seeing the way Tristan went after Joseph.” He chose to protect me without hearing anything that his father had to say.

  I get up from the sofa, anxious to check on Tristan. “I need to make sure he’s all right. And if I had to guess, we won’t be coming back inside.”

  “Understandable.”

  I say my goodbyes and go out to find Tristan sitting in one of the chairs on the front porch. I don’t say a single word—not I’m sorry, not are you all right, not can I do anything to make you feel better? I don’t say a word because I know how to bring comfort to my Dom.

  I lower myself to my knees and assume the submissive pose at his feet. With my head bowed, I press the side of my face to his inner thigh and wrap my hand lovingly around his leg.

  His hand gently grasps the back of my neck, kneading the tense muscles there. “You know exactly what I need.”

  The Dom inside of Tristan feels as though he has lost control. The need to regain that lost control is clawing its way through him from the inside out. “I am yours to command, to do with as you wish.”

  “We’ll stay at the suite tonight. I don’t have it in me to drive home.” Tristan leans forward and lifts my face, kissing my mouth hard. “You should probably expect to use the safe word tonight.”

  “I’ll resist.”

  “Use it if you must. It exists because I don’t want to hurt you.”

  I don’t want to hurt you. Those words are laughable.

  “Yes, you do. You want to hurt me. You need to hurt me.”

  He cradles the sides of my face and presses his forehead to mine. “I wish I didn’t need it, bebelle. But fuck, I do.”

  I place my hands on top of his. “I need what you need. Whatever it may be.”

  “You really mean that, don’t you?”

  I nod. “I do.”

  I have given him every part of myself. And he has taken it all, shaping me into the submissive I am meant to be.

  I kneel only for him… and I am adored.

  I am his whore… and I am his queen.

  I am a submissive… and I belong to him.

  I am his.

  31

  Tristan Broussard

  I’m the product of a thirty-two-year-old man raping his sixteen-year-old sister. That thought doesn’t leave my mind on the drive to the hotel.

  Maybe that’s why I’m the way I am.

  Emma Lia and I enter the front door of my hotel suite, and she doesn’t take two steps before I grab her, pushing her back firmly against the door.

  I take her mouth in a hard, brutal kiss, using my grip on her jaw to hold her in place. My lips smash against hers, my teeth nipping her lower lip, and then I roughly push my tongue into her mouth. It’s only the first way I plan to invade her body tonight. The first way that I plan to hurt her.

  She groans and the sadistic savage living within me delights in her response to the pain. But he wants more. And he gets it when I taste the metallic coppery flavor of her blood in my mouth.

  “What is the safe word, bebelle?”

  “Rouge,” she whispers into my mouth.

  “Say it when you reach your limit. And t
rust me, you will reach your limit tonight.” Her body tenses against mine. “Are you afraid?”

  She nods. “Yes.”

  Her fear wakes the darkest, most predatory piece of me—the broken fragment inside that has the desire to conquer and devour her. The fury and hurt and shame I feel about my creation burns white-hot, fueling the fire of my demented craving.

  “But I’m also excited and eager to see how far I’m able to go for you,” she adds.

  “Me too.”

  “I want to make you happy.”

  “And you do, bebelle. Every day.” Releasing her jaw, I take a step back. “Bedroom. Now.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Take off your clothes and lie on your back in the center of the bed.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  I go to the wet bar while Emma Lia prepares for me, and I pour a whiskey, my intention being to drink enough to take off the edge. But one drink doesn’t do the trick, so I pour another. And then another. I down six generously filled glasses, and with my senses and disturbing desires dulled, I feel that I am able to go to Emma Lia.

  She’s just as I commanded—naked and lying in the center of the bed. I never wondered if she’d be any other way. Mon bebelle obeys my directions flawlessly. Her obedience heightens my lust, my desperate hunger to possess her.

  I take off my jacket and toss it over the chair in the corner, going to work on my tie next. “Bend your knees and spread your legs. I want to look at your pretty little pussy.”

  I toss my tie to the chair and work on the buttons of my shirt. “Touch yourself. Rub your clit with your fingers… in a circular motion the way you like it.”

  She watches me undress, her eyes on mine, while her fingers circle her clit.

  I break eye contact with her and go to the drawer where we keep our sex toys and apparatuses. I choose the nipple clamps, rope, and spreader bar. I have something special in mind. Something very special indeed.

  I climb onto the bed and bind her wrists to the bed frame. “Not too tight?”

  “No.”

  She studies the movement of my hands as I fasten one of the black leather cuffs of the spreader bar around her ankle. “I’ve been wondering when we were going to use this.”