Seize me From Darkness (Pierced Hearts Book 4)

by Cari Silverwood

  What was left was the essential me, stripped bare of trivial things. I had everything to lose though it was something I’d never valued before – my worth to a man.

  Sir was like a gruff bear standing over me. I managed to hold his gaze for all of a second before I wavered and then he’d draw me again, because I knew he was still looking. Big. A powerful man. And he cherished me no matter what he’d done. The way he stared down with that eyebrow cocked, waiting to see what I’d do...I melted. Just melted.

  I slid to my knees and clutched his leg through his jeans.

  I was vulnerable because I’d surrendered completely.

  With one simple word he could destroy me: Leave.

  Please, please, don’t say that.

  My words came out strangled and miserable, a few caught in my throat. “You didn’t mean to let me go, did you, Sir?” I looked up, pleading terribly.

  Pitiful and I didn’t care.

  A pause, as if he wondered whether to be truthful.

  The world poised on the verge of fracturing.

  When he spoke, each syllable was measured. “No. I was never going to let you go.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  Then his hand encompassed my head and he ran his fingers along my scalp, parting my hair. I shuddered, unravelling from the emotions tearing through me.

  Bliss settled in as his fingers did their sorcery.

  Embarrassing, but I could no longer deny how much this turned me on.

  “What would you have done if I’d run through the gate?” I had to know. Even if it hurt.

  Around his eyes crinkled just a little. “Glass planned to kill you, but that was long ago. None of us would do it now.” His fingers scrunched in on my hair until pain pricked through my skin. “I’d rather lock you up in my room, chained to my bed, for a hundred years, than let you leave me, meisie.”

  Breathing in Him through the denim, I whispered my reply. “I’d rather be there in your room, forever, than be made to go, Sir.”

  Then I shut my eyes, needing to say more, but this was so contrary to what should be true and so repulsive to my old self, that it was torture to squeeze the words from my brain to my tongue.

  “I...know logically that what I’m doing is crazy, but it is what I want. I want to be yours, owned, your slave. I need to be.” My arms slid around his leg and I held on as if an earthquake might be about to shake me loose.

  He tightened his fingers some more. “Good. Keep your head up.” His voice rasped with raw emotion.

  Still with my eyes closed, I did as he asked. I felt his collar encircle my neck and he buckled it on. Then came the small click as he fastened the leash. Peace settled on me. I was His again.

  “Look at me now.” He nudged my chin and I looked up into his brown eyes. The intensity there was scary. “I see you, meisie. Never forget from now on, that you are mine. You answer to only me. I will keep you, and care for you, but I will also punish you when you need it. You are my beloved slave.”

  My vision blurred with the tears flooding my eyes.

  “And now.” His smile turned ferocious as he raised me to my feet. “I’m going to claim you with metal. I’m going to pierce you. You can scream if you like. That will only make it better.”

  I knew that. He loved my screams. Anticipating that moment of cruelty, my toes curled and I shivered the teensiest amount. “May I ask where, Sir?”

  “No. You’ll see soon enough. I’m going to enjoy this.”

  The leash jingled as he stepped away and let it sway between us.

  Oh. The evil in that statement. I shuddered and felt my pussy dampen. At the tug on my leash, I followed him back into the house.

  Whether he didn’t trust me not to move, or he maybe he just liked me bound, Sir strapped me onto the bed in his room, my arms above, my legs spread. When he shoved pillows under my lower back and my bottom, I guessed where he meant to pierce.

  My clit? Nooo.

  I’d never heard him speak of having done anything like this. Jurgen, yes, but not Sir. Was he bluffing?

  The slow and tidy assembly of a whole collection of instruments on a tray on the other half of this king-sized bed seemed aimed at scaring me more than anything. My heart beat louder. There were at least six fat metal rings over there. Big shiny ones.

  I sucked in my lower lip then cautiously cleared my throat. “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  I was used to him studying me but this, when I figured he was going through some procedure in his head – far worse. When I squirmed, he smirked.

  “Sir, surely you don’t need all those...things?”

  “I might.” He kneeled on the end of the bed and began wiping my pussy and clit with an alcohol-moistened swab.

  I squeaked at the cold and lifted my butt, only to have him glare.

  “Be still or I’ll rope you down and pierce your tongue as well.”

  Oh fuck. I glued my butt to the pillow, even when he picked up a long, silvery pair of forceps.

  “Sir, do you know how to do this? Whatever it is you’re doing?”

  “I do.” He snicked the forceps open and shut a few times then approached me. I was sure my eyes were as wide as they could go. I squeaked but stayed in one spot by virtue of tensing every muscle and curling my toes. Clothes pegs, needles, sure, but violating my lady bits with some big fat pieces of metal was past my limits. “Sir!”

  “Shhh. No more talking. I need to concentrate on putting these in. Three rings on each side of your pussy.” He glanced up and grinned. “The outer lips if you’re curious.”

  “Not curious,” I whispered to myself. Then I plonked my head back on the pillow as the forceps closed with a click, click. Ow! Sharper pain lanced in and I hissed, then it settled into a throb that infused me, slowly, and became that odd mix of arousal and ache. He used some other instrument then pierced me again. I breathed through it, panting, appreciating the sensations more. Pain and I had come to terms with each other and this was only another rung up the ladder from needles. The ritual of the piercing sank in. By the third one, the little spears of hurt were spacing me out.

  I raised my head to see.

  Though a sadist, my Pieter, my Sir, seemed as engrossed in the technique and getting this done right, as in observing my reaction. That was reassuring.

  “You’re being good.” He stroked my thigh. “This is looking damn sexy.”

  Ugh.

  Another ring was inserted. The regular click and clack of metal things being played with calmed me and I stared upward, lowering my eyelids.

  I fuzzed out, the haze taking me until all I registered was the clink of instruments, and the distant bites on my pussy. The ceiling was miles above and drifting sideways.

  As the straps were released, I came back to earth and focused. Then I realized he was sitting between my legs and smiling smugly while staring at what he’d done.

  My mouth ran away before I could think. “You look like a boy who’s just built his first house from blocks.”

  That skeptical eyebrow rose.

  Something pulled me over the cliff, maybe my journalistic streak. “The cat that’s got the cream?” I moved to draw my legs up and he grabbed my ankles.

  Oops. Memories of punishments returned. I caught my lip in my teeth.

  “Not so fast. More like the wolf that’s caught the girl skipping naked through the forest.” Still holding my legs, he sneaked up the bed and leaned in mouth open, heading for my newly tortured pussy. When inches away he dived, his teeth snapped together, and I screamed.

  “I’m sorry, Sir!” Funny, but I almost giggled. It was the expression – an evil glee that seemed to glitter in his eyes.

  After months him being super strict, I sensed a change. A tolerance for bad behavior that hadn’t existed before. Because he was certain of me staying? It must be.

  “I hope so, my slave.” After a long, sadistic silence, he let go, came around the side of the bed and sat next to me. I rolled over, winced at
the sharp reminder as the rings pulled on my pussy, then I dared to snuggle in with my head on his lap and my arms around his waist.

  Without saying more, he caressed my cheek then piece by piece, a few strands at a time, he rearranged my hair. If there was one thing he loved, it was playing with my hair. Lazily, I watched it slide through his fingers while he studied me so closely, I wondered if he was memorizing my every detail.

  “Now, you’re really mine. Permanently, irrevocably, forever mine.”

  Oh, the arrogant satisfaction in that. All those words he’d used meant forever to my little writerly heart but I loved the repetition; it was as though he stamped his ownership on me with words as thoroughly as the three pairs of rings in my labia. With every surge of blood in my veins, the ache down there reminded me that I was his, absolutely.

  “Yes, Sir. I’m yours, forever and ever.” There was nowhere in the world I would rather be. “Does this mean you won’t need to cane me anymore?”

  “Hah. It means I get to do it more.”

  I tried to hold back my smile but failed. “Mmm.”

  He was my sadist and I never wanted him as anything else. On some days I knew he would come to me, in need, with the million shards in his eyes, to whip me and pierce me until I fell into the abyss before him, but on others he would be merely my Sir. I would dread the storm days, but those others, I wanted to lie at his feet and be his.

  He bent to brush my forehead with his lips then he shifted onto the bed to lie with me, with his chin on my hair. Where I was, tucked into his chest, I felt safe and surrounded and his.

  *****

  From now on, I would be her protector as well as her master, I would make her feel loved, because she was, terribly so. I hugged Jazmine closer to me and kissed her. I buried my nose in her hair, breathed in her natural perfume, and sighed.

  Paradise was not the island, it was this, having her as mine.

  Later I’d have to help Glass decide how to deal with this not-so-friendly friend of hers, Wren. The fallout from crime seemed never-ending but I could handle it. Making people do what I wanted them to was getting easier day by day.

  I’d learned my lesson. Bad men got what they wanted. Fuck being good. I was going to be a bad, bad man, because that way I got to keep my beautiful pet.

  Teaser for Book 5, Own me Until Forever

  Moghul shut off the phone and swung back to the naked model his rigger had suspended from the ceiling by hooks. Her frantic pleas to be let down were worrying his men but the film crew kept to their task. Randy was working methodically to get her down.

  The ropes lowered the last foot. Her bound breasts, then the rest of her front, gently kissed the floor.

  “Way to go,” he muttered. Maybe he could salvage something from the footage.

  Not all the scripts worked, especially when they tried something new, like hook suspension.

  The crew relaxed and Randy went to one knee beside Mel to extract the shiny hooks.

  “Thank you, Randy!”

  The Texan gave him a thumbs-up then resumed soothing and freeing the girl. The man was a find and a half with all his skills – big attitude, bad jokes, and big dick. If anyone else had been handling the submissive, she’d have been screaming the room down.

  His second phone buzzed and Moghul walked carefully backward until he found the wall.

  He did a last check on the scene.

  There was nothing sexy about the next part. Not with her panicking. Maybe if they were a torture snuff porn site but Kinkaverse was a straight up BDSM porn site. Domination, humiliation, and bondage of every sort while the models got fucked every which way. All above board and legal.

  He pursed his lips, and just for a second allowed himself the leisure of imagining Mel being made to stay up there. Enticing situation. Suspended on hooks, with her arms bound and anchored to the wall by other ropes, blood trickling from the points of entry, gagged maybe. Then she could be fucked by the Texan, and one or two others.

  He smiled and let the little vision slip away.

  It wasn’t often he let himself to dwell on the possibilities. Not while at work. His employees would be aghast, but not at his fantasies, at his realities.

  “Got ya sweetheart.” Randy removed the last hook then cuddled her to him.

  Moghul snorted and glanced down at the message on his BlackBerry. Military-grade encryption but it never hurt to be careful. Someone reading over his shoulder could be as disastrous as it being sent in plain text.

  The woman in Moresby is not a friend of Jazmine Foulkes. She’s Gavoche’s daughter, Wren. She’s trying to figure out her father’s death. Dangerous if she links you and the House.

  “Fuck,” he said softly.

  The spotlights in here were overcoming the aircon. He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm then stared up at the ceiling for a while.

  The House, he’d written off. The place was being closed down anyway and the only liabilities, his men there, had been killed. The systems in place meant no one could link him directly. Vetrov was a name he kept in quarantine from his other businesses.

  What were the odds she’d connect him to the House? Low, as in very.

  He should have her killed. It was final. It was sensible. People were loose ends because of their nosiness and Wren had met him, even if she knew nothing of her father’s fetishes. Once all the immediate family was gone, no one was likely to see anything except an old man’s kinkiness exposed in a tawdry fashion by his death in Papua New Guinea.

  He grimaced. What a waste. The last time he’d seen her, the girl had blossomed into a beauty.

  The hooks called to him. Someone needed to try them out properly.

  He rarely, ever, took things this far on his home turf.

  Yet a woman caught on those hooks, for him, just for him... Definite possibilities there. It would be karma in a way, considering Andrew’s proclivities.

  *****

  Wren played with the napkin next to her plate. The late afternoon sun came in low, glinting off the tableware and making the place so glary it was difficult to see the man weaving between the other empty chairs and tables. For a little roadside pitstop eatery up in the New Guinea mountains, the décor was...cute. Her napkin had Bart Simpson on it and none of the chairs matched. And the waitress had vanished.

  She glanced at her hulking bodyguard and he nodded reassuringly. Not a single black hair was out of place. James Bond and Hugh probably exchanged texts and anti-villain plans, but her father always employed the best. Hugh had insouciance down to an art. Nothing fazed him, except maybe the tropical heat. He had a thing for being properly dressed in at least long pants and buttoned shirt. Today was a day for sweating.

  Even in her pink tank top and denim knee-length pants she was feeling the heat. More sweat dribbled down her spine. If they stayed any longer, she’d melt and stick to the timber. Wren took up the napkin and used it for a fan as the new arrival reached the table. Surfer shorts and T-shirt. Good. She hated being the under dressed one. Student life at university had been like diving into her ideal environment. No one ever dressed up except at parties or functions.

  A flight of parrots shot past a few yards away, squawking alarmingly.

  “Hello.” He put his hand on the back of the chair beside her. “Wren Gavoche?”

  The British accent sounded wonderful and never failed to give her an instant rapport with the speaker. It was just...cute, even when attached to an alarmingly large man. Despite her instinct that looking more pointedly might give him the wrong impression, cause really he was not within light years of being inscribed in her little book of possible bf’s, she looked...and looked.

  She let her gaze cruise over the swell of his biceps with the mysterious tatt peeking from under the sleeve, took in the breadth of his chest, his scent, the solid don’t fuck with me way he stood, those huge hands, and those palest ever blue eyes.

  Ooops. Caught staring. His minimal yet knowing smile seemed to rivet her to her seat.r />
  “Hi.” She pasted on an innocent grin. “You’re Richard? No last name?”

  That was so odd but she had Hugh. Safety in numbers, and concealed firearms.

  “No.” He removed his baseball cap, revealing a perky light blond mohawk, pulled out the chair, and sat.

  Then he waited.

  “You contacted me, Richard. You said you had information.” About what she had no clue but this search for what was behind her father’s death, at a place designed to turn women into sex slaves, had so far gotten her one step past the starting post. “Do you know anything about my father’s death? About this woman Jazmine Foulkes? I think she escaped.”

  The chair squeaked as he reclined. His focus was entirely on her, as if the menacing Hugh wasn’t sitting beside her. “Perhaps. I don’t know her whereabouts but I can help you find the man who set your father up to die.”

  “Oh.” She tensed. This was what she’d been looking for. A breakthrough. “Who?”

  He gestured at Hugh. “Get your watchdog to move away and I’ll say more.”

  Damn. Was this safe? Hugh shook his head, grimly. But she dived in. Nowhere was where she’d gotten so far.

  “Hugh, please?” She raised her eyebrows.

  “Ma’am...” But he took in her expression then nodded.

  Once he’d risen and seated himself at a distant table, one with the wall behind him, she nodded at Richard. Clever Hugh though. Always seeking out the safest places. Could he read lips?

  Richard, or whoever he was – she wasn’t believing his name for an instant, leaned his forearms on the table. His nearest hand ended up resting inches from her left hand. Her breaths turned ragged. Just that proximity had made warmth suffuse between her legs. This man attracted her, no matter that he was clearly out of bounds. Fantasy territory – like lusting for the tatted-up, muscle-bound biker stalking through the pub on a Saturday night.

  With her friends, she’d ogle after this type of man then turn aside and giggle about what he’d be like in bed.

  “Well?” She pulled her hand away a fraction but the electricity of his presence drew her still.