Rewritten (The Bound Series Book 7)

by Bronwyn Green

  “You’re going to pay for a flight you’re not going to take.”

  “Yes.” He fought the urge to sigh. Why the Christ had he said that he wasn’t planning to take the flight? What the fuck was the matter with him? He knew the answer. The thought of Eliza, terrified and alone, had rendered him incapable of common sense. He’d be lucky if he didn’t get interrogated as a suspected terrorist. “It’s urgent.” He tried to inject a sense of calm in his voice that he was nowhere near feeling. “I need to speak to a passenger on the other side of that security checkpoint.”

  The man stared at Angus as if he were mental. “Why don’t you call them?” he asked with exaggerated slowness.

  “Because she’s not sodding answering!”

  “Perhaps, she doesn’t want to speak with you.”

  Angus sighed. “Her phone is turned off.”

  The man just stared at him. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step aside while I refer this to my manager.”

  Angus moved to the side and called Eliza while he waited for the manager to arrive. Straight to voicemail. His text tone chimed. Hope flared in his chest, but died just as quickly. It was fucking Nigel. There was no way Angus was looking at that message, right now.

  He waited, constantly checking the arrival and departure boards hanging above the ticket counter. For fuck’s sake, he’d been there over half an hour already. Every so often, the counter agent would reassure him that his manager would be there soon and that Angus hadn’t been forgotten. But time kept moving, and there was still no sign of the manager. And once Eliza’s flight showed as boarding, it didn’t really matter.

  Feeling every ounce of fight drain from his body, he pushed away from the wall and walked toward the door.

  “Sir? Sir, did you change your mind?” the ticket agent called.

  Angus pointed at the departure board, and the guy’s gaze followed. “It’s too late.”

  Turning, he walked toward the exit and the short-term carpark. As he unlocked his car door, his mobile chimed again, reminding him that he hadn’t seen Nigel’s fucking message yet.

  He’d barely glanced at the photos when they’d hit his phone, earlier. He had a vague impression of a younger Eliza. Blonde and certainly far more innocent looking. Maybe innocent wasn’t the right word. In the one that had been burned into his mind, she was staring into the camera, mischievous tilt to her lips as she pushed a dildo inside her pussy. No, not innocent. But there was also no sign of the haunted, world-worn expression he’d seen in her eyes when they’d first met. Nigel had done that. He’d driven away her carefree spirit.

  Sitting in his car, Angus dropped his head back against the seat-rest and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to leave the airport. Not when she was still on the same continent. He wanted to be here if she wanted to talk. But he couldn’t imagine that she did—not right now, anyway. He supposed he was really there because it was the closest he could be to her without security arresting him. He slammed his fist against the steering wheel hard enough to make his arm feel like it was vibrating. He was going to fucking kill Nigel.

  As if his thoughts were now capable of conjuring demons, the bastard popped up in his text messages, again.

  —Can’t believe I forgot to send you the most important one of all. Headphones—our Libby’s a screamer.

  There was a link to a website called Vindicta with a thumbnail photo of Eliza’s face, her eyes wide and terrified and a huge ball gag stretching her lips. Beneath that was her full name: Elizabeth “Libby” Perkins, street addresses in the U.S. and the U.K., a phone number, email addresses and links to all of her social media accounts, as well as the names, phone numbers, and email addresses of her parents, friends, and coworkers.

  Chunks of icy dread sloshed through his gut. “Goddamn it, Nigel. What the fuck did you do?”

  Angus didn’t want to click the link. Felt physically ill at the thought of it. He truly didn’t want to see this. But, at the same time, he needed to understand what she’d been through. What Nigel had done to her.

  The video had started out consensually enough, and Angus had a sense of déjà vu—something seemed familiar, though it was a recording of the woman he loved happily submitting. That was more than enough to give him that unsettling feeling. Eliza stripped when she’d been told to strip, folding her clothes neatly and placing them out of view of the camera. Then she’d been bound to a St. Andrew’s cross and vigorously flogged, which she’d clearly enjoyed.

  Being completely honest with himself, he could admit that he was more than a bit jealous of anyone else touching Eliza—even if it had occurred long before he’d known she existed. The idea of anyone but him bringing her the kind of pleasure she craved gnawed at him. The fact that it was Nigel made him pure murderous.

  On the video, Nigel pulled a gag out and held it up to show her. Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. Angus’s blood ran cold. That was actual fear on her face. When Nigel told her to open, she turned her face away and clamped her mouth shut. He grabbed hold of her hair and viciously tugged, pushing the ball against her clenched lips, calling her names, threatening her. She tried to shake her head but couldn’t move. Finally, she opened her mouth and said, “Re—”

  But as soon as she did, Nigel shoved the gag in her mouth, cutting off the rest of the word.

  Fuck. Had she been trying to safeword?

  She struggled harder now, almost frantically, and Angus knew he was right. He’d bet everything he owned that Nigel had known it, too. Angus briefly closed his eyes, remembering her aversion to the stoplight system. Her muted cries had him opening them again, though. His heart was in his throat as he watched tears seep from the corners of her eyes as Nigel buckled the gag around the back of her neck.

  She continued to thrash, and Angus wondered how badly she’d hurt herself during that session. Nigel clearly didn’t care. He’d tossed the flogger aside and pulled out a cane. She shook her head and seemed to be trying to say “no” or maybe it was “red”, but with the gag in her mouth, it was impossible to tell.

  Rage had twisted Nigel’s face. He brought the cane down along the inside of each of her thighs with brutal strength. Welts practically leapt off her skin, and Angus was certain he was watching them bruise in real time. Nigel slashed at her stomach, her breasts, and Angus couldn’t look anymore. He just couldn’t. He closed his eyes, but he was left with only sounds of her muffled screams and Nigel’s fury.

  Angus couldn’t take it. He hit pause, opened his car door and dry heaved into the parking lot. As his stomach turned itself inside out, he was dimly aware of a plane lifting off over his head.

  Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he stared at the ground. Everything inside him buckled under the weight of so much pain—most of it Eliza’s. He shut the door and collapsed against the seat and started the car. Turning the air conditioning on full, he let it blow against his sweaty face as he swiped at his forehead and cheeks, realizing it wasn’t all sweat.

  He stared unseeingly through the windshield. With that pain came a profound sense of awe. The fact that Eliza had trusted him enough to let him restrain her, bring her pleasure through the pain she craved, after everything she’d been through. He had no words. He was utterly humbled by her trust in him.

  Grabbing a napkin from the center console he dried his face and eyes and blew his nose. As he turned to shove the napkin into the empty bag that had held their breakfast doughnuts, he caught sight of his phone. The comforting wonder of his realization ebbed, and anger tightened his limbs. He realized why the scene had seemed familiar earlier. It had been filmed in Sterling Manor.

  He sat back and stared at the image of familiar room. Anyone who played at Sterling Manor was required to sign a nondisclosure agreement, stating that they wouldn’t reveal the names of members or guests, nor would they divulge any information regarding activities occurring on the premises. Angus didn’t know if it was sheer arrogance or just stupidity, but Nigel the walking wankstain Ainsworth
had violated a legally binding document. One that he’d helped draft. Kit was going to go ballistic.

  Angus called him. As he expected, Kit’s assistant, Poppy answered. He informed her that there was a serious nondisclosure violation, and he’d be there in two hours. Though, as furious as he was, sooner was more likely. He hit the steering wheel again—he was going to fucking kill Nigel.

  As soon as he disconnected from Poppy, he called Eliza again. He wasn’t surprised he’d gone straight to voicemail. He didn’t mention the photos or the video. He certainly didn’t mention Nigel. He simply told her how much he loved her and that he couldn’t wait to see her next week. After he’d asked her to call him, he’d hung up, hoping she wouldn’t be able to tell that he was fucking gutted. It didn’t matter that his eyes were open, all he could see was her fear-filled face. All he could hear were her cries of terror and pain.

  They were still echoing in his head when he stood in front of Kit’s huge antique desk.

  His friend studied him, his expression a mix of wary concern. “Angus, sit. You look as though you’re about to fall over.”

  He shook his head. “Can’t.” He paced across the priceless Persian rug to the huge windows that overlooked a perfectly manicured maze. A maze that had likely seen far more kink than any other in England.

  “Poppy said it was a crisis situation.”

  He moved back to the desk. “It’s Nigel.”

  “Ainsworth?” Kit’s expression gave away nothing. If he had even an inkling of dislike for the other man, it wasn’t apparent.

  Angus nodded. “He sent me this.” He pulled out his mobile and cued up the video, and passed the device to Kit. “Wait.” Fishing his earbuds from his pocket, he handed those to him, too. “Please... I can’t listen to her again.”

  Frowning, Kit plugged in the headphones, then fitted them into his ears and hit play. His frown deepened as he lowered his dark head and stared at the screen. Angus couldn’t bear to stand there. He didn’t want to get another glimpse of anything that had gone on in that room. And he definitely didn’t want to know what happened after he’d stopped the playback earlier. He moved back to the window, his gaze skimming over the various buildings on the property, but not really seeing anything.

  Kit—technically, Christopher Edward Arthur Andrew Sterling, thirteenth Earl of Glouster—owned the Sterling Manor estate, as well as all of its various properties and investments, but Angus, Nigel, and thirteen others, each had a small share in the private fetish club maintained on the grounds. They’d bonded when they’d been in uni—they’d been bored, randy, and had more than a passing interest in kink. Eventually, they’d all become financially solvent enough to buy into Kit’s enterprise.

  Gentle fingers brushed across his forearm. He turned to see Poppy—Kit’s assistant and one of the founding members of the club—offering him a cup of coffee. “Here,” she said softly. “You look like you could use this.”

  “Thanks.” He reached out and took the bone china cup, inhaling deeply. The beans probably cost more per ounce than his monthly grocery bill. He mentally shook his head at himself. Sometimes, he still felt like the kid on bursaries among his titled classmates. Not that Kit or most of the others had ever done anything to make him feel inferior. That had been Nigel’s specialty.

  Angus turned at the sound of creaking wood and leather behind him. Kit had pushed to his feet and leaned forward, palms resting on his desk, his expression thunderous.

  “Explain this.”

  Angus told Kit everything—meeting Eliza, running into Nigel at Foyle’s, Eliza’s panic attack, falling in love with her, seeing Nigel at the airport—all of it.

  “Do you have any idea when this video was filmed? When it was uploaded? It’s clear it was shot in the carriage house, but beyond that, I can’t tell.”

  “It was filmed at least five years ago. I assume it was uploaded around then. Let me see if there’s an upload date.” Angus picked up the mobile, but before he could see more than it had racked up over seven hundred thousand views and the latest gut-wrenching comment about Eliza, Kit had smoothly removed the device from Angus’ hands.

  Meeting his eyes, Kit’s gaze was the compassionate friend’s as opposed to the shrewd businessman’s. He said, “No more of this for you. I’m handling it, now.”

  Angus didn’t respond.

  “Fuck,” the other man muttered under his breath. “It was uploaded then, too.” He sighed. “Had it been uploaded after April of 2015, he could have faced criminal prosecution had Ms. Burrows wanted to press charges.”

  Angus’ confusion must have been apparent, because Kit elaborated. “That’s when the law criminalizing non-consensual sharing of private sexual images went into effect. If it occurred prior to then, it’s not eligible for prosecution.”

  Angus dragged his hands through his hair and finally sat in the chair Kit had offered him earlier.

  His friend grimaced. “Not that I care to deal with a media circus, but I’m more than willing to provide any legal counsel she requires should she wish to pursue a civil suit.”

  Angus nodded. “What about the photos and link he sent me today? Does that count?”

  “I imagine an unprincipled but talented barrister could argue that it didn’t because the material had already been disseminated. I’ll contact the club’s counsel, as well as my personal barrister. I’ll make sure she has all the material she needs to make an informed decision. I’ll see that everything’s taken care of.”

  Angus bristled slightly. Sure, Kit had the endless resources to help Eliza, but shouldn’t he be the one taking care of her? Making sure she had what she needed? Wasn’t that what he’d promised her?

  “Angus, stop.”

  He looked up at Kit.

  “I can practically hear your thoughts.”

  Angus waited for him to continue.

  “Nigel not only tormented Eliza, he’s implicated the club. It makes sense for me to see to the legal aspects. Besides, you need to focus on the most important thing, and that’s taking care of her.”

  He snorted. “If she’ll let me near her. Right now, she won’t even answer her phone.”

  Kit shook his head, a nearly imperceptible smile curving his lips. “You’re one of the most resourceful and creative people I know. I’ve no doubt you’ll figure something out.”

  “I fucking hope so.”

  Poppy stepped back into the room. “Mr. Sterling, your four o’clock appointment has arrived.”

  “Very good. Let her know I’ll only be a moment.” He pushed a few buttons on Angus’ phone then picked up his own and snapped a picture. Glancing at Angus, he handed the phone back to him. “I wanted to record the URL without you needing to send me the video. No sense in further muddying the legal waters.”

  Angus inhaled. “True.”

  “I’m sure you’ve already considered this, but don’t delete the messages from Nigel.”

  He nodded as he stood.

  “Oh, and expect to hear from me in a day or so. Even if we have to do it via Skype, we need to have a board meeting regarding Nigel’s membership status.”

  “I want to be here when you interview him.”

  “And have you arrested for assault?” Kit scoffed. “I don’t think so.”

  Angus smiled grimly. “I promise I won’t throw the first punch.

  His friend stared at him for the longest time—probably hoping he’d back down. Finally, he sighed. “Fine. Text me your schedule.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Three hours into her flight, Eliza slumped against the wall of the plane and adjusted the thin complimentary blanket around her shoulders as she tried to ignore her super chatty seatmate. The woman didn’t seem to realize she was carrying the entire conversation. Or maybe she just didn’t care. Either way, Eliza just nodded occasionally and tried to make appropriate, noncommittal sounding noises. She didn’t want to be rude, and besides, the lady reminded her of her grandmother. But Eliza still hoped that the other
woman would either get a clue or run out of steam, because if Eliza tried to speak, she knew she’d burst into tears, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to stop. If she got hysterical enough, they might even make an emergency landing somewhere and kick her off the plane. The thought of trying to navigate another ticket purchase—of even speaking to people—made her want to scream.

  A pulsing flare bloomed in the center of her chest and began expanding at an alarming rate. No. Not here. Not now. She’d already had an embarrassing meltdown in the bathroom near her gate. She’d felt it coming on as she was standing in the body scanner. She always hated the feeling of people staring at her, but today, it had been so much worse. She’d practically sprinted to the restroom as soon as she’d cleared security.

  Even though she’d been proud of herself for standing up to Nigel—seeing him, speaking to him, knowing what he was about to send Angus had all been too much. Everything had come rushing back. The nausea-inducing horror of seeing private photos she’d taken for Nigel plastered all over her social media pages, as well as the pages of her friends and family along with her full name and all of her contact information—even her street address. The terror of having strange men calling her, texting her about the sick depraved things they wanted to do to her, showing up at her apartment and demanding sex, screaming at her and threatening her when she refused.

  Calling the police hadn’t helped. She’d basically been told that, if she hadn’t wanted those pictures out in the world, she shouldn’t have taken them in the first place. One kindly detective had given her the number of the therapist he referred other assault victims to. He’d stressed the word assault. Aside from her grandmother, he’d been the only person who hadn’t treated her like she’d gotten what she’d deserved.

  She’d changed her phone number, deleted her social media accounts, and changed her email address. Her landlord had kicked her out because of random creepers showing up at all hours of the day and night and disturbing the other tenants. Then her parents had refused to let her come home. She could still hear the rage and shame in her mother’s voice when she’d said, “This is not how I raised you. You made your bed. Now you’ll have to lie in it.” Her father hadn’t even been able to look at her.