by Bea Paige
“Darkness is your candle,” he mutters, quoting Erik from a few days before.
“It is,” I respond gently.
His mouth takes mine as I squeeze Ivan tightly within. I feel powerful, ruling one man and coaxing the other into bliss, my hands grasping his length as my tongue seeks out his own.
Mouths pant, fingers search and teeth graze until I’m molten. Pleasure makes me lose the tenseness and uncertainty that has been building throughout the day. Between us our mutual orgasm builds to a crescendo, like a piece of music only we can hear. A rhythm only right for us.
“Domina,” Ivan cries out.
“Rose,” Anton utters.
Their acceptance of me is the biggest gift of all.
The sounds of their desire call to something deep within me, coaxing a long forgotten emotion I’ve tried hard to bury. In the dark I let it take shape and just for a fraction of a moment it doesn’t hurt so much. In fact, it’s bliss.
And just like that, one by one, the three of us fall apart in the comforting blanket of night, our bond strengthening in the darkness, whilst somewhere on the island Erik waits for us to save him from his own.
Chapter 6
Erik – Present Day
I finally get inside my new room at dawn.
Tim and his men left an hour ago, and Mother has already moved in an armchair, lamp, single bed, books and hand weights at my request. It’s a perfect copy of my glass room back at Browlace, well ventilated, with a hatch for food to be passed through. Except this room has a toilet and shower cubicle tucked in the corner behind frosted glass and another door.
Fuck knows what Tim and his workmen thought of this place. It’s just as well Mother had a non-disclosure contract drawn up for all of the workers, so it really doesn’t matter what they think so long as they don’t fucking talk about it.
Relief overwhelms me as I step inside, clutching my violin and suitcase. My rapid heartbeat slows to a normal rhythm. The constant shaking subsides, and my heavy breathing quietens.
Beyond the still open door, my mother stands. She looks tired, but as always there’s a determined glint in her eye. I’m her son, and she has vowed to protect me. She saved me from a life lived in the foster system, she gave me a home and security. She doted on me and made sure I wanted for nothing. Now she’s made sure I have what’s necessary to survive. This glass room, it’s my security.
“Now you’re here, you’ll feel better soon,” she coos.
I simply nod, placing my suitcase on the floor. As much as I appreciate what she’s done for me, I want her to leave. Sometimes her love is too much of a burden, and a small part of me knows that love should never feel that way. Love should be freeing and certainly never oppressive.
“This too will pass,” she continues, stepping up to the open door.
“No. Don’t come inside,” I warn.
Her step falters, her face falling, but she heeds my request and backs away.
“You know that I love you, Erik…”
“I know,” I sigh, perfectly aware that my mother’s love comes at a price.
To be the perfect son.
The gifted violinist.
The decorated soldier.
The first and only time I’d felt the kind of love that comes without expectation was with Emmie.
Emmie…
Being here, in Kirkwall, the memory of our time together is an inevitability I can’t escape. Every time I hear the sea crash against the beach, or the terns calling to one another above the ocean, it’s her I think of.
Young, carefree, joyous.
A wash of memories threatens to break me, but I have the strength of mind to push them away, for now at least.
“You should sleep a little, it’s been quite a difficult few days,” Mother says.
“It has,” I agree.
Being back on the very island I vowed never to return to has taken its toll on my mind. Memories have been plaguing me and reliving them hasn’t been easy. In fact, one of the only things that has gotten me through is my medication. I stopped taking it at Browlace as soon as I had my glass room built, but I’ve needed it these past couple of days to curb my darkness whilst this duplicate room was being built.
“Rest,” Mother orders and though her gaze appears soft, concerned, I already see the impatience beneath it. Always pushing me to be better. No matter the toll on my health and fucking sanity.
“I will,” I respond, clenching my teeth. Picking up the remote control, I press the button that closes the door, locking Mother out and keeping me safe inside.
“We’ll talk later,” she says, before turning on her heel.
I watch as she leaves the outhouse, shutting the door behind her, glad to be alone at last. Flicking on the lamp that casts a soft glow about the place, I settle on the bed still clutching my violin. Forcing myself to breathe steadily, I glance up at the glass ceiling, through the ventilation holes letting in clean air and to the wooden beams of the outhouse beyond. My fingers feather across the strings as the pad of my thumb runs along the underside of the neck.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
In.
Out.
My fingers slide up and down the neck, forming silent notes.
I so want to play.
My heart fucking cracks with my need to pick up the bow and slide it across the strings.
But there’s no way I can possibly risk it.
Mazurka in A Minor has been taunting me these past few days. A piece of music I once loved, now my downfall. Even here in the quiet of this room, I hear it. The notes lifting and twirling around me. My hand squeezes the neck of the violin until my knuckles are white.
I swear to God; it’s as though someone is playing the piece directly into my head.
It’s so damn loud.
It’s so fucking loud that I want to scream at the memories it forces me to remember.
But the most fucked-up part?
My fingers itch to play it despite them. I want to let go to the monster.
I itch to caress the strings, to feel the tautness beneath my fingers, to hear the first note as it lifts into the air. I want so much so play, my fucking soul cries out for it.
But I can’t.
It will only bring back more memories of the woman who destroyed me. I wish I could forget her cruel beauty. She hurt me. She ruined me. She left me weak and fucking emasculated. She took the very heart of me and made it into something to despise.
I fucking hate her. I will never give her a name. She doesn’t deserve to be humanised when she was no more than a monster dressed up as an angel.
My fingers tighten around the neck of the violin and my skin covers in a sheen of sweat as I fight a wave of nausea. It’s been a while since I’ve felt so out of damn control. Memories creep into my head, as the music seems to get louder.
“Nooooo!” I roar, dropping my violin. It crashes to the floor.
Clutching my head in my hands I hunch my shoulders, rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet. But the music only appears to get louder, making me both want to pick up my violin to play and to smash it to smithereens.
“Get out of my head!” I shout, standing suddenly.
Panic grips me as I pull at the hair on my head. The music doesn’t quieten. It becomes a beast curling around me, the notes carving into my skin and tearing at my flesh as the memories of that time bombard me. Flashes of a dark, dank room filled with both fresh and dried blood assault me. Steel and stone, bloody clothes and torn nails, the smell of sick and shit, all of it surrounds me as though I’m back in that tomb. Back in Hell.
Tears roll down my face as I remember every punch in the gut, every nail being pulled from my fingertips. I shudder at the memory of a single drip of ice-cold water on my bare scalp that lasted for days and fucking days. The pain of that one consistent drip, a memory carved into my soul.
“NO MORE!”
But the music keeps playing inside my mind and the fucking
hours and hours of torture I endured is all twisted up within it. A beautiful piece of music. A piece of music that used to lift my soul, not shatter it.
“FUCK YOU!” I roar at the memories, at the pain. At the fucking sound that’s as real as if it were being played right here in my room.
I feel as though I’m being torn in two. Even after all this time, even when I know that bitch is dead now. She still wants her pound of flesh, and I’m still fucking terrified.
Coming back here was a mistake. It’s too damn much. Memories of Emmie and the pain of that summer begin to merge with those hateful weeks in Afghanistan until separating the two becomes almost impossible.
I raise my hand, slapping my own cheek trying to knock the memories out of my head. It’s just enough to haul me back into the present, back into my glass room. My nostrils flare as I drag in a breath. Even breathing is difficult, forced.
Painful.
Then I remember why I came.
For my brothers. For her.
For the only woman who’s managed to break through the torment of my past, the only woman who’s made me feel like a man since that bitch ruined me.
Rose.
Dropping to my hands and knees I crawl towards my bag. Unzipping it roughly, I pull out my clothes in search of the only thing that seems to settle my heart and soul at times like these.
“Please…” I groan, frantically searching for Anton’s drawing.
Eventually my fingers touch paper, and I pull it out of my bag, falling onto my arse as I clutch hold of it.
“Rose,” I bite out. Her name nothing more than a garbled mesh of sounds.
I concentrate on the drawing. My gaze running over the curve of her hips, the dip of her waist. The long tangle of hair falling forward to partly cover her breast. I stare long and hard at the swelling of her knee, and the curve of her calf muscles and ankles. Her shapely legs leading to the dark thatch of hair I long to bury my face in.
Eventually, slowly, the music and the memories that try to drag me into the past, begin to fade until only Rose fills my thoughts.
Rose, a woman who I barely know.
A woman who’s begun to heal my brothers. A woman I’ll never be able to touch. A woman who reminds me of Emmie in so many ways…
Free spirited. Beautiful.
But she’s also so utterly different, alluring in a way Emmie never was.
Dark. Broken. Damaged.
She calls to the deepest, most hidden parts of me, and fuck if I don’t want to rule her, own her, make her mine.
My fists curl, nails biting into the soft flesh of my palm as my cock thickens, surprising me with a physical reaction I haven’t experienced in a very long time. I grasp my cock, letting out a low moan at the thought of her on her knees before me, her head bowed, her arms bound with rope. Fuck.
But being with Rose just isn’t a possibility.
I’m here now because I won’t be responsible for any harm that may come to her.
I’m too dangerous.
Suddenly my skin begins to feel too tight. My breaths come thick and fast, and I feel as though I’m drowning.
The pounding in my head gets louder.
The room gets smaller.
Darker.
My vision blurs as my body starts to shake.
I need to free myself of this fucked-up feeling of both wanting to fist my cock, filling my head with thoughts of Rose, and curling up into a ball like some fucking helpless boy hoping the nightmares will just go away.
“FUUUCKKK!” I roar, my voice hoarse, desperate.
Placing the drawing of Rose on the top of my bag, I drop to the floor and start doing sit-ups. I don’t stop until my muscles are screaming, until I’m covered in sweat. Eventually, finally, after what seems like forever, the fucked-up feeling subsides and I drag myself over to my bed and attempt to sleep, hoping that tomorrow I’ll be stronger.
Chapter 7
Rose – Present Day
“Are you certain it’s Kirkwall they returned to?” Anton asks Ivan.
We’re eating in a small fish restaurant at the harbour after spending most of the day searching for Erik and Ms Hadley, only to come up empty. It’s now early afternoon and we’re all feeling despondent.
“Perhaps Erik isn’t here after all,” Anton suggests.
My scowl sufficiently curbs that train of thought.
“He’s here, I know it,” I respond adamantly.
“There’s a big possibility that we misunderstood his note,” Ivan chimes in, playing devil’s advocate.
“No. I don’t believe that,” I say stubbornly, refusing to believe that we’ve come all this way for nothing.
He’s here.
“But don’t you think it’s a little odd that everyone seems to clam-up the second we mention Ms Hadley? I mean, even Douglas tensed when we asked about her this morning at breakfast.” Anton retorts.
“Of course, it’s odd. I’ve told you before, there’s something not right about her. Aren’t you getting the warning bells? They’re ringing pretty bloody loudly right about now,” I respond with a sigh, feeling more than a little frustrated with their inability to accept the truth about that woman.
“Ms Hadley has her faults, I’m aware of that…” Ivan starts.
“Hmm, faults that include inviting Viktor to Browlace to taunt Anton, the same faults that had her warning me off you, Ivan. Or wait, how about covering up the fact that Anton had Amber imprisoned in his studio for two fucking weeks, not to mention the fact she encourages Erik to live in a damn cage!” I blurt out, my voice shaking with anger.
“She did what?” Ivan snaps, his eyes narrowing. He looks at Anton whose cheeks redden with shame.
“Rose is right. Ms Hadley knew Amber had visited me at Browlace. She lied for me...”
“She cares,” Ivan says, trying to see kindness where I only see a wicked sense of ownership.
“No. She’s manipulative,” I snap.
Ivan blows out a long breath. “I don’t know what to think anymore,” he says, scraping a hand through his hair.
“Look, I get it. She has brought you up. I understand there’s history and friendship between you all, but my gut is telling me she’s all kinds of wrong,” I say, reaching out and clasping their hands in mine. Sometimes it feels as though the only way I can get through to them both is by physical contact. It’s our strongest connection, and I don’t care that I’m using it to get them to see what I see.
“Okay.” Ivan nods, squeezing my hand. “Let’s see how this all pans out if we find them.”
“When we find them. I’m not leaving until we do.”
Anton pulls a face. “Rose, we’ve spent all morning looking for them, asking around. Every single person we asked said the same thing and we ended up at an abandoned cottage with half a roof and no front door. She clearly isn’t living there, and not one of them has seen them arrive, or noticed Ms Hadley around town either. There’s a chance Erik led us astray. There’s a chance he doesn’t want us to find him.”
“No, I refuse to believe that…”
The door opens disturbing our conversation, and we quieten as a couple walk in hand in hand. I watch them as they request a table. The restaurant owner shakes the man’s hand and gives the woman a hug before showing them to a booth nearby. The couple are probably our age, and clearly married given their matching wedding rings. She calls him Tim, he calls her Love, an endearment just for her.
They have a relaxed countenance that can only come from knowing each other’s hearts and being comfortable in each other’s company. I withdraw my hands from Anton and Ivan, feeling like a fraud. We might know each other’s bodies, each other’s secrets, fears, darkness even. But we don’t know each other’s hearts. That area of the anatomy is off limits. I might’ve accepted a slither of Ivan’s love but today…
Today, I’m stronger.
Today the steel cage around what’s left of my heart is well and truly barricaded, protected by my demon who would
rather die than give it up only for it to be shattered again.
I chance a look at the woman. Her eyes are a cornfield blue, her hair a natural blonde. She’s pretty in a healthy, outdoorsy way. The man, Tim, is sitting next to her as though he can’t bear the barrier that the table places between them. He has his arm around her waist as she looks at the menu, his nose pressed against her hair as she lists today’s specials.
“What’s so fascinating?” Anton asks, following my gaze.
“Nothing,” I mutter, dragging my gaze away.
How can I tell him that this couple’s ease around one another is something that is both alluring and terrifying? Something I once longed for. Something I’ve run from. Something I’ll never be able to have. Clearly, they are very much in love.
My gaze flicks back to them, attracted by the honesty of their love. A heaviness settles around my shoulders, weighing them down.
Picking up my glass of red wine, I swallow a large mouthful pushing away thoughts of love and the pain that has only ever accompanied it, at least for me.
“So, what do we do now?” I ask, frustration bubbling. It never occurred to me that we’d have difficulty finding Erik. I didn’t think beyond my need to locate him, to slap Ms Hadley into the back of beyond then get him back home to Browlace.
It shouldn’t be this hard.
“We keep looking. We keep asking around,” Ivan says, knowing I’m not prepared to give up on finding Erik just yet. If ever.
I nod tightly. “We keep looking,” I repeat, withdrawing my hands from the table as the waitress comes over and places our meals in front of us. Tension leaches into my body as we eat in silence, lost to our own thoughts. I know they’re both worried about Erik just as much as I am.
“… a glass room, Love. I’ve no idea what she wants to use it for.”
“Hush, Tim, you signed a contract. You’re not supposed to be talking about it.”
My head snaps up, just at the same time as Ivan and Anton’s.
“Did you just hear what I did?” I ask, my knife and fork clattering onto the plate. I stand, Ivan grips hold of my wrist, forcing me to sit.