I Will Not Beg

by Cherise Sinclair

  The smoldering gray gaze hit Dixon with the power of a punch. Dixon tensed.

  “Were you going to talk with me before you disappeared?” Stan’s voice was quiet, the hurt obvious.

  An unwilling witness to a breakup, Piper edged toward the door.

  But nothing escaped Master Homeland Security investigator. He pointed to her, then the kitchen. “Stay. There.”

  Pips didn’t have what it would take to defy an angry Dominant, especially after what she went through last night at Dark Haven.

  Shoulders slumping, Dixon gave her an I’m-sorry look. He shouldn’t have told her he was packing up. He’d only wanted to help, but instead, he’d screwed up her life. He was scum, just like Darrell said.

  Her return look held a friend’s it’s-okay and without a word, she walked into the kitchen. At least she’d be spared a part of their fight.

  “Dixon? Was I supposed to come home and find all your shit just gone?” Stan’s hurt was turning to anger.

  Anger? What the fuck did Stan have to be angry about? Smoldering resentment flared to life. “When, exactly, was I supposed to talk with you? Sir.”

  When Stan blinked, Dixon shot to his feet. “Oh, maybe last night? Like when you came home and told me you were too tired to talk?”

  “I was—”

  “Or all the days and nights before that? Same shit; rinse and repeat.” Dixon’s voice rose. He didn’t have a temper, not really, but there were fucking limits. And the pain in his chest shoved him right past them.

  He kicked the briefs Stan had dropped. “Wait, maybe we could’ve had a nice discussion over a meal—only there haven’t been any meals or quiet evenings. Have there? Have there?”

  “Hell.” Stan sagged down onto the couch. “You did ask to talk with me, didn’t you? I’m sorry, Dix. I fucked up.”

  The instant acknowledgment of error and apology broke Dix’s spiraling anger, and he hesitated. He’d pushed a two-ton boulder of resentment up a hill, only to have it turn into a Styrofoam ball, leaving him scrambling for his balance.

  Stan didn’t move.

  What the hell? His Master looked exhausted…as usual, these days. He’d been running on fumes for a week. But the devastation in his eyes—that was new. Did I do that? As guilt tunneled into Dixon’s heart, he realized he wasn’t the cause. Not yet, anyway.

  Maybe Stan’s investigation? When Darrell gloated about the arrest, Stan had said, “Not soon enough.”

  Dixon took a step forward. “Stan? Now your case is done, can you tell me what it was about?”

  Stan’s hands closed. Opened. Then he rubbed his face, every movement exhausted. Grieving. “Darrell tracked a gang of child predators here from a kid who went missing in Texas. Using the internet, the bastards would lure children to where they could be grabbed, then use them for porn movies.”

  Oh, this was worse than all the fucks in hell. Dixon sat next to Stan, thigh-to-thigh, shoulder-to-shoulder, and pressed closer at the feel of the cold body next to his. His Master was almost shocky. “You’re home. Did you catch the gang?”

  “Oh yeah,” The tone was emotionless. Stan was never emotionless. “Got them cold. Prosecution should be easy.”

  Dixon knew—knew—the answer before he asked. “The victims?”

  “We found one alive. Another, just a boy, killed himself sometime yesterday.”

  The grief in his voice was so deep, so immense, that Dixon could only hold him, wishing to shield him from the world. “You tried, I know you did everything possible to save him, but you’re not God. The assholes won’t hurt any more children. You did good, Stan.” His voice broke. “You did good.”

  When Stan pulled in a slow breath, Dixon knew his words were getting through. No one was stronger than his man. He’d gone into law enforcement because he wanted to help, to protect. It was more than a want—it was a calling. But the same compassion that made him a great Master was what was gutting him right now.

  As a paramedic, Dixon knew the feeling— the frustration and helplessness and anger. He pulled his Master closer. “It’ll get better, it will.”

  Far too soon, Stan straightened with a sigh. “Thanks, Dix. Sorry about that.”

  Sorry? Dixon blinked. “Excuse me?”

  Mr. Macho Texas had trouble showing weakness. He wanted to be strong for Dixon—all the fucking time—and forgot a submissive could and should be plenty sturdy. After all, Masters were only human, no matter what their Domination for Dummies handbook said.

  Stan winced at Dix’s glare. “Yeah, sorry again. Thank you. You helped.” There it was, the straightforwardness that Stan demanded—and practiced himself.

  Unfortunately, the Dominant’s acute insight hadn’t taken a nappie today. Stan studied the suitcases again. “Yeah, I get that I’ve neglected you recently.”

  He set a blunt-fingered hand on Dixon’s shoulder. “But it’s happened before, and you never got distant because of it. Or wanted to leave. Why this time?”

  Because Dixon had never felt like a hindrance before. A ball and chain. He glanced at the door and looked away quickly. Shit, shit, shit.

  The criminal investigator had major skills in interrogation—although he called it a pussy name like interviewing—and could read body language like he was reading a kid’s book.

  Stan’s gaze traveled between Dixon and the door. His brows drew together. “Darrell.”

  Although Dix didn’t allow his expression to change, the stupid flinch he gave surely revealed his hurt feelings.

  “You’ve heard Darrell spouting off, haven’t you?” Stan sighed when Dixon nodded. “I didn’t—and don’t—agree with anything he says about you, Dix, but since I have to work with the idiot, I pick my battles.”

  The contemptuous tone made Dixon blink. “Wait, what? Isn’t he your friend?”

  “Not even close. He’s a colleague and a fairly good agent. A bloodhound when following a trail.” Stan’s hand tightened on Dix’s shoulder. “He’s also a submissive who, unfortunately, I played with years ago. For a week. Then I realized his self-centeredness never stops, and the persistence that makes him a good agent is a pain in the ass when he won’t take no for an answer.”

  “You don’t want to make him your submissive?” Dixon asked slowly.

  “Fuck no.” The pissed-off swearing widened Dixon’s eyes. That last one was not only anatomically impossible but also really gross. “Why the hell would I want anyone else when I have you?”

  When Dixon’s heart lifted like a helium balloon, he tried to yank it back down. This discussion wasn’t done. Not really. He tried to keep the quiver from his voice. “You know, Darrell was right, though. I’m not good enough for you.”

  “You’re not? Well, boy, you’d best explain. I must have missed something.” The iron edge made the words an order.

  Just fuck me with a floppy phallus. Dixon pressed his face against Stan’s rock-hard chest, trying to figure out a way to escape.

  “Talk to me, boy. Why aren’t you good enough for me?”

  “I’m not from a rich family like yours. Even a very nice family. I grew up on the streets; I’m a gutter-rat.” Like the discerning Darrell had mentioned more than once.

  “I see.” Stan paused. “Guess I should avoid anyone who had a crap family or was broke growing up.”

  Dixon frowned. When he said it like that…

  “I’ll leave it to you to tell deVries why we can’t be friends anymore. Because his family was far worse than yours.”

  “No!” Dixon’s pride ‘n’ joys shriveled to tiny marbles. “Don’t say anything.” Stan sometimes let deVries play with him, and the sadist luuuurved cock-and-ball torture.

  “Then keep talking, puppy.”

  Dixon pulled in a breath. CBT might be easier. “I don’t have a bachelors or masters.”

  “True enough. Do you need one?”

  “What?”

  “Do you need a degree?” Stan asked patiently. “Is there a particular profession you want that you nee
d a degree for? You hold down three jobs, and I thought you liked it that way. Did you want to switch to one full-time profession?” The reasonableness of the questions was irritating.

  “Um.” Dixon considered. He worked an ambulance part-time and loved the excitement. Worked in a clinic as a physical therapist assistant and loved the stability. Worked for Chatelaines doing whatever was needed and loved the variety. “No.”

  “Dix, you’re one of the smartest people I know.”

  “Yeah, sure I am.” Dixon made a scoffing sound low in his throat.

  Stan grabbed Dixon’s hair and yanked his head back. Painfully. “Have I ever lied to you?”

  Dixon tried to shake his head. Ow, ow, ow.

  “Do I lie at all?”

  The growling annoyance melted every bone in Dixon’s body—and woke up another bone. Dammit. “No, Sir.”

  “Just because you’re lousy at sitting still when you’re bored doesn’t mean you’re stupid. It simply means you have more energy than a greyhound on meth.”

  That didn’t sound like a compliment.

  When Stan’s forbidding expression relaxed into a smile, Dixon’s heart turned over. “As it happens, I like all that energy. I don’t need someone with a degree. I need a boy with more loyalty and courage and compassion than any dozen people.”

  Stan used his grip on Dix’s hair to pull him closer, and his mouth covered Dixon’s. Brutally hard. But the angry kiss turned softer. Possessive. Amazing and wonderful. “I love you, Dix.”

  The last ounce of resistance faded away.

  Stan lifted his head an inch, and his voice went to steel. “Girl, if you take one step closer to that door, I’ll hogtie you and leave you on the floor till I get around to recalling your existence.”

  Dixon winced. He’d forgotten all about Piper. Shiit-fucking-takkes.

  Stan turned his head, eyes fixing Pips in place. “You can leave if you give me your word that the only place you’ll go today is your apartment.”

  Shoes in her hand, two paces from the door, Piper scowled. “I don’t want to be in my apartment right now.”

  Stan jerked his chin toward the hall. “Then you can use our guest bedroom. Give me your word.”

  When her gaze met the Homeland Security agent’s, she caved. “Fine. You have my word. My apartment or your guest bedroom.”

  She stalked into the spare bedroom.

  Dixon grimaced. Sorry, Pipster.

  When the door slammed hard enough to jiggle the chandelier, Stan chuckled. “The girl has a temper, doesn’t she?”

  Rising, he yanked Dixon to his feet. “Let’s go burn off some of that energy of yours. I’m looking forward to hearing you make some noise. Lots and lots of noise.”

  As his Master towed him toward their bedroom, Dixon’s head was spinning. A concussion, that’s what he had. One minute in despair over leaving the only man he’d ever loved. The next minute, he zoomed up so high he’d smacked his head right into the fucking clouds. Because Stan was so soul-bearingly honest and… He loves me.

  But—wait… Dixon planted his feet, stopping everything.

  Still holding Dix’s hand, Stan turned. Keen gray eyes focused on Dixon. “Boy?”

  “I love you, too. You know that, right?”

  Stan’s expression turned Dixon’s heart into a soft melty jelly. Yeah, he knew.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Piper flopped onto the bed and scowled up at the ceiling. Honestly, where did the damn Special Agent get off telling her what to do? This was…was kidnapping.

  Kind of. She could have left—and Stan couldn’t have stopped her, not really, only she didn’t want to piss the Master off more than he was. Dix was already in trouble.

  Would Stan call Ethan?

  She snorted a half-hearted laugh. Probably not for a while. In fact, that’d been why she’d tried to leave. In the kitchen, she’d heard far too much of their conversation and could tell how they’d be resolving their fight. She’d heard some people liked that voyeur stuff, but not her. Sheesh.

  Bunching up the pillow under her head, she sighed. At least the two had straightened things out.

  Darrell’s insults had sure messed with Dixon’s head. Which was strange since Dix was one of the most confident people she knew. He could win over the crankiest clients while their grumpy sarcasm bounced off his cheerful shield.

  But Darrell’s derogatory comments had damaged Dix’s self-image until her friend saw himself as a stupid, uneducated gutter-rat. A ball-and-chain dragging at Stan. Because of Darrell, Dixon’s mirror lied to him.

  Yet everyone else—especially Stan—saw him as the amazing person he really was.

  Piper rubbed her fingers, which were tingling with the need to slap Darrell right across his condescending mouth. Had the creep spoken louder on the off chance that Dix was home and would hear him? The manipulative jerk.

  Her eyes narrowed. Darrell’s comments sounded a lot like the way the Defiler had talked about her. Everything Serna said had torn at her confidence…because she’d believed him. Thought he was telling the truth.

  Had his words been chosen deliberately to tarnish her mirror? To warp her view of herself until she truly believed she was worthless. He’d told her slaves didn’t think, that slaves existed only to serve. Had he wanted her to see herself as a slave named worthless because, that way, she’d never give him trouble?

  Ethan didn’t see her as worthless. He didn’t use those tricks.

  When her counselor had tried to discuss how an abuser would break down a victim, physically, socially, and mentally, Piper hadn’t been able to talk about Serna. She still felt uncomfortable even thinking his name.

  God, she was a wimp.

  Dixon had faced up to his fears. Of course, his Master had made sure he did. Sir Ethan was like Stan only even more skilled and sneaky.

  She shook her head as the men’s voices, laughter, and a squeaking bed reminded her she wasn’t alone in the apartment. When Dixon made a squealing sound, Piper pulled the pillow over her head.

  Heavens, she was tired. Although Archimedes had been a sweet furry companion last night, Piper hadn’t been able to sleep, knowing Serna was in the city. That he planned to take his property back.

  I’m not property.

  She was submissive, yes. She loved serving her Dom—a Dom she had the right to choose.

  But she wasn’t property.

  Tucking her arms behind her head, she turned to look out the window. As the morning fog dissipated, the sky was changing from gray to blue.

  Where was Ethan right now? Was he wondering where she was? If she was all right? He’d be worried…because he loved her. He really did, and she loved him, too.

  Nevertheless, Serna would keep coming after her until he got her back. He was convinced the contract, no matter how illegal, gave him rights to her, and he thought every Master and slave in the lifestyle agreed with that.

  Did they? Or had he convinced himself he was right?

  He’d sure convinced her that he was a wonderful Master and would take care of her and…

  Wait. She sat up in bed. If a burger place promised a person a hamburger and gave them a soy burger, well, that was illegal, wasn’t it? It might be a verbal agreement—hamburger, not soy burger—but if a person got a soy burger instead, the burger place would give their money back.

  With Serna, he’d presented himself as a loving Master. That was why she’d signed that contract. What she’d gotten was a selfish sadist.

  That was just wrong. He was wrong.

  Inside her brain, a light went on. He’d lied to her, manipulated her feelings and self-worth—just like that asshole Darrell—and tried to make her feel like nothing, just to get what he wanted from her.

  Everybody had worth.

  But some people—like Serna—were also real assholes.

  Another smacking sound broke into her thoughts. Wet sounds. A shriek. A squeal. She crushed the pillow over her head to block the sound.

  It did
n’t help.

  As Ethan walked out of Piper’s kitchen, he checked his watch. Almost noon.

  Concern warred with rising anger. Little subbie, you’re going to be in some serious trouble if you don’t get your pretty arse home.

  Taking a sip of the dark roast coffee he’d just made, he looked around. Since Churchill suffered if left alone too long, Ethan and Piper hadn’t spent much time at her apartment.

  But he felt at home in her place. The blue-and-white décor was a mix of old-fashioned, modern, and quirky that blended in a charming way. The sun streaming in the tall windows glinted off a dragon statue amidst the foliage plants. Low bookshelves held a mixture of business books, romance novels, and mysteries. One wall displayed photos of Victorian houses in ornate antique frames. On another wall, smaller antique frames showcased photographs of Piper with friends.

  She’d also chosen very comfortable furniture, he noted with appreciation, as he settled into the overstuffed armchair. His sock-clad feet went up on the coffee table—an antique steamer trunk.

  Absently, he picked up a rock from a wooden bowl filled with tumbled stones. It was cool in his palm, smooth against his fingers. Stress relief, indeed.

  He rose as the apartment door opened, and Piper walked in.

  Seeing him, she staggered back, fumbling for the door handle. Stark terror was on her face.

  Bloody hell. “Piper.” Not moving, he sharpened his tone. “Piper.”

  “Ethan.” Her voice cracked as she stared at him. “I thought you were…”

  There, she was back in the rational world. Nonetheless, he slowed his approach.

  Her hand was on her throat. “You scared me to death.”

  He closed his arms around her and pulled her close. “That makes us even, then, poppet. I’ve been worried sick about you.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Her cheek was against his chest, and her arms tightened around him. “I panicked. Then I needed to think about…stuff.”

  About running? About leaving him? “I see.” All night, he’d been imagining what she was going through—and wondering if he’d ever see her again. “I’m sorry, Piper. I should never have left you alone.”