With a swipe of my hand, I complete the final touches of the dragon on Sara’s shoulder in equal parts red, blue, yellow, and green. The painting is finally finished.

“Done,” I murmur, glancing up at her, where she sits naked on a wood and leather bench. She’s the woman I love, whom I asked to marry me only hours before. I would have sworn I would never love like this, never risk loss, but I can no longer imagine life without Sara. I don’t even want to try.

“Already?” she asks, brushing her long dark hair over her shoulders, her naked breasts and creamy white skin a nearly irresistible temptation. “Really?”

My lips curve. “I’m fast when I’m inspired.” And Sara definitely inspires me.

She blushes, a contradiction to the woman who has let me spank her and do all kinds of naughty things to her. She’s adorable, sexy, and hot. Really fucking hot.

Standing up, she slips on the pale pink silk robe she’d taken from her luggage earlier, when we’d explored the castle that was once my parents’ Parisian country home. Now it will be one of our homes. It is ours. Everything I have is hers.

Casting me a tentative look, she asks, “Can I see?”

“Of course,” I say, rolling my chair over the concrete floor of my dungeon-level studio to give her space.

Almost shyly, she walks toward me, and I track the sexy sway of her hips until she stands before me and bites her bottom lip, her eyes shining with anticipation. She moves in front of me, the silk robe hugging her delicious backside.

I plaster my hands on my jean-clad legs. Otherwise I’d grab her and fuck her right now, before we even talk about the painting. And I like talking to Sara.

Her attention fixes on the painting of her naked body with a tattoo to match mine. With a dramatic gasp that is so completely Sara, she casts me an amazed look over her shoulder. “It’s your dragon.” She immediately glances back at the painting and lingers there a few seconds before she turns to give me a quizzical look.

I wrap my arms around her tiny waist and pull her to me, burying my nose in the sweet scent of her hair. “What is it, baby?”

She presses her hands to my shoulders, shifting slightly, and all those soft curves of hers are rubbing against me, stirring parts of my body to life that don’t lend to conversation. “Amber suggested she could ink me to match you.”

“I told you I like you without ink.”

“You say that, but you just inked me.”

“The painting isn’t about you getting covered in tats.” I lower my voice. “It’s about you being covered in me.”

Her lips curve slowly into a full-out smile. “I like being covered in you.” She traces the dragon on my bare arm. “And I like your ink.” Her smile fades abruptly. “Amber’s talented. It’s sad she’s so confused in life.”

An unavoidable, familiar burn begins in my chest at the mention of my ex, who I know is remembering the loss of her family this week and expressing it in all the wrong ways. “Yes,” I say. “Yes it is, and yes, she is very talented. You should have seen the dragon she inked over.”

Her brow furrows. “Inked over? What are you talking about?”

“When I was thirteen I had a small dragon tattoo. When I met Amber in college, she was appalled at its simplicity and insisted she turn it into the sleeve. It felt appropriate—I was changing, and it needed to change.”

She stares at me a moment and then cuts her gaze back to the dragon covering my arm and shoulder, as if it holds some key to the secrets I haven’t revealed. I slide a finger under her chin. “What are you thinking?”

“Thirteen . . . that was the year your dad moved you to Paris, to be closer to where—”

“My mother died, and to her memories. Yes. It was. And it was a hard year. The dragon became my sign of strength.”

“And money and power,” she says, reminding me of what I’d once told her.

“Yes. The money and power have always been about security to me.”

“Security’s everything to me, but I don’t see it as money or power.”

“Because your father used money and power as a weapon against you—which I will never do.” I lean in and kiss her. “You know that what’s mine is yours. I want you to share all of my world with me, Sara.”

She studies me, trailing her fingers down my jaw. “It means more to me than you know, that you want to share your life with me. I’m sorry that will never include your mother.”

Covering her hand with mine, I stroke her palm with my thumb. “You think coming here is about my mother’s death, don’t you?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. It’s about seclusion. No whip. No outside influences.”

“To deal with the loss of your mother.”

“I didn’t take to the whip until the murder of Amber’s family. It was just an ironic twist of fate that it’s the same week as my mother’s death that somehow made the two erupt into guilt.”

“But her family’s death wasn’t your fault any more than your mother’s dying in a car accident was, Chris. You were mugged and you tried to save them. And the boy you shot—”

“Was a killer. I know, and I’d pull the trigger again if I had to do it over. But that doesn’t keep the images of his body, or those of Amber’s family, from haunting me, nor does it stop my guilt over leading Amber to the whip.” I hesitate. “And thinking about her seeking the whip for relief makes me want the whip. And yes, I know that’s fucked up. You know I am.”

“Don’t say that. You’re not.”

“Like I told you. I understand Mark for a reason. Life taught us both that control is survival. When I don’t have it, it’s an issue for me. The difference between him and me, though, is that I know I have that issue. He does too, but doesn’t accept it. Or he didn’t. I’m not sure how he’s handling losing Rebecca.”

Her fingers flex into my bare arms. “I’m not sure how any of us are.”

“Together. We’ll handle it together.”

She nods. “I know. Let’s not talk about what’s waiting for us back in the States. Right now, I wish we could just stay here and never leave.”

“We’ll be back in a few weeks,” I promise, and for no identifiable reason, that burning sensation in my chest starts again. Determined not to let this be the start of my annual meltdown, which I knew Sara would either witness or prevent this weekend, I motion to a huge door. “I want to show you something.”

Pulling it open, I walk into the dark, twenty-foot-square empty room and hit the switch, turning on the dozen or so teardrop lights hanging from a high ceiling. Stepping back out, I motion Sara inside and, with curiosity brimming from beneath her long dark lashes, she enters. Leaving the door open, I follow her in. I’m greeted with one of Sara’s gorgeous, charming smiles while she holds her hands out to her sides to indicate the cushioned walls, covered with red silk.

“My mother used it like a giant bulletin board to pin all the ad campaigns for her cosmetics company in here.”

“So why don’t you have your drawings from your sketchpads pinned up?”

My hands go to her waist and I walk her back against one of the walls, trapping her legs with mine. “Hmmm,” I murmur. “I think I’ll use it for all the sketches I do of you.”

“I’ve only seen two sketches and two paintings. Today’s and—”

“The bondage painting,” I supply.

“Yes.”

She sounds breathless. I like her breathless.

I untie her robe, brushing my fingers over her slender rib cage, traveling to the curves of her breasts. “The one about trust.”

“I trust you, Chris.”

Trust. It’s something I value. It’s something I intend to deserve with this woman every day of the rest of our lives. I caress the robe off her shoulders, feeling the goose bumps that rise in its wake, liking how I’m never on edge alone with Sara. As I toss the garment aside, my gaze lowers sliding hotly over her full, high breasts, then lifts. “Do you trust me, Sara?”

“I did say I’d marry you.”

The idea of Sara being my wife stirs a mix of heat and possessiveness that I never thought I would feel for anyone. “Yes. And being your husband gives me certain . . . privileges.”

“Privileges?”

My cock thickens with the raspy quality of her voice. “I told you once that if you stayed with me, I’d own your body. Every last inch of it. Marriage seals that deal.”

“You already own my body, Chris. Sometimes too well.”

“Not yet. But I will, baby. You can count on it.” I back away from her and go to the far wall, grabbing the red leather stool resting against the wall and bringing it to the center of the room.

Her teeth scrape her bottom lip and I can think of all kinds of places I want those lips, and mine, as well. “What’s that?”

“A surprise,” I promise, unbuttoning my jeans and shoving them down my legs. Her gaze rakes over my body, all signs of shyness gone, her eyes lingering where my shaft juts forward, and I am instantly thicker, harder, ready for her the way I know she is for me. But it’s still not time.

I squat in front of the stool and remove two long, flat, rectangular boxes. “I brought us some toys.”

She swallows hard. “Toys?”

I open the larger of the boxes and pull out a pink, fluffy paddle we’ve joked about on numerous occasions.

She laughs nervously. “You didn’t.”

“I told you I ordered it.” I pat the stool. “The perfect companion toy.”

“So you want to . . . ”

“Bend you over it and spank you,” I supply. “Yes. Do you want me to?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I mean, yes, I do but . . . ”

“You’re not ready.”

Her eyes go wide. “No. I mean yes. I am.”

“No,” I say firmly, sensing she isn’t in the right place today. And respecting that is part of keeping her trust. “You’re not. You will be, but not now.”

“But if you—”

“I have other plans.” I open the second box and flip it around to display the butterfly nipple clamps inside.

“I should have known that was next,” she observes. While there’s still a nervous quality to her voice, the tension in her body eases, telling me we’re in her comfort zone even before she asks, “Will they hurt?”

“An erotic ache,” I explain, removing two pink sashes from inside a box. Then I walk to stand in front of Sara. “Put your hands over your head.”

She does as I say without hesitation, and the fact that she trusts me that much in the midst of the unknown gives me a high I believe she shares with me. I need this control. She needs a safe place to give it away. It works for us, and I will always be safe for her in a way the whip never was for me—a way I never wanted it to be. I will never hurt her as I wanted it to hurt me.

I tie each of her wrists, then hook the sashes to small hooks near the top of the wall I’d installed earlier this morning while she was asleep, then I press my hands to the silk by her head. She stares back at me, her lashes half veiled, her eyes laden with arousal.

“You’re beautiful, Sara, and you’re mine.”

“You’re beautiful, Chris, and you’re mine.”

I laugh, tenderness seeping into the arousal pulsing through me; no one ever made me laugh in a moment like this. But then, I’m not sure there ever was a moment like this, before Sara. “Yes, baby—I’m yours.” I run my hands down her sides, her hips, and back up again, then gently let my thumbs brush her nipples. She whimpers, that soft sexy sound I’ve come to crave, and I step closer, sliding my shaft between her thighs, teasing us both, and then tugging lightly on the stiff peaks of her nipples.

Cupping her breasts, I bend my head and begin sucking and licking, warming her nipples until I think she’s ready for what comes next. I move to the bench and remove the butterflies from the case, then return to Sara.

“I’m nervous,” she confesses, a slight shake to her voice.

I like that she can be that open and honest with me. I like where that leads us, what that makes us. “Because it’s new, but all you have to do is say ‘stop’ and we’ll stop. You know that.”

“Yes,” she whispers. “I do know.”

“These are gentle clamps, without weights.” I reach down and start stroking one of her nipples, taking her mind off the unknown, readying her for the pressure she’ll soon feel. “They’re good for beginners.” I lean in and kiss her.

“Chris,” she whispers. “You . . . you make me feel . . . I don’t even have words.”

“Ditto, baby, from the first day I met you. You ready?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a clamp for both nipples and your clit, so when we fuck, it tugs on all the right places. I’ll put the ones on your nipples first. They’re going to bite and then throb, but the ache will ease quickly. Okay?”

“Yes. Okay.”

“Good.” I stroke her hair from her face, pulling her mouth to mine, kissing her deeply, passionately, drinking in the taste of her nervous excitement, her passion, then letting my lips caress down her neck, over her shoulder blade, until I suck her nipple again.

Lifting the clamp, I run the metal over her sensitive skin, glancing up at her as she sucks in a breath and waits. I close the butterfly down on her and, panting, she drops her head forward. “Oh, God. Chris, it—”

I lean down and lick around the metal, and at the same time, I press my fingers down her flat belly and into the slick, wet heat of her sex. She whimpers, and the sound is pure pleasure, no pain, as she whispers, “It’s . . . hmmmm . . .”

“Good?”

“I . . . yes.”

I lick the other nipple, and then warn her with the feel of metal on the stiff peak before I clamp the second butterfly into place. Her reaction is the same as before, with her head falling forward, followed by panting. And damn, I like the way she pants.

Careful to ensure those pants stay about pleasure, I again lave the nipple with my tongue, easing her away from the ache. Lowering myself to my knees, I let the chain connected to the clamps drop down her belly. I tug gently on the end, applying pressure to her now sensitized nipples, and she moans in response.

I stroke her swollen nub back and forth. “This one won’t be as intense as the other two.” I don’t give her time to think about it. I clamp down on her clit with the metal, then, sliding two fingers inside her, smile with satisfaction when she starts to spasm around me almost instantly. Her hips arch, and using my fingers and tongue, I stroke her to completion, fast and hard, and then ease her down soft and slow, until she’s done. She turns her head to hide her face.

I stand up and cup her face, forcing her gaze to mine. “It’s sexy as hell,” I promise her, kissing her, letting her taste herself on my lips, my tongue. “And that was only the beginning.” I cup her gorgeous backside and lift her hips, pressing my shaft into the warmth of all that slick heat of her orgasm, knowing the motion will tug on the clamps.

She sucks in air and jerks against the wrist ties as I thrust into her, then she moans and confesses raspily, “If I didn’t get the whole pain is pleasure thing before, I do now.”

The words punch me in the chest, shifting my mood, darkening the place I’m taking her, and us. I tangle my fingers into her hair and drag her mouth to mine. “There are two kinds of pain, Sara. Pain meant to create pleasure, and pain meant to be just pain. You will never know that kind with me. Never.” I drive into her harder, faster, with a need that wasn’t there seconds ago. A need for escape, though I’m not sure from what. Just . . . escape.

It’s been a few days since Sara and I returned to Paris; just hours before we leave for San Francisco. With Sara’s naked body pressed close to mine, her head resting on my chest, I lie and stare at the ceiling, as I have every night since proposing to her.

On the surface, everything is fine. We have a farewell breakfast planned with Rey and Chantal to talk to them about attending the wedding. We’ve resolved Sara’s passport situation, and I’ve booked a private flight to prevent any more of the problems that have haunted us for the past two weeks. We need some smooth sailing, heading into the storm of Ava’s trial and questions about Rebecca. Everything is fine—except it’s not.

I can’t escape the fear that I proposed out of my selfish need to have Sara in my life, whether that’s good for her or not. But I remind myself that I recovered from the Dylan meltdown quickly; I will never again be what I was during those dark years following the shooting. My demons are under control, locked away in a deep, dark cavern in my soul where they won’t be destructive.

It’s the only way I can protect Sara, who has demons of her own. It’s the only way I can make this, and us, work. I need her in my life, and I know she needs me, too. I will not destroy Sara as I did Amber.

The sound of my cell phone pierces the peaceful room and Sara shifts against my side, her fingers flexing on my chest. “What time is it?”

I reach for the phone and murmur, “One in the morning,” then glance at the caller ID. The name punches me in the gut and makes me wish we were already on the plane to the States.

Sara raises up on her elbow, a shadowy silhouette in the darkness. “No one calls for a good reason at one in the morning. Who is it?”

“Tristan,” I tell her, shifting her off me to sit up fully. As always, I’m already cold inside with the absence of her touch, certain a moment like this one will rip her from my arms, and my life.

I turn away, hiding the tension I know she’ll read in my face, punch the Answer button, and tell Tristan, “You do know we leave in a few hours, right?”

“Oui, and so does Amber.” His voice is more thickly accented than usual, a rubber band of tension about to snap.

“Meaning what?”

“What the hell do you think it means? Merde,” he snaps. “She’s with Isabel, in total meltdown mode.”

I shove a rough hand through my hair. “Pull her the hell out of there.”

“If I could do that, do you think I’d be calling you? I can’t get through to her, and I can’t even get inside to see what’s happening. Isabel locked me out.”

“Do what you do when I’m not here.”

“This wouldn’t be happening if you’d stayed the fuck away, Chris. I saw the look in that bitch Isabel’s eyes when she wrapped her arm around Amber and took her back to her room. She’s going to make her pay for what you did. You need to get over here and make it right.” The line goes dead.

“Fuck.” I drop my elbows to my knees, my head between my shoulders. I can never escape it. And I can’t win. Amber thinks this is about her, but for Isabel, it’s always been about me. And I know how she works. She’s setting me up, saving the beating for me to witness—but if I don’t go, she’ll beat Amber worse just to spite me.

Sara’s hand settles on my back, and I squeeze my eyes shut with the tenderness of the touch I don’t deserve. “What is it?” she asks gently, her voice a soothing caress on my jagged nerves. I don’t know what it is about Sara, but she gets to me, reaches inside me and does things to me. Addictive, wonderful things that calm me in ways I thought only a whip could do, until I met her.

But I don’t turn to her. I can’t turn to her. Not with the shit going on in my head.

“Chris?”

I hear the uncertainty and worry in her voice, and I wish I could wipe it away—even though I brought her here to see the truth. Flipping on the light, I say, “I have to go deal with a problem.”

“What problem?”

I don’t know what the fuck to say and I push to my feet and cross to the closet, grabbing a pair of jeans and pulling them on commando. Not five minutes ago I was telling myself none of this mattered, and already it’s haunting us again.

“Chris.”

I turn at Sara’s voice to find her in front of me, and damn it, she is naked and gorgeous, her long brown hair draped over her pale shoulders, her bare breasts high and the pretty pink of her nipples puckered. All I want to do is take her back to bed, and bury myself and the demons of my past inside her. But I can’t. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“Chris, damn it, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”

I scrub my jaw. “Amber.”

She pales and crosses her arms in front of her, already withdrawing. “Amber?”

“She’s with Isabel, and Tristan can’t get her to listen to reason.”

“As in Isabel is—”

“Beating her. Yes.”

Her brow furrows, worry etched in her chocolate-brown eyes. “And so Tristan called you to come rescue her? I didn’t think he wanted you near her.”

“Amber’s playing a head game with me and Tristan. I have no doubt that she intentionally went to Isabel tonight, knowing I’m leaving, and knowing that Isabel’s a vicious bitch. She’ll lash out at Amber to try to gain a reaction from me. It’s what she’s always done.”

Sara’s hand goes to her throat. “And Amber will take a brutal beating to get your attention?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll get dressed.”

She turns away and I shackle her arm, pulling her to me. “You aren’t going.”

“Yes, I am, Chris.”

“I don’t want you involved in this, and I damn sure don’t want you in Isabel’s club.”

“I know what to expect.”

“You think you know, baby. You don’t.”

Her eyes widen. “What does that mean?”

I lower my gaze and fight this inner war of what’s too much and what’s not enough—all that I’ve fought since meeting Sara. She touches my jaw, silently willing me to look at her, and when I do, I face the facts. I was relieved when I didn’t melt down at my parents’ place. I convinced myself it was over. I convinced myself that I’d told her where I’d been, and that we could go forward. But I was lying to us both.

“Chris,” she pleads. “You tell me to talk to you—I’m begging you to do the same to me.”

“It means,” I say tightly, “that you think you know what I’m about, Sara, but you don’t really see me.”

I see how she struggles to swallow, see the fear in her eyes; fear I feel in my gut. “Isn’t that what I’m here for? To really see you, and to find us? If going with you tonight does that for us, then I need to be there, Chris. I have to be there. You have to let me in all the way.”

Her words dive right into that hellhole in my soul. She’s right. I brought her here for a reason, and I let that reason get swept aside. I even proposed, knowing I’d let it happen. That’s how damn selfish I am when it comes to Sara. I want her, but I don’t truly have her.

“Get dressed,” I say, before I lose the will to do it.

The momentary bewilderment in her eyes is replaced by understanding and she disappears into her closet. I yank a black Harley T-shirt from a hanger and pull it on, grabbing hold of the control that both she and I need me to have tonight. She’s been through hell these past two weeks, and I’m about to add to it. Dylan died and I shut her out. Rebecca is dead. Ella is missing. She’s been pickpocketed and accused of murder, and she was emotionally bruised and beaten by Amber, who’d played on Sara’s fear of letting someone else get hurt.

I see every action Sara has taken since arriving in Paris as a desperate need for the control she trusts to no one else but me, and I need to deserve that trust. If I let us leave this place with the lie that we’ve faced all there is to face from my past, I don’t deserve her trust at all. I owe her the chance to decide if this is what she really wants. And if she decides to walk away from me, I somehow have to let her.

Turning away from the closet, I find Sara dressed in a loosely fitted pale blue dress. It doesn’t have to hug her body for me to envision the soft, slender curves beneath. Her hair is brushed to a shiny mass around her shoulders, her face clean of all makeup, and she has no idea how sweet and perfect she is to me. How very wrong she is for the place I’m taking her. But I also know that neither of us can get back on a plane to the States without our eyes wide open.

Sara and I are silent on the ride to Isabel’s club. She knows when I’m at that place where words don’t do it for me. She understands me in ways I never thought anyone could, and I try to take comfort in that right now, when I know the blinders are about to come fully off. The problem is I’m pretty damn sure that I’m not good for her. I’m just too fucking selfish and in love to walk away.

I pull up to the door of Eclipse, one of Isabel’s clubs, the place she chooses to play her power games. As I shift into park, club staffers are instantly at both sides of the Porsche 911. Ignoring them, I turn to Sara. “This is just like Mark’s club. You do as I say, when I say it. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t even look at them.”

“Okay. Chris, I promise you that nothing inside this club matters to us.”

But it does, and I’ve let us both pretend it doesn’t. “I promised you that you’d understand me if you came to Paris. Tonight, I’m going to make sure you do.” Wrapping my hand around the back of her neck, I kiss her deeply. Then I pull back, praying I didn’t just kiss her good-bye.

Reaching for the door, I glance over my shoulder at Sara. “Stay in the car. I’ll come around and get you.”

She nods and I get out, shrugging out of my leather jacket and leaving it inside before handing the keys to the man who greets me. “Keep the car close,” I instruct, sealing the deal with a bill large enough to bypass the club policy that says otherwise. Isabel likes people to stay awhile, and uses every means possible to make it happen.

I round the hood of the 911 as another man opens Sara’s door, and I’m there to offer her my hand, pulling her to her feet and bringing her hips to mine. “Leave your jacket,” I tell her, slipping it from her shoulders, the cold November wind gusting her long hair around her bare shoulders. “They’ll make you check it and I don’t want anything delaying our departure.”

Handing the jacket to the attendant, I let him shut her door. Sara shivers and I run my hands over her arms. “Remember what I said,” I say, my voice low, intentionally commanding. There are too many things inside that could go wrong. I need her with me on this. “Don’t talk. Don’t even look at anyone.”

She offers me a weak smile. “This would be a really bad time for a ‘master’ joke, right?”

I lean in close to her, pressing my lips to her ear, inhaling the floral, sweet scent of her. “I’m not your master, baby. I’m just in charge.”

Her hand settles on my cheek and her low, sexy laugh tightens my groin and makes me want to strip her naked. “In bed,” she reminds me, stating her limits as I expected she would. “You’re in charge in bed.”

I draw her hand into mine, letting her see the heat in my gaze that’s for her alone. “Which is exactly where I wish we were right now,” I say, watching her cheeks flush as if I haven’t thoroughly licked and fucked her many times over. It’s this mix of sweet and sexy that somehow grounds me, keeps me steady and right in ways I wasn’t sure were possible again, before Sara.

I tenderly brush my hand down her hair, then lace my fingers through hers and lead her up the ten brick stairs. We easily fall into step with each other, united as we approach this place.

At the top, the familiar, aging doorman is dressed in his finely tailored black suit, guarding the double castle-like wooden doors to ensure that only those Isabel approves enter.

“Monsieur Merit,” he says, inclining his head.

“Monsieur Augustin,” I acknowledge. The flex of Sara’s hand in mine tells me she doesn’t miss our familiar greeting.

“Will you and your companion be visiting Madame Isabel?” Monsieur Augustin queries, and I don’t miss the way his gaze flickers briefly over Sara, nor the interest she stirs in him. And I know why.

I manage, “Yes. We will.”

“I’ll let her know you’ve arrived, then.” He punches a button on the wall and the doors open.

Together, Sara and I enter the elegantly decorated foyer, a gray-and-white marble floor beneath our feet. The ceiling is low, glittering with some sort of jeweled lights, and several tall wingback chairs are to our left and right. This room, as in all the high-end clubs, shouts of a spa getaway, a luxurious escape. For some who take it all in its proper dose, it is. For others, like me, it’s the facade that hides a drug we take too far.

Sara turns to me. “This is where—”

“Yes,” I say tightly, my eyes meeting hers, holding nothing back. We’re here now. We’re seeing this through to the other side of hell and back. “This is where Isabel beat me.”

“Monsieur Merit.”

I glance up at the sound of my name to a boy who’s no more than eighteen, wearing a fitted, expensive suit, his dark hair sleek and combed back from his baby face. The me of yesterday. No doubt he’s searching for solace from who knows what, and Lord help him for finding Isabel.

The kid motions to the elevator, sounding formal, looking out of place. “This way to Madame Isabel.”

We follow him down the typical Parisian narrow hallway to an elevator that he uses a code to open. Inside, he punches a floor number that punches me in the gut, for it leads to a room Isabel knows I never enter.

The doors close and Sara turns to me, worry for the boy etched in her lovely brown eyes. I quickly pull her against me, pressing my finger to her lips. “Shhh,” I warn softly. “You can’t help him, and if anyone thinks you’ll try, they’ll expel you from the club.”

She inhales and then lets it out, saying, “I already hate this place,” before turning to face the doors again, stepping close to me.

“That makes two of us,” I reply, sliding my hand to her waist in silent reassurance, fighting the urge to drag her out of here and protect her. Eyes wide open, I remind myself. I am protecting her.

Silent seconds tick by, and too soon, the elevator doors open. A scowling Tristan is leaning against the wall directly in front of us, his tattooed arms crossed in front of his T-shirt-clad chest, his long, light brown hair a wild mess barely contained by a tie at his nape. He cuts a look at Sara before fixing me in a contemptuous stare and saying in French, “One woman destroyed isn’t enough for you? Is she Isabel’s consolation prize?”

Lacing my fingers with Sara’s, I speak in clear, hard English. “Don’t push me, Tristan. You won’t like where it takes you.”

I cut to my right down another long narrow hallway to the doorway at the end, and enter what Isabel likes to call the “Hive”—a name meant to signify Isabel as the queen bee who knows just how to sting her followers. It also allows spectators, if the price is right. I was never her damn follower, and I damn sure don’t like being watched.

I hit the buzzer. “Open up, Isabel.”

“You may enter. Not them.”

“Open the damn door,” I growl.

A pause, then she says, “Very well. You will all remain confined to the observation booth.” The door buzzes open and I glance over my shoulder at Tristan, motioning to him with my head. I don’t look at Sara, or I’ll talk myself out of letting her witness the shit that awaits us inside.

Shoving open the door, I lead her inside the tacky room of white tile and white-velvet-covered walls, which Isabel once explained was meant to be some sick virginal reference. There’s a door to our left that I know is locked, and directly in front of us is a floor-to-ceiling one-way mirror, allowing us to view the “play” room, which is more white-on-white.

The door slams shut behind me and Tristan steps to my right, with Sara on my left. We all gaze forward and I swear to God, I feel physically sick. If I’d thought leading Amber into a world of painful beatings as an escape was bad, where she’s gone since then without me is a whole new level of nightmare. Tension slides down my spine at the sight of a completely naked Amber, her arms tied over her head and connected to a ceiling hook with tight red ropes. The same ropes bind her thighs and ankles. Huge welts mark her brightly tattooed arms, breasts, and belly, while heavy weights dangle from the clamps tightened around her nipples. Directly in front of her is the dungeon stock, meant for her head and arms. I know just how badly Isabel will beat her once she’s in that thing. I’ve welcomed it. I’ve begged for it, and I hate myself for letting that be me, and for turning Amber into this.

My gaze lifts to the bitch I had let stay in my life far too long. Befitting her virginal theme, she’s dressed in a white leather outfit that barely covers her hips and breasts, her long blond hair touching her shoulders. The sight of her sickens me. Her chin lifts rebelliously as if she senses me looking at her, and before I can react, her wrist flicks wickedly, bringing the whip down hard against Amber’s back. Amber buckles with the pain and I hear Tristan curse as Sara gasps.

I walk to the glass and press the intercom button on the small black box attached to the surface. “Touch her again, Isabel,” I warn tightly, “and I swear to you, you’ll regret it.” Isabel’s eyes glint with rebellion and her wrist cocks back again, stirring white-hot anger in my chest as I add, “We both know there are many ways I can hurt you. Don’t make me go there.”

Laughter bubbles from her lips, muted by the glass. She turns and offers me an unwelcome view of her bare backside as she hits the intercom button behind her and challenges me in a hushed French whisper, “Come in here and give me something better to do with my whip. You know you need it as much as I do. Tell Tristan he stays out there, or I’ll have security remove him and forbid him entry into the club ever again. You can bring your new girl toy, though. I can’t wait to make her scream.”

She punches a button, and the door buzzes open. Then she turns back to face me, her lips curving into a smile. Tristan pushes through the door and is already inside the Hive, crossing the room toward Amber, who responds with a vicious verbal attack.

“Fuck you, Tristan. Fuck you! I told you not to come here. I told you I didn’t want you here. I don’t want you, Tristan. I don’t want you.” Tristan tries to reach for the rope above her head, and she squirms and shouts, “Get back. Get back!!!”

Isabel curses him in French and then reaches for the phone to call security, while Amber begins to scream my name, tears streaming down her face. “Chrisssssss!” she shouts with such venom it snakes into my soul and rips another hole to go with the rest. “Chrissss!”

Sara’s hand comes down on my arm and I pull her in front of me to face the window. “Look at her, Sara. Look at her. This is what I brought you to Paris to see.” Then I turn her to face me, one of my hands on the glass by her head, the other on her waist. “My secret wasn’t about the shooting. That’s what I let you believe, but no more.

“My secret was about how the shooting was the final blow, when it seemed like people were dying because of me. I was spiraling out of control, and I landed in hell—where I dragged Amber, rather than being the man she needed me to be.

“Why do you think I left you when Dylan died? I didn’t want to drag you to the whip with me. I did this to Amber. Fuck—I was what Amber is. And no matter how much I try to control what’s around me, I can’t ever guarantee I won’t be her again.”

The color drains from Sara’s already pale face. “Are you saying . . . were you whipped again . . . after Mark’s club . . . ?”

“Several times while I was away for Dylan’s funeral, and trying to help his parents survive losing him. Before losing Dylan, I swore I’d never need that kind of thing again—but obviously I did. And what if there’s yet another next time? What then, Sara?”

She twists my shirt in her fingers, a promise in the depths of her eyes that I’m not sure she can keep as she vows, “We’ll deal with it.”

“Or we drown in hell together. And the worst of this is that I can’t even be honorable anymore and walk away—and not just because I love you. Over and over, I told myself to scare you away and get you the hell out of this world. Instead I led you into it, and now you’re in too deep. I see it in your eyes and taste it in your kiss during your tormented moments. I’m the only damn thing keeping you from going too deep—and yet I’m the one most likely to drag you there anyway.”

She shakes her head. “No, Chris—”

“Yes, baby. It’s true and we both know it. So you think long and hard about what you see here today, and where you’re headed. But if you run, run fast. Because I’m going to come after you. That’s just the kind of bastard I can’t seem to help being.” I push off the wall and leave her there, walking into the Hive, a place I’ve never escaped. But for Sara, there’s still time.

As I enter the Hive, Amber instantly tears up, a sob escaping her throat, her head dropping between her shoulders. And, as much as it shreds me to know how truly lost she is, anger dominates my mood. Anger at myself for letting this happen. Anger at Isabel for feeding Amber’s behavior. And anger at Amber for not fighting for more than this misery. But I don’t go there. She’s Tristan’s woman to save, and Isabel is my problem to handle.

I move toward the battle between Isabel and Tristan, placing myself between them, facing Isabel. She glares at me, her eyes cutting like blue diamonds. “I told you he wasn’t welcome here. This is my club and my rules. He will be removed.” She tries to step around me, toward the intercom on the wall.

I shackle her arm and she whirls around, surprise replacing the anger in her eyes. “Amber’s his woman,” I say. “Don’t even think about interfering with him taking her out of here.”

She smirks, arrogance and hatred in her eyes. “That’s the biggest joke I’ve heard since you not needing the whip. She’s more mine than she was ever his.”

“You make it about you, Isabel—but to the rest of us, you’re just one of many who can handle a whip.”

Fury fills her face and she slaps me. I grind my teeth against the sting but I don’t flinch. My lips quirk with amusement. “Another reason you’re nothing more than a whip. You have no real control.”

She slaps me again, and I’ve had it with the bitch. I capture her waist, lifting her and, ignoring her protests, I set her in front of the dungeon stock. “Down,” I order, using my knees to buckle hers and shove her to a squat.

“What are you doing?” she demands, trying to turn, but I brace her shoulders with my hands, locking her down. Panic lifts in her voice. “Chris, stop! What are you doing?”

I lift the top half of the dungeon stock and, pressing my hand to the back of her head, shove her neck into the chamber, then drop the top into place. A moment later I’m kneeling in front of her and, too gently for what she deserves, I grab her hair, tugging her face upward.

“You can’t do this,” she hisses.

“I just did. And if I find out Amber is let back into any of your clubs, I’ll use my substantial financial resources to shut them all down.”

“And then where will you be, mon amour, when you need me again?” she taunts.

“I told you: anyone can hold a whip, Isabel. You were just the one I didn’t have to have sex with.”

“Piece of shit!” she blasts in English. “You aren’t the only one with resources. There are powerful people who come to me, who’ll protect me. They’ll make you pay for this.”

“They might blink at your threats, but I won’t. After what I saw today with Amber, even if I let you stay open, we’ll be discussing the terms in which you operate.”

“I discuss nothing with you.”

“We’ll see about that. We’ll let someone know you require assistance after we’re out of the club without interference. Feel free to scream for help, though no one will hear in this soundproof room. Poetic justice, considering you try so hard to get people to beg for mercy—don’t you think?”

“She came to me wanting the same escape you begged for, and I gave it to her. What have you given her?”

“You,” I say. “And I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

I push to my feet to find Amber has been cut free and Tristan is standing in front of her, his big body covering hers. I return to the exit, where I’ve left the woman I love to witness this insanity.

My steps quicken, and just the idea that she won’t be there is absolutely gutting me. I yank open the door, and Sara is there immediately, looking haunted, her pale skin a striking contrast to her long dark hair.

We stare at each other, the air thickening between us, and I feel Sara like I do my own soul, and I need to protect her. Though I know that opening her eyes is protecting her, it’s all I can do not to throw her over my shoulder and carry her out of here.

“Stop it, Amber! Stop!”

At Tristan’s deep command, I turn to find a still-naked Amber running toward Isabel, clearly intending to free her. Tristan shackles her wrist and she whirls on him, raking her fingers down his face and then slamming a fist into his groin. Tristan grunts, buckles at the middle, and goes down hard to one knee. Amber sobs and sinks down beside him, curling into a fetal position.

Anticipating that Sara will try to help, I reach for her arm at the same moment she starts forward. “No, baby. I know you want to help, but she could hurt you. I need to deal with her.”

Her eyes meet mine and she says, “Just get us all out here, Chris. Just . . . do what you have to do.”

In that moment, she is strength and she is beautiful in that way she never sees, but I do. “Stay back and don’t let the door slam, or you’ll be locked out again.”

She nods and I move toward Amber.

Tristan has shaken off his pain enough to lift his head. “I’m done. She’s yours to survive, if you can.”

In that moment, I know Amber has played us all. She knew how to get Tristan to call me. She knew there was a good chance I’d bring Sara if I came here. And she damn sure knew she could push Tristan to his limit, forcing me into playing hero while Sara watched. For a moment I think we’re all enabling her by participating, and I consider walking out the door and leaving her here—but I can’t. Not when I played a role in creating her. But what she doesn’t know is that Tristan isn’t the only one at his limit. I am, too. I won’t allow her to continue on this path anymore.

I go to Amber and bend down beside her, picking her up and rising to my feet. She curls into my chest and whispers, “I’m sorry, Chris. I’m so sorry,” so that Tristan, who is the one who deserves the apology, can hear her. And I have never felt as shitty, or ready to shake sense into her, as I am now.

Trying to make this as easy on everyone as possible, I quickly leave the room and start down the hallway with its numerous doorways leading to playrooms. I cut to the left and head to Isabel’s private quarters.

Opening the door, automatic lights flicker to a dim glow as I shove through the sheer curtain Isabel uses for effect. Walking forward, I barely glance at the various “play” areas around the room, stopping at the centerpiece of the room—the massive bed, covered with white fur.

Setting Amber down, I drag a blanket around her and then step away. She sits up, remarkably dry-eyed as she lets the blanket fall away. Still manipulating. Still playing games. “Get dressed, Amber,” I order shortly, my eyes locked with hers. “When you do, we’ll decide how to get you home, where we’ll talk. I’m pretty sure Tristan won’t be giving you a ride.” Seeing how unaffected she seems infuriates me. “He deserves better than how you just treated him.”

Her chin lifts defiantly, not a tear in sight. “Like I deserved better?”

“Yes,” I say tightly. “Like you did. Only I didn’t do what I did to you intentionally. Evidently, the same doesn’t apply with you for Tristan.” Ready to be out of here, I start for the door.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” she cries out. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

I pause, hoping she means it, but I don’t know what to believe anymore. “I’m not sure it matters anymore. He’s pretty done from what I can tell, and I don’t blame him.” I continue toward the door.

She shouts after me, “You don’t get it! You don’t even see! I’m done! I’m the one who’s done!”

She has no idea how right she is. Somehow, some way, after tonight, I’ll make sure she’s done playing these games. I only hope that some semblance of the person she once was can still be salvaged.

Leaving the room and pulling the door shut behind me, I’m surprised to find Tristan standing there in the hallway, and concerned that Sara isn’t with him. As I glance around, he says, “She’s still in the Hive.”

I’m not comforted by Sara’s being left alone with Isabel, but he continues, “You need to know that I checked out with Amber a long time ago.”

My gaze traces the red, angry scratches down his cheek. “Then why are you still here?”

“Because I was sure I was the one thing that kept her from self-destructing. I’m not anymore, and I need out before I go down with her.”

He’s become who I was with Amber, or maybe it’s who he’s always been with her. Maybe that’s all she allows anyone to be. “Then get out before you do.”

“If only it were so easy.” His expression tightens. “She threatened suicide.”

That hits me hard, Amber’s shouts of “You don’t understand” and “I’m the one who is done” taking on new meaning. “When?” I ask. “And has she ever done this before?”

“Tonight, and no, never before. I would have said something.”

“And the trigger was what?”

“When I told her I’d leave her and the tattoo parlor if she came here, and she knew I meant it. Was it manipulation? Maybe. But the bottom line is that she’s spiraling, and I can’t control where it leads.”

I inhale a heavy breath and let it out. “Then we have to check her into a treatment center. I’ll make calls and see if we can admit her tonight.”

“She won’t agree.”

“If we fear for her safety, I’m not sure she has to. But we need to get out of here before we can do anything. I’ll wait in the observation room in case you need me. Call or text me before you leave, and I’ll make sure Sara and I are gone before you pass through.”

“I’ll do my best,” he says, pushing off the wall. “But she’s not predictable.”

“Understood. I’ll be ready to move fast. Just do what you can.”

He gives a nod and then enters Isabel’s chambers, and I head to the Hive. Shoving the door open, I pause in the entryway, holding my breath.

Sara stands in the center of the room, directly behind the still-captive Isabel, and she’s holding the whip.

I slowly move forward, between her and Isabel. She doesn’t look at me. She just stares down at the thick leather that dangles to the ground, and I’m certain she’s thinking of the day she’d found me in Mark’s club being beaten, and then falling to her knees in front of me. She was never supposed to see me that way. She won’t ever see me that way again.

“Sara,” I say softly, a gentle command in my voice willing her to look at me.

Her gaze lifts sharply to mine. “You aren’t this whip. We are not this whip.”

My hand closes over hers on the whip. “I know.”

“No. You don’t.”

“Smart girl,” Isabel purrs. “Smarter than you, mon cher.”

Sara jerks back and steps around me, lifting the whip, her wrist cocked to use it. Grabbing her wrist, I insert myself back between her and Isabel, and in this instant I fear for Sara and for us, more than I ever have. “It’s not worth it. She’s not worth it.”

Her lips and hands quiver. “She needs to feel what she makes other people feel.”

“She won’t do it,” Isabel taunts. “She’s too weak and submissive.”

Sara takes a step forward, and I shackle one of her legs with my knees. “Don’t listen to her,” I warn. “This isn’t you, Sara, and you’ll regret it.”

She starts to tremble all over and her eyes glaze. “I just . . .” She presses her free hand to her face. “I just . . .” She looks at me. “She makes me . . . angry.”

“I know,” I murmur, taking the whip from her and dropping it to the ground, then lacing my fingers with hers and leading her toward the holding room.

“He’ll always need a whip,” Isabel snaps. “Anything else is a lie.”

Those words follow us into the other room, and I can almost feel the fear they create in Sara, but there is too much to say, and too little time, before Amber and Tristan become an issue. The instant we’re inside the private viewing room, I turn Sara to me.

“Before we leave I need to make a call here, where we’re not monitored, but we have to be ready to move. Tristan’s trying to get Amber out of here. He’s supposed to call me before they leave, but she’s still volatile. I can’t be sure we’ll have much warning.”

“Can’t you make the call outside?”

“No, once we leave, we’d need Isabel to let us back inside. Amber threatened suicide, Sara. We need to stay close in case Tristan needs us.”

She blanches. “Oh, God. Now it all makes sense. She’s acting out, crying for help, and I did nothing.”

“What? Sara, this isn’t on you.”

“Yes, it is. Even if it’s subconsciously, I sensed this in her. You and Tristan were too close to this to see it. I think I was the stranger who she thought might listen, and I didn’t hear her.”

I did this, yet she’s blaming herself—a prime example of a lifetime of self-blame working her over, and an example of why I’m so damn certain she’s a step from the edge I can’t let her take. I pull her to me. “This is on me, baby. Not you. Tristan was right. I stayed in her life out of guilt, and became a crutch, not a solution.” I kiss her forehead. “Watch for Amber.” I pull out my phone. “I’m going to get my attorney to arrange a treatment center for Amber, with check-in tonight if possible.”

“Good.” She steps to the window, hugging herself, the self-blame radiating off her, and I know I was right. Rebecca, and even the Ella situation, have influenced every interaction with Amber. She wants to save the world. I need to save her, right after I save Amber.

I dial my attorney, who thankfully answers and is quick to instruct me and then go to work. “Well?” she prods when I hang up.

“He had another client who had to commit his daughter. He’s pulling some strings at that facility. He says that since Amber threatened suicide, we can get her committed for observation, but it won’t guarantee she stays in treatment. We need her agreement for that.”

“That’s not going to be easy.” She glances at the window. “Shouldn’t they be leaving by now?”

“Yeah. I’m concerned.” I dial Tristan, who doesn’t answer, and I grimace. “I’m starting to think I need to check on them.”

“Won’t someone miss Isabel?”

“Not when she has company.” My phone beeps and I grab it and glance down to read what Tristan has written: I convinced her to leave by telling her you were meeting us at our house. We’re on our way out of here now.

Slipping my phone back in my pocket, I glance up at Sara. “Tristan and Amber are headed our way.” I take her hand to head to the doorway, but I can’t shake the sting of Isabel’s accusations. “Sara, about Isabel—”

She kisses me. “I’m okay,” she promises, but the crack in her voice and the shadows in her eyes when she pulls back tell me she’s not even close to okay. And I’m not sure we are, either.

We exit the club into the chill of the windy November Paris night to discover that the 911 has not been held nearby, but parked in the garage. Apparently Isabel’s prior orders trumped my cash. With Sara shivering, and Amber due out the door any minute, I order our car to be pulled to the side of the building.

Rounding the corner, I drag Sara into a dark entryway framing a door to some other part of the building. Pressing her into the corner, I use my body to shelter her from the wind, leaving us swimming in shadows. But even in the darkness, our eyes connect, the heat radiating between us, defying the cold night. This reminds me of another day, and another entryway, when we’d first met and I’d warned her away from me and the gallery. Before I knew she would take me by storm.

“I didn’t want to put you through this hell, but eyes wide open, baby. I promised if you came to Paris, that’s what you’d get. I almost let us leave without giving it to you.”

“Nothing I saw in there tonight was new. I know it all.”

“Damn it, Sara, take off the rose-colored glasses you say you saw your father with for years. You keep seeing the wrong things.”

“So if I don’t see you as some kind of monster, I see the wrong things? Obviously, I see you and Amber differently than you do. One person experiences tragedy and uses it to drive them to success, like you have with your art. Another, like Amber, lets it drive them into self-destruction. We all have different kinds of people cross our paths, Chris, but they don’t define us. We do. How I deal with who you are isn’t about you. It’s about me.”

“But those people who cross our paths can make us stronger or weaker.”

“If we let them. Amber won’t let you help her. She makes herself weaker. You, you make me stronger. You make me fight for me, and when I don’t, you do it for me, the way I try to fight for you.” She balls her fingers around my shirt. “I heard you in the museum in California. I heard the way you stood up to my father, and to Michael, for me. And you taught me to deal with men like Mark by claiming my own power, the night you negotiated that commission for me. I didn’t see it then, but I do now. You make me stronger.”

“But I’m still the person who made Amber what she is today. Did you see her, Sara? Really see her?”

“Do you really see me, Chris? Because I’ve lived my mother’s death, my father’s life, Michael, my own identity issues, and then all this hell with Rebecca and Ava. And though I have my weak moments, I don’t want the whip. Even when you left me over Dylan and I was alone and devastated, I didn’t waver. And let me tell you, Mark did his damnedest to convince me that love was for fools and he could show me another way—but I wasn’t tempted.”

My anger is an instant punch of adrenaline. “Mark did what?”

“Mark isn’t the point here. You told me to see you once before, Chris. I’m begging you to see me now. I love us and you. And I love where you take me, and what you make me feel.”

“The us, you know. The me, you understand. But I was Amber at one point.”

“No. You weren’t.”

“Sara—”

“I saw you tied up in Mark’s club, screaming to be beaten harder. I know who you are. I know where you’ve been. I get it and I get you. I’m starting to worry that you don’t get me, though. Or maybe you’re just looking for a way out.”

I trace her jawline with my fingers. “I don’t want out, and I don’t want you out.” I lower my forehead to hers. “I just needed—”

I’m cut off by an explosion of voices and commotion around the front of the building that makes me jerk back. “Why do I know that involves Amber?” I lace my fingers with Sara’s. “Come on.”

“Wait,” she objects, digging in her heels. “Aren’t I supposed to be avoiding her?”

“I’m not leaving you on the side of a sex club, in the dark, by yourself.” Shouts lift in the air and I think I recognize one of the voices. “Fuck. I’m pretty sure that was Tristan.”

We race around the corner to discover that utter chaos has erupted in front of the club. Two doormen are holding Tristan’s arms and his classic Impala is speeding away. “Oh no,” Sara murmurs. “Please tell me Amber isn’t leaving by herself.”

I hand Sara my phone. “Call Rey. We need backup.”

A loud crash sounds, and smoke rises into the air near the exit onto the road. “Amber!” I take off running.

Scantily clad people begin to pour out of the building, scattering everywhere and seeming to multiply. The crush is too extreme to be caused by simple curiosity; the building is being evacuated. That must be what’s happening, and damn it to hell, Isabel is in the stocks—but I have to make sure Amber is safe, first.

Reaching the edge of the road, I can see that the Impala had pulled in front of another car and taken a hit to the front right panel. Smoke’s pouring from the hood and the driver is still inside. The second car seems less damaged and a man climbs out; he seems to be okay.

Tristan appears by my side and curses at the sight of his banged-up car, charging toward the driver’s side door. I quickly follow, not sure how Tristan’s going to react if this is Amber and she’s hurt. He jerks open the door, and almost instantly a bloodied Amber throws her arms around his neck. I let out a breath—she’s conscious and mobile.

Sirens sound nearby, and I lean weakly against the car at the unexpected stirring of old memories. I was five when my mother had died, and I heard the screeching emergency vehicles in my nightmares for years to follow. Trying to shake it off, I move to the other car and check on the driver, but by the time I reach him, an emergency vehicle and two police cars have appeared.

Emergency personnel circle Amber and the other driver, and Sara appears by my side, looking frazzled and breathing hard. “Is she okay?”

“Bleeding from somewhere, but she’s coherent and moving around. What happened at the building?”

“From what I gathered, Amber pulled the fire alarm to get Isabel set free. Tristan told me she freaked out when she saw that Isabel was still in the stock when they were leaving. The minute he stepped outside with her, she flipped out and told the staff he was kidnapping her.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“I wish I were, but we have some good and bad news. The attorney called. He arranged the facility for Amber’s rehab, but she has to agree to check herself in or they won’t take her. When I told him about her stealing the car and all this nonsense, he suggested that Tristan threaten to press charges for the car theft and the physical attack if she doesn’t check herself in for a month.”

“What would keep her from sticking to her kidnapping story?”

“Us backing him up as witnesses, and you refusing to have her in your life at all if she won’t do this.”

I give a nod and seek Tristan out, finding him standing by the emergency vehicle watching the workers cart Amber away. “I’ll go talk to him.”

She nods and hugs herself against a gust of wind.

“Where’s the 911?” I ask. “Can you get your coat?”

“I’m fine,” she insists despite her chattering teeth. “The car is by the door.”

I’d argue with her but Tristan starts walking toward us and I move to meet him, not wanting any wrath he might lay on me to roll over onto Sara. “How is she?” I ask.

“She has a deep cut that needs stitches,” he explains. “They want to check her for a concussion, but she should be fine. I’m going to ride to the hospital with her.”

“You can’t do that.”

“The fuck I can’t.”

“She can’t get into rehab if she doesn’t do it willingly. If she doesn’t get into rehab, she might not survive the next incident like this one.”

“What does that have to do with me riding with her to the hospital?”

“It’s called tough love. Believe it or not, this was a blessing tonight. She gave us ammunition to force her hand.” I explain the plan.

Tristan stares at me for several seconds, then rubs his hand on the back of his neck and stares at the sky, cursing softly, before he levels me in a stare. “And your role is what?”

“I cut her off completely.”

“And you’re willing to do that?”

“Yes. I regret not doing this sooner for her and you.”

“How do we tell her?”

“I called Rey to join us. His brother’s in law enforcement. I’ll see what he can do to get an officer in on our plan.”

“She’s going to feel alone.”

“But when it’s over, she’ll know she isn’t.” As I say the words I think of Sara, and how alone I’d made her feel when I’d pushed her away after Dylan’s death. How I’d promised her she wasn’t alone again. Being alone is what she fears. That’s what drives her to the edge. I was right to say I’m what keeps her from tumbling over it.

I glance around, seeking Sara, and find her several feet away talking with Rey and a police officer, deeply involved in the situation. Nothing I have shown her has made her withdraw or become anxious. She’s not bitter or petty over Amber, though Amber has done everything to create that reaction. I do see her. I see the fighter in her, the big heart. I see the woman I love. The two of us are all kinds of fucked up that somehow equals perfect.

Despite Tristan’s having to play the bad guy with Amber, he insists on riding with us to the hospital. And while he’d claimed that he was done with her, his quietness on the ride and the worry in his eyes while we wait for Amber’s test results tell a different story. And his extreme relief when we’re told Amber has been given a clean bill of health backs that up.

Now comes the part we dread—the unavoidable confrontations. A police officer who’s in on our plan to check Amber into rehab, heads into her room, and Tristan is instantly on his feet and pacing. After ten minutes, he stops and scrubs the dark stubble shadowing his jaw. “I can’t stay, or I’ll go in there to save her in all the wrong ways.” His piercing stare meets mine. “I guess I can’t judge you for the past. It’s hard to let go. It’s like someone is ripping out organs and stomping on them. Call me when it’s over.”

I nod and lean my elbows on my knees, letting my head drop between my shoulders.

Sara’s hand slides to my back. “This is the right thing to do.”

Glancing over at her, I say, “I just hope it’s not too little, too late.”

“She’s alive and has a lot of living left ahead of her. You’re making sure she lives it happy.”

“I should have—”

She kisses away my words, her mouth a soft caress. “You can’t blame yourself for everything.”

“Just for her.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Not just her.”

And I know she means Dylan. Or maybe my father. Hell. Maybe she means a lot of things.

The police officer exits Amber’s room, motioning me forward. “Fuck,” I murmur. “She’s going to want to talk to me.” I push to my feet.

Sara stands with me, her hand flattening on my chest, and I wonder if she can feel the way my heart is racing. “She’s in denial. Denial is dangerous, and she’s proven that when she’s doing the denying, she’s mean. It’s going to be bad, Chris, and it’s going to get to you, but at least this is it. She’s getting help.”

Denial is dangerous. I’ve done way too much of that myself, and I’m done. I pull Sara to me. “I love you,” I say, and kiss her firmly before I force myself to walk toward Amber’s room.

Sure enough, the police officer confirms that she wants to see me before she agrees to any kind of rehab. Inhaling, I push open the door and the officer silently motions for me to leave it cracked. I’m guessing that isn’t a good sign about Amber’s present state of mind.

Entering the room, I find her fully dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, her back to me as she stands at the window, staring out at nothing but a dark parking lot. “I know you’re behind this,” she accuses me without turning.

Pretended ignorance is denial, and I don’t go there. “It’s not the first time we’ve talked about counseling.”

She whirls on me, anger burning in her eyes. “This isn’t counseling. This is being committed to a place like a prisoner. And this is you trying to atone for your sins. Expensive rehab should ease the guilt, I guess. You didn’t take care of me before, so why should you now?”

“I have taken care of you. And I’ve tried—”

“What? To save me like you tried to save my family? You didn’t, though, did you? You stood there while they were shot and killed. And I hate you, Chris. I hate you so much sometimes I want to hurt you instead of me. I’ll go to the damn treatment center, but I never want to see you again. Get out. Get out! Get out!”

The craziness in her face as she shouts at me is near insanity and I back out of the room, not at all certain she won’t attack me if I turn my back. The minute I’m in the hallway, I shut the door and lean on the wall, fighting a raging blast of emotions.

“Monsieur?” the police officer queries.

I glance up and give him the details, thankful when he agrees to arrange a medical escort to the rehab facility, with him present for everyone’s safety. Once I thank him, the officer walks away to make the arrangements, and Sara is there almost immediately. Her hand settles on my arm and it’s like a soothing balm to a burning scar that runs deep and has bled far too long.

She searches my face. “Is everything okay?”

I push off the wall. “It’s handled. She’s headed to rehab.”

“And?” she prods.

“And she hates me and blames me for the death of her family. Nothing new.”

The police officer calls my name and I turn to find him holding a phone toward me. “It’s probably the rehab facility.”

“Ask about visitation,” she says. “The attorney seemed to think Amber won’t be allowed to talk to anyone outside the facility for at least a few weeks, but I’m hoping we will be back by the time she can.”

Her ability to see beyond Amber’s anger and manipulation never stops amazing me. “I will. Can you tell Tristan what’s going on while I handle this?”

She nods. “Yes. Of course.” She touches my cheek and kisses me. “It’s not your fault. It was never your fault.” And then she’s walking away, and I just want to pull her back and hold her. I don’t want to regret anything with Sara the way I do with Amber. I don’t want to hold anything back, and I damn sure don’t want to live in denial. So I’m going to make sure she understands that tonight was about how much I need her.

It’s nearly dawn by the time we arrive home and pull into the garage. I’ve been on the phone to the private airline I’d put on standby, to charter a flight out of here once I knew the outcome with Amber’s treatment.

After parking, I kill the engine and close the garage. “We’ll still make the meeting with the detective back in the States if we leave this evening. That gives us a few hours to sleep.”

She nods. “That’s good.” She sits there a minute and there is a sudden tension crackling off her that tells me everything that has happened tonight has come full circle to this moment.

She reaches for the car door and I grab her arm. “What just happened?”

“This isn’t going to work, Chris. I can’t marry you.”

It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t make eye contact, and that I know she doesn’t mean it. The words still punch me in the chest. “Look at me and say that again,” I order.

“No. Let go of me.” She reaches for the door again, and when I refuse to let her go, she whirls on me. “You will always see her when you look at me—and that means you can never really let me see you.”

“Baby, that’s the whole point in us coming here. For you to see me.”

“There’s fear in your eyes, Chris. And that fear means . . . that you’ll leave again. And I’ll”—her voice cracks—“I’ll have forgotten how to be alone again. I can’t do that and survive.”

There it is. The thing that undoes her. It’s her fear, like losing her is mine. “Come here,” I order, and pull her toward me.

“What? No. I . . . What are you doing, Chris? There isn’t room.”

I lift her over the column between us. “Right here,” I instruct, shifting her legs to my sides and settling her body over my hips.

Her hands flatten on my shoulders. “I don’t fit.”

“You fit perfectly.” I frame her face with my hands, trap her with a stare. “We fit perfectly, Sara. And baby, you make me stronger. Before Dylan died, I thought I had things under control, but I didn’t. When you showed up at the club, I wanted you. I wanted you badly.”

“But you shoved me away.”

“I wasn’t myself, Sara. I didn’t know where I’d take you, or what I’d do. Not to the whip; I’d never ever take you there. I just . . . I’d never touched anyone when I was like that. That’s why I left. I didn’t want you to see some monster and hate me.”

“That’s the problem, Chris—that you can’t let me in. You won’t.”

“I will. After Dylan, I’d decided I was okay. It was one slip, but I’d be fine. It wasn’t going to happen again. Then Ava attacked you, and Sara, it happened again.”

“You went to the whip?”

“No, but I wanted it in a bad way. The idea of losing you tore me up. That’s when I knew I had to bring you here. And while I can’t predict what sets me off, every year since the shooting, I struggle on the anniversary of my mother’s death. It’s not logical, but it’s some sort of trigger. I lock myself in the castle, away from the whip, but it’s never easy. I thought we’d go through that together. And I needed to go through that and let you judge me if you would, before Amber and Tristan started planting ideas in your head.”

“But you seemed fine at the castle.”

“I was. I woke up next to you that morning and I was at peace in a way I haven’t been in years. Knowing that, I let denial kick into full gear and saw us riding off into the sunset.”

“And this Amber thing made you decide you were some sort of monster again?”

“Guilt was already eating me alive, making me worry about what monster was going to jump out of the closet to destroy you. Amber just made it happen now instead of later. Tonight you got to witness who I am and was, and what I’m capable of creating in someone else. Seeing Amber at her worst scared the shit out of me. I love you too much to hurt you.”

“I understand holding back until you’re ready to share something that feels traumatic, Chris. I was ashamed over Michael, and I needed you to know about him and accept me afterward, but I wasn’t sure how to tell you. I had a lot of guilt over that—and he, like Amber, forced my hand. But we’re over that hump, and I don’t see Michael in you. I don’t know if you can do the same with me. Shutting me out will gut me. I can’t call you my husband and then wake up alone.”

I pull her closer, one breath from the kiss I crave. “Husband. I like how that sounds, and even more how it feels.”

“Me, too,” she whispers. “That’s why it hurts so much to be kept at a distance.”

“I can’t promise you I’m not going to protect you. It’s who I am. But now everything is out in the open. Now we can deal with it.” I rest my forehead on hers. “Whatever it takes, Sara, I’ll do it.”

“You can’t leave—no matter how bad you are.” She leans back to stare at me, flattening her hand on my chest. “You have to promise me that.”

“I promise,” I say, pulling her mouth to mine. “Wife.”

She smiles against my lips. “Husband.”

I kiss her, a hot possessive claiming kiss that says she belongs with me. Sara melts into me, sliding her hands under my shirt, her fingers warming my skin. I lean the seat back, lowering her on top of me, touching her. I can never touch her enough, tugging down her dress to discover her naked breasts.

“You’re not wearing a bra,” I murmur roughly, nipping her ear and teasing her nipple with my fingers.

She moans and covers my hand with hers. “Stop. We can’t do this here.”

“I’m reminding you that you’re mine.” I tug her dress up her hips, cupping her bare backside, tracing the thin strip of silk along her cheeks. “And you are mine.” Palming her breasts, I lean in to suck on her.

She presses her hands to the ceiling. “Chris. We can’t have sex in the 911. It’s too small.”

I lower my seat flat and mold her to me, my hand going under her dress to caress her backside. “I say it’s not. Let’s find out who’s right.”

“You’re crazy,” she whispers.

“Maybe.” I press her against the thick ridge of my cock. “But I really need to be inside you.” I kiss her and she moans again.

“Now you’re making me a crazy woman,” she says.

“I like crazy,” I assure her and reach between us to unzip my pants. “Help me pull these down?” She stares at me for a long moment and I press, “I’m dying here. I need to be inside you.”

She blinks, and then reaches for my pants as she erupts into laughter.

A frenzy of tugging and pulling on clothing erupts between us, until finally, I’m buried inside her and our eyes lock, the humor fading, heat simmering.

Her fingers trace my lips. “No in-between, Chris. You told me that. And I’m telling you that now.”

“No in-between, baby.”

I’m all in with Sara—and we’re about to find out where that leads us.

“How long did you know Rebecca, Mr. Compton?”

“Asked and answered, Detective Grant,” I reply, leaning back in my seat, and I can feel the eyes on the other side of the glass wall behind him.

“All right, then,” he replies. “Let’s try something new. Is it true Rebecca called you ‘Master’?”

Tension ripples down my spine. “Yes. She called me ‘Master.’ ”

“Having such a beautiful young girl call you ‘Master’ must have been a real power rush.”

“What’s the point?”

“I’ll get to the point when I’m ready. See, I’m the Master of this conversation. I’m in control. Now, what exactly did being her ‘Master’ mean to you?”