His Secrets

Part Three The Hive

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.