Fearless (Elite Doms of Washington Book 5) Page 17

  Steffan took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t ask you if Alexander hadn’t insisted … but …”

  She sighed. “Troy Myers.”

  “Yes.” He took her hand, uncurled her tense fingers and held them in his larger palm. “You can tell me. Us.” Despite the misery etched across Laurent’s face at this new information, he wanted him included.

  “Troy was a sub I met in Washington, after I came back. I had to, you know, for Jonathan. I couldn’t leave him to those vipers,” she spat. “And I couldn’t stop being who I was. So I went a little wild, dabbled in the DC scene, and met Troy in the same club where I met Alexander Rockingham. At that time, rules and protocol didn’t carry the same weight they do today. Very little was controlled. No vetting for mental stability or personality disorders. Troy and I scened a few times, and he became obsessed with me. I tried to end it because I knew how dangerous obsession could become. Instead of making it better, he got worse. One night, he brought a gun to the club and threatened me with it and then turned it on himself. He blew his brains all over the wall, not two feet from where I stood. Alexander was there. I’d barely known the man, and he just … steps in. Who does that?”

  “Alexander,” Laurent whispered.

  “Yes.” She glanced at him briefly. “He got me legal counsel to clear my involvement, kept me out of the papers. That last part won my mother’s favor. I’ll tell you that. Alexander worked on the Hill then, and he cashed in every chit he had for me, said he knew what it was like to have the world turn its back on you.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t know what I would have done without Alexander. I was so messed up after that. I don’t know that I would ever have gotten straightened out if it weren’t for him.”

  She turned to face him. “So now you know. You ask why so many rules? I turned to discipline and strict order out of necessity. I need protocol and distance so that people don’t get hurt. I won’t let anyone grow too close again because Clementina had it right. I'm a killer.”

  He circled his arm around her. “No, Sarah, you weren’t a killer. You never could be.”

  “Never,” Laurent took her hand and kissed her knuckles.

  She huffed, delicately, and shook her head. It was her eyes that concerned him, however. They’d grown flat once more as if mesmerized by something in the distance. Melancholy and regret, he thought bitterly. Those were the real killers of life. They snuck up on you, hung around until they were wormed their way inside and breached your molecules. Sarah stared out at the water, and by the anguish in her face, she didn’t have regrets. They had her.

  Laurent shifted in the sand and drew closer.

  “That was the seventh,” she said suddenly. She’d been counting the waves.

  “One,” Laurent said as the next roll of ocean water crested and fell to the beach.

  She looked over at him and smiled. Steffan caught the glint of moonlight in a sheen of tears when she turned her gaze back to the water.

  “Two,” she said.

  For over an hour, they watched the ocean waves, numbers the only words spoken. The moon’s reflection danced along the ripples in the ocean, but nothing inside Steffan calmed. He’d meant what he’d said. He’d kill anything that harmed Sarah. But how do you kill ghosts?

  31

  For the first time in his life, Laurent was afraid to touch a woman. He wanted to hold Sarah—press her against him, kiss every inch of that worried face, erase all that stress thrumming through her body. He was afraid she might shatter upon contact. Steffan was braver than he. He’d had Sarah in the crook of his arm all the way from the beach, across terraces and marble floors, and up the elevator and down the hallway, never letting an inch separate their bodies.

  As soon as they entered the suite, however, Sarah pushed herself free and pointed at the second bedroom.

  “That bedroom is open for you both.” She then disappeared into the room they’d been sharing and clicked the door shut, the lock sounding a second later.

  Tension rose in the cords of Steffan’s neck, his hands clenched by his sides. The man was used to action. He stormed down doors when they were shut in your face as he had in Amsterdam. Restraint cost him, especially when someone he loved suffered.

  “Drink?” Laurent asked and strode to the bar across the room. He didn’t know what else to do.

  “You don’t drink.”

  “I do now.” He pulled the stopper off the bottle holding clear liquid, not really caring what it held and poured a fingerful into a tumbler. He handed it to Steffan who waved it off. “Not vodka. I’ll take Scotch.”

  Laurent downed the vodka and winced at the burn in his throat. It’d been over a year since he’d touched alcohol and even then it had been more to rid himself of the stench of beer and bourbon that permeated that house in Amsterdam than for any other reason. He poured Steffan’s Scotch and brought it to him. The man, who he’d never before seen defeated, sat on the couch, head in his hands. He took the offered glass but didn’t drink.

  Laurent sighed and sat next to him. “What’s next?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say that.”

  “This is my first time falling in love with a female Dominant. The woman is being unreasonable. She has no right to believe that was her fault.”

  “Harsh.”

  “Truth.” He kicked back the Scotch and hissed between his teeth. “So young and everyone around her believed—”

  “I’m not sure that’s the case. I overheard Claire …”

  White hot anger filled Steffan’s eyes at the mention of Sarah’s mother.

  “I believe Claire loves her daughter,” Laurent continued. “I overheard her say to Sarah whatever happened with Joshua wasn’t her fault. I didn’t know what any of it meant at the time, but I believed her intent.”

  “Generous of you.”

  “She’s still an evil bitch for letting Sarah’s guilt fester.”

  Steffan huffed. “You got that right.”

  “I doubt Claire even knows about Troy Myers.” Laurent sighed. “I don’t see how Sarah can blame herself, but you know Mistress. Once she gets an idea into her head—”

  “She doesn’t let go.” Steffan shook his head and downed the vodka.

  “She said she knew she was a Dominant from age fourteen. I suppose she has always been convinced she should be able to control everyone and everything around her. Why would she believe those close to her when they said these deaths weren’t her fault? She believes everything is her responsibility to fix. Look at how she operates. She doesn’t shy away from a challenge, that’s for sure.”

  Steffan nodded his head, his eyes glazed as if in deep thought.

  “Then she needs a greater responsibility, an opportunity for redemption, an opportunity to balance the scale.”

  Steffan looked at him, a smile growing on his face. “You’re fucking brilliant.”

  “You’re just getting this?”

  “Laurent.” He stood. “Up for a little castle storming?”

  “Going to break down another door?” As he had in Amsterdam—literally?

  “I need to do something, but only if you’re okay with it.” Laurent’s back straightened in response to Steffan’s take-no-prisoners tone. Steffan eyed the balcony that wrapped around the corner of their suite. “I’m going to go see if her slider door is open. I want to tell her about Amsterdam—what really happened.”

  “What happened. You mean how I got there?” Emotion choked Laurent’s throat.

  He scrubbed his hair. “Never mind. It’s too much to ask.”

  Laurent rose to his feet. “No, it’s a good plan. It would come out eventually.”

  “I want you to be there.” Steffan slapped him on the shoulder. “It’s your story to tell, but I think it would help her if I told her.”

  “It’ll piss her off.”

  “Exactly.”

  He shrugged. “Not sure I get the plan, but I trust you.”

&n
bsp; Steffan stilled. “Thank you for that.”

  “You saved my life.” It was true. Steffan had, factually and figuratively. He owed his friend this gift to bare his darkest moment to help heal another’s dark moment.

  “Let’s go save another,” Steffan said.

  The humid air slapped Laurent in the face as soon as he stepped out on to the balcony, and damn if Steffan wasn’t right. Her sliding glass door was open a sliver as if she wanted to listen to the ocean waves. Light seeped through the crack of the bathroom door. They stepped inside, Steffan leading the way. The roar of water from inside the bathroom competed with the roar of the ocean behind them.

  Steffan knocked on the door frame.

  “No, Laurent. I don’t need anything.” Her voice was weary.

  Steffan pushed open the door and leaned against the frame. “Oh, I’d say you need something all right.”

  She lay in a full bath, chin deep in milky water, her head against a towel. Lavender and eucalyptus scents drifted around his head. She was trying to calm herself? He was about to provoke the opposite feelings in her.

  “Steffan, didn’t I say—”

  “You did, but we need to tell you something, and then you can kick us out. It’s about Amsterdam.” They moved inside. Steffan crossed his arms and leaned against the sink. Laurent went with his gut and knelt by the side of the tub. The tile bit into his knees, but it kept his awareness sharp.

  “Steffan, can’t this wait until morning?” she sighed.

  “No. You know Laurent’s parents died in a car accident.”

  She gaped at him.

  “What you don’t know is Laurent was driving.”

  Fuck, that hurt. Laurent cleared his throat. Sarah’s wet hand came down on his forearm.

  “Laurent.” The sympathy in her voice only ratcheted up the emotion clogging his throat. Jesus, he hoped Steffan knew what he was doing.

  “Look at me,” she said.

  He did what she asked. He’d do anything she asked.

  “I don’t know what Steffan is trying to pull here, but an accident—”

  “Is another tragedy that wasn’t anyone’s fault.” Steffan’s voice was even, measured. “But, you see, our man Laurent here didn’t believe that. Like you didn’t believe Joshua Martin and Troy Myers—and yes, Sarah I’m going to say their names—took their own lives of their own accord.”

  Laurent sucked in a deep breath and kept his eyes trained on Sarah. “A drunk driver smashed into us. Not my fault, Sarah. I know that now.”

  “Of course it wasn’t. It’s not the same thing.”

  “No, it’s not,” Steffan answered. “But guilt takes no prisoners, has no discernment whatsoever. It lands in your body and sticks around until you kick it to the curb.”

  “That was harsh.” She raised her chin.

  “Yes, because I won’t let guilt have you, Sarah like I wouldn’t let it have Laurent. I found him in an Amsterdam basement, chained to a wall. He’d been there for twelve days, Sarah. He was half dead.”

  “Chained?” She squirmed and slid, fighting to stand up. Laurent got Steffan’s plan. Anger was better than whatever memory she’d fallen into earlier in the evening. She’d shed her depression like a worn coat.

  “Yes. Chained.” Steffan ground out the words, his eyes glinting with his own emotion. Laurent gripped his knees as that foggy memory tried to rise up and drown him. It couldn’t though. So much energy began bouncing between them, Laurent thought the wall tiles might crack.

  “Some sadistic bastards put in him in a basement and chained him to a wall, and he let them do it because he thought he deserved it. Picture that.”

  Laurent couldn’t breathe for a second.

  “But I got him out. So if you think I’m afraid of some past ghosts, guess again. I wouldn’t let Laurent disappear without a fight, and I sure as hell am not going to let you do it, either.”

  Her lip quivered, but she raised her chin. She stepped out of the tub, and Laurent jumped up to grab a towel for her. She angrily wrapped it around herself.

  “I’m not one of your submissives,” she bit out. “I don’t cower, don’t—”

  “Thank god for that.” Steffan stalked forward. “I don’t know how or why any of this happened, Sarah, but I love you, and I won’t let you suffer anymore.”

  She stepped backward. “Two Dominants—”

  “Can never be a couple. Believe me, I’ve heard that from my own head. But I can—”

  “Do what?”

  “I can be with you. Laurent, too. Now the questions is, do you want us?”

  “Do you?” Laurent asked.

  They both looked down at him as if they’d forgotten he was there.

  She took in a sudden breath, but she didn’t say “no.”

  “That’s all I needed to know.” Steffan strode forward, cupped her face. “It’s not possible for you to harm me, Sarah Marillioux, and I know you won’t hurt Laurent. What I’m about to do is in both of our best interests.” He kissed her, and she grasped his wrists but didn’t push him back.

  Laurent stood and went to them, shoving back the desire to throw his arms around both of their bodies, to shield them from all the misery raised tonight. Steffan released her lips.

  “Your arrogance never wanes,” she whispered.

  “Just the way you like it. We don’t get to choose who we fall in love with. It just happens.”

  “Yes, we do choose.”

  “I don’t happen to agree with you, but using your assertion, Joshua Martin had a choice just like Troy Myers had a choice.”

  Her jaw firmed with that bit of challenge. Laurent had always known Steffan was quick on the uptake, but, Jesus, it was like watching a brilliant attorney pick apart an opposing counsel’s argument.

  “If you believe you have a choice in who you love, then choose me,” Steffan said. “Choose Laurent. Just … try it on.” He dropped his hold on her face.

  She looked at Laurent. “What do you want?”

  Relief coursed through him. Steffan had won. They both had.

  “I want both of you. I need both of you.” She slipped by Steffan and strode to the doorway but paused. “You should have told me about Amsterdam, Steffan.”

  “Probably,” he said.

  “No promises.” She threw off her towel, and they followed her into the bedroom—and the bed.

  32

  Of all the emotions Steffan had called up, she clung to the only one she was willing to acknowledge—a fierce desire for Laurent. Chained to a basement wall? Heads were going to roll. She’d make sure of it.

  She settled on the edge of the bed and looked up at the two men who’d followed her. “Laurent, when you gave us your list of limits at Accendos, did you leave anything out?”

  “Nothing. I swear. I’ve worked through a lot over the last year …” The words died in his throat as his gaze returned to her feet.

  “Laurent, tell her,” Steffan said.

  “I don’t remember much. They used drugs.”

  They’d drugged him. They had stripped him of his ability to consent—and to pull it back. Fuck. She was going to turn Amsterdam inside out until every single person who’d harmed this gorgeous creature was … what? Dead?

  “They’re in jail,” Steffan said.

  She glared at him, a fire burning through her logic until she was nothing but a mass of vengeful wrath.

  “What? You think I’d kill them? I wanted to. Where they are is worse, and they’ll stay there so long as I live.”

  “You should have told me.” God, her teeth hurt from clenching them so hard.

  Laurent nodded slowly. “Yes, we should have, but I’ve learned over the last year, Mistress, the past is in the past, and that’s where it needs to stay. Remember I told you Steffan was a good Dom. He’s been working with me, showing me accepting abuse isn’t the same as serving. It’s what we’ve been doing for the last year.” His dark eyes filled with such attention and tenderness she wondered how anyone cou
ld harm this man. She drew in a long breath to release the madness his story had called up in her.

  “Laurent.” She presented her foot. “Mind?”

  He dropped to his knees and cradled her heel.

  “Your fingers are magic,” she said. “This is the way you can serve me.” It also would help calm the rising vengeance she felt. She had resources. She had access to people who could infiltrate governments, prisons, anywhere someone hid. Jesus, she had to stop this swirl of vengeance, the need for retaliation and justice on his behalf.

  Easy, Sarah. Breathe.

  He pressed his thumbs into her arch, and she moaned at the release of tension there. As he kneaded her heel and pulled on her toes, she felt her spine relax more than if she’d sat in a hundred baths. She focused her eyes on Steffan, and let her mind process—calmly, objectively—what she’d just learned.

  Later, she and Steffan would have words over what she had not known about Laurent. She should have been told by Steffan, if not Laurent, that the man carried trauma from a horrific event that had to have left scars. Was she any better? She hadn’t told them about her past, either. It was as if the tragedy won. The irony of her conviction to never forget what had happened to her, yet wanting for Laurent to forget, wasn’t lost on her. Damn, Steffan and his argument shone a spotlight on her double standard.

  Steffan’s gaze lazily drifted over her body as he unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it aside. His pants, rumpled from the humidity, hung low on his hips giving her a glimpse of that trail of blond hair that ran down his belly to disappear behind his pants. His appreciation of her nudity tented his pants. That familiar power she felt when admired, when someone willingly offered their services to her, climbed up through her now-relaxing feet to the crown of her head. While Laurent overtly took care of her needs, an odd thought arose how a Dominant could do the same. Steffan appreciated her dominance and understood it from a different vantage point. It was like a peer praising you for being a worthy opponent. Yet, she oddly didn’t feel in competition with Steffan.

  “Do you believe in fate?” Laurent asked, overturning the thoughts she’d been trying to piece together about this entire, evolving situation.