Baby. I melt.

  I don’t have a submissive bone in my body. Never have, never will. I write my own rules and fight my own battles. But when Cain Master gives me a command, my knees buckle and my legs turn to jelly.

  He’s the only man I’ll ever submit to, and he knows it.

  I eye his hard cock tented in his boxers, lean forward, and kiss the very top.

  “Please,” I say on a hoarse whisper.

  “God, woman. You don’t have to ask me twice.”

  I sigh when the satiny-feel of his cock touches my lips. I lick the very top and suckle, making him groan. He pumps into my mouth like he’s fucking me, and I take every inch of him, every perfect fucking inch. I tease and taunt and suckle and moan, eager to please, to own this small part of him that he grants me.

  “Jesus, baby. Stop.”

  I shake my head from side to side. I don’t want to stop. I want him to come. I want to swallow him down and own him like he does me.

  He leans down and tweaks my nipple, hard, as he breathes into my ear, “I said stop, Violet. Stop now or I’ll come in your mouth, and I want your pussy wrapped around my cock when I come.”

  I moan in protest.

  “Violet,” he says warningly, already eying the folded belt by his desk. With a sigh, I lay my head on his lap.

  “Get up on this bed.” He may be a jealous lover, but he’s never a selfish one. I’m enjoying my place here, with my head in his lap, though, so I don’t move right away. “Now,” he orders, yanking me up and over his lap where he gives me a good hard slap.

  In seconds, I’m facedown on the bed on my knees, and he’s behind me, hands on my hips and my pussy spread for him. I hold my breath until he slides into me, and I release a pent-up sigh at the fullness of him. Frissons of ecstasy explode through me when he thrusts, and a feeling of utter completion washes over me. We climax in unison, like we were made for each other.

  I’m lying next to him in blissful contentment. Skin to skin, all our clothing tumbled to the floor like leaves shed for winter. I’m up on his chest and his hands are folded, resting on my lower back.

  “You make a terrible pillow,” I murmur, cheek smooshed against the hardness of his body. He chuckles, but quiets when I reach for the cool metal of his dog tags. I wonder if tonight he’ll tell me. I don’t ask, just gently finger them.

  “Thanks for that.”

  I snort. “Yeah, it was a real sacrifice.”

  He smiles, sobering. “Thanks for being patient with me.”

  I only nod, afraid if I speak too soon, I’ll scare him off again. I can feel we’re on the cusp of more truth between us. He may be fearless and strong, but when it comes to personal revelations, he scares as easily as a spooked deer sometimes.

  When he speaks, his voice has gentled, his tone contemplative. “I wonder if you’d have stayed with me if you’d met me when I was younger.”

  “You wouldn’t have,” I say with a laugh. “I was headstrong and willful with a chip on my shoulder the size of a boulder.”

  “Oh, because you’re oh-so-docile and obedient now?”

  I smile. “You know what I mean. I wonder what you were like as a younger man. Smaller?”

  “A bit. I’ve always been a big guy but didn’t body build until I was older.”

  “More cocky?”

  He chuckles. “Definitely.”

  I absentmindedly run my fingers along the little curly hairs on his chest. “Your eyes would be more boyish, I imagine, and not—”

  I pause. I’ve said too much. But he doesn’t let me get away with half sentences.

  “Not what?”

  I swallow and cringe before I go for broke. “Maybe not so… guarded.”

  It’s a poor choice of a word. Guarded isn’t really what I meant. The first time I looked into his eyes, I knew he was a man who’d experienced deep, abiding pain, the type that rocks you to your core and leaves scars that never heal. He’s only hinted at things that have hurt him, but hasn’t told me much of anything. Yet.

  “Maybe not,” he admits. “Would you like to know where I got these dog tags?”

  My heart soars.

  “Of course,” I say with forced patience, because the little girl in me’s jumping for joy and fist pumping all at the same time. I love when he lets me in, when he trusts me a little bit more. I draw in a breath, then release it slowly. “I want to know everything about you, Cain.”

  He pauses a beat before he says, “And I’ll tell you everything. In time.”

  I close my eyes against the sudden rush of emotion. Other women might swoon at a profession of love, and when the day comes for that between us, it will mean more than anything to me. But this… this right here, his granting of trust that so few have, is the next best thing.

  “When I was stationed in France, I was trained by a guy named Court Fallow.”

  “That’s quite a unique name.”

  “He was a unique guy. Born and bred in the Deep South, his family lived on a rambling farm that harvests corn.”

  I nod, giving him space to tell the story.

  “Not sure you’ve had much to do with Henri. He keeps to himself.” Henri’s a quiet, unassuming employee of Cain’s. He was the man that opened the door for me the day I first came here. I knew I detected a Southern accent.

  “I’ve seen him, but we’ve never really even talked beyond work at all.”

  “He keeps to himself. Henri was Court’s youngest brother.”

  “Oh wow.”

  “Court was the father I never had, Violet.”

  I didn’t see that coming.

  I gently stroke his shoulder. Keeping him with me. “Oh? How so?”

  His voice takes on a huskier edge, reminiscing. “He took me under his wing. Showed me how to shoot, showed me how to protect the people under my care. He was the oldest of seven, raised to be a man of honor, and he taught me everything he knew.”

  “Well, that explains a lot.”

  He huffs out a laugh as he runs his fingers through my hair in a rhythmic motion, up and down, up and down, as if it soothes him. Maybe it does.

  “Court was killed by friendly fire.” My heart aches. Accidental death like that is so tragic, I can’t imagine how it feels for the people who knew him or the people responsible for his death. “I was the one who found him. He bled out while I held him, waiting for emergency crews to respond.”

  “Oh, Cain.” I’ve been through brutally painful times, but something like this makes me hurt for him.

  “And before the rescue crews could find us, I was taken hostage. I took his dog tags just before they took his body and me, alive.”

  I put two and two together.

  “And that’s how you got the scars on your back.” I knew it was some kind of torture or punishment he’d endured.

  “Yeah.”

  “Let me see them.”

  He stills for a moment, before he lets me slide off of him. The bed’s huge, a king-sized monstrosity as big as the old apartment I rented, so he rolls over with ease. He places his arms above his head, spreading his muscled, scarred back for me. My eyes have adjusted to the dim lighting in the room, moonlight lighting up the silvery-white scars that crisscross his back.

  “Brutal,” I whisper, my own body clenching at the scars that mimic mine. I bend, close my eyes, and kiss each scar that lines his back.

  He lets me. My throat tightens.

  “Don’t tell me where your scars came from. Not tonight, Violet.”

  I still. Why doesn’t he want to know? A part of me’s relieved, because I’m not in the mood to relive any of those events.

  “I won’t. I don’t want to talk about it myself yet. But can I ask you why?”

  He rolls back over, reaches for me, then drags me to his chest again. His eyes are fire, giving me a glimpse of the inferno that rages inside him. Sometimes, he tames the fire. Sometimes, he hides it. But it’s never fully quenched.

  “Because when I find out who gave you those scars, I will hunt them down. I will make them pay. I want to be fully prepared, and tonight’s not the night for that.”

  I’d smile, but he isn’t joking.

  I’m falling in love with the man they call The Executioner. I didn’t come here by accident.

  “Alright, then,” I whisper.

  I lay back down beside him and roll over. We both know it’s time for sleep, and the time to divulge secrets to one another is over.

  For now.

  He lays his heavy arm over my body, and I sigh. Nothing gives me comfort like the weight of his arm.

  I want to ask him how we’re coming along on the next job we have to do—finding my parents’ murderer. I want to remind him that he promised me that he wouldn’t leave me hanging. But I’m tired, and so is he. Tomorrow, then.

  I yawn widely, my eyes closing.

  “Thank you for that,” I whisper, as slumber beckons.

  “For what?”

  “For trusting me with the truth.”

  I need to ask him about my parents. Have we made headway with anything at all? I’m feeling frustrated and impatient, so ready to move on this. But not tonight.

  I fall into a deep sleep.

  I dream of hunting, and weapons, and throwing the new knives he bought me, but every time I throw them, I miss the target.

  Chapter Four

  Cain

  * * *

  “Cain!”

  I look up from my laptop, my eyes blurry from staring too long, and blink. Someone just called my name.

  “Cain, come here!” It’s Skylar.

  I jump up from my seat and stalk to my office door, my pulse accelerating. Why the hell is she yelling for me? I yank it open, ready to grab the weapon I keep on me at all times. I check the heft of it in my holster, just in case.

  It’s been too calm around here for too damn long, and my head’s been so buried in research I’m still mentally in the dark and dirty trenches of my research.

  “Cain!”

  My boots hit hard on the top landing as I jog toward the top of the stairs.

  “What?” My heart’s beating hard, and I don’t hear Violet. Where’s Violet?

  I come around the corner at the top of the stairs, staring down the banister at the living room below. Skylar stands with her hands on her hips and Violet’s in her shadow, shaking her head.

  “Told her you were busy,” Violet mutters, rolling her eyes. She’s got a string of pinecones in her hand. “But she insisted.” Violet looks up at me and her eyes go a little wider. “See? I told you not to yell his name. You scared the hell out of him. Lucky he didn’t blow your damn head off.”

  “I’m not the one who shoots without reason,” I remind her.

  She rolls her eyes heavenward. “You shoot a weapon you didn’t know was loaded one time and you never live it down.”

  “Never.”

  Joe snorts from the doorway, walking in with a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a napkin in the other. “Boss, we got a call from a Miss Robbins? She says she has some urgent news.”

  Violet looks at me. “First time I ever heard of that one.” There’s a chill in her gaze I haven’t seen often, and I look at her curiously.

  “Yeah, because the case is as cut and dried as they come.” I groan. “And seriously, this Robbins woman’s intense.”

  Violet narrows her gaze so slightly it’s barely noticeable, but I notice it. “I’m intense, too.”

  Really? She’s playing this game with me now? I look at Joe when he opens up the napkin he holds and pulls out a cookie.

  “For Christ’s sake, don’t walk in there getting crumbs all over the place,” I tell him.

  “I won’t.” He pops the whole thing in his mouth and grins.

  “The garland,” Skylar says, interrupting whatever’s going on between me and Violet. “Violet says it’s too much, but I love it, so you’re the tiebreaker.”

  Violet grimaces.

  They’re arguing over… room decor? I knew I should’ve taken on the last two cases that came to me, but I wanted to free us up to focus on Violet’s parents’ case. I’m on the cusp of a breakthrough.

  “Oh no you don’t,” I say to them. “No goddamn way I’m getting in the middle of you two about that.”

  Skylar rolls her eyes. A few months back, she agreed to come and live here, after she was abducted and assaulted by an asshole enemy of mine. He paid the ultimate price, and she’s been safe ever since, but not without scars. Violet’s helped her.

  When they first met, Skylar wore nothing but black and often hid her gaze beneath thick, long bangs. She’d found her people among the Wiccans of Salem, and Violet knows and respects that. But much of the way she dressed reflected her dark inner world. Things are a bit different now. Skylar’s… changed.

  She still meets with her Wiccan friends, and it’s still a large part of who she is. But she doesn’t hide the way she used to. Violet’s brought her out of her shell, you could say.

  Violet has that effect on people. She doesn’t have what I’d call a cheery personality—no, she’s really nothing like that. She’s honest, though, sometimes brutally. She hides nothing, so she values bold truth and unencumbered sincerity.

  I love that about her. It’s partly why I hate that I’ve hidden anything from her at all.

  But Violet has secrets, too.

  “I don’t want to decorate,” Violet says, cringing. She throws up her garland-covered hands and gives it to Skylar. “Go ahead. Put ‘em up. Get some… scarecrows for the front yard, or Christmas lights, or whatever the fuck. Peace out.” She hands Skylar the pinecones and leaves the room. I hear the kitchen door shut behind her, then the whines and barks of greeting from Romulus and Remus, our pit bulls. They love Violet.

  Joe stares at me, his cheeks still stuffed with cookie. Skylar gives me an apologetic look.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t… really know what set her off. Like, is she hormonal or something?”

  Joe holds up his hands and leaves as quickly as he came, likely wanting nothing at all to do with a discussion about Violet’s hormones.

  I blow out a breath and shake my head. I suspect I know what’s bothering her.

  “It’s not you,” I tell Skylar. “Let me handle her.”

  Skylar turns back to the mantle and arranges the pinecones with a flair of victory. She got her way. “Oh believe you me, I am happy to stand back and let you handle her, as long as you handling her is done behind closed doors.”

  This, from the girl who once had a chair particularly suited for tantric sex maneuvers in her bedroom.

  “Are those scented?” The smell of cinnamon and cloves lingers in the air.

  “Mhm,” she says triumphantly. “I wanted to get pumpkin spice, but Violet had an opinion on that.” She sniffs the air in mock dismay.

  It’s sunny but chilly when I go out the back door to find Violet. I know I need to. I know I’m the only one that knows what’s bothering her, and I don’t want anything to fester between us.

  I glance to the left where we often train. I’ve given Violet free rein to teach martial arts classes, and she’s enjoying it. But the training field, the outside ring, and the semi-enclosed area near the pool are all vacant. Romulus and Remus are still by the back door, standing guard. I pat their heads.

  “Where’d she go, boys? Target range?” They only lick my hands but don’t betray Violet’s whereabouts. Figures.

  I look to the target range, but it looks undisturbed. I open the door just to be safe, but it’s cold and dark when I enter. Vacant.

  “Violet!” I call her name, hoping she’ll answer, but the wind picks up and swallows my voice. Clouds part, brilliant light bathing the ground in front of me. Down by the private beach that flanks my home, I look for footprints, but find nothing.

  I know where she is.

  I walk down a hidden walkway built from rocks, so discreet and functional, it’s as if the side of the mountain where my home’s built was designed primarily for this function. I walk down to the beach, hang a left, and head for the large, private open field where I’ve set up her training station.

  My men use it, too, but we all know it’s Violet’s.

  It took a solid week of construction, and the equipment needed would buy me a new truck, but it was worth every penny. The waterproof, outdoor-proof training station is suitable for stretching and boxing. Featuring cables, a dual stack functional trainer for combat and rebounding, two pull-up stations, and monkey bars, it’s state-of-the-art.

  Violet calls it “going out to play,” but the intensity of the equipment and how she uses it is anything but. To the left of what looks like a souped-up playground, we set up a secure shed to house heavy sandbags, strength bands, medicine balls and kettlebells. We have a fully equipped indoor exercise room, but Violet prefers working outside. She thrives in the outdoors with nothing but the sky above her.

  I can see her tiny, petite frame, dangling from a pull-up bar, suspended in the air like she’s weightless. I stand against the rocky wall that leads to her workout area. Watching.

  I cross my arms on my chest and lean back so she doesn’t see me. I love to watch the way she curls her body upward, then down again, her slim figure taut as she stretches and elongates her muscles. She pulls up then lowers down once, twice, three times, then swings from the bar, preparing to vault herself toward the parkour station I’ve set up behind it.

  I watch as she gracefully leaps over and under the bars, vaulting herself forward before she swings herself with ease to a platform at the very top. I’ve set up a ropes training course here as well which she navigates with ease, keeping her instincts primed, her body strengthened, and her reflexes sharp.

  She lands barefoot on the springy landing platform at the foot of the highest bar, crouches, and looks my way. Her right side drops lower, her knuckles grazing the ground, a primal look if ever I saw one.

  She scowls. “Stop lurking in the shadows and tell me why you followed me. Hiding’s so unlike you,” she says with disdain.

 

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