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  “Trevor!” Rayna yelled. “For God’s sake!”

  Z dragged a hand through his hair. Shockingly, the comment didn’t nearly torque him to the depths that it did Rayna. He didn’t always understand the depths of love between siblings, but that didn’t stop him from wanting them. Envying them.

  “Ray-bird,” he said, “catch an iceberg for a second. Your brother only cares about you.” He turned and cocked a more direct stare at Trev. “Though if he has half the brain I think he does, he’ll watch the land mines he’s jumping while he does so.”

  A nerve jumped in Trevor’s jaw. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I came out here half-dressed because I heard Rayna talking about a year of captivity as a preferred choice to your asshole behavior.”

  “You came out here half-dressed because you had your dick in my sister last night.”

  Rayna stomped forward and bared her teeth at her brother. “You are not helping your case, counselor.”

  “You think I care about winning this one, Rayna?” Trevor spread his arms. “I care about you, damn it!”

  “Me? You mean your sister, the child who can’t tie her own shoes? Or your sister, the grown woman capable of making decisions about the men who share her bed?”

  Z had to give the guy props for getting to his feet with steady calm. “I mean my sister, the woman who has a heart full of compassion and care…and love. I mean my sister who would willingly give her incredible heart away to a guy like that”—he jabbed a finger toward Z—“only to find he’d ground it up and spat it out.”

  Zeke sloshed some cream into his coffee and swished the shit around. The action was purely for show. If he took even a swig of the liquid, it’d come back up in a second.

  The man was right. Down to the last syllable. He’d avoided the truth of it last night in the name of being there for her. In a thousand ways, even Rayna had avoided it, too. There was no escape hatch anymore. The truth, spoken by her brother with nothing but love in the words, forced both of them to listen.

  If only Rayna had gotten that memo, too.

  “Get out.” Her dictate punched the air like acid. She yanked away Trevor’s coffee cup, marched across the kitchen, and hurled it into the sink. The mug shattered, spattering her Provençal trim tiles with black coffee stains. “You heard me,” she spat when Trevor froze in shocked silence. “Get the hell out, Trevor!”

  The guy attempted a snort. It came out more a geeky sputter. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Kidding left this conversation a long time ago. Get out of my house. Now.”

  “Rayna!”

  “Now!”

  “No.”

  Z hadn’t meant for the command to sound like a boot-camp order. Or maybe he had. Maybe he knew nothing else would get through the fury that dominated her face, her stance, her voice. Hell. The last time he’d seen her like this was the moment after she’d shot King in the head.

  He stepped and caught both her hands in his. “Bird, listen to yourself. You’re practically declaring war on your own brother.”

  Rayna’s lips screwed together. “Because he’s being a dickwad!”

  “I won’t refute you there.” He shrugged at Trev. “Sorry, man. That part’s true. I think Big Boss Creator Man just had it in for you and slapped it on your DNA.”

  She wriggled her grip in his. Zeke clutched her tighter. She needed to know how serious he was about his next statement.

  “What’s your point, Zeke?”

  He looked down at their clasped hands. Shit. Now that the moment was here, he really did feel like hurling.

  “He’s a dickwad, honey. But he’s also right.”

  Every inch of her body stiffened. He hated being the one who’d caused that shock. His remorse was so great, he forgot about holding on to her. When she wrenched her hands this time, she stumbled free with awkward momentum and crashed into the refrigerator. Papers slid free from the magnet clip things, fluttering to the floor.

  “Z-Zeke?” She said it like he’d disappeared and she was searching for him. “What do you mean?”

  He forced himself to look at her. Compelled his mind to take the reins over his heart, to remember that all the pain he saw in her eyes would only be a hundred times worse if he didn’t have this conversation with her here and now. If he didn’t set her straight about the limits of knowing a guy like him. If he didn’t remind himself about those limits, too.

  He swung his gaze at Trevor and lifted his hand, fingers spread. Trevor nodded, respectful for once, understanding the request. The guy could afford the magnanimity. It was easy to give a man five minutes alone with your sister if sensing they’d be the last.

  When the door leading to the garage clicked behind Trev, Z reached for her. She slapped him away.

  “You know exactly what I mean, don’t you?”

  She pulled her sweater tight, coiling the cuffs into her fists. “Like that gets you off the hook.” She lifted her face until he saw the tears tracking down her cheeks. “Say it,” she spat. “You do not get out of doing this, Sergeant. Say it. Every damn word.”

  Zeke downed a deep breath. “It’s been said already, Rayna. By you. Last night. Somewhere between calling my number on the Dom disguise and begging me to go vanilla for one night—”

  “Vanilla?” Her face went mutinous. “Gee. Thanks for the free scoop, buddy.”

  Take foot. Dip in shit. Insert in mouth. “It’s just a term we use in the D/s community,” he explained, “to describe the act without—” He shook his head. “And it’s all wrong for what happened last night between us.” Holy hell, was it wrong. Just letting in a few images of his hands on her skin and his cock inside her body were enough to make him shift from foot to foot, trying to adjust his fresh erection. He cracked his neck to refocus. “But before we went there, you told me you could deal. You told me you knew me. That you accepted what I’m capable of giving and not giving. Look, Ray-bird—”

  “Don’t call me that.” She turned her stare out the window. The dark weather looked like a basket of spring fabric softener compared to the storms in her eyes. “Please don’t.”

  Again, he stepped toward her. This time, she didn’t flinch. He lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles along her shoulder. He dared breathing her in one more time. Shit. All her cinnamon-and-spice warmth filled him again, mixed with something new—the heady scent of her orgasm from last night. Every muscle in his body yearned to pick her up, haul her back into the bedroom, and do it all over again. No. There’d be a new twist this time. He’d order her to get naked while he fished some rope from his truck. He’d spread her atop the bed and make her shiver with need as he tied her up. He’d use her bondage ropes to drag her sweet body onto his dick, nice and slow, taunting them both, and—

  And there was the arrow that pointed him to fate’s shitty You Are Here for the day. If this situation were a mission, he’d be telling the guys to start writing final letters home.

  “Look,” he finally grated, “Trevor’s right, okay? I’m sick to my fucking stomach that he is, but…I’m not good for you, Rayna.” He shook his head. “Goddamnit, I wish I was, but—”

  She slammed a hand to the counter. “Here we go again. Are you really going to pull out the different sides of the tracks spiel, Sergeant? I’m not good for you, Rayna; I wish I was. Really? What made you good enough last night but not good enough today?” She turned in front of the sink, arms slammed across her chest. “We slept together, Zeke. It was nice. Very nice. But it doesn’t have to dynamite our friendship. I can get over it if you can.”

  Get over it. She thought it was that simple? This very second, he locked his legs to keep from crossing to her. His arms ached from resisting the need to crush her to him again. His cock swelled from the memories she invoked, even with her casual allusion to last night.

  Hell.

  If he stayed, nothing would be casual between them again.

  Which was why it was time to pull out the guns he didn’t want to us
e.

  But sometimes, the best way to save a friend was to shoot them.

  “Okay, great,” he said, spreading his arms. “Nothing changes, huh?”

  A smile lit up her face. Just what that choir in his gut needed before their encore of King of Assholes, Zeke Hayes are Thee. Rayna made a perfect muse for their next round by rushing over, circling her arms to his waist, and laying her head to his chest.

  “See? I knew everything would be okay.”

  “Right. Everything’s fine.” He pulled her arms away so he could see her face again. “So…what? Tomorrow’s Saturday. You suppose I grab a pizza, get here around eight, and we rent a movie or something?”

  His biting undertone was lost on her. She shrugged and flashed a goofy grin. “Sure. If that’s what you—”

  “No. No, Rayna.” He shoved her hands down. “That’s not what happens tomorrow night.” There was no way he’d turn his back on her for this, though distance was going to help. Maybe a little. Three steps back got him away from her intoxicating scent. Another step made the confusion in her eyes look less like darts aimed at his sanity.

  “You know what’s going down tomorrow, honey? I have a special appointment at a little place called Bastille.”

  She frowned at him, searching his face in clear confusion. Shit, why didn’t she put it together? Was she going to make him spit it all out?

  “Bastille. You mean, like the French prison?”

  “The one known for its vast dungeons. Yes.”

  “Oh.” Comprehension pushed her eyebrows toward each other. “I see.”

  She saw. Finally. Thank fuck.

  He gave her a few seconds to process that knowledge—and jump to all the assumptions he needed her to because of it. “So, you still with this let’s be besties program, Chestain? Is everything still A-okay?”

  Rayna’s features bunched tighter. “Why don’t you just cancel?”

  “Because I can’t. I won’t.”

  He hated himself for the snarl. The anger wasn’t meant for her. Wasn’t really meant for him, either. His sexual triggers were just…like this. He’d accepted it a long time ago, though there were times when it was still damn hard to do that. Now was one of those occasions—maybe the shittiest one of them. Tomorrow’s session wasn’t for education, edification, or satisfaction. Nothing remotely close. It was payback, pure and simple. Luna, the submissive who had automatically gotten his first appointment when he returned, had supplied the intel that led him, Garrett, and Wyatt to King three months ago—and gotten Rayna, Sage, and Josie back alive. The woman’s price? One D/s session with Zeke. No time frame. No toy restrictions. No hard limits.

  Luna hated limits. It was why he’d always refused to engage in the dynamic with her.

  Because, God help him, he hated limits, too.

  “You really look like you want to cancel it.”

  That was the second he turned his back on her. “I’m not going to cancel it, Rayna!” When he got to the middle of the living room, he pivoted back. “Fuck! What do you need to hear to understand this? I’m a Dominant. I can’t stop being a Dominant. I can’t be reworked, rewritten, or retrained, even if you click your heels three times and wish on a crapload of shooting stars. I’m not the guy in the cape. I’m not the goddamn hero you keep seeing just because—”

  “Just because you were mine?” She stomped out of the kitchen, making the fallen papers swish in her wake. “Twice?”

  “I was doing my job,” he retorted. “That’s it.” He jammed a hand through his hair. “Look. I didn’t grow up saving kittens in trees and walking old ladies across the street. I was a thug, Rayna. A street rat, living and fighting for every meal I ate. I was out for my ass only until a social worker cared enough to knock some sense into me. I joined up with the big green machine only because I wanted to impress her. I had no idea it would change my whole goddamn life. Everything was transformed for me, thanks to the army. Everything—except the D/s.”

  He sucked in a breath and squared his stance toward her.

  “It’s a lifestyle I can’t change. I won’t change.” He reset his jaw. “Tomorrow night, I’m going to meet a submissive in the dungeon, strip off all her clothes, tie her down, and whip her until she’s spun so far out of control she won’t remember her own name. But she’ll remember mine. It’ll be on her lips when she falls down on her knees at my feet and thanks me for the scene. And I’ll love doing it for her, Rayna. I’ll love every fucking minute.”

  There was no sense in going beyond that. Rayna’s potent silence told him so. There was no need to blurt that Luna was likely going to beg him for a hard pounding after she twirled down from sub space, and he’d refuse before making sure she had the most perfect aftercare on earth. There was no sense in trying to explain that after opening a submissive with a shell as thick as Luna’s, the last thing he wanted to do was drive his cock into that mess.

  He saw the conclusions painting their way across Rayna’s face and knew they were both better off if she thought the worst of him for it. Sure, he wouldn’t screw Luna tomorrow. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t fuck another subbie one day. Long after today. Very long after Rayna Chestain was nothing but a distant and beautiful memory for him.

  Especially if this was the last sight he’d have of her.

  She’d scooted out a little more, stopping next to the living room window, through which a shaft of sunlight had suddenly burst from the storm clouds. The rain turned the beam into a rainbow. The colors washed over her adorable little frame in its bulky sweater, tight leggings, and bunched-up socks. The cyan in the rainbow hit her face. It made her features even more unreadable. In contrast, her hair was a fiery mane tumbling over her shoulders. They were covered by the sweater now, but it took a simple mental click to remember how they’d felt under his fingers, bare and sleek, as she’d drifted to sleep in his arms.

  “Have fun at your appointment, then, Zeke.”

  “Right.”

  The sky wept harder outside. The rainbow faded from the room.

  “Ray-bi—” He clamped his teeth hard. “Shit. Sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” She folded the bottom edges of the sweater on each other. Curled one foot atop the other.

  “Listen, if you ever need me for anything…”

  “Sure.” She pulled her sweater origami apart. Her chin wobbled.

  Fuck.

  This is what you want. This is what she needs. For one of the few times in your damn life, you’re doing the right thing.

  Somebody just needed to give that memo to the invisible bastard jamming the hot poker into his gut.

  He grabbed his jacket and keys before walking out into the rain bare chested. The downpour was like ice. He welcomed it. The poker got fizzled for at least one second.

  Fate wasn’t so kind with the next moment. Or the next.

  There was a saying on the squad that they had for times like these. He spat it out from frozen lips.

  “This hell doesn’t want your sorry ass, fucker. Keep the boots moving.”

  Chapter Four

  This was going to be one of the best nights of her life. She refused to accept anything less. After all, she’d waited six years, three months, two weeks, and four days for it.

  With that thought, Luna Lawrence smiled as she checked herself out in the full-length mirror of Bastille’s submissives’ dressing room. She looked good. Damn good. Her one-shouldered dark green club dress played up her purple eyes better than the black she normally wore to the dungeon. The dress’s slick fabric showed off all the right parts of her body, including the rings in her nipples and the tattoos down her arms. The gold high-heeled gladiator sandals made her long legs look alluring and elegant.

  Wow. Who knew? She’d had her doubts when Zeke sent over his instructions for tonight’s scene. The man had been in full-on Master Z mode when he wrote the laundry list, which read like travel orders to Siberia at first. No leather. No latex. No black. No panties. Okay, the last one had been easy to
oblige. But no black? Was the guy serious?

  Of course he was. Zeke wasn’t one shred comfortable about doing this, and the preliminary instructions were meant to drive in one statement on his behalf.

  Tonight would be played by his rules.

  Luna had grumbled but met every demand on the man’s list. No way was she messing this up. She’d waited too long. Had wanted it too bad. Wanted him too bad.

  She tugged at the dress and frowned at the weird sensation in her stomach. It felt like a flurry of dry leaves. Ha. The last time she checked, Seattle was outside the door. The term dry didn’t exist within fifty miles. But nervous did. And unsure. Which made the insides of her thighs tingle in anticipation. In greater need to feel that man’s body between them.

  She couldn’t wait.

  How long had it been since she’d prepared for the command of a Master who’d earned the name? A man who knew that even the clothes on her body had to feel all wrong in order for her head to start feeling right? Who knew that the key to her submissiveness was triple-welded to her brain and all she craved was a Dom with balls big enough to take a blowtorch to those bonds?

  Plenty of men had applied for the job. But on one hand alone could she count the ones who’d turned her mind to fireworks and made her dreams come true. Zeke wasn’t represented on that hand. Not yet. Tonight, all that would change. Tonight, if her fantasies really materialized, all those faces on those fingers would be wiped away by the man who’d finally, finally realize that when paint touched its perfect canvas, it was best to thank fate and let the art explode.

  With Zeke, she was going to be a Rembrandt.

  The leaves in her stomach swirled harder.

  The door to the dressing room opened, bringing a blast of the music now permeating the main room. The mix of sensual synth and soaring opera was mixed for the club by one of the city’s emerging DJs. Lively conversation joined the song, a marked difference from the quiet of the club when she’d arrived forty minutes ago. Luna savored the noise. It was Saturday night at Bastille. A very special Saturday night. At last.