Little Savage

Chapter One-2

“Then you understand my message?”

She nodded through her tears. A merciful sun sank lower in the sky so she was no longer standing in the center of a beam of dust-filled light, no longer scorched by the penetrating fire.

He let go his hand and stepped back. The tension in his body eased some, but he still regarded her carefully—as if one false move, one questionable inflection, one tiny glint of defiance in her eyes, would find her smashed against the wall with his hand at her throat again.

“And what’s my message?” he asked.

She took a breath. “I sit tight. I stay put. I play the good little housewife to Steven and pretend I have no mind.”

His eyes flared. “How about you try that again? Real fast unless you’d like me to tell Steven that you’re obstinate and unrepentant.”

“No, no! I got the message, Daniel,” she sighed, looking as if she was about to go limp. “I’m sorry. Sorry for wanting something I can’t have. It makes me crazy sometimes. But I won’t do it again. No more documentaries. I promise.”

“What else?” He waited for more.

She sighed impatiently. “I won’t make phone calls, no courting my old friends. I won’t test the waters. I won’t even think about picking up a camera.”

“And…?”

“And what?”

“Keep talking.”

She flashed him an annoyed glance then immediately softened.

“My life is in danger. No matter what I do or how many years pass, that is not going to change.”

“And…?”

She really hated this, and she sighed heavily again. “I have to be vigilant every day of my life.”

“And especially when you’re in the city, any city. This one. New York. London. LA. Take your pick.”

She gulped back the last of her dreams one more time, squashing them down to that subterranean place of unfulfilled glory where worn out aspirations reside waiting for a fresh burst of desire to spark them back to life. There could be no fresh burst of desire for Michelle Monroe. But as much as the woman needed to hear this message loud and clear, Daniel winced seeing the defeat in her eyes and knowing the part he played in redefining the woman’s life. He would never confess to her the role she’d played in redefining his own life, but he was certain she understood that as clearly as he did.

“Your life isn’t over, sweetheart. But you need to accept the rules you live by. You need to take the danger and the adrenalin rush to a safe venue. Take it home and be crazy. Have some nasty s*x. Let Steven beat you to a pulp, like he ever could. And do that every day if you need it. Be at peace, sweetheart. Go about your life. Write your books, be the reclusive documentarian no one sees and enjoy a long and blissful life. You think you can do that?”

“I think I have to.”

Maybe for the first time since he snatched her from the Orient Express seven years before, he saw what he hoped to see in her expression. Her being softened. Her lips trembled and her eyes were wet with tears, but maybe this time she got it. Had the message finally sunk in? Or would he get another anxious call from her husband in another two years?

He laid his hand against her cheek more tenderly than she deserved, but he couldn’t help himself. Still his message would not waver. “You get that now,” he said, speaking to her sternly, “you go and sin no more, or,” and his eyes flashed again, “I’ll see that you’re bound and locked in my basement until you can prove you can be trusted.”

“Yes, Daniel. I’m sorry I forced this.”

“You should be sorry, Shelly,” he said, sounding more sad than angry now. “But if it’s any comfort to you, I live with the same fears dogging me every day. It’s not a safe world for either one of us. I just know how to protect myself. You don’t.” He gave her seductive body one last admiring glance. “Now get dressed. I have things to do.”

He let her free to grab her clothes from the hallway floor and dress in the downstairs bath. When he met her in the foyer fifteen minutes later he saw a line of tears making a slow journey down her cheeks; the soft, acquiescent woman was still plainly evident. To see her as he loved her most would have wrenched the gut of most men. Daniel felt the painful stab, but for only as long as it took him to beat it back. He stepped in, putting his arm around her waist and led her to the door.

“Behave yourself, Monroe. Maybe if you really need to see me you can invite me to the beach house for dinner and we can engage in something normal.”

This made her laugh. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

“Is that really so funny?”

“Kind of. But it’s not a bad idea.”

“Aw, go back to Steven.” He gave her a brusque kiss on the mouth and let her go. She was out the door and down the steps, quickly moving along the sidewalk to the nearby Metro station and nearly out of sight by the time he returned to the living room.

Marcus Rathburn sat in an easy chair thumbing absently through a hunting magazine and immediately looked up when Daniel entered.

“Didn’t you want to f**k her…?” he asked.

“I did. I always want to f**k that b***h… but she’s not mine to f**k anymore.”

“And who made that rule? Doesn’t sound like Daniel Broc.”

“I made that rule. She’s another man’s w***e, not mine.”

“And she’s the one that turned you safe and sane?”

He laughed. “Yeah, she’s the one that made me give up that nasty gig.”

“You ever wonder what it would be like if you’d made her yours?”

“Yeah. I did that once and gave up. It didn’t take much thought. Shelly and I would tear each other apart in a week. Not a hard call to make.”

“But you loved her…maybe still love her?”

Daniel shrugged. “Yeah, I love her. But I’d have no patience with her. Soon as any female starts the finagling and the whining and the manipulation, I get pissed. Shelly wouldn’t be any different. Some women you use and let them go; it’s better for everyone that way. Let the memory of the moment fuel a little lust, but you take it to w***e, who’s just a w***e, not someone you care about.”

“And that’s the essence of Daniel Broc and women,” Marcus nodded. “So how about that drink? If it’s not too early for you.”

“Not too early for me.” He strode to the drink cart and poured a Scotch for himself, Bourbon and water for his friend. After handing the drink to Marcus, he downed his own, poured himself another and sank into his leather sofa with satisfied sigh. “Now, maybe you can tell me why you’re here?” He looked toward the man and waited as Marcus Rathburn shifted in his seat, uncomfortably so. He looked thoughtful, almost troubled, his mood changing from his earlier light-hearted amusement to something far more serious.

In his mid-thirties, the lanky Marcus had the body of a basketball player: nearly six feet four, lean, muscled with long arms and legs. His grey suit was perfectly tailored, in fact everything about him from his short dark hair to his cleanly shaved face to the manicured nails were perfectly groomed. He pulled off the look with a certain savvy that speaks of wealthy circumstances and the arrogance that wealth breeds. All the bells and whistles turned an average looking guy into the handsome kind of man women fight for in bars and at fashionable DC parties.

Such a contrast to Daniel Broc who never made his appearance his concern. He spent his life in jeans and t-shirts, adding a leather bomber jacket when it was cold enough to need one. He had the suit, the tux, the sport coat and fancy shirts in his closet—pushed way to the back. He rarely wore them. In fact, he would have been happier in the military fatigues he’d worn when he was in the Middle East than anything else. He had, grudgingly, made some changes moving from the terrorist environment in which he thrived for over twenty years back to the civilized world. In his late forties he was too old to change. DC life would never be a comfortable fit, but he made do, just as Michelle Monroe would make do once she finally accepted the hand fate dealt her.

“So what’s this about? Why the sudden visit?”

Marcus took another moment to collect himself, taking a sip of his drink, thrumming his fingers on the armrest of the chair. Seeing that he had the full attention of his host he announced with a bit of dramatic flair, speaking in hushed tones, “It’s a delicate business, Daniel. I’m cleaning up a rather precarious situation for an old friend.”

“Someone I know?”

“Someone you’ve likely heard of. Baron Brauer?”

Daniel nodded. He’d heard the name but he didn’t know the man.

“Wealthy. Reclusive. A real player in his time. And a bonafide male supremacist in his personal life. Lived in a huge mansion up north with a bevy of females who gave up normal lives to ride on his coattails and live as subjects to the man’s rule. Very high protocol in the b**m world. He made submission a thrill—for most of them anyway. I’d say most will tell you they enjoyed their lives as his slaves. Once they gave themselves to him he controlled every aspect of their existence with an iron fist. Slaves were slaves to him, nothing more. This was no game in his mind; to Brauer it was the way the world should work. Men in charge, women lowly and subservient. Whatever the Baron demanded, his slaves were quick to act or risk long sessions of pain and sensory deprivation in his dungeons. He was so far from politically correct they don’t even have a name for his breed of men. Misogynist, comes closest, I guess.”

“You make it sound like a crime,” Daniel interjected with a bit of wry disdain.

“Yes, well…” the younger man seemed momentarily vexed. “I’m not sure it’s accurate. I think in part he actually loved women—in his own weird way.”

Daniel let out a belly laugh. “There were suspicions that your Baron was trying to send his castoffs into my territory. Never documented, or course, and he fell of the radar; probably got scared. Nevertheless, I’m well acquainted with the kind of man he was, being one myself—although that misogynist label seems a bit unfair. I don’t hate women at all.”

Marcus fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair.

“But, go on with your story,” Daniel prompted, “you speak of the Baron in past tense?”

Marcus’ expression lifted. “Yes, that’s appropriate. Brauer died two months ago.” He sighed as if the remembrance of the man was actually painful. “He left a terrible mess. Hadn’t done a thing to prepare for his passing. I was his friend, of sorts,” he seemed to have trouble even admitting this. “At least I knew about his lifestyle. For that reason I was contacted by his family. He has several siblings, nieces and nephews that are in line to inherit his vast estate, but they want nothing to do with his kinky s****l proclivities. Basically, they’ve hired me to clean up his affairs, which include removing all traces of b**m activity from a very sizable mansion and its many outbuildings.” Marcus frowned. “He had everything from human pony rings, to kennels,” he shook his head, “such a shame, those beautiful dungeons dismantled. I have a private auction of toys and bondage furniture scheduled for the end of the month. Nice stuff. You might want to see if there’s anything you’d like.”

Daniel responded with a sneer. “I doubt it. I have all I need to make a sub suffer. Sometimes the back of my hand does the trick all by itself.”

“Yes, I saw that slap across the mouth. Nice.” Marcus smirked. “However, some men need props.” He laughed.

“So what about this assignment of yours includes me?” Daniel eyed him suspiciously, knowing that Marcus only came calling when he was in serious need.

“I have everything pretty much handled. However, in addition to the house, it’s also been my task to see that the women, Brauer’s slaves, are appropriately taken care of—you know, guided back to the real world without tainting the Brauer family name. That hasn’t been too much of a problem. Brauer had a revolving door of sub females. For most, a little cash in hand sends them happily on their way. Only two were with him long enough to forget what life was like in the real world. His long term girlfriend and slave, Brigitta, is settling in pretty well in a small town not far from the mansion. She was with him since her early twenties. She’s over forty now, got a sensible head on her shoulders and enough skills to be gainfully employed. With the money Brauer left her she’ll be fine. I imagine after a year or two of grieving, she’ll be looking for another man to own her.” He paused a moment and lifted his glass. “How about another?”