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"Maimed, mutilated. " He allowed himself a tight smile. "I guess what I'm saying is I think Mac's instincts weren't off. "
Her tone sharpened. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, back all those months ago when Marguerite was his lead suspect in the murder of male subs. She's not a murderer but I don't think he was off in his evaluation. She's the real deal. Damaged to the point the civilized world doesn't touch her, not when she's cornered. Maybe not at all. She thinks of survival first, consequences second. " He thought of the knife, embedded an inch deep in a table that probably was worth four figures. The untamed look in her eyes when she'd fought the mugger.
"Then maybe you shouldn't be messing with her mind, no matter what your gut tells you. Maybe she needs to be just who she is. "
"Maybe she just needs to know she can really trust someone. So she can let go. "
"Are you familiar with the damsel in distress syndrome, Tyler? The man who has to rescue a woman to prove something?"
His jaw flexed. "Don't go there, Violet. "
"I won't if you won't. "
"What combination of words will convince you that we're not having this discussion? Or will it take me snapping the phone closed?"
"I'll ease up. " He heard her frustrated sigh through the connection. "But you're worrying me. You don't exaggerate things. You have the training to know what you're saying. Want me to see exactly what Mac found out about her when he was investigating the S&M Killer and ask him to dig a little deeper? I don't think they went too far with it, seeing as Mac managed to stumble onto the actual perp. " He thought it through. Was tempted. "Yeah, I do. But don't. I want her to tell me herself. "
If she shows. He glanced at his watch. Six-forty.
"Tyler?" Violet's voice was soft in his ear.
"I know. I know. I just. . . " He shook his head. "When did a ninety-pound Dominatrix fairy become my confessor?"
"I weigh far more than ninety pounds. You call me Tinkerbell, I'm going to shove a Taser up your ass. "
"Ouch. " He sat down on his front porch steps, tried to listen for the soothing sounds of the sea birds instead of the sound of an engine. "On our second phone call about him, you told me you wanted Mac. In your voice, I could tell that wanting him had become everything to you. In the space of a breath, this guy you didn't even know had crawled up into your soul, busted it up. I didn't believe in that. I heard it but I didn't understand. So I was worried about you. You see the things I've seen, you can't. . . It's impossible to think something like that can happen. But then I saw you two together and knew it had happened for you. She's kept her distance, not letting me get within an arm's length. Now I got the excuse and. . . "
"Wham. You find she's sitting in the center of you, like she's carved a big hole in your chest and set up house. "
"Yeah. " His throat closed up as a pair of headlights threw a wash of gold across the lawn. He heard the purr of the black BMW, then her car was slowly rolling up his drive.
"She's here. " She's here.
"Good luck. I'll be here if you need me. "
"Violet. " His hand tightened on the phone, though his attention remained on the car. "You're not my confessor. You're my best friend. " Something he hadn't had in a very, very long time. "Thank you. "
There was a pause. When she spoke, her voice was a bit thick, making him smile.
She might be tough, perhaps the second toughest woman he knew, but she was still female.
"You're so full of shit. Stop charming me and go work on her. I've got a guy. " He noted Marguerite was moving a bit stiffly as she got out of the car. It swamped him with renewed anger at the man who'd laid hands on her, as well as a wave of protectiveness.
"So does Marguerite. She just doesn't know it yet. Bye, Violet. " She was here. And he had her for two whole days.
* * * * *
Marguerite had heard his home was beautiful, a sanctuary from a busy world. The graceful antebellum plantation house and all of its outbuildings, including a family chapel, had been transported from his home state of Georgia.
He'd planted them here on his acres bordering the Gulf, ninety minutes from Tampa. The extraordinary undertaking had been done to save the structures from demolition, when the property on which they sat was taken under eminent domain for additional highway expansion.
She'd learned that from conversation at The Zone, from people who included it as a footnote to their discussions of how his home was a D/s playground, containing a personal home dungeon beyond compare, if the stories were to be believed. Knowing what she was about to face, dungeon was definitely the word that came to mind, not the plush toy room that had been described to her.
But she was here. Though there might be lines on which she would stumble because of her own personal issues, she could stay in control of this situation. She was a Mistress. She knew a Dom had to strictly adhere to a sub's boundaries, and Tyler knew that as well. And she was a Domme going through sub training for a better understanding of the sub mentality, to enhance her future experiences as a Mistress. She was not a sub herself. She would and could keep certain shields in place. Tyler would certainly expect and respect that.
"You're late," he said quietly. She turned to see him standing there, the breeze off the Gulf riffling his hair, molding the soft fabric of his shirt against his upper body. He was wearing the jeans she had imagined in great detail several days before. She'd been right, and even understated it. The long columns of his thighs, the nicely outlined groin area. The man had a rugged sexuality that was oddly even more blatant outside The Zone walls. Here on his own ground, the sens
