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"Congratulations on the promotion," Marguerite said. Gen had of course called Marguerite and Chloe after it happened, so they knew, but it was the first time one of them had seen her in her new capacity.
"Thanks," Gen said. "I haven't screwed up badly enough to be fired, yet."
"You won't. But my offer still stands, Gen. No matter what happens, you will always have a job with me if you want or need it."
Unspoken--If this relationship doesn't work out. Fortunately Gen saw nothing but sincere hope for her in Marguerite's gaze. With her power of prediction, if Gen had read a warning, she would have been terrified. More terrified than she was already, taking such a large leap into so many unknowns. But her usual caution about such things was something she'd left behind. As nervous as she might be about unknowns, she felt more strongly about backtracking.
Lyda came out of the house, Noah helping her down the stairs before she took over for herself with the cane. Gen spoke to Marguerite, low. "She's leaning on that less all the time, but she still tries to overdo, M. You can tell when she does, because the ankle gets shaky."
Marguerite arched a brow. "I'll take care of her. But I'd advise you not to try to handle a Mistress too much. It tends to piss us off."
Gen grinned. "Like I didn't already know that, working for you as long as I have?"
The flash of surprise in Marguerite's gaze--Gen hadn't been the type to joke about the Dom/sub dynamics before--was replaced by an amused look. "Careful. I might tell her what you said. And ask to bear witness to the consequences."
Gen flushed, though the idea of M being at the club when she, Noah and Lyda were there didn't discomfit her as much as it might have at one time. Inside the Dom/sub world, things tended to get tangled and intertwined, an arousing playground.
Noah helped Lyda into the car. As the two Mistresses drove off, he glanced at her. "Do we know what that's about?"
"Not a clue."
A call to Chloe had revealed nothing further about their errand. When Lyda had returned home, she refused to discuss it further. However, whatever she'd been doing had fueled her in other ways, because that night she'd driven both Gen and Noah to sweaty, replete exhaustion. The next day, she took her first short walk without the cane.
Coming back to the present, Gen suspected all these changes she was making to her life--new relationship, new job--were what had stirred that debris from her past. She'd made those insecurities work for her, driving her further education and attempts to improve herself, but whenever change happened, it made her vulnerable to that baggage. But no more. Lyda was right. She was past that.
"I will not tell you what Marguerite and I were doing," Lyda said. "Fairness has no place in a Mistress-sub relationship. Spill about J. Martin, or I'll eat my breakfast on your stomach and stab you with my fork."
When it came to a battle of wills, on most things, Lyda was going to be the victor, because that was the way it worked--the way Gen needed it to be, truth be told. As Noah had said, the why was better explained through emotion than thought.
"I'll tell you, but you have to swear to keep it to yourself, because it's a giant secret we're not supposed to talk about, since J. Martin doesn't do any public appearances. Tyler and he are good friends. Really good friends. And Tyler also knows Thomas."
"No shit?" Lyda's brows rose. "Would J. Martin give me a discount if I met him at Tyler's?"
Gen gave Lyda a light thwap with the towel. "Geez. You have a one-track mind."
"Which is why I'm a successful businesswoman," Lyda said, unperturbed. "You didn't answer the question."
"If you can get him off by himself, maybe." Pretty certain. The other thing Gen knew, because she'd met Josh at Marguerite's wedding, was that he was a submissive. A hot, distracted, entirely appealing submissive, totally in love with and faithful to his Mistress and wife, Lauren. However, if a Mistress like Lyda got him off by himself, the miniscule business acumen he had about the price of his art would be obliterated under the spell of those riveting eyes. "But while his art broker's around, not a chance. Marcus is more ruthless than even you. And he's Thomas' husband." He was also a Master as formidable as Tyler and beautiful as Lucifer. Even though Marcus was irrevocably gay, he could still make a woman shiver when his gaze turned upon her.
She'd probably share any and all of that with Lyda at some point. Despite her mercenary nature, Lyda could be trusted with a secret. But now Gen's attention was distracted by something different, out the kitchen window.
A man was walking up to the front of the nursery. The gate was locked at the end of the drive, as it always was on their closed days, so he must have left his car there. Lyda had a separate drive to the house for her personal guests. As Noah came out of the greenhouse, apparently seeing the man's approach, it was clear he knew who it was. From the rigidity of his stance, the look in his eyes, and the resulting cold spike through Gen's chest, she guessed pretty quickly herself. Lyda confirmed it, following Gen's gaze out the window.
"Elias."
Gen thought the only reason she beat Lyda to the door was her Mistress's residual limp. She heard Lyda call out to her to wait. She might have listened, but once she came out on the porch, there was no chance of that. As she stepped out, Elias had reached Noah. No words were spoken that she saw. The man punched Noah in the face, hard enough Noah stumbled, went to one knee.
Gen didn't remember leaving the porch, didn't remember closing the ground between them. She was just suddenly in between them, with the shovel she'd retrieved on the way clenched in both hands. Noah hadn't even raised his hands, hadn't even closed them into fists to defend himself.
Gen didn't know enough about fighting to use fists, but she knew enough about dirty self-defense tactics from Marguerite to know how useful a heavy blunt object was. She was vaguely aware of a shout as she swung the shovel toward Elias' head, rage driving every action,
muting every rational thought.
She was brought up short, the handle of the shovel caught in a strong, capable hand, another arm wrapped around her waist, hauling her back. Noah. Noah had stopped her swing, was pulling her back. Strong enough to stop her, but unwilling to use any of that strength to protect himself.
"Don't you touch him," she snarled. Elias had taken a self-preserving step back, had gone white enough to give her a spurt of satisfaction. She had a further impression of streaked brown hair, blue eyes. Elias was handsome, strong-looking, possessing the build of a man who'd probably played sports in high school or college. Ten years older than Noah, maybe. He wore slacks and dress shirt, a tie, as if he was on the way to a business meeting. Or, being Sunday, maybe coming from church, an odd thought for the moment. Hey, I'll stop by after the service on love-my-neighbor and beat up the submissive kid who pissed me off.
"Gen." Noah said it urgently enough she hesitated. "No. He has the right."
