Beloved Sacrifice

Trinity Masters, book 9

Mari Carr

Lila Dubois

Contents

Beloved Sacrifice

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Coming November 2017!

Read more about the world of the Trinity Masters…

About The Authors

Other Books by Lila Dubois

Other Books by Mari Carr

Copyright 2017 by Mari Carr and Lila Dubois

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book, with the exception of brief quotations for book reviews or critical articles, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Editor: Kelli Collins

Cover artist: Lila Dubois

Created with Vellum

Beloved Sacrifice

TRINITY MASTERS, book 9

A woman with nothing to lose. A man who knows too much. A secret that could destroy them all.

Rose Hancock is no stranger to danger, fear, or pain. Her whole life has been shaped by the purists–a shadowy splinter group within America’s most powerful secret society. When the leader of the Trinity Masters has her partner-in-crime shot, Rose has nothing left to live for except revenge.

Before she can take her revenge, she’s kidnapped and wakes up to find herself in England, with the man who only days before she was sure was dead.

When a kidnapping and ransom specialist, sent by the Grand Master, shows up to “rescue” Rose, she’ll have to decide if she wants to keep running or stand and fight against the purists.

But there are more secrets to be uncovered, and some of those secrets could mean the end of the Trinity Masters…because the Masters’ Admiralty is larger and more powerful. And some betrayals cannot be forgiven.

Chapter One

“You want her alive?”

The Grand Master and her counselors were silent.

Tasha Corzo-Polin tipped her head to the side. “Are you afraid to order an assassination?”

The blunt, harsh word hung in the air and again, no one replied.

Tasha waited, sipping tea from a china cup. They’d commandeered tables in the small restaurant in the Boston Public Library. The restaurant—which served high tea—was closed, as was the library. Juliette wouldn’t have dared have this conversation outside of their headquarters otherwise.

Tasha had been the previous Grand Master’s “fixer” for years, until her marriage. To a casual observer, Tasha looked like a pretty blonde woman who had a sweetly rounded belly—Tasha’s pregnancy was the reason they were in the restaurant. She’d demanded tea and a comfortable chair. Though they could have had those downstairs, Juliette hadn’t wanted to make Tasha walk too far.

“I can use a euphemism if you want,” Tasha continued. “Do you want me to ‘take care of her’?”

“No,” Juliette Adams, Grand Master of the Trinity Masters, said. “I am not afraid to issue the order. I don’t want her killed.” She stared at Tasha with a calm but weary assurance. “We need her alive.”

“Alive is harder.”

“I understand that, but in this particular case, we need to speak to her. We can’t do that if she’s dead,” Juliette started.

“Are you sure that’s the real reason?” Tasha’s hand dropped to rest on the small bump under her shirt.

“It is,” Juliette stressed. No one was willing to push the baby issue. Or even mention it. Even five months pregnant, Tasha was deadly. Possibly she was deadlier than before.

“Tasha,” Juliette insisted.

Tasha raised her brows. “You really want her rescued?”

Devon Asher, counselor and husband to the Grand Master, nodded. “She was kidnapped.”

“Rose Hancock is a victim,” Juliette said firmly. Guilt and sadness pinched the corners of her eyes.

Franco, Juliette’s other husband, reached out to take her hand. Juliette firmly but gently pulled it away.

“Rose also tried to kill my brother and his trinity,” said the third counselor.

Juliette’s hissed out a breath. “Would you prefer I have her killed, Sebastian?”

“She’s not a victim, Jules,” he retorted, his eyes hard.

“Yes, she is.”

“She was, but she had plenty of opportunities to tell you or Devon what was going on. She chose not to. Instead, she decided to come after my family. With a gun.” Sebastian folded his arms, obviously unhappy with her decision. “I think we should let Tasha do her job.”

Devon cleared his throat, angry about the tenor of this discussion. He crossed his arms, his frown speaking volumes.

The Trinity Masters was America’s oldest and most powerful secret society. Created by the founding fathers as a way to keep the fledgling nation strong, the Trinity Masters had incredible power and influence. Being invited to join meant access to that power and influence, but there was a cost—all members agreed to an arranged ménage marriage. The society was founded on the belief that the trinity marriages were stronger than a traditional marriage would be.

Juliette, a direct descendant of John Adams, was the daughter and sister, respectively, of the last two Grand Masters. She’d been pledged to a trinity when she was born. Like a princess—the kind who was married off for political gain, not the kind with singing pet sidekicks—she’d been promised to a trinity with Devon Asher, of the New York Ashers, and Rose Hancock.

Her first act as Grand Master had been to dissolve her trinity. In the end, she’d still married Devon.

And Rose Hancock, who’d been pledged to Devon and Juliette for most of their lives, had turned out to be a traitor. A plant, meant to marry Juliette in order to get close to the Grand Master.

Franco stared at Sebastian. “Watch yourself.” Franco’s accent was a bit thicker than normal.

“Is that a threat?” Sebastian’s eyes were cold. “The purists, Rose, nearly killed my brother, and you expect me to feel sorry for her?”

“Enough.” Juliette’s tone rang with authority. Sebastian and Franco stopped talking. Devon’s hands flexed, curling and uncurling in fists, and Juliette feared the men would wind up in a physical brawl if she didn’t take control of the situation.

“Tasha.” Juliette spoke with cool, measured tones. “I want Rose found and taken alive.”

“I can’t do it,” Tasha said.

Juliette smiled, and some of the tension that hovered between them dissipated. “I didn’t expect you to.”

“Not because I’m pregnant.” Tasha’s eyes narrowed. “You think I can’t do it because I’m pregnant?”

“No, of course not,” Juliette hurried to say.

“Nope,” Sebastian blurted out, holding up his hands.

“Of course not,” Franco stammered.

Tasha looked at each of them, including the silent Devon. “Good.”

“Madre de dios, she’s terrifying,” Franco whispered to Juliette.

“I don’t do K&R,” Tasha continued.

“K&R?” Franco asked.

“Kidnapping and ransom,” Juliette and Sebastian said at the same time. Before she’d been called back to the U.S. to serve as Grand Master, Juliette had been a humanitarian worker. Sebastian had a similar career, but he’d also been an intelligence asset for the CIA. As American aid workers abroad, they’d both been trained on what to do in cases of being kidnapped.

“I asked you to meet me here to see if you have a recommendation?” Juliette had been lucky that they’d been able to have this conversation in person. Tasha happened to be in Boston, attending her husband Marco’s concert.

Marco was one of the world’s most distinguished cellists.

The Trinity Masters was built to shelter not only power, but art and intellect. In peace times, members were identified who were promising musicians, creators, and artists. They were protected and supported by their trinity, a system similar to the arts patronage of the past.

But these were not peace times. The Trinity Masters were at war.

Civil war.

As such, they were on a tight timeline, so this meeting was being held on the run.

“I do. But he’s not a member.” Tasha sipped more tea.

Juliette sighed, resigned. “I’d hoped we could do this from within the organization, but it doesn’t look like that’s possible.”

“No. I’ve never met him, but I’ve heard about him. He’s in the know.”

“What do you mean?” Juliette asked.

“He knows about the Trinity Masters, and the Admiralty.”

Everyone froze. The sound of Tasha setting her cup in its saucer rang like a gunshot.

“The…Admiralty?” Juliette asked.

Franco leaned forward. “What do you know about them? How do you know about them?”

Tasha frowned. “How do I know? I kill people and I know things. That’s what I do.”

“Yep. Terrifying,” Franco muttered.

Tasha shook her head. “The Admiralty operates in Europe. Secret organization, though they have some public faces. Old. What I always heard was, ‘The Admiralty protects the secrets of the old world.’”

“That’s it?” Sebastian asked.

Tasha regarded him with a flat look.

“Thank you, Tasha. If you could give us this K&R specialist’s name, I would appreciate it.

Tasha inclined her head. “Yes, Grand Master.”

Juliette pulled up the hood of her single-breasted black cape coat. There were gloves tucked into the small inside pocket, but she debated putting them on. In the end, it was the cold more than a need for dramatic mystery that had her pulling them on.

Devon leaned forward and spoke quietly to the driver. The driver nodded, his shaggy, kinky hair bobbing in the light from the dash. The driver pulled out a phone and tapped out a text.

Juliette looked out the limo’s window, trying to calm her nerves before the meeting.

Only because she knew what to look for was she able to spot the people who were moving in response to the messages. Two shadows detached from a wall of the library, climbing into the car parked in front of their limo. They weren’t going to this meeting without protection. Living with a CIA agent was an education.

Three years ago, Juliette had known what she was doing—she was helping people who needed it, using her own personal resources and those of the Trinity Masters to create effective, meaningful change. She’d rebelled against the Trinity Masters and her father’s legacy, and the betrothal that had shaped her life.

Then her brother Harrison had been forced to step down, and she’d assumed the mantle of the Trinity Masters. In a moment, the life she’d thought she had was gone, replaced by the incredible power of the Grand Master. But that had come with revelations that changed everything. She’d learned that she had unwittingly been a CIA asset, betrayed by her best friend Sebastian, and by Devon—the man she’d loved, hated, and loved again.

She’d taken on the role of the Grand Master planning to make changes, to shed light on the pockets of darkness. Instead, she had uncovered secrets that had been buried. Secrets that should have remained in the shadows.

The enemy had a name—the purists—and now they knew who was part of the shadowy sect.

“Shall we?” Devon said.

“Franco.” She looked at her other husband.

Franco gave her a quick kiss. “I’ll see you at home.”

Sebastian wasn’t in the limo. Her third counselor, and best friend, couldn’t be rational about Rose, so she hadn’t brought him to the meeting.

Juliette turned to look at Devon, watching his profile. The revelation that Rose was one of the purists had taken a toll on him. He and Rose were the same age and they’d been in the same class at the exclusive school they’d all attended. Juliette had been jealous of Rose—the older, poised, elegant girl had always seemed Devon’s match, while Juliette had been gangly and awkward, especially around Devon, whom she’d had a painful crush on.

The revelation that Rose was a member of the purists had hit Devon hard. Finding out what had happened to Rose, what she’d lived through, had been even harder. Rose had been raped and tortured for years by the Andersons. She’d spent holiday breaks with the Andersons in the Pacific Northwest, then returned to school on the East Coast and smiled and pretended everything was okay.

Juliette knew that Devon was tormented by images of the teenage Rose sitting beside him in class, hurting and scared but hiding it, not trusting Devon enough to tell him anything.

Devon needed to be pulled out of the darkness, yet here she was, dragging him further into the shadows.

When they reached their destination, the driver, an agent in training at Langley, who had been commandeered along with the rest of his training class to help with this meeting, turned to Devon.

“Sir, the lobby is clear.”

“The target?”

“In place.”

“Thank you. Good job, Washington.”

“Thank you, sir.” The young agent flashed a smile, his teeth white and predatory in the dark.

Devon opened the door on his side and slid out of the car without looking at Juliette. She shivered, cold skating up and down her back. Her heart lurched and she closed her eyes, the weight of it all seeming to press her into the seat.

Her door opened, and Devon held out a hand. She placed her gloved hands in his, letting him help her out of the car. Cold wind blasted off Boston Harbor and she was glad for the hood and the gloves. Devon tucked her hand over his arm.

“Devon…” Juliette wasn’t sure what she could say. What she would say.

“Do you want to turn back?” His jaw clenched. “Do you want to leave her?”

“We’re not abandoning Rose,” she snapped. A tiny voice reminded her that Devon loved Rose. Maybe loved Rose more than he would ever love her.

She shoved that thought down.

“Then we go in, meet with him, and see what he has to say.”

Juliette nodded, and let Devon lead her into the boutique hotel, the location they’d selected for the meeting with the K&R specialist. The walls were all dark wood paneling, the floor glossy tile and precisely placed rugs. Waxy white flowers were clustered in Chinese vases on marble-topped tables. The lobby was circular, one side of the space sectioned off with Wedgewood tables to create the bar area. It was midnight and the bar was closed, the lobby nearly deserted. Behind the curved reception desk there was an open door, and a bell sat on the counter, waiting to summon the receptionist.

There were three occupants—two agents in training, who had taken seats in the white lobby chairs, positioned so they could see both the door and the only other person.

An Asian man sat at one of the larger tables in the bar. He wore a dark blue suit with a black shirt, no tie. His hair was cut in a clean side-part style. His features were even and symmetrical, with the high cheekbones of a male model, though after studying his face, she revised her mental description from Asian to probably-has-one-Asian-parent. They approached, Juliette resisting the urge to pull her hood lower.

The man rose, looking between them.

Devon stopped a few feet from the table. “Marek Lee?”

“And you must be Devon Asher.” Marek’s voice carried a trace of an east Asian accent, but had the clipped consonants of the British Isles. He turned to Juliette and bowed slightly from the waist. “Grand Master.”

She merely inclined her head. They had decided that she’d stay quiet until they established if this man was who he said he was.

“Please, would you have a seat?” Marek motioned to the table, bowing slightly once more.

Devon pulled out a chair for Juliette and she sat, keeping her hands on her lap, her head bowed slightly. Devon sat beside her.

Marek resumed his seat. Silence stretched.

Marek quirked his lips once, then said, “I’m afraid that I cannot decide if I will help you if you do not tell me what you need.”

“Decide if you’ll help us?” Devon questioned.

“I am not a mercenary, Mr. Asher.”

“If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be here.”

“I would prefer you not insult me, Mr. Asher.”

Devon sucked in a breath, opened his mouth—

Juliette put a hand on his knee under the table.

“Mr. Lee.” Juliette kept her voice low and quiet. “I believe your mother was a friend of my father.” It was a testing question. Once Tasha had given them a name, they’d been able to look through their membership records and learn a bit about him. Tasha had been right. Marek Lee had ties to the Trinity Masters.

Marek inclined his head. “My mother attended Harvard and was part of the U.S. diplomatic corps in Singapore, where she met my father, who was assistant to the British ambassador.”

Juliette chose her words with care. “My father attended Harvard; perhaps that is where they met.”

Many members of the Trinity Masters were recruited in college, from one of Boston’s three major universities as well as others.

“I believe your brother went there as well.” Marek’s tone matched hers, each word deliberate.

If he knew that the previous Grand Master—Harrison—was her brother, then he knew more about the inner workings of the Trinity Masters than anyone but the counselors should.

Something in her body language must have given away her tension because Marek’s eyes narrowed and he held up one hand. “Please understand, Ms. Adams, I do not wish you any ill will.”

Devon came half out of his chair when Marek said her name. Once more she laid a restraining hand on his leg.

“It’s okay, Devon.” She pushed back the hood. “Perhaps we should speak frankly, Marek.”

“Frankly and honestly,” he countered.

Fine. She cleared her throat and spoke.

“Your mother was a legacy member of the Trinity Masters, who declined to join so she could marry your father. You have gained a reputation as an international security consultant and political advisor.”

Marek inclined his head.

“There was a story in a small Moroccan paper that mentioned you helped locate and negotiate the release of some hostages.”

Two matched frown lines appeared between his eyebrows. “I had thought that story was removed from most records.”

Ha. Now it was her turn to know more than he was comfortable with.

“We have some excellent researchers,” Juliette said demurely. Score one for her cute history geek—Franco had found something a professional thought he’d buried.

Marek’s expression smoothed out and he didn’t say anything more. Whatever moment of discomfort or chagrin she’d managed to elicit by mentioning the paper was gone. And with it her advantage.

“We need help locating someone,” Devon said.

“Someone the Agency isn’t able to find?”

Devon’s back went stiff at the mention of the Agency. Juliette’s palms started to sweat. Marek Lee knew too much, far too much, about them.

The silence was now filled with tension, and Juliette felt vaguely ill. She looked at Devon out of the corner of her eye. If Marek knew who they both were, Devon might not let him leave this lobby alive, and it would be another piece of shadow weighing down her husband.

Marek cleared his throat. “It appears I’ve alarmed you; that is not my intention. I’m not an information broker—I’m not here to blackmail or threaten you. I would never tell anyone what I know.”

“And why should we believe that?” Devon spat.

“Because I’ve never said anything before now.” Marek’s eyes were calm and steady. “My mother chose to marry my father, rather than join the Trinity Masters. They both made sacrifices for love. I have the privilege of having wealth, knowledge, and skills that allow me to spend my time helping others. If I choose to help you, it will be because you need my help, and because it’s the right thing to do.”

Devon let out a hard, barking laugh. “The right thing to do?”

Juliette sat quiet, picking through every word he’d said. Normally Devon was far better at this than her, but he wasn’t his usual self.

“Yes, Mr. Asher. The right thing.”

“Then I don’t know if you can help us. The person we need help finding isn’t a damsel in distress.” There was a hint of a question, or maybe it was a plea, regarding the veracity of that statement in Devon’s voice.

“It’s a woman you need help finding?”

Devon snarled, realizing what he’d given away.

“Devon.” Juliette laid her hand on his arm. “Give us a minute.”

She expected him to protest, but instead he stood and stalked away, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.

Juliette regarded Marek calmly. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“You said your father gave up something too. What did he give up?”

Marek studied her for a moment, then smiled a brief but dazzling smile. “My mother was a legacy to America’s Trinity Masters. My father gave up his legacy membership to the Masters’ Admiralty.”

Marek watched Juliette Adams, Grand Master of the Trinity Masters, go still.

She recognized the name “Admiralty.” That was good. It meant she was aware of the world beyond America’s borders. Marek’s mother had mentioned that the man who’d been Grand Master when she was approached about joining as a legacy member—Juliette’s father—had been extremely America-centric. It had been one of the reasons Janet Underwood had decided not to join the organization her family had been a member of for generations.

Juliette’s prolonged stillness told him that she was considering her next words carefully.

“One of our members has gone missing,” she said.

“Have you called the police?”

Juliette grimaced. “I should have been more precise. One of our members was kidnapped off the street. She was seen being dragged into a van, a hood pulled over her head.”

Marek sat up a bit straighter. “Who saw?”

Juliette turned just her head to look at Devon. Ah, perhaps that explained some of the other man’s tension—he blamed himself for not being able to prevent this kidnapping.

“You need my help locating her?” Marek was surprised. According to his mother, and the few whispers he’d heard, the Trinity Masters had more than enough power and resources to hunt down a kidnapper.

“We have looked. A top security firm has a team searching for her.” Juliette’s expression was carefully neutral. “Her home, and the home she grew up in, they’re both being monitored. There haven’t been any ransom calls, nor any sign of her.”

Juliette looked up, met his eyes, and for the first time Marek saw not a pretty young blonde, but the monarch and commander of the Trinity Masters. There was presence to her, as if she wore the might of the Trinity Masters like an invisible cloak.

“If she is within my borders,” there was a slight emphasis on the word “my” that Marek noted, “then we will find her. But I fear she is not anywhere in the United States. Based on what little we were able to learn about you, it seems you’ve worked all over the world.”

He inclined his head. “I have had wonderful opportunities to travel and learn languages.”

“There was a private plane that left a small airport here in Boston forty-five minutes after she was kidnapped. It was traveling south to the Cayman Islands. According to its flight records it stayed there, but we were able to acquire some information that put the tail numbers of that plane at a small regional airport in Leeds about the same time it was set to land in the Caymans.”

“You’d like me to look for her in England.”

Juliette nodded.

“Have you spoken to anyone in the Admiralty?”

Juliette was very still. She shook her head once.

Hmmm.

This job was simpler than many others he’d taken on, but he also knew that there were very few people the Grand Master would have been able to turn to.

Protect those who can’t protect themselves.

That was the motto he’d lived his life by. He was privileged, with skills and resources few others had, so he did what his grandmother had charged him to do—protect.

“I will help you, Grand Master.” He inclined his head respectfully, showing her the deference she was due.

When he looked up her face hadn’t changed, but the tension was gone from her neck and shoulders. “Thank you, Mr. Lee.”

“Who do you need me to find?”

She turned and motioned to Devon, who came stalking back. Juliette held out her hand. Devon withdrew papers from his breast pocket and passed them to her. She in turn slid them across the table to Marek.

He unfolded the papers. The top sheet was a photo of a beautiful dark-haired woman.

“Rose Hancock,” Juliette said as he looked at the paper. “Find her. Bring her back to Boston.”

The remaining pages were a list of times and known locations, pictures of a small Cessna, and blurry surveillance shots of two people boarding a plane. Both wore hooded coats, one person shorter than the other, with a slender stature. The bulky jackets were identical, and concealing enough that the short figure could be either a woman or a slim man.

Marek looked up, then nodded. “I’ll save her.”

Devon’s face blanked and he turned away once more.

Juliette smiled sadly. “Save her. Yes, please save her.”

Chapter Two

Rose tried to swallow and couldn’t. Her tongue felt glued to the top of her mouth. Her head ached and her arms hurt. She was lying on her back. She raised her hands toward her face, wanting to rub her gritty eyes, but her arms stopped short, chains jangling.

She squeezed her eyes closed for a second, then blinked them open. The ceiling was sharply sloped and white, the walls a pretty mint green. Deja vu swept over her. She’d seen this room before.

She pulled on her arms again, listening to chains clank. She sucked in a breath, the sound making her stomach jangle with nerves and remembered sickness.

Here. She’d been here before. Wait, that wasn’t right. She was still here. Moment by moment, it came back to her—the van, the hood going over her head, a needle in her arm, a plane. And Caden.

Caden.

A sickening rush of adrenaline made her sit up. Her mind was still foggy but her body remembered—her wrists were manacled, the chain connecting the restraints looped through and padlocked to the iron headboard of the twin bed. Her ankles were manacled too, but the chain between them was loose, allowing her to swing her legs off the bed and sit up.

She scooted closer to the head of the bed, so one arm wasn’t pulled awkwardly across her body, then looked around the room. It was small enough that she could press her feet against the opposite wall. Probably a closet, and given the pitch of the roof and lack of windows, it was probably in an attic.

It wasn’t the first time she’d woken up in the room. Bits and pieces of memory were tumbling around in her brain, jangling and clashing. Everything was fuzzy, as if they were half remembered dreams that lingered rather than memories of reality. She had no sense of how much time had passed, and that was terrifying.

She tried to place what she remembered in order. Boston? No, before that. She’d been at home in L.A. Caden had called her.

Caden was dead.

No. Go back. Think.

Caden had called her from Boston. He was going to steal some stupid poetry book from a member of the Trinity Masters. It was yet another task in the Andersons’ endless machinations. He’d planned to steal it, going in without backup, sure that the poetry book’s owner, a member of a newly formed trinity, would be at the hotel all new trinities went to. He’d been sure this would be the one, the thing that would allow him to unlock whatever secret Elroy, Barton, and Victoria were trying so hard to protect.

“I’m tired, Darling. I want to be done. I want you and Tabby safe.”

“Okay, I’ll check flights. I can be there by morning. Early afternoon at the latest.”

“No. I’m doing this tonight.”

“Yes, Sir.”

That was the great plan. Caden would find this secret, then use it as the leverage they needed to finally escape. He, Rose, and most importantly, Caden’s disabled younger sister Tabitha would flee to South America, where they would live out the rest of their lives in relative peace.

Caden had gone in, even as Rose had rushed to the airport, sure that something was about to go wrong.

And it had.

Once more her stomach lurched. She bent, elbows tucked into her stomach, and dry heaved.

“The first one reads ‘Loss and darkness await me. Night, like death—’”

“Caden?”

“I heard something,” he whispered.

“Caden, get out of there. Run. Run!”

Pop.

Thump.

Then the sound of new voices, faint through the cell phone connection.

“Oh my God!”

“Is he dead? God! Is he dead, Christian?”

A woman crying. “So much blood. I don’t know what to do.”

Caden’s blood.

Then the godforsaken flight attendant, who didn’t know and didn’t care that Caden was dying, dead. “Ma’am, we’re about to take off. You must end your call and put your phone on airplane mode. Ma’am?”

Her phone slid to the floor. Fingers and lips numb. Cold. Cold all over. Numb.

She didn’t cry.

She’d listened to him die. Sat still, silent, and cold all through the flight to Boston.

She’d landed and then…

Then the grief took over. Pain and disbelief and revenge. Revenge. She’d taken her revenge on the trinity who’d killed Caden and on the Trinity Masters.

She’d been ready to die, in that tunnel deep underground, a fitting tomb, but…

But she’d been pulled out. Put in a van, then on a plane.

Everything was coming back now, and events were starting to reorder in her mind. That had been days ago. She’d woken up the first time tied to a chair and seen…

“Who are you?” Her voice was ragged and scratchy, a blindfold covered her eyes.

No reply.

“Where am I?”

Her wrists were bound to the arms of a chair. The familiar feeling of rope and the restriction of bondage triggered her submissive training. She fought against it.

“Where?” Laughter. Male. Rough. Gritty. “You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

“Devon?” She must have been captured by the Trinity Masters. The voice wasn’t Juliette’s, and Devon was the next most likely person. Plus, there was something familiar about it.

No answer.

“Where am I?” she asked again.

“Keep your voice down.”

Behind her blindfold, her eyes closed. She dipped her chin submissively. “Yes, Sir,” waited on her lips, and Rose hated herself for it.

The blindfold loosened and fell away. When Rose could focus, she looked up. It couldn’t be. “I thought you were dead.”

“Dead? Maybe I am.”

In between one breath and the next, it all became too much. Rose yanked against the ropes, screaming and crying. Her head felt like it was going to split open. She closed her eyes and screamed—the pain needed an outlet.

A familiar rubbery sphere was forced between her teeth. A ball gag.

No. No. Don’t make me keep the pain in. I can’t hold it inside anymore.

The gag muffled but didn’t stop her screams, but when a strong, rough hand caught her jaw, that familiar voice hissing at her to be quiet, she shut down. The part of her that was Rose tucked up into a corner of her mind, safe there. She let the training take over. She went still and quiet. Obedient and waiting.

“Rose, I have to leave you alone. I don’t want to, but there are too many things going on right now.”

A small click and then a prick of pain in her leg. Then sweet, numbing sleep took her.

Rose opened and closed her mouth, testing her jaw muscles, which seemed none the worse. He must have taken the gag out right away. There was a sore spot on her thigh from the needle. After that, she’d woken a few times in this small room. Once, she’d woken and he’d been there, helping her to the bathroom, urging her to eat. When she woke alone, she’d sipped from a bottle of water left for her then turned over, closed her eyes, and gone back to sleep.

Her stomach knotted again, and this time she recognized it as hunger. If she had the timeline correct, it had been days since she’d eaten anything beside the sandwich she’d been given, and that might have been a dream.

She was awake now, and the fog in her mind was burned away to a few wispy pieces of mist. But the memory of being tied to the chair, of what, of whom, she saw, must have been a dream. Because that couldn’t be real.

She touched the sore spot on her thigh. It couldn’t be real.

The door to her small if nicely painted prison opened.

“Rose.”

Time slowed and stilled. She didn’t look at him. She let the voice wash over her. Familiar, yet also so foreign. So different than she remembered.

“Rose?”

She opened her eyes, and for the second time said, “I thought you died.”

A scarred, battered man looked down at her. “I almost did.”

She took a deep breath. “Caden…” Her throat closed tight with grief. She had to stop and fight with her emotions, shoving them down until she could speak. “Caden is dead.”

Weston Anderson nodded once. “I know.”

Tears welled in Rose’s eyes and slipped down her cheeks.

“They killed him,” Rose said.

“The Trinity Masters?”

“Christian Stewart Rogers.” She spat out the name.

Weston stepped into the small room, filling the doorway and blocking out the afternoon light that spilled in. “Come on, you need to eat. You’ve been asleep for days.”

Rose dropped her gaze to the cuffs on her wrists.

“They’re safety cuffs.” His voice was low but rough. It hadn’t been like that when she’d known him a lifetime ago. “Just take them off.”

Rose stared at her wrists. There was a little loop at the top of each cuff where she could grab it with the tip of a finger and pull.

She didn’t move.

A submissive accepts a Dominant’s bondage, and does not remove, reject, or complain.

“Rose, come on.”

The cuffs, the command, the emotional shock—it was all too much.

She corrected her posture and said, “Yes, Sir.” She used mental imaging to imagine herself as an adult—strong, confident, poised—walking into a large gold bird cage and pulling the door shut. Out of the shadows stepped a different version of her—younger, maybe sixteen. Timid, fragile, obedient, submissive Rose took over. Inside the gilded cage was cold and calm—numbing. Nothing could touch her there.

“Rose, they’re just cuffs. I didn’t want you to hurt yourself.” Weston squeezed into the room. He was a big man, broader than Caden was.

Had been.

Than Caden had been.

She blinked and more tears spilled.

Weston sat on the mattress next to her and cupped her forearm, using the hold to tug her wrists toward him. Her skin tingled where his fingers touched her.

Weston unfastened the cuffs, briskly rubbed her wrists, then bent and undid one ankle restraint. “I can’t reach the other one.”

“Order me,” she said.

“What?”

Rose turned her head, staring at him. She knew it was Weston; there was enough left of the young man she’d known and loved to recognize him, but he was different. Scarred.

Weston Anderson was missing his right eye. It had taken her a minute to realize it, but his right eye didn’t move—it was false. There was scarring all around the eye socket, the brow bone a little misshapen. His hair, a warm honey blond, was long, probably to hide the fact that his right ear was half gone, his earlobe mostly missing and what there was of it fused to his neck. The skin of his ear, back of his jaw, and the right side of his neck looked like wax that had melted and then hardened again.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” He met her gaze unflinchingly.

Rose’s heart lurched and she looked away. “Why don’t you order me to remove it, Sir?”

“Don’t ever call me that, Rose. And we don’t have time for this. We’re in the eye of the storm.”

“I will remove the restraints if that is your wish.” She used her submissive voice.

Weston made a disgusted sound, stood, and sidestepped until he could walk out the door.

“You can walk, just drag the other one along if that’s how you want to play it.”

Rose stood and followed him out of the room. The calm she’d tried to wrap herself in felt fragile, as if it were only a thin layer of ice instead of the glacier-like wall she wanted it to be.

She hadn’t been in an attic closet, but rather in the small room under the stairs. There was a Harry Potter joke in there she was too numb and heartsick to make. They emerged into a small sitting room. A tan couch was positioned across from the fireplace, a worn wingback chair next to it. There was a window above the couch, the warm sunlight that poured in through it reflected in the mirror above the mantel and making the whole room bright. The floor under her feet was hardwood, the walls a cheery robin’s egg blue.

Rose stopped and looked around again.

To her right was the front door and the foot of the stairs. A small coat stand stood beside the door and a pair of tall rubber boots was on the other side of the small foyer space. To her left was a doorway leading into another room, with bookcases and a low-backed comfortable chair.

“I’m going to take you away…I’ll buy us a house. It’ll have to be a little one, out in the country. With a library.”

The ice she’d encased herself in was melting, leaving her vulnerable. In her imagination, the cage that protected her true self warped and melted, the icy, gilded bars becoming sand that slid though her fingers, the whole thing collapsing around her.

“This house,” she whispered. Wes had promised to buy her this house. To take her away from the Andersons.

Heat replaced the cold inside her, and it took her a moment to identify the hot feeling.

Rage.

“Rose?” Weston stood in the middle of the little sitting room, his big body bathed in light. He wore brown pants, and a thin sweater that clung to the muscles of his shoulders and upper arms.

She looked down at herself—rumpled slacks, wrinkled shirt. Her feet were bare and there was a bondage restraint around one ankle. She was dragging the other restraint behind her.

Rose took a breath. She was so hot. It felt like there was a vise around her chest.

“Rose, calm down. You’re going to hyperventilate.”

Rose looked up, and it was as if she were looking at him though a paper towel roll—he seemed far away, yet close at the same time. The edges of her vision were getting dark.

“You’re alive.”

“Yes.”

“But you died. You died and you left me.” Rose stumbled back, nearly falling but she hit the wall.

“Rose!” Weston leapt toward her.

Her body shook from the intensity of her anger. “They murdered you, so we stayed, we obeyed. I obeyed. I mourned you, and then I obeyed.” Rose closed her eyes, sliding to the floor.

Chapter Three

Thirteen Years Ago

Rose was here—there were jeweled flip-flops by the door. Rose was the only one who could get away with leaving shoes out like that. And the only one who wore jeweled flip-flops.

Weston dropped his bag and raced up the stairs. He checked her room—no Rose. The bed was perfectly made, as if she hadn’t slept in it. The maid must have come in today—Rose was not an accomplished bed maker. He dashed back down the stairs, keeping an eye out for his parents. The door to their wing of the house was closed, and the main living rooms were all empty. If she wasn’t in her room or the TV room, she’d be swimming laps in the grotto.

The grotto at his parents’ house was totally ridiculous—three glass walls and a glass ceiling. One wall could be opened when the weather was warm enough, connecting it to the large redwood deck out back. There was a lounge pool with a swim-up bar and a beach entrance, a separate twenty-five meter two-lane lap pool, and a massive hot tub. Everything was made to look as if it was natural—edged in gray rocks, rather than flat concrete. There were ferns everywhere, thriving in the greenhouse-like atmosphere.

Since his parents were in a trinity, Barton’s job as head of an import/export empire and Victoria’s charity work meant they had to hide their relationship with their third, Elroy, so the three of them spent a lot of the time at home. The massive, contemporary-style abode had been custom built for them just before Caden was born. Weston had only vague memories of the house they’d lived in before this one.

Rose was, as he’d predicted, swimming laps. Her feet kicked up small splashes as she swam freestyle, moving faster than most, but not at her fastest. When she was trying she could really move.

He waited for her to reach the end of the lane and start her turn, then reached down and grabbed one ankle, grinning as she thrashed.

She flipped around, jerking her ankle out of his hold and came up sputtering. He was already dancing back, his heart thumping happily in his chest. The splash she sent his way got his pants below the knee.

“I could have drowned, you know.” She pulled off her goggles and wiped her face.

“Maybe you’re not that good a swimmer.”

“Wanna race, college boy?” She made a pathetic face at him. “I’m sure you’d beat me, I’m just a high school girl.”

Damn, he wished she’d stop reminding him of that. He knew he was too old for her. She was seventeen and he’d be 21 in a few months. But that didn’t stop him from loving her.

He smiled, then came to the side of the pool, kneeling carefully on the artistically natural stone edging.

“Hi.”

She swam up. He could see the lines around her eyes from the goggles. With her hair under the tight swim cap, she looked different, but no less beautiful.

“Hi,” she replied. She tugged off her swim cap then dunked under the water, wetting her hair. When she surfaced, she looked like a beautiful, dark-eyed mermaid. Not the Disney-princess kind. No, she was the kind of mermaid who lured men to their deaths in the depths of the sea.

She glanced around.

“I think they’re in their suite,” he said.

At that, she planted her hands on the rock and, with a few kicks, popped out of the water high enough to kiss him.

Weston was ready for it. He grabbed her by the waist, and lifted her straight up out of the pool, standing even as he lifted her. She squeaked in surprise.

“Wes!”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist.

“Impressed?” he asked. He’d been lifting weights all semester, and had imagined this very scenario—lifting her dramatically out of the pool—a thousand times. It was even more amazing in person.

“I am impressed.” She leaned in and kissed him again, more aggressively than he was used to.

Weston cupped her ass with his hands, fingers slightly tentative. He was touching her butt. It wasn’t like he wasn’t familiar with female bodies, but this was Rose.

He started to end the kiss, but she kept her lips pressed to his. Okay then. Her tongue slid into his mouth, tasting him. He returned the motion, instinctively taking control of the kiss, battling her for dominance.

She pulled back, lips pink. She unhooked her legs, wet body sliding down his now soaked front. Weston held still when he realized his erection was pressing against her stomach. Rose was a virgin. Would she even know that’s what she was feeling?

Her eyes widened and she took a half step back.

She knew.

Weston shoved his hands in his pockets, forcing the wet front of his slacks away from his crotch.

“I’m hungry,” he blurted out.

Rose took a deep breath, let it out, then smiled up at him. “Gina made some salads and stuff.”

He returned her smile, relieved. “Meet you in the kitchen?”

She arrived fifteen minutes later, wearing a white mesh bathing suit cover up and a black bikini. She’d changed out of her one-piece suit into a bikini? Wait, had she done that for him? He fumbled the piece of bread in his hand and it dropped to the floor. They’d been kissing and stuff since last summer. She’d been a bit weird at winter break—going to bed early, getting up late, and spending most of her time curled up on the couch reading books. He’d thought maybe she was missing her mom, though that was the second Christmas since she’d gone missing.

Rose hopped onto the counter and swung her legs, her heels tapping together when they met in the center.

He went back to making a chicken salad sandwich. He hadn’t been kidding about being hungry—he’d already made and eaten one.

“Caden’s at some coding camp,” she said. “He’s not coming up for two more weeks.”

“Just us, then.”

She bit her lip. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“I am, too. But I thought you were going to go abroad for the summer?”

Her expression melted away, leaving her face blank. “I tried, but nothing…nothing worked out.”

Rose’s remaining parents—the Hancocks—were total assholes. They were a big deal in New England, and they were married. Their third, Rose’s biological mother, had raised Rose as a single mom. The Hancocks might be Rose’s parents in the eyes of the Trinity Masters, but they didn’t seem to want anything to do with her.

When she’d been alive, Rose’s mom—a famous anthropologist and professor at the University of Washington—had traveled so much that most of the time Rose spent the holidays with Weston’s family. The Hancocks wouldn’t let her stay with them—that might raise questions and damage their reputation.

Just before Rose’s fifteenth birthday, her mother disappeared. She’d been declared dead last year, and the Hancocks had kept right on ignoring Rose, who was officially an emancipated minor, but unofficially his adopted sister.

Even thinking the term made him wince. He did not have brotherly feelings toward Rose.

He only saw her for a few weeks of the year—Christmas, summer, and, if he was lucky, the occasional long weekend. Berkeley had a different spring break than her school, so he hadn’t been able to see her then. The “residential school”—aka boarding school—she went to was one of the best in the country and lots of legacy kids went there.

That fuck Devon Asher went there.

Weston smushed another spoonful of chicken salad onto the bread, imaging he was shoving it into Devon’s stupid face.

Devon would marry Rose. The Grand Master had already decided that. He, Rose, and Caden would all be members of the Trinity Masters, like their parents, and that meant they didn’t get to fall in love. They would marry who they were told, when they were told. But until they were called to the altar, they were free.

“If you needed someone to pull some strings, you should have asked my parents,” he said.

“I’d rather not.”

“Stubborn.” He finished the sandwich, cut it in half, then passed her one half.

“No thanks, too many calories.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No one wants a fat woman,” she said, staring at her knees.

Weston put down his sandwich very slowly. “Did Devon say that to you?”

Her head jerked up. “Devon? No.”

“Who said that?”

Rose shook her head. “I shouldn’t have repeated it.” There was something haunted in her eyes.

“Rose?” The sandwich he’d already eaten turned to lead in his stomach. He tentatively put his hand on her knee. She gasped and grabbed his hand with hers, squeezing. Thinking he’d scared her, he tried to pull his hand away.

“No, please, please.” She fumbled as she laced her fingers with his. “Stay with me.”

“Hey, Brown Eyes, what’s wrong?” He stepped closer.

She shifted her legs to the side then reached out for him, arms circling his neck. She buried her face against his shoulder.

He kissed her wet hair, stroked her back. In that moment, he felt about ten feet tall, suffused with the need to protect and care for her.

“Shh, I’m here. I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

She lifted her head, eyes luminous with tears. “Sorry, I’m just…really glad you’re home.”

“Is this about your mom?”

She shook her head then reached over, grabbed half the sandwich and took a big, defiant bite.

He picked up his, and they tapped sandwiches in a modified cheers. The moment of…whatever that had been…passed.

“How were finals?” she asked between bites.

“Eh, okay. I could have studied more.”

“What a shock. I got a lot of drunk texts.”

“I regret nothing.” Okay, he regretted a few of them.

He’d also taken a fair number of dick pics to send her, but always managed to stop himself. He didn’t want to be that guy.

“I can’t wait to send you drunk pictures next year.” She grinned.

“You’ll still be seventeen.”

“I turn eighteen next spring, and more importantly, I’ll be a senior. Seniors get to drink. It’s tradition.”

“Drinking age is still twenty-one.”

“And I believe you’re still twenty for a few more weeks.” She put her wrist against her forehead. “Underage drinking! The horror.”

He had decided at twenty-and-a-half to just start saying he was twenty-one. Weston snorted. “You’re lucky I like weird girls.”

“You’re lucky I like big dumb jocks.”

He flexed his arm. “Look at these guns.”

“Weston.”

He and Rose both froze, turning to one of the kitchen doorways.

“Father,” Weston said.

Elroy Cloud had dark hair, a lean, handsome face, and a razor intellect.

Barton was distant and stern. Mom was a bit cold—she’d been great when they were little, but the older they got, the more distant she seemed. But Elroy…

Elroy was terrifying. He seemed to always know what you were thinking, as if he were psychic. The worst was when he caught you doing something wrong. He wouldn’t just yell at you, he’d question you until you felt small and stupid.

Elroy nodded to Weston, but his focus was on Rose. She’d gone still, like a rabbit hiding amid tall grass. “Rose,” Elroy said in a cold, hard voice. He pointed at the floor.

She set her half-finished sandwich down with fingers that trembled.

“Is that how you greet a Dom?”

Weston’s whole body went cold. Dom—dominant. That was a word he knew all too well.

When he was fifteen Elroy had started “training” him on the BDSM lifestyle and how to master women. He’d escaped to college, desperately happy to avoid the weekly “training session” at the condo where his parents kept their submissive “Pet”—whom Weston had finally gotten to tell him her real name, Lynn. It was creepy and weird that he’d touched and been touched by his parents’ submissive, and even creepier that she’d given him gentle feedback about his spanking technique, while Elroy looked on.

Weston had headed directly to a counselor freshman year, who’d looked shocked by his sordid tale, and at first hadn’t believed him. But they’d talked, week after week, and Weston had come to a weird kind of peace about it. His counselor had gotten him articles about cultures where it was considered normal and appropriate for men to lose their virginity to a prostitute. He’d read up on the BDSM lifestyle and told himself that maybe Elroy really did think he was doing something good. The rumor among all the legacy kids was that once you were a grown up, but before you got called to the altar, you were supposed to go out and have tons of weird sex, so that you’d be ready for your trinity.

Rose turned wide, horrified eyes to him. Whatever she saw in his face made the color leach from her cheeks and lips.

“Rose,” Elroy snapped. “Unacceptable.”

She dropped her gaze and slid off the counter. She started to fall to her knees.

“You know better than that.” Elroy’s voice dripped with disgust.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

Rose pulled her bathing suit cover up over her head, then untied her bikini top and slid it off. Weston jerked his gaze away from her. His ears were ringing.

Elroy walked out of the kitchen.

Rose made a small sound. Weston turned to look at her.

She was totally naked.

She was kneeling like a submissive.

Her fingers were laced together behind her neck, her elbows spread wide. “It shows off their breasts and makes them feel vulnerable,” Elroy had told Weston.

Weston dropped to his knees, his muscles twitchy with shock. Her eyes were wide and his heart clenched. “Rose, you…he…”

She looked toward the kitchen door, back the way Elroy had gone, and then she lowered her gaze like a good little submissive.

Weston pushed to his feet and stumbled back until he hit the counter.

Elroy returned, holding something. Weston swiveled away.

“Bend over the counter to accept your punishment.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rose obey. She did exactly what Elroy said, rising smoothly from her position using only her legs. She turned and bent over the counter.

She was a submissive. She was…his dad’s submissive.

This was not happening. It had to be some sort of nightmare. Right?

Weston felt ill. She was sleeping with his dad, but kissing him?

He was a damned fool. Weston turned and walked to the kitchen doorway, the one opposite from where his father had come in. He paused there, shaking with a combination of emotions so intense he couldn’t name them all.

He heard the distinct sound of nylon rope sliding against itself.

“Be silent,” Elroy commanded Rose.

Whistle, crack.

Weston jumped in reaction to the sound, clenched his hands into fists, then slowly turned around. Rose had seemed scared. A black, ugly voice deep in his mind reminded him that her supposed fear was probably part of the scene. Pet had done that sometimes, pretended it hurt more than it really did.

Weston figured he should be feeling something, and the emotions were there, but they were fuzzy, as if they were music playing in a neighbor’s yard, only barely audible. With everything muted, that slimy black voice was able to speak loud enough to turn Weston’s thoughts into something ugly and selfish.

Did Father know how Weston felt about Rose? Did the two of them lie in bed together and laugh at him?

Some perverse part of Weston wanted to see this, wanted to let the sight of her happily submitting to his father kill his feelings for her.

Her hands were bound together behind her back with white nylon rope. A doubled strand was looped around her throat and tied to a cabinet handle on the other side of the island. If she tried to stand up, she’d choke herself.

In the reflection on shiny dishwasher door he could see her legs and butt. There was a red line across the back of her thighs and a thin trickle of blood sliding down the back of her leg.

Weston’s gaze whipped to Rose’s face. Her eyes were open, staring into the distance in fixed horror. There was blood on her mouth where she’d bitten into her lip in an effort to keep quiet.

The cane—Weston recognized it, but had never seen Elroy use it on Pet—landed again, this time across her ass. Immediately a white line appeared that then darkened to an angry pink in the next breath.

The third blow landed on the skin where her thighs met her butt—the sensitive “sit spot”.

“Keep your spankings to the fleshy part of the ass. Be gentle with the sit spot—the skin is stretched when a woman is bent like this and it’s highly sensitive. Only one or two strikes to this area unless you need to make a point.”

Those had been Elroy’s instructions.

Rose gasped, choking on the blood that filled her mouth, and she started to retch, blood spattering out of her mouth onto the counter.

“I’m sorry, Master, I’m sorry! Please, no more. Please! I’ll be good. I’ll obey! No more, please!” Her words tumbled over one another. Her whole body was shivering, as if she were freezing cold.

Weston leapt forward, shoving his father back. This wasn’t submission—Dad was beating Rose.

Elroy looked at Weston with cold eyes. There was no anger there, only calculation.

“What the hell are you doing, Dad?”

“I’m correcting her behavior.”

“Correcting what?”

“A submissive should always greet a Dom naked and on her knees. You’re a Dom, and she should respect and greet you as such.”

“No. I don’t want that. Not from her.”

“Don’t confuse her. Rose needs to learn.”

Weston opened his mouth to snarl at his parent, but the cold gleam in Elroy’s eyes stopped him.

Think. You have to think before you say anything to him.

Weston stepped firmly between Rose and Elroy. “You don’t treat your submissive like this—the rope on her neck is dangerous, you broke the skin, and you didn’t double check her safe word before you started. You taught me those rules.”

Elroy almost smiled. “Ah, but she’s not my submissive. She’s not allowed a safe word. I’m training her.”

Weston took a protective half step back toward Rose. “Training her?”

“The way I trained you. But the other side of the coin. She needs to learn her place. She was…resistant. She’s been fighting it.”

No safe word. Fighting it. Resistant.

God, no. No.

Weston felt physically ill at the realization of what his father’s words meant.

“You son of a bitch,” he snarled. He took a step forward but stopped. He didn’t want to get too far away from Rose.

Elroy shook his head in disgust. “Really, Weston? I expect better of you.”

“You’ve forced Rose to be a submissive?” This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening.

They made you train to be a Dom. Why wouldn’t they train Rose, too?

“For her own good, of course.” Elroy looked as if he was enjoying this. “She’s proven to be quite the challenge to train, but strong women make the best submissives.”

Weston shot a quick glance over his shoulder. “Rose, are you okay?”

“She won’t talk.” Elroy’s words were a command and a threat, and Rose remained totally silent. “She’s not allowed to make any noise during punishments, but as you saw, she’ll disobey when too much pain is applied. The only correction is to continually push her pain tolerance boundaries, and remind her that any disobedience carries harsh consequences.”

Rose whimpered, so quietly Weston almost didn’t hear. That small, terrible sound broke his heart.

Weston swallowed. “Fine. If she’s…a sub, then I was the one she offended. It’s my right to punish her.”

Elroy grinned with…pride. He handed Weston the cane and slapped him on the shoulder. “I want you to take a minute. Examine her. Look her over. Orient yourself. You’re used to seeing her as an equal, not a submissive, but the timing for this change in dynamics is good.”

Weston looked at the cane. There was a bit of her blood on it. He knew he shouldn’t have, but he tossed it away in disgust.

Elroy’s face hardened. “Pick it up, Weston. Caning is more difficult than anything else, because it can do real damage. You need to be versed in how to use it. I’ll teach you on her.”

Weston ignored his father, and undid the ropes at her wrists and neck and helped her stand. She swayed and looked up into his eyes. Her gaze flicked to the doorway. He could read her thoughts on her face—run, they should run.

Elroy snapped his fingers, and Rose gasped and dropped to the floor bowing her head in a submissive posture.

What has he done to you?

Weston looked at the part in Rose’s still wet hair. He felt like everything was moving at high speed and he couldn’t keep up.

“You didn’t know I was a Dom,” he said to Rose, but speaking more to Elroy. “No punishment.”

“No, Weston. You’re not listening. You have to use this moment to reorient how you see one another. You’re a Dom, she’s a sub. It’s a Dom’s job to correct and guide a submissive.”

Weston gritted his teeth. “You’ve already done enough.”

“Very well. I’ll finish her punishment later.”

Rose’s started to tremble.

“No,” Weston said immediately. “Don’t touch her.”

Elroy raised one brow.

Shit. Weston knew what he had to do. He had to finish the punishment.

Weston bent and took Rose by the elbow, helping her to her feet, and led her into the living room just off the kitchen. He sat in an armless parson’s chair.

“Over my lap,” he said, using the voice of command Elroy had taught him.

Rose’s gaze, which she’d kept downcast, darted to his face. Her eyes widened in horror.

He wanted to fall to his knees before her and swear he would never hurt her—he was just trying to get them out of this moment. He knew his father, knew that if they didn’t play this game right, it would all fall apart.

Weston didn’t dare wink at her, smile, anything. His father was watching.

When Rose didn’t move, he pulled her down over his lap, positioning her so she was draped over one of his thighs, her hands on the floor, her legs between his. He felt sick to his stomach, and nearly quit when he heard her first quiet sob. There were two welts across her bottom and a cut on her thighs.

And this was the first time he’d seen her naked since they’d been little kids.

“A count of ten.” His voice broke, his throat tight with his own tears.

“Fifteen, Weston.” His father moved farther into the living room, taking a seat on the couch so he could watch.

Elroy’s words made Weston see red. Rose whimpered softly and turned her head so she wasn’t looking at Elroy.

“Ten,” Weston snarled. “Don’t interfere.”

“She’s not like Pet. She’s still being trained.” Elroy’s gaze roamed over Rose’s naked body. “She’s defiant and needs constant correction. You’re not experienced enough to handle her.”

Weston swallowed against the bile that rose up his throat. He laid his hand on the small of her back, spreading his fingers wide, hoping she understood.

That she’d forgive him for what he was about to do.

He raised his hand and brought it down on her ass.

Crack.

Rose jerked, but didn’t make a sound.

Elroy hummed his approval. “If you want her to count then order her to do so. As I’ve mentioned, she takes her punishments in silence. It’s a mental exercise that will serve her well.”

Again, Weston brought his hand down flat but at the last minute used his fingers instead of the base of his palm. That made a nice loud sound, but was softer.

At least that’s what he hoped.

Eight more times, he hit the girl he loved as his dad watched.

Until that moment, he’d tried to pretend that he was at least halfway normal. He was a legacy to a powerful secret society and would be in an arranged ménage marriage. That wasn’t what most people considered normal, but among members it was normal. There were people who understood the ménage marriages, the secrets and power.

But this… This was just so deeply fucked up.

He finished the spanking and stopped, not sure what to do next, how to get them away from Elroy.

Rose slid off his lap and knelt at his feet.

“Thank you for punishing me, Sir.”

Weston suppressed the need to roar in pain and rage. To fly across the room and beat his father. He looked from Rose’s bowed head to Elroy, who was watching them and smiling.

Weston reached for Rose, making sure her body hid Elroy’s view of his hand. He hoped it looked like he was—ugh—grabbing her breasts or something. Instead he held his hand in her line of sight and crossed his index and middle fingers. When they were younger, they’d been rabid believers in the idea that a lie told while you crossed your fingers (or toes, or eyes) didn’t count.

Rose sucked in air, then released a long shaky breath.

Please understand what I’m doing.

Weston snapped his hand up, grabbing Rose by the neck and forcing her chin up. For a second, wide brown eyes met his.

“Go,” he commanded, voice low. “My room.”

“Yes, Sir,” she whispered.

He released her throat.

Rose turned and crawled out.

Dad made her crawl?

Weston turned to his father, rage making him shake.

Elroy shook his head. “I know you’re angry, Weston.”

“Don’t touch her. Ever again.”

Elroy’s expression hardened. “Don’t push me, son.”

Elroy had always seemed huge—a major force, as powerful and untouchable as the sun. But Elroy Cloud wasn’t a particularly physically imposing man. Weston was a hair taller than he was, and more than thirty years younger. He could take his father in a fight.

Elroy smiled slowly. “Have you been to see your sister lately?”

Huh? What did Tabby have to do with this?

Elroy stood and brushed at the front of his slacks. “You can have Rose for now, but I will continue to train her. I’m preparing her to be a good wife to Devon and Juliette. I expect you to respect that. If you don’t, I will strike your name from the list of allowed visitors.”

“What are you talking about?”

Elroy raised his brows, and then walked away. Weston turned to watch him go. When Elroy was nearly at the door, Weston spoke.

“Did you know, Dad?”

Elroy half turned. “Know what?”

“How I felt about her?”

“Your mother is convinced that you love her, and she you. That you’re childhood sweethearts. But I know you’re too smart to do something so stupid as to fall for a pawn.”

“A pawn?”

“There are players and there are pieces.”

“And she’s a pawn but I’m a player?” Weston spit out the question.

Elroy laughed. “No, son. You don’t even know what the game board looks like. You’re a piece—a rook, maybe even a knight. Your mother, Barton, and I are players. But she’s a pawn, and not your pawn.”

Chapter Four

Weston caught Rose as she started to slide to the floor. He grabbed her face in his hands as they both hit their knees.

“Rose,” he whispered, and laid his forehead against hers. “Rose?”

She clenched fistfuls of his shirt. “I can’t. I can’t hold it in.”

“Let it out.”

Rose pressed her face against his neck and screamed.

“Rose, Rose. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” He let out a slow breath. “I’m here, Brown Eyes. I’m here now.”

Weston pressed his cheek to the crown of her head and held her body tight to his. Deja vu washed over him. This wasn’t the first time he’d held her like this. She was shaking so hard that he worried she would fly apart if he let her go.

But he was finally holding her again.

He’d dreamed of, prayed for, this moment.

When she’d first woken up, he’d made the choice to drug her back to sleep. He’d had things to take care of, and though he desperately wanted to, he couldn’t talk to her, hold her, care for her, right then.

She’d seemed so detached, so cold when she woke this morning. Intellectually, he knew she was possibly still in shock and definitely grieving Caden’s death. Emotionally it had ripped at him to see that terrible blank look on her face.

And when she’d called him “Sir”…

Weston squeezed his eyes closed. The first time in over a decade he’d seen the only woman he’d ever loved, and he’d had to kidnap her, drug her, tie her up, and then cuff her to a bed. On top of that she was grieving.

As was he.

His little brother was dead. Dead because Weston hadn’t been good enough or fast enough to save him.

Rose continued to sob and scream through clenched teeth, her breath hot and wet against his collarbone. There was pain in those screams. He’d screamed like that when his bones had broken, muscles torn, and flesh burned. Rose was in just as much pain.

He watched the morning shadows change and lengthen as he held her. His bad leg protested being on the floor this long, but he wouldn’t move. He would hold her for as long as she needed to be held.

As long as she’d let him.

Weston had no illusions that once Rose had expelled some of her feelings, she wasn’t going to have a few things to say to him.

He’d practiced his side of the conversation thousands of times. But when he’d imagined this moment, Caden had been alive.

Rose stopped screaming. Now silent sobs and uneven breaths shook her torso.

The shadows tracked lazily and steadily across the floor. Weston clamped down on the part of him that was shouting this was wasted time, that they needed to move, because there were too many pieces in play, and his little cottage in the countryside was no longer the haven it had been for nearly five years.

Rose stopped crying.

The shadows vanished, the sun high overhead. The air coming in the open windows was warm. Weston eased his tight hold on Rose, keeping his arms around her, but not clenching her against his chest.

Rose sat up.

Without looking at him, she eased off his lap, first kneeling on the floor, then standing, bracing one arm on the wall as she did so.

Weston reached over and unfastened the remaining ankle restraint. Rose turned on the balls of her feet and walked away. The cottage wasn’t large—sitting room, kitchen, study, bedroom, and bathroom. He assumed she needed the bathroom.

The few times she’d woken before this morning he’d taken her to use the toilet, supporting her as she stumbled, eyes half closed. He didn’t know if she’d remember the way, or if she’d have to find it, but one way or another that’s probably where she was headed.

Weston slid both hands under his right thigh, just above the knee, and pulled up, grimacing as his leg bent. He clambered to his feet, neither graceful nor quick, but he was up. Rubbing absently at the damaged skin on the side of his neck, he limped over to the large chair in the sitting room.

As many times as he’d practiced this conversation, he still tensed at the sound of Rose’s footsteps returning.

Rose paused in the doorway. She was slender and fit, her dark hair cut in a sleek style, though right now it was tousled, and a few wet strands clung to her cheeks and forehead—she must have washed her face.

Her eyes were large and brown, though reddened from crying. One night long ago—a lifetime ago, before the fateful night of the caning—he’d video chatted her, drunk on the cheap beer that was a college staple, and had made his equally drunk friends help him sing Brown-Eyed Girl to her.

You, my-ay brown-eyed girl.

She licked her lips, looking around the room before settling her gaze on him. “You’re alive.”

It wasn’t a question but he nodded.

“I…we…thought you were dead. That they’d killed you.”

“They tried.” Weston tucked his hair behind what remained of his right ear. That and his ocular prosthesis were the most obvious damage from the attempted murder.

“How did you get away?”

“They left me for dead.” Weston clasped his hands and looked down at them. “I survived.”

“And you didn’t tell me. Or Caden.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why?” Her brows were drawn with anger, but the word had come out as a plea. She shook her head and said it again. “Why?”

“First, because I was in a coma. I was extremely lucky that the people I’d reached out to for help found me. They got me medical care, but I was in a coma for a while. After that I was recovering from my injuries.”

“Twelve years, Weston. You’ve been gone twelve years.”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“You never came back for…” Rose trailed off, and what little color there was in her cheeks drained away. “Oh God. Tabby.”

He raised his hands, palms out. “I took care of her.”

“What did you do?” Rose asked in horror.

She thought he’d hurt his little sister? Damn it. He would never hurt Tabby. Irritation made his words harsh.

“I killed myself for years trying to make enough money, and trade enough favors, to arrange for Tabitha to go into a private facility in Sweden when the time was right. There’s a doctor there who knows Friedreich’s ataxia.” The rare degenerative disease that kept his sister Tabitha in a hospital also made her the perfect hostage. Tabby’s safety was what his parents had used to keep all of them—him, Rose, and Caden—in line.

“You got her out?” Rose stared at him, as if she were trying to read his thoughts.

“Yes. When I heard Caden was dead, I knew I had to act. I got her out first. Then I came to Boston for you.”

“She’s safe?” The line of Rose’s shoulders softened. “I didn’t even…I didn’t think about her. I forgot about her.” Her lips twisted in a grimace. “I forgot about her.” The last sentence was low and quiet.

“She’s safe. She’s in the hospital in Sweden.”

“How?” Rose shook her head. “Caden and I tried to get her out.”

“Like I said, years of work and millions of dollars in forged documents and bribes. I had fake transfer papers, a scenario I’d been building for years. Caden’s…what happened meant I had to accelerate the plan, but it still worked.

“A private medical transport took her from Sea-Tac to Toronto. From there, she changed to a different medical charter and was flown to Sweden. The doctors there have her records; they know how to care for her. They’ll help her.”

Rose bent her head. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

“She’s my sister.”

Rose frowned, as if something had just occurred to her, then said, “Did she know you weren’t dead?”

Weston froze. He hadn’t thought she’d ask that. His silence was answer enough.

Rose squeezed her eyes closed. “You told her, but not me, not Caden.”

“A few years ago, I went to see her. I needed to talk to her and find out what she wanted. It’s her life. I had to make sure she would be okay, be happy, if she had to change facilities.”

Rose turned half away, looking out the window. Weston sat forward, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair.

“She told me you and Caden had a plan. That you were trying to learn our parents’ secret, so you could use it to blackmail them and escape.”

Rose nodded once. “That was…Caden was sure he was close this last time.”

Hearing his brother’s name on her lips made Weston’s chest ache.

“That was my plan, too.” Weston kept his voice low and quiet.

Rose crossed the room, perching on the edge of the couch. “You found something?”

“I did.”

He expected her to ask more questions—what had he learned? What were they going to do about his parents? What were they going to do about the Trinity Masters?

He had answers for those questions. He didn’t have all the pieces he needed, but he was close. Closer than Caden had ever been.

Weston had yet to even begin to truly mourn his brother. He’d spent more than a decade planning and plotting, reassuring himself in the loneliest hours that he, Caden, Rose, and Tabby would have a lifetime together, that what was most important was finding a way to keep them all safe.

But his brother was dead. He would never get a chance to see him, talk to him. To free him from the prison their parents had built.

There was another, lesser reason he’d stayed away, one that did him no credit. A reason that he admitted only in his loneliest, lowest moments—he hadn’t wanted to see them together. In the dark of his own mind, he could admit that it had been easier to stay away, because his heart would break to see the girl, now woman, he’d always loved in the arms of another man.

And now his brother was dead, and Weston was left with his grieving widow.

Rose stood and walked into the study. She came back holding a tall, skinny picture frame. The strip of photo booth photos was one of only two pictures he had on display. For years, he’d made sure to hide all his mementos, but as the years had passed he’d needed a reminder of what he was fighting for—his family.

He’d had the photo strip with him at college. Years after his presumed death, he’d been able to use a proxy to request his boxes of personal possessions, which the university had put in storage. This strip of photos and a picture of Tabby were the only things he kept. The picture of Tabby was taped to the bedroom mirror.

Rose stared at the pictures, then turned the frame to him.

In the first photo, he and Rose, sixteen and twenty respectively, had their faces in profile to the camera, their lips pressed together in a chaste kiss. His hand rested tentatively on her shoulder.

In the second photo, they’d sprung apart, Rose wide-eyed, Weston scowling.

He remembered the moment. They’d snuck into the photo booth to kiss, and then heard Caden calling their names.

In the third picture Caden was there, his big head and cheesy smile taking up most of the frame.

In the final image, they were all smiling. Rose was squished in the middle, grinning. Caden’s eyes were crinkled at the corners, matching his big grin. Weston was smiling, his face pressed against Rose’s.

Of the kids in the picture, only Weston knew the truth about their parents. Caden and Rose hadn’t yet been indoctrinated into their parents’ twisted reality. At nineteen, he’d been arrogant and self-centered enough to assume he was the only one who would be subjected to his parents’ machinations. The boy in the photo didn’t realize that in only a few months, they’d start on Rose, and shortly after that, on Caden.

“You knew.” She set the picture down on the small table, the frame clacking softly against the wood. “You knew what they were like. You let us think you were dead. Instead of just being scared they would hurt Tabby, we had to worry that if one of us stepped out of line, they would murder the other. The same way they killed you.” She took a deep breath.

“I was stupid and arrogant when I was young. I thought I’d found a way to gain the upper hand. Instead, when I confronted them, my own father shot me and burned the building down around me.” His fingers trembled at the memory.

“Pet’s apartment,” she said softly.

“Yes.” That’s where he’d gone to confront Elroy and Barton. He’d wanted to protect Caden, who’d been home at the time.

Instead, Barton had pulled a gun, shot Weston, Pet, and the male submissive Elroy had brought in that night. Then they’d set the building on fire and walked out.

Rose turned to look out the window, folding her arms across her stomach, almost hugging herself. “They found two bodies—a man and a woman.”

“They had another sub, a man, with them that night. I was able to crawl out.”

Pain, pain everywhere. He’d curled on his side, taking hard, gasping breaths. He stared at the wide, sightless eyes of Lynn—his parents’ beloved submissive. At least he’d thought she was beloved, but they’d shot her, and the other man with her, as if they were nothing.

His own father had shot him. Everyone knew that Barton was his biological father—they looked too much alike for it to be Elroy. Barton had held the gun. Pulled the trigger.

Fire burned and roared. The ceiling was no longer visible—a thick layer of smoke rolled above him. He could still breathe, but barely. He knew he was dying, but the fire terrified him. He didn’t want to feel his flesh burning.

So he started to crawl toward the balcony doors. They were slightly open, probably to let in the cool night air. Lynn would have done that—opened the doors, prepped the bar with clean crystal glasses and a decanted bottle of red wine, along with an ice bucket and a bottle of Crown Royal. Then she’d strip naked and wait by the door, kneeling with her legs spread, ready to obey.

But now she lay naked, blood running out of the hole in her chest.

He half crawled to the balcony doors, keeping his right hand pressed over the hole in his chest and dragging in great labored breaths, coughing up blood every few feet. Shoving open the door, he was inches from making it onto the balcony when the ceiling collapsed. He curled up on his left side. Burning drywall fell on his head and neck, while a flaming ceiling beam fell and shattered his right leg.

Cold. In those first few seconds, his burning flesh had actually felt painfully cold, and he’d been reminded that in Dante’s Inferno, hell was burning cold, not hot. Then he smelled it—hair burning as his head caught fire, and then searing flesh, which smelled like cooking fat.

He felt a pop, and then liquid was running over his nose.

He couldn’t scream, couldn’t move. Pain.

Pain that shot adrenaline through him, his mind trying to give his body the strength to get away. He made one useless attempt to push himself out onto the balcony, but he barely moved.

Yet, that saved his life. He didn’t know it at the time, but he’d been followed, and his followers, watching from the street, saw the movement amid the fire. They’d climbed the outside of the building and gotten him out before the firetrucks made it. They’d loaded him—half, if not mostly dead—into their car, and taken him to a secure facility.

With third- and fourth-degree burns on most of the right side of his body, a missing eye and shattered knee, plus a collapsed lung from the bullet wound, as soon as he was out of surgery he’d been placed in a medically induced coma and transported to a hospital in Canada, where he’d been beyond the reach of the Trinity Masters and the purists.

“It wasn’t your body?”

“No.”

Rose’s head snapped around, eyes widening. “But then they know. They know you’re alive.”

Weston shook his head. “No, it took me a while to piece it together, but my parents made sure that only two bodies were found.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It does if you factor in that it would be easier for my parents if I went missing than if I was dead. They bribed everyone who was there that night, got them to report that there were only two bodies.”

“But there were only two bodies.”

“You know how they operate. Everyone involved got an envelope with cash and a letter. The letter told them that the only bodies that should be reported were the woman and the older male.”

“How would they know which one was the older male?”

“Easy enough to tell from the bones and teeth.”

Rose shook her head again. “But there were only two bodies. Wouldn’t someone have said something?”

He snorted. “Who would they say it to? The notes and cash didn’t come with a return address. The people who rescued me were the ones who figured out most of this, as I was…not in good shape.”

“So your parents send out these letters and cash bribes, then all the reports say there were only two bodies, and they just assume their bribery worked?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure they don’t know?”

“It’s been twelve years.”

“It has, hasn’t it?” She bit off the last two words.

“You had Caden to protect you, and I knew you two were protecting Tabby, so—”

“Protect me?” Rose threw her head back and let out a brittle laugh.

“Fine,” Weston snapped. Her beloved had just died, hearing him minimize what she and Caden had together would hurt. “Love you and protect you. The point is, they thought I was dead, they wouldn’t be looking for me, and I would be free to research and gather information. I couldn’t risk having them find out I was still alive.”

“Love.” Rose stared at him, then her eyes widened and she laughed again. “Yes, Caden protected and loved me.” Another cracking, brittle-sounding laugh.

“Rose, I—”

“No.” She spat out the word, all trace of laughter gone. “You have…you have no idea what…” Her throat worked for a moment. “You have no idea what we suffered. You have no idea the hell I’ve been living in.”

“Suffered? Caden protected you.” He was sure of that. He knew she and Caden were…had been a couple, though it had been in secret, since Rose had been, until only recently, engaged to Devon Asher and Juliette Adams. Still, Weston had discovered they were both members of BDSM clubs all over the country. That had shocked the hell out of him.

“Caden…” She stopped for a moment, and in an almost unconscious gesture, touched her fingertips to her throat. “Caden is gone. And we’ve had this conversation before.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you and I, we’ve done this before. That night. You were sure you knew what was going on.” She flicked a glance at him. “Sure you knew what my training had been like. But you had no idea.”

Wes recalled following her to his room after the spanking and finding Rose kneeling on the floor, ready to do his bidding. It wasn’t until she’d told him about the training that he understood the full horror of what his parents were doing to her.

Seventeen-year-old Rose turned her head and kissed his palm, her eyes closed. She spoke in a whisper, each word aching with heartbreak. “I wanted you to be my first.”

And he knew. He knew what she was trying to tell him.

“No.” Weston shook his head. “No. He wouldn’t.”

“I’m not a virgin, Wes. Not…not any part of me.”

Weston shook his head harder. “He wouldn’t…”

“He’s teaching me to submit no matter what. To whatever he wants to do to me.” Tears slid from her eyes and onto his hand.

His father had raped and sodomized her.

“I’m going to kill him.” Wes surged to his feet, his vision a red haze of anger.

It was during that heartbreaking conversation that he’d cleaned up her cuts, promised they’d run away and get married, live in a house in the country.

The dreams of children.

Then alarm bells went off in his head. “Rose, what do you mean you suffered?” A grisly though occurred to him. “Elroy doesn’t still…”

“Rape me?” She didn’t look at him. “No, after you died, Caden collared me, to protect me from them. That stopped the rape and made me the whipping boy.”

Weston’s stomach knotted. “What do you mean?”

Rose faced him. “Why should I tell you anything? You left.”

“I was shot.”

“You stayed away twelve years. If you…if you really cared, you would have come back.”

“I spent years preparing an escape, a real escape, for all of us.”

“A bit too late for Caden, isn’t it?” Her tone was bitter, merciless.

Weston’s shoulders tensed. He’d thought that after she’d cried, they would be able to talk, really talk, but clearly that wasn’t going to happen. He reminded himself that she was grieving.

“Twelve years.” Rose sighed. “And it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It does matter.”

“No, it doesn’t. You got Tabby out. Caden’s dead. It’s over.”

“What about you?”

“Me? I’m broken inside.”

Broken by Caden’s death?

“Time,” he said simply. “I can give you time. I was too late to save Caden, but I’m not going to stop. My parents need to pay for what they’ve done, and once I take them and the other purists down, you’ll have the time you need to grieve for Caden and put the pieces back together.”

“Pieces,” she sounded out the word. Weston could see on her face that the word brought back a memory.

“Elroy just told me we’re all pieces in some chess game.” Weston and Rose huddled on the floor together, whispering like children. “They’re players, we’re just pieces.”

Her gaze searched his face. “What piece am I?”

He wouldn’t lie to her. “A pawn.”

She nodded, as if that made sense, and dropped her hands and her gaze. He picked up her hands, pressed them back to his cheeks. “You’re all that matters, Brown Eyes. They’re nothing to me. We’re not their chess pieces. Not anymore.”

“Caden thought he was one of the players, but we were always just pieces.” She turned to him with hard, glittering eyes. “Am I your pawn now, Weston?”

Chapter Five

“You’re not my pawn, Rose,” Weston said.

Every time he said her name, feelings spiked through her. She wasn’t sure what the feelings were, but they burned both hot and cold.

His one remaining eye tracked her as she turned away from the window. It hurt to look at him, for so many reasons. Some quiet part of her was horrified by the story of suffering that was written in his skin.

“Then what do you want?” She wandered to check the view from the window in the adjacent wall. Green hills, blue sky, and even some picturesque, fat white clouds. A little cottage in the country.

Once upon a time, the two of them had dreamed of running away to a place like this. They’d been young. And stupid.

“What do I want? I want to stop them.”

“Stop them from doing what? You saved Tabby. Caden’s dead. The game’s over. Congratulations.” She clapped twice. “You won.”

“And you. I saved you.” His tone was perfectly neutral.

“I didn’t need to be saved.”

And that might have been the biggest lie she’d ever told.

“Really? Because when I found you in those tunnels, it looked like you were planning to stand there while a tunnel collapsed on top of your head.”

“And so what if I was?”

She hadn’t heard him move, but he spoke from just beside her. “Suicide, Rose?”

She jumped, and turned just enough to look at him over her shoulder. He was standing only a few feet from her—tall and broad, with a hardness to him that hadn’t been there all those years ago.

“Revenge,” she said in the coldest tone she could manage. “On the people who killed Caden.”

“They all survived.”

Relief flooded her. She’d had nightmares while she slept, in which she lay trapped under the rubble listening to Christian and his trinity moan in pain and die slowly. She forced out a snort. “I’ll have to try harder next time.”

“You plan to go back to Boston and murder someone? Maybe burn down another building?”

“My, my, aren’t you well informed.” She turned to face him. “How?”

“I bugged Victoria’s phone.”

“You bugged your mother’s phone?”

“Victoria,” he said firmly.

Obviously, Victoria had stopped being Weston’s mom once he’d learned that she had encouraged Rose to accept Elroy’s training.

Rose had been the one to expose Victoria, to reveal she wasn’t as unwitting as Weston had believed.

“We’re leaving. I have enough money to get us out. Do you have your passport?” Weston asked, shortly after spanking her. They were both still shaken by the incident and he was desperate to escape.

“No, your mom took it.”

“Mom! She’ll help us. I’ll text her—”

“She knows.”

Weston froze. “What?”

“The first time he…” Rose swallowed hard. “I tried to run. Your mom was there. She sat me down and explained about how all trinities need a Dom, a switch, and a sub. That they were training me to be a perfect sub. That I was lucky to be trained, that this was something I had to do.” Her sentences were short and choppy, her breathing fast and uneven. “That it was going to be hard, and he would have to hurt me, but I had to go through it. She called…called my dad. He told me to do exactly what they said and to be a good girl.”

“Elroy kept tabs on you and Caden. He changed out cell phones regularly, but Victoria didn’t. I was able to hack it and install software that did voice-to-text transcriptions of any phone calls she had and sent those transcripts to me.” He paused. “Did you know they were watching you?”

“We knew. We did our best to keep them in the dark.”

Weston nodded, as if that made sense. “Elroy didn’t trust Caden. Didn’t think he was committed to the cause.”

“No one ever said he was dumb. Caden wasn’t committed to the purists.” She spat the last word. “But he, we, danced on their strings.”

“You said Caden thought he was close. Close to what?”

“I don’t know. There was always another puzzle, another clue. Caden was sure they were hiding something—something more than the tunnels and the art.” She shook her head. “He still had hope.”

“And you didn’t?”

She wanted to say “no.” Since she was sixteen, she’d been under their control—nearly half her life, and all of her adult life. It would be beyond stupid to still hope. Yet she had. Without that hope, she would have been nothing more than a hollow husk by now.

She didn’t answer his question. Weston waited. If he thought she’d be intimidated into answering, he was wrong. Though the submissive in her was screaming that she had to answer the question or she’d be punished, that same impulse also helped her stay quiet—a good submissive was silent.

Weston cleared his throat. “Caden was right. They were hiding something. Something that they couldn’t risk the Grand Master finding out.”

“And you figured it out?”

“Most of it.”

Rose shook her head. She’d heard that before.

“I need to finish this. Flying to the U.S. threw off my timeline. I was able to reschedule with—”

“Flying to the U.S.? Where are we?”

“England.”

Rose looked out the window again. A little cottage in the English countryside. Her stomach twisted and it felt like there was a lead knot just under her breastbone.

“Six months,” he said softly. “I figured six more months and then I’d be able to get all of you out.”

“The end, the solution, they’re always just around the corner. One more puzzle, one more game.”

“I’m serious.”

“And you think I’m not?”

Weston’s jaw clenched and he looked away, only his one remaining eye moving. She swallowed.

“The art and artifacts in the secret tunnels—you know about them?”

Rose winced, remembering a cold day spent bound and almost naked, being whipped so Caden would work faster, and more recently following Christian and his trinity down there. It has seemed like a fitting tomb. “I know about them. How do you know about them?”

“Barton took me to retrieve something when I was still in high school. That’s when he told me our family were guardians of important secrets—elite even within the Trinity Masters.”

Rose snorted. “A nice way of phrasing it—prettying up being racists by calling yourself purists.”

“It was true—they were guarding a secret.”

“The map, the tunnels.” She huffed out a laugh. “They gave me what I thought was the only copy of the map—I got to pass it out to the other purists. But even that was a lie. I didn’t have the real map.”

“It’s not about the tunnels.”

“It’s about what’s in them,” she said.

Weston shook his head. “No. It’s about where all of it came from.”

“It’s all stolen. I know. They would sell off pieces when they needed cash. All the purists did it—that’s why they each wanted the map.” Rose had doctored the maps, editing out information—a small rebellion. “It was their own private bank, treasure chest.”

“That art wasn’t just stolen. Come on, I’ll show you something.”

Rose followed him out of the cottage’s front door. There were large pots on either side of the door planted with lavender, each bush bursting with fat purple blooms. She brushed one with her fingertips, lifting her hand to catch the sweet scent.

Weston guided her around to the back of the cottage, where there was a small addition stuck onto the building, no more than four feet by four feet. A heavy silver padlock held the door closed.

Weston tipped up the padlock and pressed his thumb against a small black square on the underside. Rose raised her eyebrows but didn’t comment.

“This was originally the boiler house, but I’m using it for something else.” He opened the door and reached into the gloom inside, flicking on a light.

Rose was curious despite herself. She braced one hand on the doorframe, then leaned in, looking at the walls. “A serial killer room. Lovely.”

Cork mats had been affixed to the walls, and pinned to those were hundreds of pieces of paper. The wall to her left had everything neatly organized, with pictures and printed pieces of paper in neat columns and rows. The wall opposite the door was a bit messier. This one looked like an organizational chart, with pictures and names.

She spotted a photo of herself—a formal portrait she’d had taken for work. She was toward the bottom of the tree—where the pawn should be.

The right wall was a mess of small notes. Toward the ceiling was a piece of butcher paper, affixed lengthwise. A black line was drawn along its length with shorter lines coming off of it—a timeline.

“After you,” he said.

Rose leaned out. “I think not.”

Weston frowned. “You don’t want to know?”

“I don’t want to be locked in there.”

He blinked, as if that had never occurred to him. “I wasn’t…” He stepped in.

She looked at the door. “I could close this and lock you in.”

“You could.” He didn’t move.

“You trust me.”

“I do.”

“You shouldn’t. You don’t even know me anymore.”

His posture softened. “Maybe not, but I know who you were, and I know the core of you hasn’t changed.”

“Yes, it has.”

They stayed that way, staring at one another. She could run. She could go…where?

She had nowhere and no one.

Rose sighed and followed Weston in. “What is all this?”

“This is everything I know.”

She pointed at the wall with the pictures. “The purists?”

Her picture, along with Caden’s, which she tried to avoid looking at, were there. The Andersons, including Elroy, and Jessica Breton, and a dozen more. Her mother’s picture was there with a question mark, as were the Hancocks’.

“You’re wrong on a few of these,” she said. “Grant Breton isn’t. He had a piece of the map, but that was handed down to him from his aunt, Jessica.”

Without hesitation, Weston reached out and took Grant’s picture off the wall. That surprised her—that he’d take her word for it.

Rose turned to the left, to the neatly organized wall. She took a minute to study it, then said, “This is some of the art that was in the tunnels.”

“Yes, I spent a lot of time tracing the most identifiable pieces back to their last known owners.” He paused, and Rose looked over, curious despite herself. “Much of this art was confiscated by the Nazis.”

“We guessed that,” she said. “The purists were Nazi sympathizers. It made sense that they would have taken some of the confiscated pieces to keep them safe, or maybe they bought them to help fund the war.”

“That does make sense,” he conceded, “but not all of these were confiscated by the Nazis.” He pointed to the images on the right of the board.

Now that she was looking at it, she could see that each column had information about a single piece of art. A photo of the art in question at the top of the column, and under each were printouts with information about the last known owners, written descriptions, and snapshots. She peered at one of the snapshots. A painting was propped against a stone wall. The lighting was terrible, the colors washed out by the camera flash.

“This was taken in the tunnels?”

“Yes.”

She stiffened. “You took them?”

“Yes.”

She crossed her arms, hugging herself. “How many times?” she demanded. “How many times did you come to the U.S. and go into the tunnels?”

“Many.”

“So you were right there…” She swallowed against the rage that was filling her again. “Were you there in the tunnels with us? Did you listen to…” Listen to them beat me? She shook her head, unable to finish the sentence without bringing up too many emotions she couldn’t deal with. “You should have come back.”

“If you don’t see why I didn’t, then there’s no point in me explaining.”

Rose clenched her hands into fists, sliding her arms behind her so she hid her hands at the small of her back. She couldn’t show such obvious signs of anger—that would earn her a punishment.

He looked at her arms, frowning, then turned back to the board. “See this piece?”

Rose nodded once.

“This pastoral was last seen in the London home of Lord and Lady Ellington.”

He was looking at her expectantly. Rose stared back, no idea what he was trying to tell her.

Rose was waiting for him to say more when it clicked. “Wait.” She stepped closer to the wall, peering at the information on the board. There was a black-and-white photo of an elegantly dressed couple standing in a tastefully appointed room. On the wall behind them, barely visible, was a painting. That same painting was in the first photo, which had clearly been taken in the secret tunnels running into and out of the Trinity Masters’ headquarters.

“In London? Then it must have been destroyed during the blitz.” Rose was thinking out loud, thoughts flickering like fireflies, hard to catch.

“That’s what everyone assumed.”

“But instead it ended up in America, among a bunch of Nazi-stolen pieces.” She stepped back, eyes darting around the room. “Art from England had no way to end up with Nazi art. London was nearly destroyed, but never raided.”

“Exactly.” Weston’s cold, hard demeanor softened, and the word was suffused with satisfaction.

“How?”

“There’s a long, complicated story as to how I came to this theory—”

“Don’t drag it out, Wes!” Excitement got the better of her, but she stopped short when she realized she’d used her old nickname for him.

He paused for only a breath, the barest acknowledgement of what she’d said. “Here’s my theory. The art and papers the purists hid in the tunnels weren’t given to them by the Nazis. In fact, I don’t think it was stolen by the Nazis. I think a bunch of rich and powerful families from all across Europe put as much disposable wealth as they could together, and shipped it to America.”

“How? I mean, there were sympathizers on both sides, but to pool their resources and sneak it out, while there were naval battles going on all around them…” Rose slipped past Wes to walk a tight circle around the room. She thought better when she was moving. “Do you think the Ellingtons were Nazi sympathizers? That would make sense—they put all this together and ship it to the purists, the most powerful group of racist scum in America.”

“That would make sense, but these pieces,” he pointed at a few images, “were owned by wealthy, powerful Jewish families. I doubt they were sympathizers.”

“Then what’s the connection?”

“Exactly. That’s the question.”

“And do you have the answer?”

“Yes.” He went to the tree of pictures. There was a smaller group of photos off to the side. At the top was a flag—a field of red with three legs on it in a triskelion.

A trinity of legs.

Below the flag was a small strip of paper, held in place with two red push pins. It read “The Masters’ Admiralty.”

She turned wide eyes to Weston.

“Everything in those tunnels belonged to members of the Masters’ Admiralty.”

The clock was ticking.

“Thank you very much for your assistance, Gregory.”

The middle-aged man in the bright red uniform shirt of a car rental agency nodded once, seemingly surprised that Marek had remembered his name. Common courtesies were lost to many.

Tick-tock.

With a final nod of thanks, he left the small rental agency in Sussex. He’d followed Ms. Hancock’s trail from Boston to London. From there, he’d been able to acquire photos of a rental car leaving a small private airstrip in Greater Incorporated London to this small establishment, where it had been dropped off.

Gregory had been on duty three days ago when the car was dropped off, and remembered that the gentleman who did it had his own vehicle parked there. Unfortunately, the security cameras had broken a week ago and hadn’t been fixed.

That coincidence was a bit too convenient for Marek’s liking.

But he had a description of the man and his car. The car was a blue Toyota SUV, not totally out of place in the countryside, but not as common as a red Fiat compact, so there was hope on that front.

And the owner of that blue SUV had a lazy eye. Gregory was sure of that. “Only one of his eyes moved when he looked around.”

A personal detail like that might be all he needed.

Marek looked at his watch. It was just past two in the afternoon. He’d been in England nearly twenty-four hours.

Tick-tock.

His time was up.

If he didn’t call now, they might find out he was here from someone else—they had many, many sources. If that happened, there would be hell to pay.

Plus, it had been a week since he’d spoken with his grandparents. He was due to call them again.

Sliding into his own rental car—an anonymous gray Peugeot—he took out his cell phone.

“Lee residence,” a smooth male voice answered.

“Good afternoon, William,” he said politely to his grandparents’ house manager—their butler. His grandparents didn’t like the classist implications of “butler” so they had a “house manager.” Who did everything a butler did.

“Master Marek, how are you?”

Marek’s lips twitched—William was less than ten years older than Marek, but he’d been trained by the old house manager when he retired, so Marek was still referred to as if he were a child.

“I’m well, and you?”

“Very well, thank you. Your grandmother is sitting down to tea. Sir Masoor Lee is in a meeting, and Mr. Caradoc Jones is in the back garden.”

It made Marek smile to hear his grandfathers being referred to so formally.

“I don’t want to interrupt Grandmother’s tea, or Tadcu’s gardening.” His grandfather Caradoc was as Welsh as the day was long, and out of respect, he used the southern Welsh word for “grandfather.”

“Excuse me a mom—”

There was the sound of fumbling, a distant conversation punctuated by exclamations, and then his grandmother came on the phone.

“Who is this?” Her voice was shaky with age, but there was still power in those words.

Marek smiled. “Hello, Grandmother.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m actually in Sussex.”

“Sussex? Nasty place.”

“Don’t you say that about all the counties?”

“All nasty. Don’t trust country folk.” A pause. “Don’t tell Caradoc I said that.”

“Of course not.” He hoped she couldn’t hear he was smiling.

“Well, Masoor is off trying to manipulate everyone. Caradoc is grubbing in the dirt, and my own grandson waits a whole day to call his only grandmother and tell her he’s home.”

Darn it.

“I’m sorry, Grandmother. I’m working.”

“You’re always working. All of you. I’ll just sit here and crochet curtains.”

“I’m sure that if you chose to do that, they would be the most beautiful curtains in England.”

“Humph.”

“In the world.”

“Better.”

Marek couldn’t hold it in anymore. He chuckled. “It’s nice to talk to you.”

“So, what dragon are you out to slay now? Who called for a knight in shining armor?” Her tone was both proud and grumpy. “Can’t believe a grandson of mine is such a goody-goody.”

“Just doing my part, Grandmother.”

She sighed dramatically. Jane Dell had until only twenty years ago served as one of England’s most valuable intelligence assets. It was both amusing and frustrating to watch James Bond movies with her—she liked to yell at the screen and tell 007 what a terrible agent he was.

“I was actually hoping you might be able to help me, Grandmother.”

“Ah ha. You only call me because you want something.”

“Not at all. I’m calling because I love to speak with you.”

“And you want something.”

“And because I face an impossible task, and you might be the only person in all of England who could help me.”

Silence.

“The only person in the whole world who could help me,” he corrected.

“Humph. Damned right.”

“Grandmother, language.”

“How I have such a well-mannered grandchild is beyond me. You get it from Caradoc. I know it.”

Marek doubted that he had any genetic traits from his Welsh grandfather. Marek’s father looked like Masoor, whose features were South Asian but with the lighter coloring of East Asia, due to the fact that Marek’s great-grandfather has been from Pakistan, his great-grandmother from Southern China.

And that was just one side of his complex international family tree.

“I will take that as a compliment, Grandmother.”

“As you should.” She humphed again. “So what do you need to know?”

“I’m looking for a woman.”

“On your own? You’re just going to pick one, like a barbarian?”

Marek slumped in his seat. His grandparents were in a trinity marriage—one that had been arranged for them by the Admiral.

“I’m not looking for a woman for myself. She was kidnapped.”

“That’s better.”

How was that better?

“And she’s in Sussex? Or she’s from Sussex? Either way, poor woman.”

“I believe she’s in Sussex. I’ve traced her this far, but my trail has run cold. I need information from your network.”

“The old biddy brigade? Ha. Sounds good. What do you need to know?”

“The kidnapper is an American. White male, maybe twenties or early thirties, at or over six feet, and he has a lazy eye.”

“That’s it?” Her voice rang with outrage.

“I thought that the eye would be distinctive enough.”

“And you’re sure it’s lazy?”

“The witness said when he looked around, only one eye moved.”

“That could be a lazy eye or a glass eye. That might be something.”

“Thank you, Grandmother.”

“I’ll get my biddies in Sussex on the phone. But when you find her, I expect you to bring her by. If she’s cute and of childbearing age.”

“I’m not going to date her, Grandmother. I’m going to rescue her and get her home to her…family.”

“Humph. Bring her by.”

“Grandmother—”

Click. She’d hung up on him.

Marek hoped his grandmother’s associates would be able to give him a lead on the man, but until he heard back, there were other avenues of investigation he could look into.

He started the car and backed out of the parking lot. He was going to find Rose Hancock today.

Chapter Six

“What’s the Masters’ Admiralty?”

Weston tapped the picture of the Isle of Man’s flag. “They’re where the Trinity Masters came from.”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. Weston’s heart twanged with a sense of both loss and familiarity. Her thinking face was the same now as it had been when they were young. The cold mask she wore was that of an adult stranger, but when she’d wept in his arms it had been heartbreakingly familiar, as was this expression.

“Holy shit,” she breathed. “There’s a Trinity Masters in England.”

He nodded. “It’s the Masters’ Admiralty, and they call it ‘the Admiralty.’ I think that everything the purists have belonged to families of the Admiralty.”

“They gave it to the Trinity Masters for safekeeping during the war?”

Weston stopped before he spoke and reconsidered what he’d been about to say. He’d done all this on his own, and hadn’t had the chance to work through his logic with anyone else. Instead of telling her what he thought, he asked her the question he’d asked himself. “That’s what I thought, but if that was the case, why wasn’t it returned after the war?”

“Everyone died.” She frowned. “No, that doesn’t make sense. They couldn’t have all died.”

“That’s also what I thought.”

“Maybe…maybe the Admiralty stole all the art and…” She shook her head. “Same problem. If it was given to the Trinity Masters for safekeeping, no matter where it came from, why wasn’t it given back after the war?” She walked around the room again. “The Admiralty—were they with the allied or axis powers?”

“I don’t know. What are you thinking?”

“If they were trying to raise money for the Nazi cause, maybe the Trinity Masters, the purists, were supposed to sell it.”

“But when they lost the war…” Weston prompted.

“Why wasn’t the art donated or returned?” Rose shook her head. “But we know the purists have been using it as a piggy bank. Whenever they needed cash, someone would beg me for a copy of the map. If they were just holding it, hiding it, they wouldn’t have sold it and then used the money for themselves.”

Weston nodded. “Which means that…”

She shot him an irritated look. “Is this a test?”

“No, I just want to know if you’ll reach the same conclusions I have.”

“Well, I don’t have twelve years.” The snark was minimal, but there.

He didn’t respond.

“This only makes sense if either everyone who knew about it in the Admiralty died, and the purists decided not to say anything, and just keep it for themselves.”

“That’s one possibility.”

“And what’s the other?” she asked.

“If the purists stole it from the Admiralty.”

Rose pursed her lips. “That’s certainly more in keeping with the purists. Barton and Elroy all but cleaned that place out not long after you…after you left.”

“I didn’t leave you, Rose. I nearly died because I went after them without the power and information I needed. This is what I was doing.” He waved his had around the room, then lowered his voice. “I didn’t leave you.”

She folded her arms, elbows tucked hard to her body. “You did. You left me.”

“Caden was there.”

“Caden was…” She swallowed hard. “I’m not having this conversation with you right now.”

“I’m sorry. I know you’re grieving.”

“I’ve been grieving for a long time.”

That took him by surprise. Did she mean she’d grieved for him?

“So the purists stole all the art.” Her tone was louder and painfully neutral.

He brought himself back to the moment. “If you assume the art was stolen, and look at it again, the picture changes.”

“What do you mean?”

“How much do you know about the naval campaigns from WWII?”

“I’m sure I learned about them in school.”

He turned to the “in progress” wall, examining the details and dates he’d laid out there. It had taken years for him to refine his theories to this point. He’d started out with too little information, then had too much. Now he was close, and before he’d gotten the transcript of a call between all three of his parents in which Elroy had told Barton he thought Caden was dead, and he couldn’t get ahold of Rose, he’d planned to go to the coast, to the old port, and check out the last part of his theory.

“I’m going to tell you a story.” He took a step back, leaning against the wall so he could take his weight off his right leg.

“In nineteen forty-two, the USS Bluebird was sent to attack a Spanish ship headed for South America. The U.S. military had received intelligence that there was a Spanish ship carrying ‘treasure.’ The Bluebird’s captain was a man named John Kirkpatrick. He was a member of the Trinity Masters.”

“How do you know?”

“I snuck into Harrison’s office and checked the records.”

Rose whistled. “Ballsy.”

“I spent a lot of time in the tunnels, mapped them. I knew how to get in and out of the Grand Master’s office.”

“They have the real map now,” she warned him.

“We don’t need what’s in the tunnels anymore. What matters is here.” He pointed at the wall.

She stepped closer, looked at the one grainy image of the Bluebird he’d been able to find.

“The records of the USS Bluebird are all suspiciously light, but what I was able to piece together was that it was headed for the Spanish ship when the Bluebird ended up in a firefight with a German ship. It won the battle with the German ship, and then hours later sank the Esperanza. It wasn’t hard, Esperanza was a cruise ship, but it was flying the flag of neutrality.”

“Flag of neutrality?”

“The Spanish flag. Spain remained neutral throughout the war. Flying their own flag was supposed to keep them safe.”

“So the Bluebird sank a neutral ship?”

He nodded. “The newspapers said it was because it had been taken over by the Germans, that the German ship was actually an escort. But from the records I was able to take from the Grand Master’s office, including diaries of seamen, I think the Bluebird had intelligence that said the Esperanza was full of treasure—sometimes that was used as code for soldiers and assets. The records say that the Esperanza took on water so fast that it sank in ten minutes. None of the treasure was recovered. According to the records.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think that the Esperanza really was a neutral ship, and the whole thing was organized by the Masters’ Admiralty. There must have been people high enough up in the Nazi party that they even sent a German battleship as escort.”

“Why a German ship?”

“This was early nineteen forty-two. The Germans were winning the war.”

“So the Esperanza didn’t sink, or at least not that fast. The Bluebird crew boarded it and took the treasure—all those things hidden in the tunnels.” Rose looked at him, though her words had been phrased as a statement.

“Yes.”

“And they covered it up because they sank a supposedly neutral ship.”

“More than that,” Weston said. “I think that there was something on that ship that made Kirkpatrick realize all those things belonged to the Masters’ Admiralty.”

“He would have had to know who they were.”

“True.” And that was a sticking point in his story.

“So they raid the boat, take the treasure, then realize they just stole stuff that belongs to the Masters’ Admiralty, and have to cover it up.”

“Yes.”

Rose frowned. “That means the Grand Master would have to have known about it.”

“True.”

“But if the Grand Master knew, why didn’t Harrison and Juliette know about the tunnels?”

“Maybe the Grand Master at the time didn’t tell the next. It would have been Harrison’s grandfather.”

“He wouldn’t tell them about unsecured secret entrances?”

“The Grand Master may have decided that no one could know—it was too dangerous. Maybe the tunnels were sealed—”

“Wait!” Rose whipped around, cheeks flushed. “Jessica Breton.”

“Who?”

“A member during that time. She was the one who talked openly about sympathizing with the Nazis, and keeping black, Hispanic and Asian people out. She coined the name purists.”

Rose paused, and he was fairly sure it was for dramatic effect.

“And she was a counselor to the Grand Master.”

Weston looked at the board, then back to Rose, then pumped a fist. “Hot damn, Brown Eyes. That’s it.”

Rose grinned and paced. “So only the Grand Master and his counselors know, and they swear to keep it a secret, and everyone does except Jessica.”

Weston picked up the story. “She tells the other purists, and they decide to use it as a piggy bank, while the Grand Master assumes it’s all safe and hidden.”

“And he doesn’t tell his son.”

“Who doesn’t tell Harrison.”

They grinned at one another. Rose blinked, then turned away, face falling into that cold mask.

Weston closed his eyes and sighed. “What I’ve been trying to figure out is how they would have known it belonged to the Masters’ Admiralty.”

“Maybe they figured it out the same way you did—realized some of it came from England.”

“I thought about that, but that would have taken time—they would have had to examine each piece and check its provenance. There are almost no records for the Bluebird or the Esperanza, which means they started the cover up right away. They had to have realized almost instantly that a cover up was needed.”

“And you went through everything in the tunnels?”

“Not everything. Just the biggest pieces of art. And I hadn’t even catalogued all of those before some of them disappeared.”

“Meaning someone went down and took them.” She touched the wall of papers, her fingers long and elegant. “And there were probably more things that were taken, before we were even born.”

“That’s what I thought. I think I know how to figure it out.”

“How?”

“It was a Spanish ship, but I think it docked here in England, secretly and just for a few hours, to pick up items from families here. I’ve been corresponding with a local historian down in Dorset, where I think the ship stopped. Thirty years ago, they did a campaign, recording oral histories from people who lived here during the war. It was meant to be a catalogue of memories.

“I’m hoping that somewhere, on one of those tapes, someone will remember seeing the Esperanza. Maybe even remember seeing what was loaded onboard—art, papers, records.”

Rose frowned.

“Rose?”

“Something you said made me think…” She shook her head. “It’ll come back to me.”

He waited, but she didn’t say anything else. “That’s the next step. Go to Dorset and sort through those tapes. I’m hoping to get confirmation that the Esperanza was there. After that, I hope to have enough proof.”

“Enough proof to do what?”

He hardened his voice. “To take this to the Masters’ Admiralty.”

Her eyes rounded.

“You told me that I didn’t have enough power to fight all of them—the Andersons and the purists. You were right. I tried for years to find a way to fight them all on my own, but it’s not possible. I can’t. We can’t. But the Masters’ Admiralty can, and they know it.”

He watched her expression change as she processed what he’d said. Shock, consideration, and finally grim satisfaction flitted across her lovely face.

The wide-eyed expression made his heart ache, because in that moment he saw the girl she’d been.

The girl he’d failed, and in failing her, lost forever.

Rose now was lean and sleek, like a black cat—unreadable eyes and ready claws.

“You get the proof,” she said. “Then…what? How will you get to the Masters’ Admiralty?”

“I’m already in contact with them.”

“You are?”

He nodded and leaned against the wall again to take weight off his right knee. Normally he hauled one of the kitchen chairs in here if he planned to be in the room for any length of time.

“When—” He stopped. This explanation would mean going back, talking about that fateful summer.

Something on his face must have given away his discomfort, because her expression went blank. “Just say it, Weston.”

He was back to Weston. No more Wes.

“After I learned…” He braced himself to finish that sentence. “After I learned what they were doing to you, I started looking for help. I knew we couldn’t go to the Grand Master—he wouldn’t believe me, or worse, I thought maybe the Grand Master had asked Elroy to…to train you.”

“I remember,” she said softly. “We talked about it, about going to one of the other families.”

He nodded once. He’d forgotten that they’d talked about it, debating in hushed tones whom they could trust. Since then, he’d had this same debate with himself a hundred times. Weston waited to see if she’d say anything else. When she stayed silent, he continued.

“My grandfather used to insist that the Trinity Masters weren’t the first. That there was an organization in England. That Admiral Lord Nelson had been a member.”

She was looking at something on the wall beside him, but he didn’t think she was actually seeing anything.

“I started researching Nelson, and it turns out he was in a trinity—with the British ambassador to Naples and the ambassador’s wife. I wasn’t sure they were a trinity, because in some accounts it looked like the wife, Emma, was just having an affair with Nelson.

“But the more I dug, the more it seemed like the three of them were a trinity, put together later in life. I managed to track down a descendent of William Hamilton—the ambassador.”

“That’s where you really went that summer?” she asked gently.

After the horrific night in the kitchen, he’d stayed in his parents’ house for three weeks, when he’d only planned to be there for two. He lied and said he’d postponed his internship. For the weeks he’d been there, they’d hid in his room, sneaking out only to get food.

They’d made love, Weston taking his time to learn every inch of her skin and giving her pleasure every way he knew how.

Once Caden was home from his camp, and Elroy gone on a business trip, Weston left to get the answers, and the help, they so desperately needed. He’d promised to come back, and prayed that because Caden was home, and Caden didn’t know anything about BDSM or what they were doing to Rose, that even when Elroy came back, Rose would be safe.

“I went back to Cal. Then, once I’d made contact, to England to meet with the Hamilton descendant. It took a while, but finally I was put in contact with someone from the Masters’ Admiralty. I told them who I was. Told them I was a Trinity Masters legacy, and that I needed help.”

“I spent a lot of time thinking about that day. The last time I saw you.”

It had been a warm, sunny summer day—not too humid, which was nice. She’d clung to him with desperation when he’d hugged her goodbye. To this day, if he closed his eyes he could feel her sun-warmed hair under his cheek, and see her in his mind’s eye—slender and lovely, wearing jeans and a tank top, her long dark hair loose around her shoulders. Caden had frowned at them, his dark brows drawn together. Weston had whispered to her that he’d be back, he’d keep her safe. That no one would ever hurt her again.

And when he’d finally broken the hug, her face had been wet with tears. He’d told Caden to take care of her, throwing out some vague statement about how she was having a hard time.

Caden had wrapped one arm around her, trying to draw her into the house, but Rose had insisted on staying, watching his car drive away.

He knew because he’d watched her in the rearview mirror.

Weston straightened away from the wall. Two steps and he was beside her. “I failed you, Brown Eyes.”

She held up one hand. “Don’t. Please.”

“Don’t call you Brown Eyes?”

“Don’t…make me feel. I’ve already cried more today than I have in years. It’s taken me a long time to learn how to be numb. Caden’s death…” She was trembling, the same way she had when she was seventeen. “I’m raw right now. I can’t handle being reminded of that summer.”

“Because I left you?” Weston clamped down on his feelings, keeping his tone emotionless.

She whirled on him, her hand raised as if to slap him. He caught her wrist on reflex, jerking her hand down. “Stop it, Rose.”

He deserved the slap, and so much more, but there wasn’t time. This was the eye of the storm, a temporary respite. Caden’s death, and her actions following it, meant that he was racing against a clock. He’d hoped to pick the time and place to take down his parents, but he’d lost that option.

Her gaze flicked to his fingers, and her trembling ceased, replaced by a tense stillness.

“I’m going to Dorset tomorrow. I’ll get proof about the Esperanza. Then we can confront them.”

She didn’t respond.

“My parents, the other purists, the Grand Master—all of them.”

“All of them,” she repeated quietly.

“The Esperanza is the key.” After all these years, he was more than ready play the trump card he held, to strip Elroy and Barton of their power. “Once we have proof of what they’ve been keeping secret, we’ll approach the purists from a position of power. Once we know their secret we’ll hold it over them, like the sword of Damocles. If they try and call my bluff I can prove that the Masters’ Admiralty will listen to me. We’ll be the players, Rose. Not the pieces. It’s checkmate—they’ll have nowhere to go, because if they do anything, we’ll tell the Masters’ Admiralty, who will come for revenge. The purists would lose that battle.”

He grinned at Rose, who was looking at the floor.

“Checkmate. Game over.”

Chapter Seven

Let go. Let go.

Rose stared at his hand, where his long fingers were still wrapped around her wrist like a manacle. How many times had she been held like this, how many men had grabbed her this same way, sure that she would obey, would submit, because of who she was?

What they’d made her into.

Let go, Wes. Please, let go.

She heard him, understood what he was saying—if he was right about the Trinity Masters having stolen a ship full of wealth that belonged to this Masters’ Admiralty, having proof of that would make them untouchable. They’d be free.

You fool. You’ll never be free. You can’t escape what you’ve become.

She could feel the heat of his body, and perverse, fucked-up creature that she was, she wanted to slip closer to that warmth, yet she also wanted to yank her hand away and deliver the slap.

She was still shaking with shock at what she’d almost done. A submissive never touched a Dom without his permission. She’d almost slapped him.

But oh, she was hurting, as if her insides were filled with glass shards, and every time she breathed, those jagged, sharp edges pressed deeper into her innards, rending more than just flesh, but her soul.

Whatever was left of her soul.

“I’m going to Dorset tomorrow,” he said again.

Yes, Sir.

She bit her tongue to stop the words. His voice carried a tone of command. Was he doing it on purpose? Did he know, did he remember that she couldn’t help but obey?

“Rose?”

His hold on her changed, his thumb rubbing across the inside of her wrist. Could he feel the scars there, from when it had all been too much?

“Safety cuffs.” Her voice was calm, and she was proud of that. She thought it would tremble—she was so cold she was surprised her teeth weren’t chattering.

“What?”

“You had safety cuffs. BDSM-style restraints.” She had to pause to keep her voice level. “I woke up first tied to a chair, and then chained to a bed.”

“I…I wasn’t sure if you’d fight me again. I knew it was going to be a shock when you saw me.”

“BDSM restraints,” she repeated.

“Look at me, Rose.”

It was a command, and she obeyed.

His gaze searched her face. “What are you thinking? What are you asking?”

“Why, Weston? Why do you have those?”

He shook his head. “Nothing nefarious, Rose. They’re just easy to order online, and I knew they wouldn’t hurt you.”

That was a totally reasonable explanation. And she didn’t believe him.

“That’s the only reason?” She whispered the question.

He paused, his good eye sliding away, the lid lowering over the fake eye. “I know you and Caden…I thought you’d feel safe with them. Or at least familiar.”

Her body flushed hot. Her cold fingers and toes tingled as the fire of her rage chased away the numbing cold.

“Safe,” she spat. “Familiar?” She took a half step back, yanking her wrist from his hold. “Let go of me.”

Weston’s gaze snapped back to her, his jaw clenching. He was so big, so battle scarred. Caden had been lean and darkly elegant. More than once in her life she’d been told she and Caden matched—both with dark hair and eyes, with the lean builds of runners. And both of them so fucked up they were barely functional.

She and Weston didn’t match. They had once—he’d been her knight, her protector.

Now he was large and imposing, scarred and stern. But she hadn’t forgotten how he’d held her when she’d wept and sobbed.

“You were Caden’s submissive. I know you were both active in the lifestyle.” He sighed. “I should have realized that so soon after his death, you wouldn’t want to be reminded of having lost your Master, and—”

Your Master.

Rose wanted to throw up. She pressed her hands to her stomach. “Shut up,” she snarled. “Shut up, you son of a bitch!”

Weston turned to keep her in sight with his left eye. “Let’s go back inside. I’m sorry to have upset you.”

“To have upset me?” Rose couldn’t stop herself. She threw her head back and laughed, but it wasn’t amused. It was a horrible, desperate sound. “You’re an idiot, Weston. You were then and you are now. You have no idea…”

No idea what your brother did to me. No idea how much I’ve been hurt. No idea that I never stopped loving you.

“Enough, Rose. We don’t have time.”

The reprimand hit her like a physical blow. She thought she’d gotten ahold of herself. For a few minutes there, when he’d been explaining what he found out, she’d forgotten the events of the past week, caught up in the unraveling mystery.

But that hadn’t lasted.

She dropped her hands to her sides, bowed her head submissively, and said, “I’m sorry, Sir.”

Weston made a disgusted noise, and she flinched.

“Enough, Rose. I told you. We don’t have time for this. Stop playing.”

Rose inhaled and slowly raised her head. “Playing?” Before she could stop herself, or before her submissive self could censor the movement, she took a step to the side, raised her arm, and slapped him with her left hand. He hadn’t seen the blow coming, because she slapped his damaged right cheek, the side where he didn’t have an eye—a cruel, calculated move.

Weston’s head snapped back.

Her palm stung, and it felt good.

There were so many things she wanted to say, that she wanted to scream at him, but more than that she wanted to get away from him. She settled with spitting out, “Go to hell.”

And she ran.

She could move fast—she was out the door and blinking in the sunshine almost before he’d recovered. She heard him pounding after her, but she’d seen him favoring his right leg. He wouldn’t catch her.

Barefoot, she ran through the grass. The lack of shoes would become a problem at some point, but the little cottage—their cottage, the one he’d promised her so long ago—was in the middle of rolling green hills. She ran downhill, paralleling the gravel driveway. She’d have to follow the road to a town. From there, she’d…

Rose had no idea what she’d do from there.

Her steps faltered and she almost stumbled, but after a few awkward steps, she found her rhythm again. For now, she would run. Later she would figure out what to do.

There was a buzzing noise, and she slowed a bit to look up, her instincts humming. She thought she saw something small in the air above her but the sunlight was bright and she had to look away. Had to look at where she was running.

Was that her?

Marek looked at the image the drone was transmitting. He’d been surveying the small cottage where local gossip said an American war veteran with only one good eye lived. A few seconds ago, a door on the side of the house had opened and a figure darted out. He tapped the controls, dropping in elevation to get a better look at the figure.

A slender, dark-haired woman was running barefoot through the front garden.

Marek jumped off the hood, throwing the laptop and drone control panel into the backseat as he slid behind the wheel.

This was going to be one of the easiest rescues he’d ever done.

Gravel sputtered under his tires as he took off.

There was a car coming, one of those little compacts everyone in Europe seemed to drive. The driveway met the road about twenty yards downhill. She used the grade to her advantage, picking up speed, wincing when she hit an uneven bit of ground or a rock.

Right before she was getting ready to start waving her hands like a crazy person, the car—which was going way too fast on the little country road—skidded to a stop, gravel kicking up from under its tires.

The driver’s door opened and a handsome man jumped out. He raced around the front of the car and met her where the grass of the field gave way to dirt and gravel.

He looked at her bare feet, and without hesitation, stooped and put an arm under her knees, his other at her back. He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the car.

Rose opened her mouth and then closed it. God bless good-hearted strangers.

When he got to the car, she reached down and pulled the handle. He pushed it open with his knee, then carefully set her in the passenger seat.

“Please put your seat belt on, ma’am.”

Rose blinked up at him, then fastened her seat belt. He closed her door. She watched him race around and jump into the driver’s seat.

Rose stared at the magnificent stranger, aghast in the best possible way. He was handsome, with vaguely Asian features. His hair was cut in a conservative side-part style and he wore clothes that looked pressed and fresh.

He put on his seat belt, checked his mirrors, and then gunned it, starting from second gear. The place where Weston’s drive met the road was in a small dip in the landscape. The house was up the hill on the right, and both in front of and behind them, the road rose up at a gentle incline.

For some insane reason, she started to giggle.

He shot her a glance out of the corner of his eye. “It’ll be okay, Ms. Hancock.”

Rose’s fingers clenched and she gasped. “What did you just say?”

“I was sent to rescue you.”

Gravel spat as the car gained speed. The man shifted gears with smooth grace.

“Rescue me?” There was a too-familiar sinking feeling in her stomach.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m glad I got here in time to aid you. Clearly you didn’t need rescuing since you escaped, but I’ll be able to help you from here.”

Rose’s dropped her right hand to the seat belt buckle. “Who sent you?” She hoped he didn’t hear the tension in her voice.

“A mutual friend,” he said carefully.

“Who?”

He didn’t reply. The little car crested the rise of the hill. The road turned gently to the right, keeping them within sight of the cottage.

“How do I know I can trust you?” she pushed.

“Our mutual friend wore an interesting piece of jewelry. A Celtic knot symbol with three points.” He paused, looking at her again, then added, “A triquetra.”

Rose slammed her fingers into the buckle, releasing the seat belt.

“Ms. Hancock!” He stomped on the brakes, reaching for her with his left hand. Rose dodged his hand and threw the door open. They were still moving fast, though the car was slowing. This was going to hurt.

She could handle pain.

Rose leapt from the moving car, aiming for the soft shoulder. She didn’t quite make it, hitting the gravel first. She skidded, then rolled off the gravel and onto dirt. Her momentum kept her going, and she rolled into a small ditch on the far side of the road.

She stared up at the blue sky and fat white clouds, opening and closing her mouth. The first impact had knocked the wind out of her and it took a moment for her body to remember how to breathe. She finally gulped in air. She was hurt, but didn’t have time to catalogue the pain.

She rolled onto her side, took another few breaths, the smell of earth and crushed grass strong in her nostrils, then rolled onto her knees. That hurt. Hanging her head, she pushed the pain away, then lifted her head just enough to see out of the ditch.

Fifteen feet farther on from where she knelt the small car was stopped. It was angled across the road. The driver door was open, and her dark-haired “rescuer” was stopped with his hands up. He was closer to her than the car was, so he’d probably been running toward her when he’d been stopped by…

Rose turned, looking at the expanse of grass between the road at the cottage. Weston stood ten yards up the gentle rise, a massive black gun held up to his shoulder, his cheek pressed to the stock so he could see through the sight.

Damn it. Damn, damn, damn.

Rose indulged herself, staying down in her ditch, catching her breath.

“Sir, you need to put the gun down and turn yourself over to the authorities,” her “rescuer” called to Weston. He had a wonderful voice—his accent a mixture of sounds, with the precise pronunciation indicative of British English on top of it all. There wasn’t any fear in his voice.

Rose looked at him. Did he have a gun? Why was he so calm?

“Who are you?” Weston demanded.

“My name is Marek Lee. I’m here to take Ms. Hancock home. Let us leave, and I will wait until we’re back in the United States to notify the authorities of your location.”

“You think I’m just going to let you walk away with her?” Weston’s voice was hard, cruelly amused.

“Yes, sir, you are.”

Time to intervene. Rose stood up, brushing grass off her hands. The first few steps hurt, but she kept going, climbing out of the ditch.

Marek took a step toward her, but Weston barked “Stop,” and Marek nodded once in calm acquiescence.

She had to cross the gravel road, wincing with each step. With a little leap, she jumped onto the field on the other side. She walked toward the men.

“Ms. Hancock, please stop. I will keep you safe,” sexy-voiced Marek called out.

“Rose, get behind me,” Weston commanded.

Right. “Both of you can go fuck yourselves,” she snarled.

Weston growled, “Damn it, Rose.”

“Language, please.”

Rose and Weston both stared at Marek. She turned to Weston and her lips twitched. Weston smirked, but didn’t lower the gun.

With a sigh, she positioned herself between Weston and Marek, putting herself in the literal line of fire.

“Move, Rose.”

“No, Weston. Let him go.”

“Ms. Hancock, please come down here. I was sent by your…leader…to rescue you. I will protect you,” Marek called up.

She looked at him over her shoulder. “I’ve heard that before, Mr. Lee. I don’t believe you.”

He looked taken aback by her statement.

“Damn it, Rose,” Weston ground out again. “We don’t have time for this.”

She kept her attention on Marek. “Go back to Juliette.” Rose took perverse satisfaction in using Juliette’s name, breaking a sacred rule of the Trinity Masters and giving away such an important secret—the Grand Master’s name. “Tell her we’ll come to her, but not now.”

That was a big-ass lie, but a lie that might get Marek to leave.

Marek looked from her to Weston. “Ms. Hancock, this man kidnapped you.”

“And if you take me back to the U.S., I’ll be executed. Alive and kidnapped is better than dead.”

Marek’s straight brows made a single dark line above his nose, his frown was so ferocious. “What are you talking about?”

“The Grand Master didn’t tell you? I’m a traitor. I burned down a building, nearly blew up the headquarters, and tried to murder three people.”

Marek stared at her. “You’re…joking?”

“Nope.”

Weston was walking down the hill. He stopped at her side. “I’m taking both of you back to the cottage. You have two choices—I can put you in the trunk of the car, or you can walk.” There was anger in his tone, and maybe some hurt.

Get in line.

But she knew when to bite her tongue and accept her beating. She started trudging her way to the cottage. Halfway up, she looked over her shoulder. Marek was back in the car, slowly and carefully turning the car around. Weston stood on the high ground, the gun trained on the other man.

Weston kept the gun trained on the car as Marek drove slowly back the way he’d come, then turned left into the driveway.

Rose took a seat on the front step and picked gravel out of her cut up legs. She watched them—Weston keeping his gun on Marek. Marek’s gaze was moving, switching from Weston to the road in front of him.

Marek parked the car then carefully climbed out, his hands up. Weston stopped where he could keep them both in sight.

“Open the door and go inside, Rose.”

She stood and opened the door.

“Follow her,” Weston said.

Rose turned to watch Marek precede Weston into the small house.

“Kitchen,” Weston said.

Rose led their fucked-up little parade into the kitchen.

“Open that door.” Weston motioned with a small jerk of the gun. Rose opened the narrow interior door. It was dark, but she reached in and found the string to a bulb.

There was a narrow, steep staircase down into the cellar

“Empty your pockets,” Weston demanded.

She looked over her shoulder at Weston, but she couldn’t read his expression. The man who’d held her while she’d wept, who’d walked her through the web of secrets and information, was gone. When she looked back, all she saw was a hard, scarred man, with no mercy on his face.

Marek calmly set a wallet, passport, and cell phone on the kitchen counter.

“Rose, pat him down.”

“Am I your prisoner or your accomplice?” She tipped her head to the side in exaggerated mock confusion.

His face was a stony mask. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

“Language,” Marek chided.

Rose and Weston looked at Marek, who regarded each of them calmly. Some of the tension eased out of Weston.

“What were your orders?” Weston asked Marek.

“To find Ms. Hancock and rescue her from her kidnapper.”

“I’m not her kidnapper,” Weston snapped.

“Technically…” Rose let the word trail off.

“I believe she was running from you when I arrived.”

“Just…just get in.” Weston gestured with the muzzle of the gun. Marek walked to the door.

“Wait,” Weston barked out. “You swear you were not sent to kill her.”

“I’m not a killer,” Marek said, and looking at him, Rose believed it.

“In that case, get in. Both of you,” Weston said.

Rose raised her brows, but the expression was wasted. Weston wasn’t looking at her. She slipped through the narrow doorway and started down the stairs. She groped in the gloom and found another cord at the foot of the stairs.

The cellar was small, with low wood ceilings and stone walls. No window, no way out but the stairs. There was a set of shelves along one wall, the wood silvery white with age. On the bottom shelf were a few tarps, large bottles of water, and other emergency preparedness items.

Marek followed her down.

She looked up to where Weston’s big body blocked most of the light from the kitchen. The bare bulb at the top of the stairs cast the undamaged left side of his face in shadow and made the features she could see harsh and sharp—the false eye, the scars around it, the misshapen brow bone.

Rose closed her eyes and her heart clenched.

You’re not the only one who suffered, Rose.

The door closed.

Marek Lee looked around then placed his hands on his hips. For some odd reason, the posture reminded her of Superman.

He looked at her, his brow furrowed. “This,” he declared, “is not going particularly well.”

Rose started to laugh.

Chapter Eight

Marek checked the walls, more out of habit than an expectation of finding a conveniently bricked-over window or secret door. Cellars, or basements as his mother and the Americans would say, were common in most English countryside cottages. The old ones had them. Cellars had served as food storage in this part of the world for ages before the invention of refrigerators. This one was larger than most, roughly two meters long and three meters wide. The walls were gray stone that was cool to the touch. He’d made a circuit of the place several times in the past hour. No windows.

He also didn’t find any cameras or listening devices. Without electronic bug-detection equipment he couldn’t be sure, but even if there had been bugs and cameras, he needed to talk to Ms. Rose Hancock, so he would have to risk being overheard.

Rose was sitting on the second step up, her head resting in one hand, the other wrapped across her middle. Occasionally there was a random residual giggle. She was in pain and possibly still in shock from the botched escape.

His job was to get her back to Boston. The revelations of the past few minutes required him to rework and realign his knowledge of the situation, but the end goal hadn’t changed.

First priority, assess the physical situation. Done.

Second priority, take care of the target. Third, gather information. It was time to take care of items two and three.

Marek grabbed one of the large jugs of water off the shelf and brought it over. “Ms. Hancock, we need to wash off your knees.”

Her pants were shredded. Watching her jump from the moving car had been horrifying. She’d been lucky or smart to hit and roll the way she had.

She sat up, wincing, and stretched out both legs.

Marek dropped to one knee. “Is it okay if I touch you?”

“You’re asking?”

“Of course.”

He could feel her looking at him. “Um, yes, yes, of course.”

He tore each pant leg from the knee down to the hem, then tore a few inches over her knee, so he had a good view of her leg from above the knee to her feet.

Uncapping the bottle, he raised it and poured water over one leg. Blood and dirt ran over her skin in rivulets.

“Who did you try to kill?” he asked.

She looked at him, her face soft, and his instincts told him she was going to answer.

The door at the top of the steps opened.

He sprang to his feet and started up when Rose’s gasp of pain made him halt.

“Ms. Hancock?” he asked, twisting his upper body to look down at the top of her head. She was hunched over.

“Rose?” The light from the kitchen cast the big man in shadow, though the bulb illuminated his legs. His voice rang with concern.

“I’m fine,” she hissed.

“I…damn it. Eat something.” The gunman set down two brown paper sacks on the top step, then he reiterated his demand and closed the door.

Marek carefully backed down the steps, then dropped to a crouch.

“Ms. Hancock?”

No answer.

“Rose?”

“I’m fine.” She raised her head, but didn’t look at him. Instead she focused somewhere over his shoulder. “Did he bring food?”

The scent of fried fare from the local chipper was drifting down the stairs. There was an anxious, hungry note to her voice, as if she hadn’t eaten in a while.

And maybe she hadn’t.

Marek took the steps two at a time, grabbing the bags and coming down the stairs just as quickly.

One bag held smaller wax paper sacks of buttery, golden-fried cod and thick-cut chips, both items piping hot. The second bag had two soda cups, kept in place by wads of napkins, plastic cutlery, and two paper plates.

He was about to offer to wash her hands, but the way she was staring at the bags had him rethinking that. Instead, he passed her a wad of napkins, a drink, and a straw, then set the plates on the floor and tipped out most of the chips and three of the four pieces of fish onto the plate. She tapped the straw against the step to push it through the wrapper, then stuffed the end into the drink, using only one hand for the whole procedure.

Seeing that, he opened a packet of malt vinegar and drizzled it over the chips, dumped on some salt.

“Be careful, it’s hot.” He passed her the plate, then dug around in the bag and found a fork, reaching over to ground it in some of the chips as she balanced it on her knees.

She snatched up the fork, speared two chips on the white plastic tines and blew on them, two quick, shallow puffs, then shoved them into her mouth. Her eyes widened, probably from the heat, then slid closed in apparent enjoyment.

Marek watched her eat, occasionally reaching out to place two fingers on the edge of her plate to keep it from tipping onto the floor.

Watching her eat and drink hungrily made his heart ache for her. The poor woman obviously hadn’t had anything in days.

Once she slowed, her plate half empty, she looked at him. “You aren’t going to eat?”

“I ate not long ago.”

“It isn’t poisoned,” she said.

“I didn’t think it was.”

She chewed a chip thoughtfully. “True. If he wanted me dead, he would have killed me already. If he wanted you dead, he would have shot you.”

“Yes, Wesley Derrick had time to kill us.”

“Wesley Derrick?”

“That’s his name.”

“Wesley…Wes. That makes sense.”

Marek waited, aware that time was something of a luxury. He would need to move before too much longer, but this was also a rare opportunity to speak with the woman he’d been tasked to save.

She sucked down the last of the soda in her cup. He grabbed the second one and passed it to her.

“You should have it,” she said.

“I’m fine, but thank you for thinking of me. Go ahead.”

She shook her head, and went back to eating her fish and chips. Wanting to be companionable, he reached into the bag and snagged a still-hot chip, popping it into his mouth. She watched him for a moment, then glanced down at her own food. They ate in silence.

Finally, she set the plate aside.

There was tension in the silence now. Rose wiped her fingers, brows drawn together. Marek took her plate, tipping the food back into the bag. In a hostage situation, it was good to save all resources. He wiped his own fingers on a napkin.

“I’d like to ask you a question,” he said. “Actually, I’d like to re-ask a question.”

She stiffened.

“Who did you try to kill?”

Her expression didn’t change. “Jumping right into it, huh?”

Marek winced. Foolish choice to ask like that. He’d thought perhaps a blunt question might startle her into answering. But now her guard was up.

He grabbed the bottle of water again, and went back to the task of cleaning her cuts. He worked in silence for what felt like half an hour, but was probably less than half that—the silence and tension making each moment stretch painfully. He knew it had to at the very least sting to have her cuts washed, but she didn’t react.

“I want to make something clear, Ms. Hancock.”

“Rose. Call me Rose.”

“Thank you, I will, Rose. I am not a bounty hunter. I’m specialize in kidnapping and ransom situations. I was hired to find you and help you return home to Boston. I’m here to save you.”

“Save me?” She let out a sad little laugh. “I’m afraid that ship sailed.”

There was a weary darkness about her. Marek had once read a lovely short story written in Thai about how weary Death was, and how Death would mourn each time it collected another soul. The figure of death was described as bowed and slumped under the weight of endless years of sorrow.

Rose reminded him of that story—there was something in her eyes that made him think she’d known too much sorrow for her age.

Her bare feet weren’t in good shape. “May I?” He gestured toward her ankle.

“Yes.”

She watched him as he carefully lifted her foot at the ankle and placed it on his knee, then poured water over her sole.

“You’re getting your pants wet,” she said.

“That hardly matters.”

“You’re a gentleman.” She stressed the last word as if finding that descriptor a great revelation.

“I strive to be.”

“Huh.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I haven’t run into a whole lot of genuine gentlemen in my life. Good manners, courteous, but gentlemen…” She shook her head, but not in anger. She’d softened toward him.

Time to try again.

“I’d like you to tell me who you were trying to kill. And why.”

She sighed. “How much do you know about the Trinity Masters?”

“Enough that the Grand Master trusts me, and enough to know you probably shouldn’t be talking to me about it.”

“I don’t give a fuck anymore.”

“Language,” he chided.

She reacted as if he’d slapped her. She looked away and said, “I’m sorry, Si—”

The words cut off mid-sentence. He checked to see if there was a particularly bad cut on the foot he was washing that he’d jabbed. Her feet were scraped and still dirty even after the washing.

“Rose, did I hurt you?”

“No. You just reminded me.”

“Reminded you of what?”

“That’s a messy question I’m not going to answer. At least not yet. Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” He set down the foot he was working on. Her legs were now a wet mess.

“The Grand Master sent you?”

“That’s right.”

“Why you? I mean, who are you?”

“My name is Marek Lee, and I’m a consultant—security, NGOs, a bit of everything really. But as I said, I’m particularly known for kidnapping and ransom work. But I think what you’re asking is why the Trinity Masters would hire me. My grandparents—Grandma Ruth, Grandma Grace, and Grandpa Jim—were members of the Trinity Masters.”

“You’re a legacy.”

He nodded. “I suppose I am, but my mother turned down her membership. She chose instead to marry my father.”

“She married for love.”

“Yes.” There were napkins in the bag, but the fibrous paper wouldn’t feel good against her raw skin. Marek started unbuttoning his shirt, Rose watching him with a cold face.

“You know about the Trinity Masters, but you’re not a member. Which means you’re not one of the purists.”

He undid his cuffs. “Purists?”

“The Trinity Masters are a bit too liberal for some—we let in people of color now. Shocking.”

“My mother said that Grandma Ruth faced some resistance. Grandma Ruth was South American.”

“So you get it. The purists are a secret group of racist scum. They’ve been keeping secrets from the Grand Master. When Juliette took over, she figured out that there was something going on, and she started going after them.”

“You tried to kill some of these purists.” He stripped off his shirt and used it to start blotting the remaining water and blood from her legs. He was wearing a black vest, or tank top as the Americans called it, underneath.

“Oh no, I’m one of them.”

He froze, both hands pressed to her calf.

“Yep,” she went on, but now he could hear the bitter sarcasm. “I was…raised by purists. They made me and my…my friend help them.”

“Made you?”

“They were holding someone I love hostage.”

Marek blew out a long breath. “A well-known technique for forcing compliance.”

“My friend, on their orders, went to steal something from a non-purist member. He was shot. I…” She let out a sad little laugh. “I lost it. I heard him die and I just lost it.”

“You heard him die?”

“I was on the phone with him. He didn’t think there was anyone in the condo, so we stayed on the phone. I heard the gunshot. I heard him take his last breath.” Her tone hardened and her eyes glittered. “I heard them panicking when they realized he was dead. Realized they’d killed him.”

“You tried to kill the men who killed your friend.”

“Yes.” She hissed out the word. Then, with a visible effort, forced a rather cruel smile to curl her lips. “I burned down a hotel, too.”

Marek saw the pain she was hiding. He could have pushed, but instead said, “Well, you must have gotten up very early in the day to accomplish all that.”

Rose’s face lifted and she stared at him.

He smiled and kept drying her legs. “Did you think I’d condemn you for lashing out in grief?”

“Yes. Because I am condemned.”

“The Grand Master told me to save you.”

“Would you have taken the job if you knew you were bringing me back to be executed? The punishment for disobeying the Grand Master, for breaking the rules, is death.”

“Fair point, I would not have, but if all she wanted was you dead, there are people who specialize in that sort of work.”

Rose frowned, looking away.

“May I wash your hands?”

The frown smoothed off her face and she held out both hands, wincing as she took her arm away from her midsection.

Marek cupped her right hand in his left, turning it palm up before pouring cool, clean water over it. “You may have a broken rib or two.”

“I’ve broken ribs. It doesn’t feel that bad. Maybe they’re just cracked.”

“You must have broken and cracked ribs quite a few times to tell the difference.”

“I lead a dangerous life.”

“What do you do?”

“My broken ribs have had nothing to do with my job.”

“Hobby?”

“No.”

The way she said that single short word—wearily and bitterly—made him back off the subject. He dried the first hand.

“Your friend was killed while trying to steal something for these purists. Was your friend an active member of this group or coerced?”

“Coerced. Same hostage as me.”

“I will admit to being a bit confused as to how this relates to your current situation.” He glanced around. “Why were you kidnapped?”

“I followed the man who killed my…friend—the one who actually fired the gun—down into some tunnels. I had a gun. I shot at him, but the tunnels started to cave in. I didn’t know it, but Wes was following me. He grabbed me out from under the cave-in.”

Marek was starting to realize that this situation was far more complicated than he’d assumed.

“Why was Wes following you?” He used the same shortened name she had.

“Probably to stop me from killing someone.” She shrugged and didn’t meet his eyes.

Marek frowned. “You know him?”

“Yes and no. I knew him a long time ago. He died when I was seventeen.”

“He…died?” Marek glanced at the door at the top of the stairs.

“He looks good for a dead man, doesn’t he?” Rose asked conversationally.

Marek finished cleaning and drying her other hand. He refolded his shirt, finding a clean section and dribbling some water onto it, then handing it to her.

Her fingers brushed his as she accepted the shirt, and Marek drew in a deep breath. He’d been ignoring the way her bare skin felt against his hands, ignoring the tingle of awareness that would only be described as chemistry. Pure chemistry.

Rose wiped her face and neck with the wet cloth. When she was done, she handed him back his shirt. “It’s pretty ruined.”

“It’s just a shirt.” Marek hung it over the corner of the shelves, then he walked to the foot of the steps. “May I sit with you?”

Rose scooted over to the side of the step. Marek carefully sat, trying to keep a bit of distance between them.

That proved impossible when she leaned sideways, her arm against his. She was cold. He didn’t lean away. He even considered putting an arm around her, but that would be inappropriate. Instead he held still, letting her absorb his body heat.

“Rose, my job is to save you. That’s what the Grand Master hired me to do.”

“I thought you were bringing me back to Boston?”

“That’s part of it, but the very last thing she said was that I should save you.”

Rose shook her head. “This situation is so fucked up and messy.” Her head hung. He decided this wasn’t the right time to mention her language.

“I’d like to hear the story,” he said simply.

“What story?”

“Your story. You know Wes. You thought he was dead. You were raised by these purists, but clearly don’t believe what they do if you had to be coerced into helping them. There’s a story there, and I’d like to hear it.”

“All of it?” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

“Yes.”

“I’ve never…” She puffed out her cheeks, then exhaled. “There were nights when it was all too much and I’d tell parts of my story. Always to strangers.”

“I’m a stranger.”

“True.”

He waited. She said nothing. Did nothing—but there was a fine tremble running through her.

“You’re cold; may I put my arm around you?”

Her eyes slid closed and a tear slid down her cheek. “Yes.”

He put his arms around her, trying to give her as much of his body heat as he could.

“You ask me before you touch me,” she whispered.

“Of course.”

“Maybe that’s the best place to start.” She swiped at a second tear. “You see, people don’t ask me before they touch me. That’s who I am.”

“I don’t understand.”

She shifted a little, settling herself more firmly on the step. “I mostly grew up in a boarding school. When I was young I’d spend my breaks with my grandmother. After she died, every so often I’d get to spend time with my mother, but she traveled a lot, so most holidays and summers I spent with the Andersons.”

“The rest of your mother’s trinity?” he guessed.

“No. They were family friends, but members too—Barton, Elroy, and Victoria. They had three kids. Their house was my house. When my mother disappeared on one of her trips, they took me in.”

“Where was the rest of your mother’s trinity?”

“The Hancocks? They wanted nothing to do with me. They’re well connected and both fair. With my coloring, I couldn’t pass for their kid, so I never spent time with them. I’ve only spoken to them a handful of times. But they were friends with the Andersons.”

“A hard way to grow up.”

“Just wait, it gets worse.” She took a deep breath, let it out. “Do you know anything about BDSM?”

This had taken a rather stranger turn, but he answered her question. “Bondage, Domination, Sadism, and Masochism, but I’m afraid that’s all I know.”

“This is about the domination—about masters and submissives.”

“I’m familiar with the general idea,” he said.

“Really? You don’t seem like the type.”

He cleared his throat, a bit of heat in his cheeks. “I’m not a eunuch.”

He’d thought that would make her smile, but her expression didn’t change.

“When I was sixteen, Elroy started training me to be a submissive.”

Marek frowned. He couldn’t have heard that right. “What do you mean?”

Rose sighed, then winced—the sigh probably hurt her ribs. “I mean exactly what you think I mean. I was home for Christmas, but I was the only one there with them.”

“Where were their children?”

“One was away at college, one was…I don’t remember where he was, and the third was in the hospital, but I’ll get to that.

“The second night I was home, as I was about to go up to bed, Elroy—one of the dads—took me to this spare room I’d never been in before—the house was huge.”

Marek’s chest was getting tight with dread. He started rubbing her upper arm with his hand, offering her comfort long after it would have been helpful.

“He gave me the birds and the bees talk, but not the same one everyone else got. He told me about Dominants and submissives. Explained his theory about how every trinity needs a Dom, a submissive, and a switch. He told me that since we already knew who my trinity would be, I would be trained to be a submissive.”

“You were sixteen?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not even legal… Wait a moment, how did you know who your trinity would be? You were barely more than a child.”

“I was betrothed.”

“Betrothed?” She was probably joking. He wasn’t one for witty banter, and that sometimes led to him playing the straight man for other people’s jokes.

“Trust me, I know how stupid it sounds, but it’s true. I was betrothed. My trinity was decided when I was three or four. It was going to be an internal consolidation of power—three powerful families united by a trinity. The way it was always meant to be.” She waved one hand dramatically, then winced and tucked her arm in against her side. “And, though the Grand Master who arranged the marriage didn’t know this, I was going to be a double agent for the purists.”

“The people you were, er, betrothed to, weren’t purists?”

“I was betrothed to Devon Asher and Juliette Adams.”

It didn’t take him more than a few heartbeats to put it together. “I met Devon, I believe, and Juliette of course. You were going to be married to the Grand Master.”

“Actually, just to the Grand Master’s sister. Juliette’s brother was meant to be Grand Master—but still, being that close to the seat of power would mean the purists could keep getting away with all their bullshit.”

There was a beat of silence, then Rose turned her head and glared. “If you tell me to watch my language I’m going to punch you in the face.”

“Violence isn’t necessary.”

Rose chuckled, and then leaned her head against his shoulder. Marek’s heart flipped over in his chest and his palms started to sweat. Uh-oh.

He cleared his throat once, then again, before saying, “How could these people, who’d essentially raised you, do that to you?”

“Expect me to be a double agent for their terrible cause? That doesn’t even make my top three in the list of terrible things they’ve done.” She was rotating her hands on her wrists, an odd, unsettling gesture, though her head still rested on his shoulder. “Elroy was sure Devon showed all the traits of being a Dom, and Juliette was so stubborn, he decided she’d be a switch. If I was going to be the perfect member of that trinity, I had to be prepared, and he had to start when I was young, because I wasn’t naturally submissive. I wasn’t what anyone would call shy or unsure. I’d been essentially taking care of myself for years.”

That didn’t surprise Marek. Even with what little he’d seen of her, she’d demonstrated herself to be poised and confident.

“When Elroy finished his little speech about how things were going to be, I had no problem telling him he was sick. Tried to storm out of the room.” Her hands stopped moving. She lifted her head from his shoulder and leaned away, speaking in a flat, grave voice, the kind newscasters used when reporting the death toll after a terrorist attack. “He grabbed a paddle, turned me over his knee, yanked down my pants and underwear, and paddled me. There was nothing sexual about it. It was about control. About pain.

“That night, we slept in that spare room—the room where he kept a little stash of toys and equipment. I slept at the foot of the bed, tied up and gagged, wearing all my clothes. I cried. I promised myself that when morning came, I’d go to the police.”

Marek pictured her—a slim teenage version of Rose, with her dark eyes and dark hair, terrified and abused. His hands curled into fists.

“When I woke up, he untied me. I bolted out of there and ran into Victoria. I was freaking out, I told her what had happened. Elroy came into the room and I hid behind her. She screamed at Elroy, but…she wasn’t mad about what he did, but about how he did it. She told Elroy he was traumatizing me. That I’d never be a good sub if I ended up with PTSD.

“I tried to run away a few more times. Once, I even made it to the airport, and when I was there I called my father—Mr. Hancock—and begged him for help. He said he’d call back and hung up. He called Elroy, who came and got me. I was so stunned that I just went with him. Not stunned…heartbroken. Up until then, I still thought my father cared about me. Elroy gave me a phone, told me to call my father, and he told me to obey Elroy and the Andersons, and do exactly what they said.”

Everyone of authority in her life had let her down.

“After a few days of sobbing and pleading, punctuated by beatings, I gave in. I accepted what they said, and I…presented myself to Elroy. On my knees, the way he told me to. In the end, I walked willingly into that room.”

“That wasn’t willing.” Marek’s voice was harder than he’d meant it to be. “Coercion and manipulation are a form of force.”

“I…I know you’re right. I mean intellectually, I know. That I could have kept fighting them, could have done something more. This went on for six months—when I was at their house, I’d go to bed, wait a few hours, then present myself to him in the spare room. It wasn’t sexual at first, but after a month or so, he started raping me too.”

Marek couldn’t stand it any longer. He scooped her up and lifted her onto his lap. He wanted to hold her, protect her.

She was tense, but didn’t protest or push away.

Think about what you just did.

He’d just touched her without permission, handled her as if she were an object rather than a person. Disgusted with himself, he eased her off his lap.

“Rose, I’m so sorry. I meant to comfort you.”

She didn’t react, either to his action or his words. He wasn’t sure what else he could, or should, do or say. There were several moments of silence. Finally, she blew out a long, slow breath and went on with her story, still in that grim, quiet voice.

“Just after I’d turned seventeen, I…we…found out it wasn’t just me.” Those words lingered in the air, cold and heavy. “I’d come home for the summer. I was dreading it, but hadn’t been able to arrange for somewhere else to go. Looking back, I think they made sure I didn’t get accepted at any of the summer programs or jobs I’d applied for. I was at the house alone with them for a week or so before the oldest brother came home.”

A small smile curved her lips. “Here is where I admit that I had a ridiculous crush on him. We’d been…fooling around for years—kid stuff. Kissing, sometimes with tongues, which seemed very scandalous.”

Marek chuckled softly in response to her wry words.

“Saying it was a crush isn’t right. I was stupidly in love with him. I imagined myself as this tragic heroine from literature, in love with one man but promised to marry another. It was all very dramatic.”

“In point of fact, that is very dramatic.”

“I guess so, but once I…once they started training me, I knew I’d never be with him.”

Her voice was weary with old sadness.

“You didn’t tell him?” Marek asked softly.

“Tell him that I was being raped, beaten, and trained by his father?” Her voice dripped scorn. “No. People act like it’s so easy to tell others, but it’s not. Abuse is complicated.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry, Rose.”

“You don’t need to hear this.” She pushed off the steps, keeping her arm wrapped around her ribs.

Marek braced the heels of his hands on the step on either side of his hips, pressing his fingers into the riser of the step below. He felt helpless, and Marek hated that feeling—it was one of the reasons he did what he did. He wanted to help, to fix.

He’d completely mishandled this situation. Mishandled her. He wasn’t entirely to blame. What had seemed like a simple kidnapping recovery mission had turned into something much more. Referring to any kidnapping as simple was perhaps a misnomer, but usually it was a relatively self-contained incident. This was not. Since the time she’d been little more than a child, Rose had been treated as less than. The kidnapping seemed to be just the most recent iteration of that.

“Rose, I’d like to hear the rest. I want to know your story.”

If he was going to save Rose, he had to understand her first.

“No one wants to hear this story.”

“Perhaps ‘want’ is the wrong word. I understand if you’d rather not.”

Rose looked at him, then shook her head. “What is it about you that makes me want to tell you things?”

Marek didn’t reply. He watched her steadily and calmly. He wouldn’t demand, only ask.

Rose started pacing, walking on the outside edges of her feet. “We were in the kitchen and Elroy walked in. He looked at me, frowned, and then pointed down.” Rose’s breathing was just a bit too fast, an unconscious sign of agitation.

Or remembered fear.

“That was the signal to kneel. When Elroy did that, it meant it was time for me to submit. I froze, looked at…looked at the boy I loved… I’ll never forget it. He wasn’t confused—he was surprised. I realized he knew exactly what that gesture meant. He looked at me, and…”

Rose stopped pacing. She stood eerily still—spine straight, shoulders back—staring into middle distance.

“He knew, which meant he was one of them. I slid off the counter and knelt on the floor. That was the worst moment, because he was supposed to be my knight, the brave prince, but he wasn’t.”

Marek hadn’t thought the ball of dread in his stomach or the ache of sorrow in his heart could grow, but they did. With a terrible certainty, he knew that the story of Rose wouldn’t get better.

“I started crying as I took off my clothes. The boy I loved stormed out of the room. He left me there, with him.”

The hand not supporting her ribs was curling and uncurling in an anxious motion. Part of Marek wanted to tell her to stop—for both their sakes.

“Elroy made me bend over the counter, then tied my hands behind my back, looped rope around my throat and tied it so if I tried to stand up and get away, I’d choke myself. Elroy ordered me to be silent, so when the first lash of his cane opened the skin on the back of my thighs, I bit the inside of my cheek so hard it bled. But I was silent.”

Marek now understood why Rose knew the difference between broken and cracked ribs.

“I looked up and saw the boy I loved standing in the doorway. He was watching his father hurt me.

“The third blow broke me. I couldn’t keep quiet. My mouth was full of blood—I’d bitten my lip and cheek. I remember seeing my own blood on the counter when the pain made me start to gag and I spat out all that blood, all over the pristine counter. I begged Elroy’s forgiveness for disobeying, begged for a few minutes to compose myself. The pain made it impossible to think, to behave the way he’d trained me.”

Her words painted a vivid, horrible picture.

“That was when the boy I loved stepped in.”

Marek wanted to cheer. Finally, finally, someone had helped her.

“He told Elroy that since…that since he was the one who’d been offended, it was his right to punish me.”

“I’m so sorry, Rose.” He whispered the words, not wanting to interrupt her, but needing to say them. She kept up her restless, anxious pacing.

“Elroy gave him the cane, but the boy I loved undid the rope. I remembered thinking this was it, we were going to make a break for it, run away.”

Logic told him that wasn’t what happened, that the story didn’t suddenly get a happy ending, but some foolish part of him hoped for that, rooted for Rose and this boy she’d loved to run away and sail off into the sunset.

Her next words were stark. “He spanked me while his father watched.”

Marek shook his head once.

“I was heartbroken that he hadn’t come to rescue me. Embarrassed that he’d seen me naked, that he knew what his father had done to me. Enraged with him for doing this to me. He was my friend, my family, the person who, in my fantasies, saved me from the hell I was living.”

“I’m sorry for what you suffered, Rose.”

“It gets worse. Or better. Depending on your point of view. Because the spanking didn’t actually hurt. It sounded worse than it was.”

Marek was ready to cheer again. “He was pretending?”

“Yes—playing along. As soon as the spanking was over, he ordered me to his room. I wasn’t sure, so I behaved like the obedient thing they’d made me into. I was scared I’d been wrong, that he really was just like his father.

“But he wasn’t. When he came, he held me, and I felt safe. He told me that they’d trained him too—nothing like what I experienced, but he’d had the same birds and the bees lecture. But he’d just shrugged it off.

“He wanted to run away that night.” She shook her head. “He was older than I was, but he was naive, because he didn’t realize we couldn’t run. We were trapped.”

“Why?”

“Do you remember I said there were three siblings? And one was in the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“The youngest, Tabitha, was sick. A rare degenerative disease. We loved her; we all loved her. She’s one of those people. And they told me that if I told anyone about them, about the purists, or if I tried to run away again, they’d hurt Tabby—that’s what we called her.”

“They’d hurt their own child?”

“Tabby didn’t matter to them. No one talks about it, but members of the Trinity Masters are all able-bodied, healthy, and smart. Legacy kids who aren’t all of those things don’t get admitted.” Rose’s lip curled in disgust. “Tabby would never be a member, so all she was good for was leverage over us.”

“What happened to your boyfriend?”

“He was stubborn. Noble. He insisted he’d find a way to save us. He stayed until his brother came home for the summer. Then he left, to go find a way to save us. And then he disappeared.”

Marek grimaced.

“We knew—the other brother and I—that Elroy had killed him. There was a fire at an apartment they owned. That’s where they kept their mistress. In the fire, they found two bodies. A man and a woman. The mistress and the boy I loved.”

The death of hope was a horrible, soul-crushing thing for anyone to experience. “I’m very sorry.”

Rose started pacing again. “The brother, who was my age, he had been trained as a Dominant too. He decided to protect me. He took me to Elroy and collared me.”

“Collared?”

“He claimed me as his property.” She spat the last word as if it were bitter.

“He was pretending, like his brother had,” Marek concluded.

“No…” Rose shook her head. “Caden wasn’t pretending.”

“Caden?” It hadn’t escaped his notice that she hadn’t said the name of the brother she referred to as “the boy I loved.” Names had power, and speaking the name of a loved one who was lost was often difficult, and sometimes impossible. Marek frowned as pieces fell into place. “The ‘friend’ who was killed?”

“Yes. Caden has owned me since we were seventeen.”

“Owned you, that’s—”

“Accurate. What it is, is accurate. He collared me, but he was serious. He was a Dom. He treated me like his submissive. I don’t think he knew any other way to be. As long as I was his, his father mostly stayed away from me. Instead, we both danced on Elroy’s strings, running around gathering information, protecting the purists’ secrets.”

“Because they would still hurt the sister, Tabby?”

“Yes.” Rose closed her eyes and tipped her head back, as if she were letting sunlight kiss her face. But they were underground. There was no sunlight.

“What about your betrothal?”

“Ah, that’s where fate intervened. The Grand Master had to step down, and Juliette unexpectedly became Grand Master. The first thing she did was dissolve the betrothal.” Rose opened her eyes and smirked. “Of course, Juliette married Devon in the end. Elroy and Barton were not happy. For a moment, they thought that they might have a double agent actually bound to the Grand Master. But Devon and Juliette were in love, and had been for years.”

“And you?”

“They didn’t love me. How could they? They didn’t know me, and I’m not capable of loving anyone, and I’m sure they felt that.” She licked her lips. “Deep down, they must have known how…how messed up I was.”

Marek stared at her, sickened by her story of abuse, loss, and manipulation.

“It’s understandable that when Caden was killed, you wanted revenge. He protected you, loved you.”

“Loved me? He said he loved me. But I don’t think he really knew what that meant.” A single tear slid down her cheek.

She returned to the step, and Marek wrapped an arm around her and let her cry quietly against his shoulder.

Chapter Nine

Several hours passed before she stopped making soft, heartbreaking noises. Marek had wiped away a few tears of his own during that time.

And he’d had time to think. And make some decisions.

It was going to be all about the timing now.

She coughed, and it was a dry sound. He released her gently and grabbed his untouched soda, sticking a fresh straw in it and giving it to her. She swallowed greedily, then passed it to him. He took a few mouthfuls himself, then set it down where she could drink it.

Rose seemed composed. Her breathing was even, her voice steady. “They say talking is cathartic.”

He crouched in front of her so he could more easily see her face. “Is it?”

“I think so.”

“I’m glad.”

She tossed her hair. Some strands of hair still clung to her wet cheeks. She swiped at them in irritation. He reached up a hand. “May I?”

She stilled. “Yes.”

He carefully peeled the strands of hair from her cheeks and tucked them behind her ears.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” she whispered. “Something I’ve never told anyone.”

Marek didn’t reply. He’d seen heartbreak and suffering, and there were millions, if not billions of people on the planet whose lives were filled with pain. But those people were numbers, statistics—a vague yet massive suffering he could do nothing about. Rose was right here, strangely elegant despite her bloody and torn clothing. Yet he could see how fragile she was, like a chipped and worn ballerina figurine trapped in a music box, battered and damaged, but still she would rise up and dance when the box was opened and music played.

There was a reason he did what he did—he knew he could help on the individual level, save one person at a time.

He would save Rose.

“I never loved Caden.”

That took him by surprise. “You didn’t?”

“No. Because he wasn’t pretending to own me, dominate me. When he collared me, he meant it. He was kinder than Elroy was. He taught me that there could be pleasure mixed in with the pain. But he still owned me.” Her voice thickened with tears. “And I could never forgive him for that. Could never forgive him for not being his brother.”

She swallowed, her throat visibly working. “Part of me hated him, but he was all I had. And now he’s gone.”

Rose stood and paced to the wall and turned. She must have moved too fast because she winced. He needed to do something about her rib before she turned the crack into a break. Marek pushed up off the step.

Rose looked past him up the stairs.

“The brother, the boy I loved? The one who died?”

Marek had a suspicion what she was about to say.

“His name was Weston.” She met Marek’s gaze. “Wes.”

He froze, then turned to look at the top of the steps.

“And,” she said, “he’s not dead.”

Weston curled his hands into fists. The urge to put his fist through a wall was making the muscles of his biceps twitch. He’d lost half a day. He couldn’t afford to lose time like that.

Marek Lee was a complication he didn’t have time for.

And he’d had to leave Rose down there with him. Damn it.

After her reaction this morning, he wouldn’t put her back in the little makeshift room under the stairs where she’d been the last few days. The only other place to keep anyone was the cellar. He’d stayed outside the door when he first put them in there, then set up a listening device at the door before heading out to get food. She hadn’t eaten in days, and he’d been anxious to make sure she ate something.

He heard bits of murmured conversation—enough to know Marek wasn’t strangling her. Then he’d reluctantly gone to his computer to do some damage control.

He’d shot out a few queries, trying to get more information about this Lee person.

He hadn’t gotten anything back yet.

He was so close to having what he needed, but the situation was getting more fucked by the moment. First his brother was murdered, then Rose went nuts and started shooting people and blowing stuff up. Now he had this Marek guy to deal with. He had to get to Dorset. He knew the proof he needed was there—he could feel it.

Weston stared at the door to the cellar, frustrated and worried. As far as he was concerned, Marek was the enemy—he’d been sent by the Grand Master, who wanted Rose’s head on a plate. Marek seemed to have no idea what was really going on—that he’d be taking Rose back to face the judge-and-jury-less justice of the Trinity Masters.

In the morning, he and Rose were going to Dorset.

He had no clue what he was going to do with Marek.

Lorelei Madden picked up a cell phone, looked at the display, and then tapped a few keys on her laptop. The call was coming to one of her less-secure phone numbers.

A second later, the system spit out an identification for the caller, who had used a low-level rerouting procedure.

Standard operating practice for members of the Masters’ Admiralty.

“Madden,” she answered.

“Find my grandson.”

She’d known who was calling, but she still winced. “Ms. Dell.”

“It’s Dame Dell, and don’t you forget it,” the older woman snapped.

Lorelei straighten her spine. She would never admit it, but she idolized Jane Dell. She was no-nonsense, shoot first and almost universally feared—just the way Lorelei wanted to be.

“My grandson,” Jane repeated.

“He’s missing?” When it came to members or their relations, something like this had to be treated like a crisis, because it usually was. “Where was he last seen?” Lorelei laid her fingers on the keys, prepared to take notes.

“I know where he is. Go get him.”

As much as she admired Jane Dell, the woman could be a bit, er, ornery. If her grandson hadn’t come ’round for tea, he was hardly “missing.” Lorelei pursed her lips.

“Dame Dell, I cannot send out agents simply because—”

“You can and you will. He called me this morning. He was on a case.”

“In England?” Lorelei asked coldly.

“He was looking for an American girl who’d been kidnapped. He had a description of the kidnapper. My old biddy network got a line on him. In Sussex, of all the godforsaken places.”

“I’m from Sussex.”

“Well, don’t go around blurting that out, girl.”

Lorelei glared at her office wall. “What are you asking for?”

“I gave him that information this morning. I know my grandson. He would have done recon, then collected a team to do an extraction. He would have called that in. The boy’s manners are flawless, despite my best efforts. It’s been nine hours since I gave him that information. Recon does not take nine hours. It can’t, in Sussex.”

She had a point. “I’ll check into it.”

“You’ll do something about it, or I will.”

“I cannot make—”

The old woman had already hung up. Lorelei glared at the phone. She turned to her computer and quickly read through the log of that day’s reports from in and around Sussex. One was flagged for further review and possible action needed. Usually that meant tipping off the police to something their network had been able to spot that the police never would.

She pinged the phone of the asset who’d sent in the report. A moment later, her phone rang. She answered without saying anything.

“Ms. Madden? It’s James Shepherd.”

“Mr. Shepherd.” Lorelei waited for him to get to the point. He had to know why she was calling. She found unnecessary conversation to be a waste of time, and disliked small talk—and after that conversation with Jane Dell, she was more irritated than usual.

“My report was about a disturbance at Hilltop Cottage.”

“What sort of disturbance?”

“There was a man standing on the lawn holding a large gun threatening to shoot two people.”

Lorelei’s lips thinned. She tapped a few more keys, pulling up a highly encrypted program. Even she, with her excellent memory, had to keep notes. At any one time, she was overseeing a dozen crises, projects, and investigations. She opened the file called “Hilltop Cottage” and refreshed her memory.

Mr. Shepherd knew better than to fill the line with chatter and annoy her.

Her eyes narrowed as she skimmed her terse notes, written in a shorthand code only she could read.

“Thank you,” she said.

Mr. Shepherd may have said something—goodbye or other such niceties that Lorelei found unnecessary—but she’d already ended the call, and immediately started dialing again.

The phone rang twice before it was answered. “Knight.”

“Tristan.” It was an acknowledgment of his identity more than a greeting. Lorelei didn’t bother to identify herself.

“Hello, Lore—”

“You need to control your American.”

A beat of silence.

“Is there a problem?” Knight’s tone remained cool, almost bored.

“He was spotted threatening two people with a gun, in broad daylight. He’s your responsibility.”

“Bloody fuck,” Tristan muttered.

“And he may have taken an asset of ours.”

“Bloody fucking wanker. I’ll take care of it.”

Lorelei grunted in satisfaction when the line went dead. It was a pleasure dealing with other people who didn’t waste time.

She made a mental note to follow up on the situation with their American refugee in a few hours. She looked at the clock. Or in the morning.

Lorelei stood, stretched, and headed for her bedroom, where she changed into pajamas and got into bed with her computer. Work never stopped. She put the situation in Sussex out of her mind until the morning. Until then, there were other, far more serious issues to be addressed.

Wes angled his body as he came down the stairs so his good, left side descended first. After all these years, he’d gotten used to having only one eye. He was, quite literally, blind on his right side, so though he was right-handed, he’d learned to lead with his left side. He still had to shoot with his right hand, so he held the bag of dinner in his left, leaving his other hand free to grab the handgun tucked into the back of his waistband.

It was full night, long past dinner, and the food had grown cold by the time he’d gotten back from the only take-away in a twenty-mile radius that was open this late, but he’d done the best he could. It had been hours since he’d brought them fish and chips, and he wanted to make sure Rose ate again.

Marek stood at the bottom of the stairs, wearing only an undershirt.

What the fuck? Why had he gotten undressed?

Rose had one arm across her middle. Her pants were shredded from ankle to above the knee. Both the remains of the pants and her shirt were dirty and wrinkled. Her hair was mussed, her shoulders bowed.

Yet, she was beautiful. She always had been, and she always would be.

He stopped a few steps up from the bottom and slid his right hand back, looking between Rose and Marek.

“Rose, are you okay?”

She sighed and turned away from the steps. “What do you think, Weston?” Her voice was a bit scratchy.

What the hell had Marek done to her?

“Come here, Rose.” The words were tense and harsh from fear. Goddamn it, had he locked her down here with a monster?

Rose jumped as if she’d been shocked. She put her weight on the balls of her bare feet and turned in a smooth, almost poetic motion. Her hair swung forward to brush her right cheek as she lowered her chin.

Marek stepped between them, facing Weston. “You shouldn’t speak to her that way.” His hands were on his hips, his body blocking Rose’s path.

Weston pulled the gun and pointed it at Marek. “Move.”

Marek met his gaze. The other man had dark eyes and a handsome face that boasted the best features from several ethnicities. No missing eyes, no badly healed bones or melted skin. Marek looked like a hero—good-looking, calm, apparently bulletproof.

Weston had once imagined himself as the hero. Her hero.

“Rose, take three steps to your right.” That would put her out of the line of fire, and keep her in his field of vision.

Rose turned and took three precise steps to the right. Marek turned to watch her. His jaw clenched. “You shouldn’t speak to her that way.”

Weston came down another step, keeping the gun trained on Marek’s center body mass. Marek held his ground. Weston came down another step, tossed the bag of food off to the side so it wouldn’t be in the way. He wanted to maintain the distance between them. His bad leg and missing eye made him weak in hand to hand. Hence the gun.

“Take a step back, Mr. Lee.” Weston let his frustration and anger deepen his voice.

Rose made a soft sound of distress…

…and dropped to her knees.

Weston grimaced. Shit, he hadn’t meant for her to react like that, but it probably made sense. After all, she’d been in a devoted D/s relationship with his brother. Caden must have known how to touch her, master her, without scaring her the way he had. A lifetime of D/s probably made her sensitive to commands.

When he’d first run across information about Rose being a member of Las Palmas, an exclusive BDSM club in L.A., he’d been shocked, sure it was a mistake. But the evidence was all there. Rose was…had been…Caden’s submissive. Her introduction to the lifestyle had been horrific, but for his brother, she’d embraced it.

“Fine,” he muttered, irritated and a little heartsick. “Rose,” he commanded, deepening his voice. Elroy had called it “Dom voice” but in reality, the deep-voiced tone of command was taught and used by law enforcement and the military, too. “Stand up, come here.”

She started to rise, first positioning her feet so her toes were braced against the floor, then using only her leg muscles to rise. She wavered, as if she were having trouble maintaining her balance.

Marek raced over to her.

Weston cursed, sliding his finger from the trigger guard onto the trigger, but Marek had moved fast. He was too close to Rose for Weston to risk taking the shot.

Marek slid between them, presenting Weston with his back. He cupped Rose’s elbows and help her rise.

“Rose,” Marek’s voice was soft. Weston could barely hear him. “You don’t have to obey him. I want you to take a deep breath, and, when you’re ready, open your eyes. No one owns you. No one controls you.”

Weston’s hand started to shake with rage. Who the fuck did this guy think he was?

“Rose—”

Marek turned, took two massive, loping strides, and smashed into Weston.

It was a full-body tackle. Marek’s shoulder plowed into his chest. Weston’s back hit the wood railing of the stairs. It held for a moment, but then their combined weight buckled the old wooden structure. Weston felt himself start to fall. If he went down under Marek, he’d be in trouble. He twisted his upper body as he fell, taking the hit on his left shoulder with a teeth-rattling thud. Marek landed beside him, which gave him a fighting chance.

“Wesley.” Marek used his alias, then corrected himself. “Weston, I will not allow you to—”

Weston punched him in the solar plexus.

Marek must have seen it coming, because the muscles of his abdomen were tensed when Weston’s fist connected. Instead of knocking the wind out of the other man, Weston’s blow only cause a momentary pause before Marek recovered and rolled away, popping to his feet with a practiced motion that made Weston’s right knee say “Hahaha, yeah, I can’t do that.”

“Stop.” Rose’s voice was soft—it trembled a little. But something in her tone made him freeze. He rolled onto his back.

Rose held his gun, and her finger was on the trigger.

She pointed it at Marek’s chest. Weston clambered to his feet, grinned. Damn, his girl was as brave and badass as any of them.

Then she swung the gun to point it at him.

She ran away from you, dumbass. And she’s not the girl you fell in love with. A lifetime has passed since then.

The gun swung back to Marek, who raised his hands. When the muzzle pointed his way, Weston did the same.

“I could shoot both of you.” She inhaled and then exhaled slowly. The trembling vanished and the soft, formal, head-bent submissive posture melted away. “Bang. Bang. With both of you dead, I’d be free. No one would have any idea where I was.”

Marek cleared his throat. “Perhaps it would be better to discuss—”

“Discuss what? What are my options?” She stepped onto the first stair, toeing bits of broken railing off the step. They clattered against the floor. “I go with you,” the gun swiveled to Marek, “and Juliette has me interrogated and then quietly executed.”

She took another step up.

“I go with you—” The gun swung to Weston.

He stiffened and interrupted her. He didn’t want to know how she’d end that sentence. “And you get answers,” he told her. “We’ll take them down. Come with me, Rose.”

Rose shook her head, took another step. “Does it matter anymore? Tabby is safe.”

“We’ll avenge Caden.”

The gun started to tremble, and Weston was more than a little worried she’d pull the trigger by accident. “Avenge him? I went nuts when he was shot, but now I realize—what’s the point? He won’t be any less dead. Tabby’s safe. There’s no one left to protect.”

“Yourself,” Marek said quietly. “You need to protect yourself. Running won’t do that.”

Weston wished he could see Marek, but the other man was on his right.

“You think I don’t know that? I told you how many times I tried to run. They’ll find me eventually.” Rose took another two steps up, crouching slightly so she could still see them. She was more than halfway up the stairs at this point. If she bolted up, she might be able to make it to the top, and close and lock the door before either of them could catch her.

And damn it he’d just lumped himself in with Marek, as if they were on the same side.

Rose looked between them, and for a moment he thought he saw something on her face, a sort of surprised longing. Then she shook her head.

“But maybe, just maybe, I’ll be free for a little while.”

With that, Rose stood, her upper body disappearing out of sight. Her bare feet slapped against one step, then another.

Weston jumped forward, his shoulder bumping Marek’s as they raced for the stairs.

Rose gasped—and the sound of her footsteps stopped.

He and Marek both pulled up short. He could see her feet and ankles, watched as she once more did a slow pivot on the ball of one bare foot, wincing as she moved. Rose reversed direction and took a step down, moving slowly and deliberately. Her thighs, hips, and waist came into view. Her hands were empty. She no longer held the gun.

Behind her, a second figure was coming down, boots hitting each tread with a sure thump.

Rose’s chest, shoulders, and neck appeared. A thin, gleaming sword was pressed against her throat.

What the hell?

Weston and Marek retreated a few steps as Rose and her unknown assailant came down the stairs. Weston turned so he could see both the stairs and Marek. Marek looked calm and steady, facing the stairs head on, his eyes tracking the sword, but his knees were slightly bent, his weight shifted to one leg—he was poised to leap forward.

Marek caught Weston’s gaze. Weston took a deliberate step to the side, so he was at a right angle to Marek, and slightly closer to the stairs than the other man was. If Marek made a move on the unknown assailant, Weston was in a position to try to grab Rose and yank her out of harm’s way.

She took another step, and now he could see her face. Rose’s chin was tipped up, her eyes round with surprise. She didn’t look frightened, and Weston breathed out, calming himself. He didn’t think he’d be able to make smart decisions if she looked scared, or had been hurt.

He switched his attention to the man behind her. The sword across her neck was held away from her skin, and didn’t waver even as he took another step down, until he stood one stair up from Rose.

Weston saw the man’s face—and his shoulders slumped.

The man was blond, with slightly mussed hair and a day’s worth of blond beard. His eyes were golden brown. The hair, eyes, and slight tan—which no person who lived in England came by naturally— gave him an overall golden appearance, like a gritty Apollo.

Weston knew him.

Damn it all to hell.

The Masters’ Admiralty was here, and shit had officially hit the fan.

Chapter Ten

“Anderson,” said the man holding the sword.

Rose held very still, not wanting to accidentally slit her own throat. The man had been careful not to touch the blade to her skin.

It was turning into quite an interesting day. Kidnapped, botched escape attempt, botched rescue attempt, imprisoned in a basement, and now a second failed escape leading to being held at sword point.

She was starting to feel like the token female character in an action movie. It wasn’t a nice feeling.

Wes looked past her at the man. “Knight. Can I ask what you’re doing here?”

There was a pause, then she heard the man sigh. “For fuck sake, Anderson, you had one job.” The man’s accent had slipped a little, from crisp upper-class British to something a bit more guttural, so it came out, “Fuh fuhck sahk.”

“Give me a week and I’ll be out of your hair for good,” Wes promised.

“You don’t have a week, mate.” The man behind her moved a tiny amount, probably just shifting his weight. Whatever it was he’d done, Marek now switched his gaze from Weston to the newcomer. What had Wes called him? Knight.

“Mr. Lee,” Knight said. “I was sent here to find you and help you.”

Wes whirled on Marek. “You’re with the Admiralty?”

Marek shook his head. “No, I’m not.”

“Your family asked that we locate and aid you,” Knight said carefully.

Marek sighed. “My grandmother can be rather aggressive.”

Knight snorted.

Rose’s irritation started to bubble up. She forced it down. There was clearly a lot going on here she didn’t understand—most confusingly of which, both Wes and Marek seemed to know Knight. But Marek and Wes didn’t know each other. Or was that some elaborate lie?

“Where’d you get the gun, Wes?” Knight asked

“I’m going to plead the fifth.”

“And if we were in America you could do that. But we’re not.”

“Fair enough.”

“So where’d you get them?”

“I’m not going to answer that.”

“Damn it, Anderson. You were seen with a very large gun you should not possess. I can’t overlook that.”

Wes stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t help you anymore.”

“I never asked for your help,” Wes said with a bit of a growl in his voice.

“No, but you asked for protection, and that’s the same bloody thing.”

Marek put his hands on his hips in his Superman pose and looked at Wes. “You’re under the protection of the Admiralty?”

“Asylum,” Wes ground out. “They gave me asylum and protection.”

Rose tried, she really did, to stay silent, but she was damned sick and tired of this. She was tired, not the kind of tired that required sleep. The kind of tired where she felt like she needed a new life.

“Excuse me,” she said in a silky smooth voice. Both Wes and Marek looked a bit alarmed. Good. “I know it’s bad manners for the token damsel in distress slash pawn to speak, but I’m afraid my patience has run out.”

She turned around to face the man on the stairs. “Slit my throat or get out of my way.”

He was an attractive man, and the set of his shoulders and jaw lent him an air of command that, in another place and time, she might have had trouble ignoring. Gold eyes met hers. He moved the sword away from her neck, then slipped it into a sheath at his waist. Who the fuck carried a sword?

“Ma’am, I’m sorry to have threatened you. It was necessary in order for me to control and assess the situation.”

“It appears you won’t be slitting my throat, so get out of my way.” Rose put her foot between his on the step, her knee between his legs. It wouldn’t take much for her to lift her knee into his balls, which would drop him straight down.

Knight stared down at her, apparently unconcerned by her planned ball crushing. Maybe he thought she wouldn’t do it?

“Move, Mr. Knight.” She said it quietly, in that same smooth, almost beguiling voice.

A line formed between his eyebrows. “Ma’am, I need you to take a step back. Once I’ve finished assessing the situation, I will release you if that’s the appro—”

Rose kneed him in the balls.

He shifted his hips at the last minute, so the inside of his thigh took the brunt of the blow, but her knee still slid up, jamming into his genitals.

Behind her, Wes and Marek both sucked in air through their teeth.

As Knight bent forward, Rose shoved his waist, pushing him to the side. He would have tumbled off the steps if one hand hadn’t come up, bracing against the stairwell opening above them. She didn’t wait for him to recover, but stepped over the stair he was on, sliding past his body and racing up the stairs.

Knight turned and caught one of the trailing tatters that had at one point been the lower half of her pants. She teetered on the edge of a step, but managed to grab one of the stairs above with both hands, kicking at his hand with one foot. His other hand started to close around her ankle, and Rose yanked her knee forward. Her pants ripped and cool air washed over her thigh.

“Don’t touch her,” Wes snarled.

The grip on her pants released and she raced up the last few stairs. Rose slammed the door closed and turned the key in the lock before yanking the key out. It wouldn’t take them long to get through, not with Knight’s sword, never mind the gun she’d briefly possessed.

She raced for the front door. Marek’s car was there. She skidded on the gravel, pain in her feet making her toes curl and calf muscles throb.

Rose tore at the door handle and jumped into the driver’s seat, which turned out to be the front passenger seat. She cursed and scrambled over the armrest to the driver’s seat. The key, with the large plastic tag indicative of a rental car, was in the ignition.

Rose jammed her banged-up foot on the clutch, threw it into reverse, and turned the key.

Gravel spat up from under her tires as she forced the car in a tight circle, the gears grinding as she sloppily changed from reverse to first. She got it pointed down that long gravel drive. The view from the top of the hill was glorious—the moon and stars startlingly bright. She hadn’t stopped to savor it before, but now, with one foot on the brake, the other on the clutch, she looked out over those low rolling hills, painted silver by the moon.

Places like this were as foreign to her as the dark side of the moon. This was a place where families lived for generations, or where people from London came to retire. It wasn’t a place without secrets—everywhere and everyone had secrets—but it was a place where those secrets weren’t demons, eating away at a person’s insides, killing them a little more with each day, with each breath they took.

She’d told Marek and Wes that she could run and be happy for a while. Eventually someone—the Andersons, Juliette and Devon, or Marek—would find her. But if she ran now, she’d have a bit of freedom. Maybe only weeks, but maybe a year or more.

She could go…where?

Do what?

Rose felt empty inside, as if she were an egg that had its inside blown out, leaving only the terribly vulnerable, thin shell.

Since that night when she was a teenage, her life had been about protecting Tabby, subversively thwarting the Andersons and the other purists, and her fucked-up relationship with Caden.

Tabby was safe. Caden was dead. Wes was poised to take down the purists.

She wasn’t free, she was purposeless.

Looking out over the rolling green countryside, Rose realized she had no idea where she’d go if she did run, and running would be hard bordering on impossible. She didn’t even have shoes, let alone ID or money.

She could do it. Over the years, she and Caden had learned quite a few less than reputable skills, and she wasn’t a half bad cat burglar.

She could do it.

But why?

Rose looked down the hill, then at the gearshift. For a moment, she considered putting it in neutral and just letting the car go. The car would pick up enough momentum on the downhill driveway to cause some sort of catastrophic collision. Maybe everyone would think it was an accident.

She slammed her foot on the parking brake and rested her head on the steering wheel. Strangely, despite how utterly fucked up her life was, Rose wasn’t suicidal.

The key was cold against her fingers when she turned it, shutting the car off. Rose leaned back from the steering wheel, taking one last look at the view laid out before her in the silvery light of the moon.

She opened the car door.

Marek and Wes waited five feet away. She’d known someone was there, had felt the pressure of their attention.

“Rose?” Marek asked.

“I’m not going to run.”

“I’m sorry,” Wes said.

“I don’t think I can walk across this gravel barefoot one more time.”

Marek and Weston both stepped forward. Marek put a hand on Wes’s shoulder. “I’m going to carry her.”

“Like hell you are.”

“I think, before you lay your hands on her again, there are some things the two of you need to discuss.”

Weston looked from Marek to Rose and back again. “What are you talking about?”

Marek slipped past Weston and crouched beside the open door. “May I carry you?”

“Yes,” Rose whispered, and for some stupid reason she felt a tad bit embarrassed, or maybe shy.

Marek slid one arm under her knees and the other around her back. Rose wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held on as he lifted her out of the car.

Weston watched them with a haunted expression.

“Shall we go inside?” Marek asked.

Weston nodded his head woodenly.

They all turned to the door, but Knight stepped out from the shadows of the doorway. “You’re going to come with me.”

Weston sighed. “Damn it, Knight, I can explain, but I don’t have a lot of time.”

“No, you don’t, Wes. You have twelve hours to convince me you aren’t a threat to us, and assuming you do convince me, you have three days to leave the country.”

“What? Damn it, Tristan.”

Knight lifted his hands. He held a gun in each. “You abused our hospitality.” Knight shook his head. “What the bloody fuck were you planning?”

Rose watched the muscle in Weston’s jaw clench, and she tensed.

“I’m here, Rose,” Marek murmured.

“I wasn’t planning anything,” Weston said. “And I’m close to having what I need. Give me twenty-four hours to get it.”

“If you can convince me not to have you dragged out of the country within the next twelve hours, you’ll have seventy-two hours to vacate the country. That’s more than enough.”

“Fine, just let me get my stuff.”

“No, Anderson. We’re going to my car, now.”

Weston’s expression went blank and hard.

“All of us?” Marek asked calmly.

“Yes, Mr. Lee. Once I know more about what exactly is going on, I’ll let you go.”

“I stay with Rose.”

Knight raised one golden eyebrow at that. “If you insist.”

“I do.”

“I’m parked on the road.”

For the second time that day, Rose went down the hill, though this time it wasn’t at a breakneck run but in Marek’s arms. She offered to walk on the grass, but he insisted on carrying her. Once they went through the little gate at the end of the drive, they could see a large black SUV, which was hidden from the house by a tall hedge. It leaned precariously toward the ditch, but was pulled far enough off the road that another car could have passed by if it needed to.

Knight tucked a gun through the belt that held the sheath to his sword, and tugged keys out of his pocket. Weston opened the door and Marek placed Rose inside. She climbed into the third row of seats. Marek got in and started to join her, but she raised a hand and he stopped, instead sitting in one of the captain’s chairs in the middle row. Weston took the other.

Without another word, Knight climbed in, messing with his belt for a moment before tucking the sword into an odd pocket on his door.

Rose leaned forward between the middle-row seats. “Does he have a special sword holder where there should be a cup holder?”

Weston snorted and Marek’s teeth flashed as he smiled. There was a little bubble of something in Rose’s chest, a feeling she didn’t recognize.

Knight adjusted the rearview mirror. Rose leaned back and crossed her arms.

“Where are you taking us?” Marek asked.

Knight didn’t answer.

“Oh good, I’m getting kidnapped again. What a refreshing change,” Rose said.

Weston pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead and Marek chuckled as Knight started the car and pulled onto the little lane.

Rose tried to stop herself, but she turned to look out the back window, at the little cottage in the country. Their little cottage.

They took the M3 in toward London. Marek looked out the window long enough to be sure he knew where they were headed, then shifted in his seat so he could see both Weston and Rose.

He looked at Weston, trying to see the young man Rose had described. It seemed likely that the physical damage—the eye, the weaker right leg—were related to what had happened to them when they were teenagers.

The piece of the story he was missing was how Rose had come to be with Weston now, though Marek thought he knew the answer to that, and why she’d been running from Weston when Marek got there. Weston had mentioned that she’d get answers if she stayed, and in that moment, he’d seen something in the other man’s face that made Marek think Weston still had feelings, strong feelings, for Rose.

But then he’d deliberately used a harsh tone of command with her, forcing her to respond with habits that had been quite literally beaten into her. That might be why she’d been running when he first got there. And if it hadn’t been for that glimpse of longing and heartbreak he’d seen on Weston’s face, he wouldn’t have questioned the situation further, but after that glimpse of raw, aching emotion, Marek was sure there were things he didn’t yet understand.

Despite the late hour, there was traffic on the M3, and it was nearly forty-five minutes before Knight got off the motorway. Marek saw a sign for Hampton Court Palace. That meant they were near Kingston upon Thames, which wasn’t far outside London. It was far enough out that the underground wouldn’t run there, but the London buses might.

Marek worked though several plans, fleshing them out from start to finish, making contingencies at each possible point of divergence. It was a habit he’d cultivated through the years. Anyone in the armed forces would tell you that a plan usually goes to hell about thirty seconds into engagement, but remaining calm and knowing what to do when it went to hell made all the difference.

He went over each plan twice, as Knight navigated through the winding streets, the river on their right, the expansive green of the lands around Hampton Court Palace on their left. They pulled up outside a large set of iron gates built into a stone wall. Beyond the gates, the palace was artistically lit. The moonlight provided just enough illumination to hint at the colors in the expansive gardens. Knight pulled up to a small keypad and typed in some numbers. Marek leaned close to the window and saw when the light on the cameras mounted above the gate went out. Then one side of the gate swung open and they pulled through, into the Hampton Court Palace grounds.

Rose leaned forward. “Where are we?”

“Hampton Court Palace,” Marek replied. “This was Henry the Eighth’s palace.”

“The one with all the wives?”

“The very same.”

“Fun guy,” Weston murmured. Rose snorted out a laugh.

There was something between Weston and Rose. A rapport.

“I’m going to assume there are dungeons?” Rose sighed. “I would hate to not be held captive. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

Though the words were biting, her tone was wry. Weston laughed abruptly, as if it had been startled out of him.

“I very much doubt we’re going to be locked in the dungeons of Hampton Court,” Marek said.

“Really? Well, that’s disappointing.” Rose put her elbow on her bare knee, her chin on her fist. “I was hoping to add a bit of historical melodrama to it all.”

“I’m taking you to Oak House.” Knight turned off the headlights once they were past the palace, which was illuminated by elegant landscape lighting.

Marek rolled down the window to let the night air in. There was the sound of the river and, farther away, the sound of cars on the motorway. The air was scented by nature—lavender, roses, cut grass.

They took a paved road that bisected the park, and Marek understood why Knight had the lights off—it kept anyone in the surrounding area from noting a car driving through Hampton Court Home Park. They passed a small building with carts and mowers parked outside—the background areas that kept the palace functioning as a historical site and made the gardens the envy and destination of every gardener in southern England. They pulled up to black metal gates in a tall stone wall.

Knight rolled up Marek’s window as he started to brake, then locked the windows so Marek couldn’t roll it down again.

“I wasn’t going to jump out, Knight,” Marek assured him.

“Only crazy people would jump out of a moving car,” Rose quipped from the backseat.

Again, Knight pulled up to a keypad. The metal gates, these made of solid sheets of painted metal, not decorative iron, opened.

Knight turned right out of the gate, pulling onto a normal public road. If Marek remembered correctly, there was a public road that bisected Hampton Court’s surrounding grounds. The area was so big that not allowing traffic through the grounds would have crippled the surrounding villages and created mad gridlock.

On either side of the road were tall stone walls, the tops of a few buildings visible above them. They were on the road for no more than fifty meters before Knight turned left, onto a short drive that stopped at yet another black metal gate, set into the brick wall opposite the one they’d just passed through. The building beyond it was tall, tall enough that he could see the upper part of second-story windows—old fashioned narrow things with white-painted frames—in a stone face, with a black slate roof. There was a wrought iron pedestrian gate a few yards from the driveway gate. A plaque was set into the brick wall beside it, though from this angle, Marek couldn’t read it.

Knight keyed in another code and this gate swung open. It was only just wide enough to let the big car pass through. They drove past the two-story brick house, parking between the back door and the small garage building, which had clearly been a stable in its first iteration.

Knight unlocked the doors. “Climb out, everyone.”

Marek opened his door and got out, turning to offer his hand to Rose. She ignored it, stepping out onto the paved drive and looking around. Large trees cast the drive and one side of the house in shadow. A small rose garden dominated the space behind the house and to the side of the stable, stretching to a low iron fence, beyond which there was manicured grass and stately old trees.

Weston moved slowly, keeping one hand on the car.

“You can put your hand on my shoulder,” Knight said softly.

“Fuck you, Tristan,” Weston murmured.

“Don’t be such a wanker,” Knight muttered.

That was another mystery Marek needed to get to the bottom of.

The golden-haired man wasn’t just named Tristan “Knight,” he was a knight. A knight of the Masters’ Admiralty was a formidable person, and not to be crossed lightly, but Weston was talking to him as if…as if they were friends.

Knight took Weston’s elbow, as if he were escorting a prisoner, and started toward the back door of the house.

“Is it his eye?” Rose asked quietly.

“What’s that?” Marek replied.

“He…he only has one eye. Does that make it hard for him to see when it’s dark?” There was definite concern in her voice.

“I’m not sure. If that’s the case, then Knight knows him well.”

They continued walking, but they weren’t hurrying to keep up. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Do you have the faintest fucking idea what’s going on?” Her tone was casual, almost light, but threaded with a rueful note.

He grinned and waved for her to proceed him. “An idea, but no more than that. Perhaps we can have a cup of tea and a chat.”

Rose halted, looked down at herself, and Marek took stock of her appearance too—her mangled pants, her bare feet. “Of course. A cup of tea.”

By that time, Weston and Tristan Knight were inside, and light spilling out the back door guided them along the flagstones set into the earth, soft moss growing up between them. Marek and Rose hurried now, and two steps up brought them to the door. They stepped through into a narrow hall, dark paneled wainscoting on the bottom half with white-painted walls above. The place smelled of wax and slightly stale air. On the right, there was a partially open door showing a toilet tucked into the space under the stairs, which were steeper than modern-day staircases. Tristan and Weston were waiting for them, standing near the front door. Light came from three sconces along the hall.

“Upstairs,” Tristan said, motioning with one hand. His sword was back on his belt.

“Where are we?” Marek asked.

“A safe house.”

Weston whirled on Tristan. “Give me an hour to explain and then I have to go.”

“I can’t let you leave.”

“Damn it, Tristan!”

“No, damn you. You’ve abused my hospitality.”

“No, I haven’t.”

Tristan braced the heel of his hand on his sword and Marek took a step forward, standing at Weston’s back. He felt protective of the other man. Maybe it was because of what Rose had told him. Marek laid a hand on Weston’s shoulder to let him know he was there.

Weston stiffened, and then relaxed.

“We’re going to talk in the morning,” Tristan insisted. “Upstairs, there’s a bedroom and a bathroom. I’m fairly certain your female companion would like to shower.”

“I’m moving up in the world,” Rose said caustically. “I’m no longer a token pawn—”

Marek was close enough to see and feel Weston flinch at her words.

“—now I’m a convenient excuse for you to get them to do what you want them to do. I have an idea, Blondie, why don’t you ask what my name is?” Rose’s voice was acidic.

Marek expected Tristan to react, but he only shifted to face her. “I don’t need to ask who you are. I recognize you.”

Rose stiffened as Tristan went on.

“You’re Rose Hancock, the woman he’s stupidly in love with. You’re the reason he’s here, being a pain in my arse, trying to find a way to ‘free’ you from those Trinity Masters morons.”

“Shut up, Knight,” Weston whispered.

Tristan stared Rose down. “I’ve seen your picture. It’s the bloody wallpaper on his phone. A pint or two in and he’ll go on and on about you. You’re the reason he kept bouncing around looking at different cottages, until we finally found ‘your’ cottage.”

Rose made a soft sound, her gaze on Weston. His shoulders were hunched. As if to protect himself from a blow.

“You’re an asshole, Knight.” Weston’s words were rough and gravelly.

Tristan didn’t answer. He looked over each of them in turn, his golden eyes piercing, like that of a cat.

Weston grabbed the railing of the stairs with one hand, pulling himself forward. He started pounding up the stairs. Rose glanced at Marek, then she headed up.

“There may be spare clothes in the wardrobe,” Knight said to her retreating back. In response, she raised one hand, her middle finger extended as she climbed.

Marek looked at Tristan. “May I borrow your phone?”

Knight fished it out. “I hope you’re calling your grandmother.”

Marek nodded and dialed. He spoke to his grandmother for a minute before hanging up and passing the phone back.

“Why are you here, Lee?” Tristan asked.

“The leader of the Trinity Masters asked me to help find Rose.”

“And Weston?”

“No.” He could have said more. Could have told Tristan that the Trinity Masters didn’t know Wes was alive. He could have told him about the purists, about the precarious position the Trinity Masters were in, how fractured their organization seemed to be.

But he owed no loyalty to the Masters’ Admiralty. His job was saving Rose.

Tristan sighed. “There’s a spare room down here. Back that way, second door on the left. I’ll sleep in the parlor.”

“There’s only one room upstairs?” Marek asked.

“Yes.” Tristan paused before saying slowly, “This is one of the honeymoon cottages, not really a safe house, though it has enough security to be one.”

Marek’s eyes widened, then he nodded. The Masters’ Admiralty had various cottages, condos, country estates, and hotel suites that were permanently reserved. When a new trinity was formed, they had their choice of private, secure destinations. He only knew about it because they were also offered to trinities who hit major anniversary milestones. His grandparents had a rather spectacular argument about where they’d go for their fiftieth anniversary. It had included his grandmother listing the places she couldn’t go because “I murdered someone in that godforsaken town. He needed killing.”

If it was a honeymoon suite then there was probably only one bedroom, and one extra-large bed.

“I’m going upstairs.” Marek nodded to Tristan and started up.

“What are they to you?” Tristan asked.

“Only time will tell,” Marek replied, and the comment surprised even him.

He heard Tristan’s footsteps as he walked away, leaving Marek to make his way upstairs to confront Rose and Weston.

Chapter Eleven

There was a small landing at the top of the stairs with a window. Heavy fabric blinds were drawn. Light came from a small, elegant lamp sitting on an equally elegant side table. Immediately to the left at the top of the stairs was a lovely carved door. A small hall ran along the right side; the railing that protected the hall from the opening of the stairwell was made of glossy dark wood. There were three doors off the hall.

Rose looked around at the four possible doors, shrugged, and tried the one closest to the top of the stairs. It was pitch dark beyond until her groping hand found a switch on the wall.

The room was large, taking up nearly half of the footprint of the house. Pale green walls with crisp white trim were complemented by Oriental rugs in colors of gold and moss green atop the worn but still lovely hardwood floor. It was dominated by a bed.

A massive bed. It was probably nine feet square. The duvet cover was pale gray shot with silver threads. A massive headboard and footboard, both of dark wood, had posts that stretched nearly to the ceiling. A couch and two wide, low armchairs made up an elegant seating area near the door.

Silver sconces with white glass shades were evenly spaced along the wall, illuminating the room.

Rose stared at the big bed for a moment, then practically leapt back and pulled the door closed. She turned her back to the room, a sinking feeling weighing down her stomach.

At the foot of the stairs, there was the quiet murmur of voices as Marek and Tristan talked. Weston was nowhere in sight.

Tentatively, she went to the first door in the hall, knocking once before opening it.

It was a narrow sitting room, roughly a third of the size of the remaining upstairs square footage. There was a fireplace in one wall, and leather tufted furniture—couch, chaise, armchair. A soft white blanket was thrown casually over the back of the couch, inviting someone to sit down and tuck the blanket over their legs. A small cart in the corner held a discreet single-serve coffee machine and a kettle for tea. In front of the windows was a small square table, one side pushed against the wall, chairs pulled up to each of the remaining three sides.

She closed that door and went to the next—opening it to find a room-sized closet. At this size, it should probably be called a dressing room instead of a closet. One wall was lined with clothes bars, built-in drawers, and slanted shelves for shoes. The other wall had a vanity, complete with a mirror surrounded by round-bulb lights and a small chair. Beside the vanity were three dressers. A long, narrow padded bench was placed in the center of the room, the perfect place to sit to put on a pair of shoes.

She stepped back, closing the door, belatedly realizing that she should have poked around to see if there was anything she could wear. But something about the room unnerved her.

Something about the whole place unnerved her. And maybe even scared her.

The final door opened and Weston appeared. Behind him she could see a massive, elegant bathroom. He met her gaze briefly, then looked away, only his left eye moving. Silence hung heavy and awkward between them.

You’re Rose Hancock, the woman he is stupidly in love with.

Not that he was in love with. Tristan had used the present tense.

I’ve seen your picture. It’s the bloody wallpaper on his phone.

Rose started to say something, but stopped. The half-formed sound was enough to make him meet her gaze.

You’re the reason he kept bouncing around looking at different cottages, until we finally found ‘your’ cottage.

“The cottage?” she asked quietly.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know what it was. We’ve been over this.”

“Why, Wes?”

“I don’t need your pity,” he said.

Marek’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. Rose’s back was to the staircase, so she couldn’t see him, but she heard his steps stop, felt the pressure of his gaze.

“It’s late,” Marek said quietly. “Perhaps we should get some sleep.”

“There’s only one bed,” Rose replied, not turning.

“This house is set up for trinities.”

“We’re not a trinity,” Weston said. “Who are you, Lee?”

Marek was silent for a moment, as if crafting his words before he spoke. “I am technically a legacy to the Trinity Masters.”

Rose turned until she could see both men.

“Technically?” Wes asked.

“My mother’s parents, my grandparents, were members. My mother declined her membership.”

“Why?” Weston’s voice was colored with suspicion.

“Because she fell in love. She chose to marry for love, rather than accept the trinity marriage.”

Rose tried to make a derisive sound, but it came out weak—more a sound of longing than derision.

“I am also a legacy to the Masters’ Admiralty.”

At that, Weston’s head snapped up. Rose’s shoulder muscles tensed into hard knots, more in response to Weston’s reaction than to Marek’s words.

“My father’s parents are members of the Admiralty. He too declined his membership and chose to marry for love.”

“Tristan mentioned your grandmother.” Weston’s voice was quiet. “I thought it was some sort of code.”

“No.” Marek flashed smile. “He means my grandmother. When I was trying to find you, I reached out to my grandmother for help. She called contacts in Sussex.”

“I was careful. Covered our tracks.”

Marek inclined his head to Weston. “You did. But an American who has one bad eye is distinctive. People in the area remember you.”

Weston clenched his teeth, speaking through them. “All that work, for nothing.”

“Not for nothing,” Marek insisted, but he didn’t elaborate further.

When the silence stretched on, Rose decided it was time to get some answers. “What is the Masters’ Admiralty?”

Marek looked at her. “It’s late, why don’t we each shower? I’ll check with Tristan to see if there’s any food in the house.”

“You’re acting like this is a vacation,” Weston snapped. “We’re prisoners.”

“Really? Not even a hint of irony as you say that?” Rose replied with the same snapping irritation that had been present in Weston’s words.

Weston hung his head, rubbing his good eye with the heel on his left hand. “I was so close,” he murmured.

“Perhaps we should talk first,” Marek said. “It’s late, but I have a feeling no one will rest easy until we talk.”

Rose looked at Marek. He was strong, handsome, somehow noble.

In comparison, she was covered in filth, tainted by years spent obeying the purists. Years of feeling her soul and heart first wither, then dry to husks, then flake off, leaving her hollow inside.

And Weston was…dedicated. He’d spent years preparing, working behind the curtain and in the shadows.

If this were a western, Marek would be the new sheriff in town, clean and well groomed, with a white hat, and his spurs would sparkle in the sunlight. Weston would be the dusty, battered gun slinger who rode into town just as everything was going to hell, his once white hat gone gray, with a black band, his morals murky at best. And she’d be the jaded, haggard hooker, too-red lips pulled up in a sneer.

“Whose side are you on, Marek?” Weston asked.

“I’m not on anyone’s side.” He relaxed his posture, resting one hand on the post at the top of the stairs. “I’m here to save Rose. And, if what Tristan said is—”

“Tristan is an ass,” Weston cut in sharply.

Rose flinched, her body reacting to the words almost as fast as her mind processed them.

Weston must have seen her move, because he took a half step forward. “Rose, I’m…”

“You’re what, Weston?” She meant it as a snarl, a challenge, but the words came out pleading.

He took another half step. “It’s okay, Brown Eyes.”

“No.” She slashed her hand through the air. “It’s not okay. It hasn’t been ‘okay’ in a long fucking time.”

“You’re going to hyperventilate,” he said.

He’d said that before, when she first woke up. Had that been only this morning? Yesterday? She flashed back to that heartbreaking moment of realization. That he was alive. That he’d been alive.

And that he hadn’t come for her.

She retreated until her back hit the wall. It felt like she was choking. The effort of holding back words that wouldn’t help, that wouldn’t matter, was strangling her.

Warm, sure hands cupped hers. Rose tore her gaze from Weston to look at Marek.

“Rose, if you’d like, I’ll start the shower for you and look for some clothes.”

There was nothing she could do about the trembling that shook her so hard her teeth nearly chattered. “Why are you being kind to me?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Weston loomed over Marek’s shoulder. “She’s grieving, leave her alone.”

Marek frowned, still facing Rose. He met her gaze, trying to communicate something with his eyes. Rose wasn’t sure what it was, but Marek turned to Weston. They were all standing too closely together for it to be casual. Weston and Marek faced each other, their shoulders barely a foot away from her chest.

Rose relaxed. It took her a moment to figure out why she was relaxed. Having them so close to her should have either fucked with her head enough to make her respond as a submissive or frightened her. She had good reason and real-life experience that taught her that might makes right.

But she relaxed. She relaxed because she felt safe.

“Grieving?” Marek asked.

“Yes,” Weston ground out. “The man she loved died.”

“The man she loved?”

Weston’s eye flicked to her then back to Marek. “He’s only been gone a week.”

But I never loved Caden.

“How do you know she loved him?”

“I was…keeping an eye on her. And him, Caden, the guy she loved.”

“But you love her, too?” Marek’s question was quiet but firm. No hint of pity in his voice.

Weston’s eyelids slid down, covering both his remaining good eye and his false one.

“He doesn’t love me.” Rose’s words were strangled. Though she’d relaxed, her throat felt rough, as if holding back her earlier words had actually damaged her esophagus.

“Don’t,” Weston snarled. His chest heaved once, twice. When he spoke again, his voice was thick. “You let me hold you.”

“Because I needed to pretend.” She wanted to cry, felt the need to cry, but there were no tears left in her.

“Pretend what?” Weston asked.

“That everything would be okay, but it won’t be. I never will be.” The hooker died tragically as motivation for the sheriff. That’s all she was, a bit part, a secondary character in so many others’ stories.

“Then why didn’t you run?” Marek asked softly.

“Because I have nowhere to go. I have nothing. I am nothing.”

Rose’s words made Marek’s chest hurt. These two were so broken, so wounded, and, he suspected, so utterly ignorant of how the other one felt.

He was going to fix it. Fix them.

He felt…loyal to them. As if they were his. Ridiculous though it may be, that was how he felt. Protect others—that was his life’s work. He’d always done that in the most literal sense. But these two—they needed protection not from external sources, but from their own demons, and in some ways, from each other. Staying close to Rose was a good excuse for coming upstairs rather than taking the downstairs bed Tristan had offered, but it wasn’t the only reason. He wanted to be close to them, wanted to be near them.

Rose’s words hung in the air, and Weston’s face crumpled with pain.

“No, Brown Eyes, don’t say that. I’m sorry he’s dead, but don’t—”

She bolted. Weston reached out to stop her, but Marek grabbed his arm, preventing him from touching her. Marek expected him to pull away, maybe even throw a punch. But instead Weston dropped his arm, his head slowly bowing forward—a man defeated. A man lost.

A man with a broken heart.

Marek was now sure that Rose and Weston were both operating with incorrect information. Maybe he was too much a romantic, seeing them as star-crossed lovers when they were really two damaged people whose pasts would drag them down and drown them.

Marek softened his hold on Weston’s arm and tugged the other man toward him, acting on instinct. The touch was light, an invitation more than a command.

To Marek’s surprise, Weston turned into him, grabbing Marek in a fierce—no, desperate—hug. Marek felt the roughness of the other man’s stubbled cheek against his jaw and neck. Weston’s hands fisted the thin fabric of the undershirt Marek wore, and he felt the warmth of tears against his shoulder.

Marek returned the embrace, wrapping his arms around Weston’s back, hugging him firmly, but not too tight. Marek’s heart thumped harder than it had a moment ago. Pain radiated off Weston, and in that moment, Marek wanted nothing more to comfort the other man, not just with words, but with his body.

“I’ve got you,” Marek whispered. “I’m here.”

Weston’s shaking subsided, his hands loosening their hold on Marek’s shirt. But he didn’t let go.

Chapter Twelve

She scrubbed her skin until she no longer felt gritty and sticky, then let hot water beat against her head and shoulders. The water made her literal road rash burn, but she simply grimaced and stayed under the water. There was no soap or shampoo in the shower, so she had to settle for the hot water, and then finger-comb her wet hair when she got out. The towel was massive and fluffy, decadent after days of discomfort.

The bathroom was tiled in white marble with pale gray veins. The tiling continued halfway up the wall, and above that was wallpaper with a muted dove-gray on pearl floral pattern. The overall effect was bright, airy, and elegant.

Rose stared at herself in the mirror over the sink. Her hair was naturally straight, but without a brush it looked tousled even when wet. There were dark bruise-colored circles under her eyes. She dropped the towel and stepped back, examining her naked body.

She had a love-hate relationship with her body. Not due to her physical appearance, but because so often her body had been used against her—her female anatomy a chief reason why she’d been treated the way she had. But it was her body, the home her battered mind and soul inhabited. She was not looking her best—the days she’d slept at the cottage were like a forgotten dream, but her body showed her that they had been all too real. Her collarbones stuck out a bit more than they should, and her skin was dry—both symptoms of having not eaten much. She needed lotion, a brush, and a razor in the worst way.

When she’d first come into the bathroom she’d yanked open the top drawers of the elegant wood basin that supported the marble counter. Now she made a more thorough investigation. In the back of the under-the-sink cupboard, behind a square container of cleaning supplies, she found a small toiletry bag, apparently lost and forgotten. In it were travel bottles of shampoo and conditioner, a collapsible brush, a small zippered box of makeup, a razor, perfume, lotion, tampons, and a nail clipper.

Rose turned to the large tub and started it filling with water. Hoping the hot water would hold out, she jumped back into the shower even as the tub filled, wetted her hair, and gave it a thorough scrub with shampoo and then conditioner. She got out of the shower for the second time, combed out her hair then put it up in a towel before sliding into the steaming water of the tub. She settled back into the warm water and focused on relaxing her muscle groups one at a time, starting with her toes and working her way up. When she reached her shoulders, she had to fight to release the tension she’d stored there before moving on to her neck, and then up again to her jaw muscles.

It was a technique she’d used time and again to keep herself calm and focused. Once the relaxation portion was done, she focused on her current situation.

Marek had been right about one thing. They needed to talk. All three of them. It was time to call it and put the cards on the table. But to do that meant trusting them, both of them.

She picked up the razor and, lacking shaving cream, used a bit of lotion along with the hot water to carefully shave any of the non-abraded skin on her legs.

She’d told Marek more than she’d told anyone in a long time. In the past, there had been nights when it was all too much. When she thought she’d choke on the emotions and memories. Usually when she needed an outlet, she chose strangers, and hoped they thought she was lying. Without knowing about the Trinity Masters, her stories made less sense. In essence, the time to decide to trust Marek had passed—because she did trust him.

And Weston…

Tristan had said Weston still loved her, but then Weston had basically denied it.

And then Weston told Marek that she was grieving the man she loved. Maybe she’d been wrong to think Weston was different than his brother. If what had been between Caden and herself was what Weston thought of as love, then he’d ended up just as screwed up as Caden had been.

Out of habit, she shaved her whole leg, right up to the hip, and then carefully removed all the hair from her sex, arching her hips out of the water to do it.

Losing the image of Weston as the boy who’d loved her, really loved her, not wanted to own or control her, was a terrible blow. When she’d felt like nothing more than an object, a pawn, she’d reminded herself that Weston had loved her.

It was her grandmother—her mother’s mother—who had taught her what love was. Grammy hadn’t known anything about the Trinity Masters, so when Rose’s mother had come home pregnant, and then said only that the father was named John Hancock and wouldn’t be involved in Rose’s life, Grammy had stepped in.

Those first years had been wonderful. Grammy’s house was small, the outside yellow, and almost all of the rooms inside painted a shade of blue. Grammy had helped Rose paint her room a sky-blue color above the chair rail, and grass green below. Then they’d spent many idle hours drawing or painting birds and flowers and clouds and sticking them to the walls with the museum putty her mother seemed to always leave lying around during her infrequent visits. Grammy had been religious—not terribly devout, but rather committed to being a good person. She’d done Christianity right, focusing on the parts of the religion that preached tolerance and kindness. Sitting cross-legged in front of her grandmother’s chair, eyes closed as she got her hair brushed, Rose listened to her grandmother repeat what Rose had thought was a poem her grandmother made up, but had in fact been snippets of 1 Corinthians interspersed with her own wisdom.

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love is hard work. Love is accepting people for who they are, my sweet Rose.”

That love, love the way her grandmother had described, was not what she’d had with Caden. That kind of love wasn’t something she’d ever have now. Grammy had loved her. Without Grammy, Rose wouldn’t have even the faintest idea what love was.

In her darkest moments, she’d reassured herself that if Weston had lived, he would have loved her like that. Reassured herself that she did deserve to be loved that way.

But that wasn’t true, and maybe that was why she felt so lost right now. Caden was gone, Tabby was safe.

Weston was alive, and hadn’t loved her enough to come back for her.

The water was cold. Rose stood and drained the bath, then toweled off yet again. She propped her leg on the counter and smoothed lotion from knee to toes on the unhurt skin. Her ribs ached, but it was a dull feeling. Tucking the towel around herself, Rose lifted her chin, mentally gathering her defenses, and went in search of clothes and the men.

Twelve years of work, and in the final days it had all gone to shit. Weston stared at the fire Marek was methodically and expertly lighting. There was food spread out on the coffee table—brought up by Marek—and a cup of tea in his hand—placed there by Marek.

Both the food and tea were untouched, but the warm mug felt nice.

Tabby was safe—he couldn’t let himself forget that. As fucked up as the last few weeks had been, that was the one unambiguously good thing that had happened. After all, of any of them, Tabby was the one with the least choice.

That thought made him wince. Addressing the issue of Tabby’s lack of choice implied that Caden and Rose had made choices that had led to the events of the past weeks—which they had. By extension, that could lead to the implication that it was their choices, and not the machinations of his parents, that had led to Caden’s death.

Maybe that was true on some level, but Weston intended to lay the blame for all of it at the feet of his parents and the other purists.

To do that, he needed proof, and there was no way he was going to get that while Tristan kept him under observation here. Damn it, he needed to get to Dorset. He hung his head and stared at the tea.

Marek stopped poking the fire and returned to the couch, sitting beside Weston.

Weston was aware of the other man in a way that unsettled him. Marek was an unknown factor at best, and an enemy at worst. He was an agent of the Grand Master.

Yet, he felt something for Marek. He’d accepted a cup of tea, and, if his stomach hadn’t been in knots, he would have eaten the food Marek had brought up. Weston trusted Marek. He’d wept on his shoulder.

The memory made Weston wince in embarrassment and he turned his head away, so Marek couldn’t see his flushed cheeks.

The door opened, a bare hint of sound, following by a small draft of cold air from the hall.

Beside him, Marek made a startled noise. Weston had to turn completely, sliding one knee onto the couch in order to see the door.

Rose stood in the doorway wearing a long white dress. For a moment, her stillness combined with the light—the firelight flickered over her body, but the light from the hall backlit her head and shoulders, hiding her face—made her seem unreal. She was, in that moment, every beautiful ghost from every tragic tale of death and suffering. An ethereal figure in white, too lovely to be mortal, radiating sadness, tragic loneliness, and a sort of quiet menace.

Marek rose to his feet. “Rose. You look lovely. Would you like a cup of tea?”

Marek’s body blocked his view, so Weston assumed she nodded, since Marek walked over to the tea cart. Rose came to stand in front of the fire, hands outstretched.

The light from the flames rendered the white gown completely sheer. He looked away, but not before the image of her lovely body had been burned into his memory.

Marek brought over her tea, and Rose took a seat in the armchair closest to Marek’s end of the couch. The softer feelings he’d developed for Marek faded.

Rose held her tea, but like Weston, she didn’t drink.

Marek’s head swiveled as he looked at first Rose, then Weston, and back again.

He cleared his throat. “I’m not a relationship expert by any means, but I do know that the two of you need to talk, before we can move on to the problem at hand.”

Rose brought her cup to her mouth, touching the rim to her bottom lip, but didn’t sip. She held that pose then lowered the mug, balancing it on one knee. “I’m done talking about my past.”

“And after what you told me, I can respect that,” Marek replied.

That surprised Weston. She’d talked to him? What had she told him? He looked at her, frowning.

Rose raised her chin, as if daring him to reprimand her. But the cup trembled in her hands.

“I think,” Marek said in his firm, reasonable voice, “that you are each operating under a misapprehension about the other.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Instead of answering directly, Marek asked, “Weston, is what Tristan said true? Are you in love with Rose?”

Weston clenched his jaw. Damn it, he didn’t want to be this pathetic. He didn’t want to be the half-blind cripple nursing a decade-long case of unrequited love. He felt like fucking Quasimodo pining for Esmeralda.

“Of course he isn’t,” Rose said in that same wry tone she’d been using all day. “He’s spent the last twelve years fighting the purists, and I am one. He probably hates me.”

“For fuck’s sake, Rose. I don’t hate you. And I know you’re not like them.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Why are you being like this? They forced you and Caden to work with them by threatening Tabby.” He snorted. “And I know exactly how dangerous they can be.” He gestured to his missing right eye.

“How were you injured?” Marek asked.

Weston gave him a brief run down, leaving out the part about the apartment belonging to his parents’ mistress. He didn’t like to dwell on that night, so he kept the description short.

“Wait,” Rose said. Her tone had lost some of the wry, almost mocking quality. “Who got you out? You didn’t tell me.”

“Members of the Masters’ Admiralty. In particular, Tristan. Before he died, Grandfather Prosser—Victoria’s father—got a bit senile, and when I would go visit, he’d tell me stories about the other secret society. The Trinity Masters’ counterpart in England. He told me they were larger, older, and more powerful than the Trinity Masters. He told me to beware, and never trust anyone from England.”

Marek let out a chuckle.

Weston looked at him coldly. “He was serious.”

Marek stopped. “Oh.” He picked up a small cheese knife and cut a wedge from a small wheel of brie. “How did you find someone in the Admiralty to contact?”

“Research,” Weston said. “I went back to school and accessed WorldCat. I started with the name. That brought me to Lord Admiral Nelson.”

“Who was famously in a trinity,” Rose said.

“Exactly. I followed his family tree, then that of the other two in his trinity, William and Emma Hamilton.”

“Even if you found a member to contact, they wouldn’t have given you any information.”

Weston stared into the flames of the fire. “I begged. I told them…” He had to stop and decide if he was going to lay the whole truth bare, or if he’d protect his heart, protect the naïve boy he’d been. “I told them that my younger brother, younger sister, and…and girlfriend were all being held hostage. That I didn’t know who to trust in the Trinity Masters, and didn’t have anywhere to turn for help.”

“You mentioned the Trinity Masters by name?” Marek asked.

Weston nodded. “I think that’s what got their attention.”

“If you told them all that, why didn’t they do something?”

“They wouldn’t,” Marek said quietly. “America belongs to the Trinity Masters. They cannot operate within in the United States.”

“Since no one seems to even know they exist, how would they get caught?” Rose demanded, looking at Marek.

Marek looked at him. Weston sighed. “They didn’t know that—I mean, the Admiralty didn’t know that the Trinity Masters didn’t know. At least the Admiralty didn’t until I told them. I traded them information about the Trinity Masters, including their ignorance of the Admiralty in exchange for money, a new identity complete with a British passport, and some advice. I flew to London, met with the Security Minister, and then came home. I confronted the Andersons and, well, you can see how that ended.

“The part I didn’t tell you was that I didn’t fly home alone. Two people came with me. One of them was Tristan. He and I hung out a bit when I was in London. I think he was supposed to be keeping tabs on me, but we went out drinking, stuff like that.” Weston shrugged. “He and the other guy had followed me to the apartment. They saw the fire, saw me trying to crawl away. They got me out.”

“Where did they take you?”

“Initially? Canada. Then London.”

“You said you were in a coma?” Rose said quietly.

“I was, for a while. Medically induced because of the burns. Then even when I woke up, I was in bad shape. Burns, broken bones. Muscle atrophy from the coma. I had a hard time dealing with losing my eye. I spent a lot of time in physical therapy. I was useless for nearly a year.”

“You could have called, texted, anything,” Rose said quietly.

When Weston didn’t answer, Marek did. He cleared his throat. “If I understand correctly, you two were romantically involved before Weston was hurt.”

Weston was surprised Rose had told the other man that, but nodded. She did the same.

“His mission was to save you. You and Caden and Tabby.” Marek spoke with deliberation. “He couldn’t do that in the condition he was in.”

Weston’s shoulders sagged. It was a relief to hear someone else say it. As if the fact that Marek had reasoned it out validated what he’d done.

“So what?” Rose spat, leaping to her feet. “You decided to wait until you were all healed, then you’d suddenly appear again?”

“There was nothing I could do when I was recovering.”

“You could have told me you were alive.”

“What good would that have done?”

Rose stared at him. “Fuck you, Wes.”

“What do you want me to say?” he demanded, pushing to his feet. “I tried to get us out, and I failed. I failed spectacularly.”

“It’s not about that. It’s not about that at all!”

“Then what is it about?”

“I loved you.” Rose’s breath trembled, her hand clenched at her sides, and her eyes sparkled with emotion. “I loved you. You died and suddenly there was no hope. I had to mourn you in secret.” She licked her lips. “I would dream you were still alive and wake up sobbing.”

“Knowing I was alive wouldn’t have helped.”

“If you believe that then you’re an even bigger fool than I thought.”

“Damn it, Rose! By the time I was functional enough to even begin to think about calling you, nearly a year had passed.”

Rose didn’t reply. She turned to look at the fire, and he realized that her dress wasn’t really a dress, it was probably lingerie, meant to show off a woman’s body and entice. He forced his attention from Rose to Marek.

“Why didn’t you call?” Marek asked in measured tones.

“She was…she was safe. She was with my brother.”

Rose whirled but didn’t speak.

“You mean she was in a relationship with your brother,” Marek supplied.

Weston nodded.

“Is one of the reasons you didn’t reach out because the girl you loved was now with someone else? Because she loved someone else?”

Damn it. He could ignore the question, or he could tell the truth.

“Yes.”

Rose sucked in a breath.

“It was stupid. Immature.” Weston didn’t look at her as he admitted that. “But when I was able to track down information about you, get a PI to take some photos, I realized that you were with Caden. That…that hurt. Then once you turned eighteen and joined a BDSM club with him…” Weston had to swallow to get the words out. She deserved the truth, in no small part because Caden was gone. “I realized that you were safe with him, happy with him. You didn’t want to be…be my submissive, and I didn’t want to be your Dom, but you were able to submit for Caden. And I knew Caden would protect you from our parents, so I decided to focus on a long-term solution. I drove myself night and day to find a way to get Tabby away from them, and figure out what they were hiding.”

One of the logs on the fire cracked, and a little puff of sparks rose up. When the last spark winked out, Weston let out the breath he’d been holding. He sat down.

“So that’s it,” he said. “You were right, I should have told you I was alive. I could have kept doing what I was doing even if you knew. But you’d moved on, and I didn’t want to get in the way of that.”

“And your heart was broken,” Marek said.

Weston flinched, then nodded.

“And,” Marek continued, “you’ve never really stopped loving Rose. Even though she was with someone else.”

“Damn you,” Weston whispered, so low only Marek could hear the words. “What do you want?”

“It’s not what I want that matters,” Marek replied in an equally quiet voice. “You’re hiding from one another. Hiding from the truth.”

“You must think I’m a coward,” Weston said. That stung, even though it shouldn’t matter what Marek thought.

“No. Not at all.” Marek raised his voice, once more speaking so Rose could hear. “You never stopped loving Rose, even now, did you?”

“No, no, I didn’t.” Weston stared into the full teacup he still held, then set it down on the table.

Rose made a strangled sound.

Weston didn’t look up. He figured she’d respond with either pity or derision, and both prospects were soul-crushingly horrible.

Marek laid a hand on his shoulder. Weston didn’t turn. Marek was on his right and he would have had to turn a full ninety degrees to see him out of his good eye, and he just didn’t feel like moving that much. Now that he’d admitted to it all, he felt small and stupid—as if everything he’d done since that fateful day was worthless. No, not worthless—inadequate.

He’d always imagined that one day he’d ride to the rescue, crushing the purists with one well-coordinated stroke, while simultaneously pulling Tabby to safety and freeing Caden and Rose from nearly lifelong servitude.

“Would you ever have told me…told us?” Rose’s voice was scratchy.

“No,” he admitted. “I hadn’t planned on it. I hoped I could dismantle the whole thing without letting you know. I’d planned to tell my parents that they had to keep my name out of it. I had even planned to anonymously give some of the non-critical information I’d found over the years to the Grand Master, as long as he offered you and Caden a chance to leave the Trinity Masters with no repercussions. Then you and Caden could go on and have a normal life.”

“A normal life?” Her voice was slightly higher than usual. “A normal life?”

“Rose,” Marek said. “You need to tell him the truth. He’s been truthful with you. It’s your turn.”

“I’m not going to tell him—”

“Please, Rose. Now that you know what he thinks was going on, he deserves to know what really happened after he was hurt and evacuated to London.”

Weston’s head snapped up and he looked at Marek. “What happened?”

Marek watched Rose for a moment. She’d turned to face the fire, her back to them, her body once more visible through the white dress. Marek shifted his attention to Weston.

“When we were in the basement, she told me a story. A story about two young people being systematically manipulated and tortured.”

Weston’s hands clenched into fists. “What? What happened? What don’t I know?”

Marek didn’t reply, but instead looked at Rose.

Weston got to his feet and went to stand beside Rose, looking down at the fire. He stood on her right so he could see her out of the corner of his left eye.

“When I woke up, in the closet in the cottage, you seemed angry,” she said. “Why?”

“I’m sorry. There were, are, too many things going on.”

“But later you held me. Let me cry.”

Weston closed his eyes, the light from the fire filtering through his lids. “I let myself forget.”

“Forget what?”

“That you were grieving. That you’d just lost Caden. That…that you weren’t the girl who said she loved me. Forget that a lifetime had passed since then.”

“You were trying to keep your distance,” she murmured. “That’s why you sounded angry.”

Weston didn’t reply. It didn’t seem like he needed to. And his throat was tight with embarrassment and remorse.

Now that Caden was dead, it was easy to see that he should have reached out to them. It wasn’t fair of him not to have contacted them just because he was heartbroken. They deserved to know that his parents hadn’t actually succeeded in killing him.

Rose made that same odd sound. He hunched his shoulders, bracing himself for the laughing or cursing he was sure was coming.

Instead, a gasping sob escaped her lips, and Rose reached out to brace both hands on the mantel.

“Rose?” Weston started to reach for her, then stopped, unsure if he should.

She didn’t reply for a moment, then pushed off from the mantel, turning to face him. Weston mirrored the pose. Marek stood, knees slightly bent, hands relaxed at his side as if he was ready to jump in and break them up.

Rose took a slow breath, then started to speak. “When you…when Elroy made me kneel for you, you took over the punishment and tried to lessen it. You didn’t think of me as a submissive. I was still…still Rose.”

Thinking back on that night made him feel ill. He didn’t say anything, simply waited for her to go on.

“We went back to the room and you took care of me. Gave me something for the pain.”

His voice was thick with regret. “I was the one who hurt you.”

“No. Elroy hurt me. You gave me hope. We made plans to escape. To get away so we could be normal.” She raised her gaze to his. “After you disappeared, they did the same thing with Caden—made me act like a submissive in front of him. But Caden didn’t react the same way you did.”

Weston’s stomach started to knot.

“Caden took the cane and finished the punishment,” she said.

Weston shook his head. “He probably didn’t realize he could—”

“Wes, I never loved him.”

He froze in shock.

“God help me,” she went on. “But I could never love him.”

“What?”

“Caden protected me by collaring me. It wasn’t a ruse. It wasn’t a game. He owned me.”

Weston’s whole body flushed cold with shock. “No, no.”

“Since before I graduated high school, I’ve been his submissive. His slave, even if he never used the word. Caden believed in the lifestyle. When he spoke, I obeyed or I was punished. We went to clubs, we did scenes, because that’s what Caden wanted. And when he wasn’t fucking me in public, using me as a prop while he demonstrated the correct technique for a whip, or maintaining my training, we were running around the country doing whatever your parents wanted, because it was the only thing we could do to protect Tabby.”

Tears tracked down Rose’s face.

“Caden told me he loved me every day. And I never once said it back. I couldn’t. Because I didn’t love him, and never could.”

“Rose, Rose…” This couldn’t be.

“I never could because he treated me the same way they did.” Her chest rose and fell with a shuddering breath. “And because I never stopped loving you. One of my ways of escaping the pain was to daydream. I’d imagine that you hadn’t died. That you’d come back for me. That I’d be free, and safe, and loved.” Her voice broke. “And no one would hurt me anymore.”

Weston couldn’t stand it—he dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead against her thighs. He wanted to grab her and hug her, but he wouldn’t do that—he wouldn’t restrain or constrict her. Not after what she’d just told him.

He pictured Rose the way she had been that horrible night in the kitchen—terrified, ashamed, trembling with fear. He remembered the way she’d bitten down on her cheek so hard she spat blood over the counter when she’d started begging for mercy. And then he imagined Caden taking up the cane rather than freeing her. How hopeless, and powerless, she must have felt.

“I’m so sorry, so sorry.” He ground out the words. “Sorry I didn’t know. Sorry I didn’t come back. Sorry I— Oh God, I used bondage cuffs on you.” He’d thought he was so smart, picking something she’d be comfortable with and that wouldn’t raise any red flags if his internet purchases were being tracked. Instead he’d been tapping into a lifetime of fear and abuse. “I thought that would be easier for you. Familiar. I thought you were upset because it was me, not Caden, using them.”

“It’s too late now,” Rose said quietly. “I am what they made me. You saw it—when I hear an order, I obey. Like a whipped dog who responds to commands.”

“I would never, never have spoken to you that way if I’d known.” Weston dared to tip his face up.

She was looking down at him. Her eyes were luminous, her face pale.

“I never stopped loving you,” he said.

“I’m not that girl anymore. She died, the same day you did.”

Weston sat back on his heels, bowed his head, and started to weep, for the second time today. Before now, he hadn’t shed a tear in years.

“And now you know my secret,” she said. “I never loved Caden, but he was…he was all I had. I went numb when he died, and losing him hurts. But it doesn’t feel the same way it did when I lost you.”

Weston wiped his face and looked up. “I’ll…no, we’ll stop them.”

Rose shook her head. “I can’t face them. Elroy and Barton continued to use me up until about seven years ago.”

He’d thought it couldn’t get worse. Foolish. It could always get worse. “But, but Caden…”

“They used me to motivate him, for the times when the threat to Tabby was too vague.”

Weston stared at her. “All these years…why didn’t you run?”

Rose flinched and Marek stepped around the coffee table to stand near her. “Getting away from an abusive situation is far more difficult than people assume. And Rose’s situation was particularly complex.”

“I didn’t mean to blame you,” Weston said to Rose.

She looked at the fire. “I blame myself. I should have left, but Caden was…Caden was as close to ‘home’ as I had. And with Caden, it wasn’t rape. I was willing. I enjoyed it. But I hated that collar. I hated that he wanted me as a submissive, not as Rose, and no matter how we tried we couldn’t change. Hated that when he gave an order, I obeyed.”

Weston rose to his feet and lifted his arms as if to hug her, but then dropped them. “You’ve been hurting for so long.” And that was on him. He’d let his own pain keep him away from her. How many horrors could he have spared her from if he hadn’t insisted on hiding and licking his wounds?

Rose tried to shrug, but it came out like a shudder.

Weston felt ill from what he’d learned. He wanted to beat his fists against the wall. Shoot something. Scream at someone. He would kill Elroy with his bare fucking hands.

“Rose, Weston. It’s time we went to bed together,” Marek said sternly.

“All three of us, together?” Weston asked in shock.

“Yes. Together.”

Chapter Thirteen

Weston’s brow creased in confusion. His response was the one Marek could understand. It was Rose’s bleak, practically blank stare that unnerved him.

She’d retreated deeply into that place she appeared to have built to protect herself. Marek didn’t want her distant and alone.

She needed to be here. With the boy she loved. And with him.

Marek reached out his hand to her. “Will you come to bed with us, Rose?”

Rose didn’t accept his outstretched hand. Instead, she walked out of the sitting room and into the bedroom. They followed her in time to watch her walk to the bed, climbing onto the tall mattress, kneeling with her head bowed.

Her pose was submissive. Her expression resigned.

Marek walked to the side of the bed, determined that somehow, someway, tonight would begin the healing. Weston and Rose had suffered enough in their lives. He wouldn’t allow that pain to continue. They were going to close the wounds and staunch the bleeding.

Marek looked back toward the door. Weston hadn’t moved. His eyes were locked on Rose, whose own gaze was steadfastly lowered.

Weston’s expression had morphed from confusion and guilt to one of horror and anguish.

“Are you coming, Wes?” Marek prodded.

Weston walked toward them slowly, hesitantly, like a man forced to stand before the firing squad. “Not with her like that. I won’t hurt her.” He swallowed. “Any more than I already have.”

Neither of these beautiful, wounded souls seemed capable of remembering what had drawn them to each other in the first place.

Love.

Love didn’t hurt, command, or control.

It soothed, gave, supported.

Marek would have to guide them back to that. Slowly. “We’re not going to hurt her. This won’t be about pain.”

He reached for his undershirt, tugging it over his head to bare his chest.

His actions captured Weston’s attention, but Rose’s training would be a harder thing to overcome as she held perfectly still, her eyes lowered.

“Rose,” he said softly. “Would you like to look at me? Touch me?” Marek was careful to ask, not demand. No one was going to be forced. Everything would be given freely or it wouldn’t happen.

Her dark eyes lifted to his. “I only know one way to…” Her words came out haltingly, as if it physically hurt her to speak them. “…to do this.”

“I won’t command you, Rose. Ever. Weston is in love with you and I’m…” He tried to find the right word to convey his feelings for her. “I’m in awe. You’re strong, intelligent, and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. I would like to lie in this bed with you and Wes. I would like to hold you and kiss you. But it has to be your decision. If you don’t want that, say no, and Weston and I will find another place to sleep tonight.”

“I would like to touch you,” she admitted, her words provoking a smile he didn’t even try to hide. Then she looked at Weston. “I’d like to touch both of you.”

Weston glanced at Marek’s bare chest and gave her a rueful grin. “I’m not going to fare well in comparison.”

Rose laughed huskily. The sound was warm and happy, and it clearly surprised her as much as him and Weston.

“It’s not a contest, Wes.” Marek saw the reticence in Weston’s eyes, so he stepped closer to the other man and began unbuttoning his shirt.

Weston made no attempt to stop him. Marek had never touched another man sexually, had never felt that pull.

Until now.

He had always assumed he would follow in his parents’ footsteps, marrying the one person who captured his heart. It appeared the relationships shared by his grandparents, the loving yet complex trinities, had made a deeper impression than he realized.

Weston allowed him to continue to strip off his shirt, letting Marek tug the soft cotton over his shoulders to toss it to the floor.

Marek didn’t agree with Weston’s assessment of his chest. He was a large man, muscular, despite the scars lining so much of the right side of his body. The burns didn’t stop at his neck, but drifted along one shoulder as well.

Perfection was overrated. Weston’s body told a story, spoke of the pain, the danger, the hardships he’d faced and overcome. It made him appear stronger, not weaker as Wes thought.

“If it were a contest, you’d win,” Marek admitted.

Weston snorted in disbelief. “Have you ever been with a man, Marek?”

Marek shook his head.

“I didn’t think so.”

“Have you?” Rose asked. Marek noticed she had moved closer to where they stood next to the bed. Gone was the submissive. In her place was a woman under no man’s control.

She sat watching them, her flushed cheeks betraying her arousal.

Wes nodded just once. “Pet wasn’t the only submissive my parents played with. Elroy believed it was important for a good Dom to know how to control submissives of both sexes.”

“I didn’t know that,” Rose whispered.

“It was only a couple of times.” Weston looked at Marek. “And it was nothing like what’s happening now.”

Marek saw the same attraction he felt reflected back at him.

“Tonight there is no past, no Dom, no submissive. It’s just Wes and Rose and Marek.”

Rose clasped her hands together in her lap as she looked at Marek. “I’d like that.” She slid from the bed, filling the small space between him and Weston.

She reached down, gathering the material of the sheer gown in her hands, pulling it up.

Neither he nor Weston moved as she bared herself to them. Marek had caught glimpses of her shapely figure when she’d stood before the fire. He’d had to force himself to look away, determined to be a gentleman. Rose made it hard. She was so lovely.

“Rose.” Weston’s voice was reverent. “I’ve wanted this, you…” His voice broke slightly.

Rose shivered and Marek reached for her, ready to warm her if needed. “Are you cold?” he asked.

“No.”

She stood directly between them, her sides pressed against them. Reaching up, she ran her hands down their chests at the same time. Then she turned to face Marek, lifting her face, enticing him to kiss her.

He considered her invitation, understood that she’d chosen to start with him because there was less baggage, fewer emotions.

Reaching down, he cupped her cheeks, then bent his head to kiss her. Every gentlemanly thought went out of his head when his lips touched hers. Rose’s hands gripped his sides and he couldn’t decide if she was trying to tug him closer, or gaining purchase to push him away.

She was the very definition of contradiction.

Fire and ice.

Sweet and tart.

Fear and longing.

He didn’t let go. He couldn’t. Tilting his head, he deepened the kiss, stroked his tongue against hers.

Hot breath on his cheek told him Weston had moved closer. Unwilling to merely observe, he’d shifted forward, caging Rose between them, placing his hands on top of hers at Marek’s sides.

Marek lifted his head just a few inches to find Weston, to see his eyes.

Weston was looking at him, his hungry, hopeful expression telling Marek everything he needed to know without words.

Weston was still suffering.

He was with them, but there was no denying he wasn’t sure he had the right to be.

And it wasn’t Marek who could ease that fear.

He looked down at Rose, who had begun to kiss his neck. She was stalling, scared of the same thing Weston was.

“Be brave, Rose,” Marek whispered.

Her startled gaze flashed upwards, meeting his. His courageous woman took a deep breath, and then turned.

Marek didn’t step back, didn’t yield his place in this. Rose and Weston would be together again, but two was going to be three from this point on.

For Marek, his future had never been clearer.

“I love you, Rose,” Weston said softly. “I always have.”

“I love you, too.”

“Please forgive me.”

Marek swallowed heavily, hating the sound of pure anguish in Weston’s plea.

“You heard Marek,” Rose said. “No past. Only us.”

She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder, and the years seemed to melt away before Marek’s eyes. He could almost see the young, innocent boy and girl they used to be, before the world and Weston’s parents conspired to destroy them.

Marek stroked his hands gently up and down the soft skin of Rose’s hips, her back, her ass, as Weston cupped her jaw, turned her face back to his, and poured a lifetime of lost love into his kiss.

Weston drew back first, and Rose, understanding the move, twisted, stepping out of the circle slightly, so that Marek and Weston could share their first kiss.

It was different from every kiss Marek had shared with women in the past. He was gentle with women. Had always been taught to treat them with respect and kindness.

Weston kissed him with a brute strength, a power that revealed something Weston didn’t want them to know. While he didn’t practice BDSM, the Dom was still there, lurking beneath the surface. Weston had held back with Rose, unwilling to frighten her. Which meant he needed to cast Marek in the role of submissive.

That wasn’t a place Marek would go willingly. He added his own strength to the kiss, gripping the sides of Weston’s head, the textures of each side completely different as he felt the healthy skin versus the burned.

Weston deepened the pressure, his hands reaching around to grip Marek’s ass, to pull their hips together, their erections smashed each other. Marek resented the pants they were still wearing, wanted them gone.

The kiss was hard and rough and, God help him, so passionate it hurt.

Rose’s soft gasp next to them captured Marek’s attention. He broke the union, seeking air.

“That was…” She didn’t finish. Like Marek, she was struggling to find words that could convey how incredible this night was turning out to be.

Marek reached for her, but she dodged out of his grip, stepping backwards. Then Rose lifted her hand, curling her finger, issuing her own unspoken command as she climbed back onto the bed.

Marek and Weston slid their pants down at the same time, both of them taking a second to enjoy the unhindered view of the other.

Weston started to reach for his cock, but Marek shook his head. There would be time for the two of them to explore what was happening between them, but tonight had to be about Rose. While she put on a serious game face, she was skittish as a cat. They needed to fix the old before they ventured on to the new.

Weston appeared to understand that, as his hand dropped and he walked to the far side of the bed. They joined her, sandwiching her between them on the plush mattress.

They lay together, all semblance of hesitance gone as they reached for each other, forming that tight circle of three bodies once more. Marek kissed her as Weston grasped her breast, squeezing it, sucking on the taut nipple.

Rose seemed to revel in her freedom, her unbound hands stretching out to explore, moving quickly as she touched both him and Weston everywhere she could reach.

No restraints. No limits. No rules.

She was like a delicate flower at springtime, breaking through the dark soil, its petals unfurling in the bright sunshine.

Weston’s face appeared next to his, so he released Rose, allowing the other man to take over kissing her. Marek did his own explorations, running his fingers over her flat stomach. She was too thin. He recalled her doubled over with hunger in the cellar, and the memory bothered him.

Even tonight, they’d forgotten to eat. He would have to take better care of her, of them. His motto had always been to protect those who needed help. In the past, that protection had come in the form of muscle and might. It would be much different with his two lovers. They had no problem fending for themselves in a fight, but they also put themselves at great risk as they fought these purists. What they needed was someone to protect them from themselves.

Rose’s hips jerked slightly when he drew his hand lower. He stroked her clit slowly, softly at first, but when Rose turned her face away from Weston to look at him, he understood that tonight he needed to feed a different hunger.

Weston backed away, lying on his side so that he could watch and play as well. As Marek continued to toy with her clit, Weston stroked his fingers along her wet slit.

She reached down to grasp Marek’s cock, but he shook his head.

“No, love. Not tonight. This isn’t going to be about sex. The three of us are going to get to know each other. And we’re going to take it slowly.”

“But I need—” Her request came to a gasping halt when Weston pushed three fingers deep inside her.

“We know what you need, Brown Eyes. There’s nothing I won’t give you.”

Marek pressed harder on her clit, his knuckles and Weston’s brushing against each other as Weston fucked her with his fingers.

Marek bent his head to suck her nipple into his mouth at the same time Weston cupped her cheek and drew her lips back to his for another kiss.

At first, she lay still beneath them, and Marek realized years of training wouldn’t be washed away in just one night. Rose had obviously been trained to accept her master’s bidding quietly, without moving.

Marek lifted his head at the same time Weston did.

It was apparent he’d come to the same realization when Weston asked, “Do you like this, Rose?”

His question startled her. “Yes. Of course. God. So much.”

Weston grinned and gave her a quick kiss. “You know, you don’t have to be quiet. Move around if you want, scream at us to do stuff better, make a few dirty demands.”

“Dirty demands?” Rose asked, as Marek spotted the laugh lines by her eyes for the first time.

“Oh yeah,” Weston said. “The dirtier the better. You’ve got two guys in your bed, ready to fulfill your every desire. What do you want?”

Rose glanced at Marek mischievously. “I want the two of you to fuck me, but Marek took that off the table.”

Marek winked at her as he said, “Language, Rose.”

The three of them laughed loudly, and the heaviness of the moment was washed away in unexpected, unrestrained humor. Weston rolled to his back, the mattress shaking under him as he shook with laughter. Rose had to wipe her eyes when she lost the battle to stop giggling. Marek felt the same mirth, the same joy, and it occurred to him that the two of them were far too serious.

Actually, scratch that.

The three of them were. While Marek thought he had a good sense of humor, he realized he didn’t laugh all that often. Usually because there wasn’t much to smile about in his line of work.

It took several minutes for the three of them to manage to get their laughter under control. One would start again and the other two would join in. When they finally got a grip on themselves, they were lying beside each other, Rose on her back, Weston and Marek once more on their sides, facing her and each other. Weston idly stroked her stomach, while Marek held her hand.

“I can’t remember the last time I laughed in bed,” Rose admitted. “Isn’t that sad?”

“I can’t either, Brown Eyes,” Weston confided.

A silence fell, but it wasn’t an awkward one. For Marek, it felt natural to simply lie in bed with Rose and Weston with no expectation or need for more. He was content with their company. Happy to be close to them.

Initially, he’d believed they were two broken souls, and yet, he realized now that wasn’t true. In some strange, unexplainable way, he’d begun to view them as indomitable, kindred spirits. Rose and Weston had dedicated their lives to protecting others—Tabitha, Caden, each other, and even the Trinity Masters. They’d seen a wrong and they had sacrificed everything in their attempts to stop the corruption, the evil.

They’d spent a lifetime being beaten and abused and yet they never gave up. They both thought they had, but their presence here proved that beneath all the pain, there remained a thread of hope.

It was enough.

Marek reached down to touch Rose intimately again. Her legs fell apart and her soft intake of breath told him she was close.

“I would very much like to see you come, my lovely Rose.”

“Just me?”

Weston kissed her on the cheek, then his lips drifted lower, to her neck. She craned it, her eyes closing in obvious bliss.

Marek slid two fingers inside her heat. “Just you. This time.”

He moved them slowly at first, but Rose had taken Weston’s invitation to make a few demands to heart.

“Faster,” she said, breathlessly.

He complied. Weston had shifted lower, had taken one of her breasts in his hands. He was sucking on it, teasing the nipple with his teeth. For a second, Marek was concerned Weston was hurting her, but when Rose closed her fist in the other man’s hair and said “harder,” he understood. Rose’s pleasure had always come with pain. It would take far more than one night to change that, to show her there was just as much delight to be found in gentleness.

Her hips rose to meet him as he pressed in, her motions attempting to set the pace. He let her do it, let her take what she wanted, how she wanted it.

Her inner muscles clenched.

“That’s it, Rose. Take what you want. Get what you deserve.”

Weston raised his head as Marek spoke, shifting to a half-seated position. He reached out and, for a moment, Marek thought he intended to take over.

Marek didn’t want to give way. He wanted to feel it when her pleasure crashed down on her.

Instead, Weston gripped his wrist, halting his movement. With his free hand, he tugged Marek’s face to his, giving him another of those hard, powerful kisses.

“Together,” Weston murmured.

Marek removed his hand, both of them grinning at Rose’s loud complaint.

“What the fuck? Don’t stop!”

Marek opened his mouth, but she narrowed her eyes. “And don’t you dare give me shit for my language, Captain America.”

He chuckled briefly at the nickname. He would have to make certain Rose never used it in his grandmother’s presence or she would throw a fit.

When Marek pressed inside her again, it was with just one finger. Weston’s hand rested on top of his as he slid a finger into her as well.

“Holy shit,” she breathed out, her neck arching, her face lifting as he and Weston worked together to push her over that cliff.

When she came—loudly and with no reservations—Weston leaned forward to kiss him. As her orgasm passed, they slowly withdrew their fingers, dropping down to lie next to her in the bed.

Rose tried again to touch them, intent on giving back what she’d just received. Marek lifted her hand before it reached its destination, kissing her knuckles.

Glancing toward the digital clock, Marek shook his head. “We don’t have time for more, Rose. All of us need to get some sleep if we hope to find success tomorrow.”

“Success?” Rose asked.

“Yeah. Our time in England is about to expire. Weston?” Marek asked, acknowledging the other man’s leadership. “How do we bring down these purists?”

Weston sighed. “We have to convince Tristan to take us to Dorset tomorrow. The answers, the proof we need, it’s all there. I can feel it.”

“And once you find it?”

Weston looked at Rose. “We go home.”

Chapter Fourteen

Weston woke before the others. He usually slept with a pillow under his right knee, but hadn’t last night, and a dull throbbing in the joint intruded into what was otherwise one of the best nights of sleep he’d had in a while.

He eased Rose’s head off his shoulder and slipped out of bed. She rolled, one hand sliding across the sheets where his body had been. A faint line appeared between her eyebrows. He grabbed a pillow and flipped it ninety degrees, tucking it under the blankets where he’d just been. Rose pulled it close and rested her head on the corner, the frown line between her brows evening out. Behind her, Marek shifted in his sleep, smoothing one hand down her back under the covers.

Weston held still until they’d settled back into sleep and then slid out of the room, snatching up his pants as he went. The upper floor of the house was murky, with only a tiny bit of light leaking in from around the heavy blackout drapes covering the window at the top of the stairs.

He went to the bathroom, using the toilet then jumping into the shower for less than two minutes. With a towel wrapped around his waist, he faced himself in the mirror. He didn’t look any different, which was surprising. After last night, everything had changed.

Weston pulled down his right eyelid and slid a finger under the bottom of his prosthetic, removing it from his eye socket. He blinked, his eyelid sliding over the orbital implant that had replaced his eyeball.

Turning on the tap, he waited until the water got warm and then gently cleaned the prosthetic with his fingers. The prosthetic was a good one—custom made to look like his other eye—but the implant was a cheaper one. There were newer-style implants, ones that allowed the ocular muscles to grow and attach to the implant, which would make the prosthetic move in sync with his good eye. The biggest giveaway that he had only one functional eye was that his false one didn’t move.

Five years ago, he’d had his original prosthetic replaced, and the ocularist had talked to him about changing out the implant—upgrading to something that would look and maybe even feel more natural.

He’d declined. The surgery would be expensive and he’d have to take time away from his work to recover. He hadn’t been willing to spend the money or time on himself.

Maybe…maybe if they made it through this, he’d get one of the newer implants. It was time for a new prosthetic too—the damned things only lasted five or six years.

Weston pulled his eyelids apart and tipped his head back, sliding the clean, lubricated prosthetic into place. He blinked a few times, then dried his face and pulled on his pants.

Naked except for the pants, he left the bathroom and went in search of Tristan.

Weston had to pause at the top of the stairs. One eye meant basically no depth perception and shit night vision. He had to rely on his brain to compensate for the lack, and it was always better to take his time with something like stairs.

By the time he was at the bottom, Tristan was there, sword in hand.

“Knight,” Weston said coldly.

Tristan sighed. “This is a right fucking mess, Anderson.”

“You are not making it any less messy.”

Tristan turned on a heel, heading down the hall toward the back door, where they’d entered last night. Weston followed.

Bright sunlight spilled in the kitchen window, and Weston had to blink to adjust to the brightness. Tristan’s phone lay on the small eat-in table, beside a bowl of cereal and a cup of tea so dark in color it resembled coffee.

Weston fought to unclench his jaw as Tristan set a bowl and spoon at one of the empty chairs. Weston sat and a mug of hot tea appeared before him, carefully placed within his line of sight.

Weston stared at the bowl. “So we’re pretending yesterday didn’t happen?”

“Not an option. I meant everything I said. But I’m not a damned animal. Have some tea.” Tristan pushed a little jug of milk toward him.

Weston poured milk first into his tea, then over his cereal. He dug into it with gusto. He was hungry—Marek had brought food for them last night, but after what he’d learned, he hadn’t been able to eat anything. Instead he’d been hungry for something very different—hungry for her touch. And for Marek’s touch.

Tristan spooned up some food, chewing methodically, then set his utensil down before speaking. “I meant what I said, Wes.”

“Which part?” Weston asked carefully.

“All of it. You have to be gone in three days. Closer to two days now.”

“What do you mean gone?”

“Outside the Admiralty’s territory.”

“You can’t do that.”

Tristan’s words were firm, but his eyes were pinched with what might have been sorrow. “I can and I will. Your identification is all false, and it wouldn’t take much to make that known.”

Weston gritted his teeth. “If you yank my passport, I can’t leave.”

“If it comes to that, we’ll rendition you to an outside facility.”

“Rendition? For fuck’s sake, Tristan!”

“I don’t want that, Wes. But you crossed a line, and I have no choice.”

“Listen, I’m sorry about the guns, but—”

“It’s not just the guns. If I’m not mistaken, you were holding Marek Lee prisoner.”

Weston absorbed that, then said, “He told us about his grandparents. They’re members.”

“I doubt he told you that his grandmother is, even now, an incredibly dangerous, powerful woman. She’s the one who alerted us to the situation.”

“He came to take Rose back to the Trinity Masters. That would be a death sentence.”

“How did Rose get here?”

Weston grimaced. “I, uh, evacuated her from Boston.”

“Evacuated?”

“Tristan, you know…you know more about my past than anyone.” Weston sighed. “I’m going to tell you everything.”

Tristan laid his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “As your friend, I want you to tell me. But you have to know it doesn’t change anything.”

“Damn it, Tristian, I need—”

“I’m sorry, Wes. You have two days, and then the Admiralty will revoke your sanctuary.”

“What about you? You said I had twelve hours to convince you.”

“My superior wanted to revoke sanctuary after twelve hours. I got her to compromise. I bought you some extra days. That was the best I could do.”

Weston pushed away his half-eaten bowl of cereal. His appetite was gone. “Thanks.”

Weston’s mind whirled. Two days. He had only a little over two days. Time wasn’t on his side, and hadn’t been from the moment he’d dropped everything to chase after Rose. The urge to slug Tristan, grab the car keys, and head for Dorset was pressing down on him. His bloodstream was tainted with adrenaline in response to the shot clock.

Be smart. Tell Tristan what’s going on.

“You’ve been my friend, a good friend, for a long time,” Weston said.

Tristan looked down at his tea. “I’m still your friend, Wes, but duty comes first.”

For Tristan Knight, duty was everything, and Weston knew that.

Weston took a moment to figure out what to say before speaking. “My brother is dead.”

That made Tristan look up. “When? How?”

Weston quickly told the other man about what he knew, finishing with, “And I was…I was wrong about a lot of things.”

“What things?”

“Rose and Caden, they weren’t…they weren’t together because they loved each other. She didn’t love him.” Weston’s throat tightened. “She’s been living in hell for twelve damn years while I sat around in my nice little cottage acting like a noble dick.”

Tristan took a sip of tea and stared innocently at the wall. “I.”

“Don’t,” Weston growled.

“Told.”

“You’re a dick.”

“You.”

Weston made a disgusted noise and got up, rinsing out his bowl.

“So,” Tristan finished.

“Told him so what?” Rose asked.

She and Marek were in the doorway. Rose once more wore the long white negligee. Marek wore his pants and tank top. His feet were bare. Weston felt his cheeks heat a bit as he looked at them.

Tristan looked between the three of them. “Ah, for fuck’s sake, Anderson, only you could manage to take a shit situation and end up getting a damned threesome out of it.”

Rose tipped her head to the side, regarding Tristan. “You’re pretty enough. So, either you’re a complete ass or you have a small dick.”

Tristan choked on a mouthful of tea and Marek snickered. Weston doubled over laughing.

“Fuck you, Anderson,” Tristan said.

“Don’t worry. We will,” Rose purred.

Marek couldn’t hold it back anymore and started laughing.

“I seem to be losing control of this situation,” Knight said grimly.

“What is this situation?” Rose crossed the room and paused by the chair. She raised her brow, and all three of them jumped to pull out her chair. Tristan was closest and got there first.

“Tea, please,” she told Knight.

Tristan poured her a cup from the pot he’d made. He may have grown up in a bad part of London, but the Masters’ Admiralty had drilled manners into him, turning him into a man worthy of the name Knight.

Weston only knew this because he and Tristan had been friends for over a decade. Tristan had quite literally saved him.

And now that friendship was coming to an end. They may be bantering now, but this was just a reprieve, and Weston wasn’t dumb enough to think otherwise. No matter how much he wanted to.

Marek got himself a cup of tea and leaned against the wall, while Weston leaned against the sink. Tristan immediately stood, backing up until he leaned against the far wall, in a position where he could see all of them.

He rested the heel of his left hand on the pommel of his short sword, which was belted to his right hip.

The moment of mirth faded into memory and tension filled the small kitchen.

“What is the situation?” Rose asked again, but her voice was quiet.

“Weston has convinced me that he should get the full three days to put his affairs in order.” Tristan’s tone was a bit deeper than it had been, formal. “Mr. Lee, you are free to leave.”

“I’m staying with them,” Marek said.

Rose twisted in her chair to look at him, and Weston was both surprised and relieved.

“I can’t tell you to leave when the time is up, but I suggest that if you want to remain in England when this is done, you go visit your grandparents.”

Translation: when this is over, either leave or find someone to protect you.

“I need to go to Dorset,” Weston said. “There’s information there that I need.”

Marek frowned in confusion, but Rose nodded, as did Tristan.

Tristan knew that, along with identifying the members of the purists, Weston was looking for something he could use against them. One of the reasons the Admiralty had given him sanctuary was so he could look into the unsavory group. He’d promised to tell the Admiralty if he found evidence that the Grand Master was a purist. Weston had never been sure what they would do if he told them that the leadership of the Trinity Masters had been tainted.

Tristan didn’t know that Weston now suspected the purists had stolen something from the Admiralty, and built their wealth and power by taking advantage of the hideous tragedy of the Second World War.

Rose met his eyes, and Weston gave the barest shake of his head, hoping she understood that she couldn’t repeat what he’d told her yesterday.

“You only have two days, Wes. Let me help you liquidate your accounts, move things around.”

“No, Dorset first.”

“Why do you have to liquidate your accounts?” Marek asked.

Weston smiled grimly. “The Admiralty plans to burn me. They created the Wesley Derrick identity and they can take it away just as easily.”

Rose straightened. “Tabby—will Tabby be okay?”

“Yes,” Tristan said. “We’re aware of Miss Anderson’s condition and needs, and have no hold on or control over her situation.”

Marek was frowning, but Rose nodded and stood. “Let’s go.”

“Ms. Hancock, you too are free to go, though you’ll have to leave England,” Tristan said. “When I arrived yesterday it looked like you were attempting to escape. And based on the reports of the altercation from yesterday, you aren’t here willingly.” Tristan raised his brows. “Though I’m not quite sure who was keeping you prisoner and who was rescuing you.”

“Don’t worry about it, Blondie,” Rose said. “First Weston kidnapped me, then Marek. I’m just a very kidnappable sort of person.”

“I wasn’t kidnapping you, I was rescuing you,” Marek protested.

“I saved you from being crushed by several tons of cave-in,” Weston growled.

Rose just raised her dark brows, looking at each of them in turn.

Tristan, looking a bit miffed by the “Blondie” comment, said, “Just to be clear, everyone is here willingly?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“At least until someone else kidnaps me.”

Marek snorted out a laugh and Weston grinned. Damn, he loved this woman. She wasn’t the girl he’d fallen in love with. She was hard in some ways, bitter—and had every right to be—but she was funny and wry and smart. The woman she was now wasn’t the woman she would have been if he’d managed to get them both out twelve years ago, but she was one hell of a woman.

Weston pushed away from the sink. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Fifteen

The recordings were housed in a small village in an even smaller library just outside of Poole in Dorset. They drove by Luscombe Valley Nature Reserve, and parked in a large lot shared by a yacht club, the library, and a small restaurant with an outdoor eating area that extended over the water.

Tristan’s large SUV was conspicuous in the lot, which was filled with Audis and BMWs. There were a few Peugeots, which probably belonged to the people who worked at the restaurant, yacht club, and library, rather than the patrons of any of the three.

It was overcast, and the wind coming off the water cold enough that Weston shivered as he climbed out of the front passenger seat. He clenched his teeth in frustration as the rest of them seemed to take their time getting out.

They’d had to swing by the cottage, which added nearly ninety minutes to the trip. If Tristan had been able to drive them straight from Hampton Court to Poole, it would have been a two-hour trip on the M3. Instead they’d had to head south on the M23, toward Brighton. They’d stopped at the cottage for five minutes, just long enough for Marek to collect his wallet, passport, and luggage. Then, much to Weston’s frustration, Marek had insisted on returning the rental car.

The man was a damned Boy Scout, who seemed immune to Weston’s repeated assertions that they didn’t have time for this.

Once the rental car had been returned, they got on the M27 headed east, paralleling England’s southern coast. It was two hours until they reached the library.

Weston was perilously close to yanking everyone bodily out of the car before the back doors opened and Marek and Rose climbed out.

Rose was still wearing the long white nightgown, but Marek had fished a clean button-down shirt out of his bag and given it to her. She’d tied the tails together at her midriff and rolled up the sleeves. If the light hit it right the silhouette of her legs was clearly visible. Weston had grabbed her shoes for her. Maybe another woman would have looked weird, but Rose looked like a model, or maybe a celebrity—the kind of person who was so beautiful that when they wore what would otherwise be an odd outfit they looked stylish.

Marek looked trim and equally stylish in a black T-shirt, zip-up jacket with the discreet logo of an expensive hiking company, and jeans.

In comparison, Weston was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. He could have changed when they’d swung by his cabin, but he didn’t because they didn’t fucking have time for any of this.

“Wes, are you okay?” Marek asked.

“Can we please go?”

Marek and Rose shared a look. It was a knowing look, and implied a kind of intimacy, not just between the two of them, but between the three of them.

He needed to calm down. He’d successfully squashed his sex drive for years; it would be a bitter sort of irony if here, at the eleventh hour, he fucked everything up because he let his dick do the thinking.

Rose nodded to him, looked around, spotted the building with the small “East Poole Historical Library” sign and started walking. Weston took two quick steps to catch up and walk beside her, Marek and Tristan falling in step behind them.

Rose uncrossed her arms and let her hand dangle between them.

Weston tentatively brushed her fingers with his. She caught his hand, interlacing their fingers. Weston felt the touch on every nerve ending in his body, as if he’d just woken up, after years of sleeping.

Once inside, he told the man at the front desk who he was, and asked for Elliot Neal.

Mr. Neal appeared a few minutes later. He was a short, almost squat man. He wasn’t fat, but instead looked as if a giant had put a hand on his head and pressed down, compacting him. His head seemed wider than it should be. He had to be in his seventies, and walked with a slight limp.

“Mr. Neal?” Weston asked, sticking out his hand.

“Aye, aye. Though call me Elliot. You must be Wesley Derrick.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Elliot, boy, Elliot.”

Being called “boy” only reinforced the urge to refer to the older man as “sir”.

“And who are these?” Elliot looked at the others.

“My friends,” Weston said. “They’re interested too.”

“Eh?” Elliot looked at each of them in turn. Tristan had, thankfully, left the sword in the car. Elliot’s expression said he doubted the story, but he didn’t comment further. “Well then. I thought you were coming before now, but I still have it all out and ready.”

“I’m sorry about the last-minute change in plans.”

“No bother, no bother. Follow me.”

The library was small and absolutely crammed with books. There was barely three feet between the tall two-sided bookcases. The cases didn’t match—some were elegant dark wood, others olive-green metal.

The front desk was exactly that, a large desk, and the man working at it had papers spread all over the surface, giving the impression that he should have been in an office somewhere, but they’d shoved his desk out here so it could do double duty.

Elliot led them through an aisle of stacks to the back of the building. Here, there were large windows that had a glorious view of the water and the boats lined up along the branching piers of the yacht club.

Warm sunlight spilled in, and this seemed like a different place than the cramped, musty front of the library. Under one window was a blond wood table, the surface bleached nearly white by the sun. On it sat two banker’s boxes, a small comb-bound manual, and three old cassette tape players with even older-looking headphones.

“Here you are.” Elliot picked up the comb-bound manual and handed it over. “You said you’re looking for memories from nineteen forty-two. This here is a list of everyone we recorded, and a quick note about what they were saying, and what year they were talking about, if they remembered that.”

Weston took the manual with an internal groan. This was going to take forever. His plan had been to rent a room in Poole and spend a week going through it all. Now he had only hours.

Elliott looked around. “I’ve got three, but I’ll see if I can find a fourth player. It’ll go a mite bit faster with all of you listening.”

Weston’s blood ran cold, and he twisted to look at Marek, Rose, and Tristan. He could be a moron sometimes.

Tristan couldn’t be a part of this. Even if all Weston told him was that they were looking for any information about a Spanish ship that docked here instead of Dover in the early days of the war, that might be enough to pique Tristan’s curiosity.

Tristan could, if he wanted, place a single call and have members of the Masters’ Admiralty, which probably included tons of historians and scholars, piece together the story of the Esperanza. If the Masters’ Admiralty learned the secret, then Weston had no leverage over the purists, because if they knew, they would take action. When he’d been young, he had wanted explosive, wild revenge. But now…now he just wanted to quietly blackmail his parents. If either the Trinity Masters or the Masters’ Admiralty knew, something big would happen. Before now he hadn’t been willing to risk that because Rose and Caden could have, maybe would have, been collateral damage.

But he no longer wanted the Admiralty or the Trinity Masters involved. The safest way, the only way, was to keep the information secret and use it as needed.

Something must have shown on his face, because Marek put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll help.”

Tristan nodded in agreement.

Rose met his gaze and her eyes widened. She understood the very large problem. She winked.

Weston didn’t dare respond, not with Marek and Tristan looking at him.

“I’m not helping,” she declared. “I need real clothes. Underwear. Socks.”

“I can go with you,” Marek said.

Tristan frowned.

“You did tell us we were free to go,” Marek pointed out.

Damn. He needed Tristan gone, not Marek. He trusted Marek. Maybe it was foolish to do so, but he did trust the other man, after what had passed between the three of them last night. Marek’s help might, just might, make this a manageable task.

And right now, Marek was, without meaning to, being a huge pain in the ass.

“Yeah, just give us the car keys, Blondie,” Rose said. “We promise to bring it back.”

“No,” Tristan said.

“Then we’ll all go.” Rose gave Weston a significant look.

It took him a moment to figure out what she’d set up, but he got it. “There’s not enough time for me to do this on my own.”

Rose sighed, “I’m sorry, Wes, but I need…I need to feel normal.”

Either she was a very good actress or that statement was more than just a way to manipulate Tristan. It was true.

“Of course, Brown Eyes.”

“Since you don’t want us taking your car, Blondie, you can take me shopping. And Marek, you help Wes.” She crossed her arms again. “Either that, or I’m going to start walking until I find a place, and then I’ll either have to steal the clothes or exchange sexual favors for jeans.”

Her words made Weston wince and Marek frown, but they were exactly the right thing to say to Tristan. He wouldn’t let Rose go alone.

“We’ll be back as soon as we can.” Tristan clapped Weston on the shoulder. “Don’t leave.”

“Rose, do you want me to come with you?” Marek asked with concern.

“No.” She shook her head. “I know it’s silly when we’re on a deadline, but I just…” She plucked at the slinky white skirt. “I can’t keep walking around in a nightgown and shirt.”

“Of course,” Marek said. He pulled out his wallet and passed her a few pound notes.

She took the money, folding it into her palm. “Thank you.” Turning to Tristan, she said, “Shall we?”

Once Tristan and Rose were gone, Weston practically threw himself into a chair and flipped open the manual. It was forty pages long, and there were three to six entries on each page. That meant there were somewhere between a hundred and twenty, and two hundred and forty different tapes. Elliot had told him over the phone that most were thirty minutes, but a few were longer. On the low end, that meant there were sixty hours of tapes.

“I’m going to go through the book, try and identify the most likely ones. You pull them.” He scanned the first page, then flipped to the second.

“Weston, what aren’t you telling me?”

With a wince, Weston looked up. Marek was standing, hands braced on the back of the chair on the opposite side of the table.

“Just…just help me find the tapes.”

Weston grabbed a pad of paper and pen that Elliot had left for him, then kept scanning. After a moment, he heard the chair legs scrape as Marek sat. Weston jotted down three possible names from the first five pages, ripped off the sheet and passed it to Marek. Without a word, Marek pulled one of the banker’s boxes over and flipped off the lid.

They worked in silence for half an hour. Weston had identified twenty names—individuals who, based on the information in the manual, had talked about what was going on in 1942, or mentioned ships or the water. He’d put stars by the ones who’d mentioned anything oceanic.

When he looked up, Marek had already sorted them into two piles. The larger of the two were the tapes he’d put asterisks by.

Twenty tapes. Best case scenario, there was only ten hours of audio. Worst case, it was twenty hours or more.

Even at only ten hours, there was no way he could do this alone. He had to have Marek’s help.

Which meant he had to tell Marek what they were looking for.

You trust Marek. He was so used to doing things alone, he had to keep reminding himself of that.

“You remember what we told you, about the purists.”

“I remember.”

“It’s a bit too much to go into right now, but I’ve been…I’ve been looking for a way to blackmail them. They have a secret, something they’ve been protecting for a long time. I’ve spent the last ten years trying to find that secret.”

“And once you knew this secret, you were going to threaten to expose it, unless they released Rose, Caden, and your sister Tabitha?”

“Something like that,” Weston evaded. He wanted to trust Marek enough to tell him the truth, but he couldn’t let a little bit of heavy petting fool him into forgetting that Marek had ties to the Masters’ Admiralty. He might not be a member, but he had enough family influence that they’d sent a knight to find him after he’d gone off the grid for only a few hours.

What Weston planned to do was blackmail the Andersons. He had a gut feeling that Marek would be more of a “let the light shine on the truth” sort of person rather than a “beat them at their own game” blackmailer.

“Here.” Weston pushed the smaller stack, the one that was memories from 1942, to Marek. “You listen to these.”

“What am I listening for?”

“Any mention of a ship, the Esperanza, docking here or being seen here.”

“Esperanza? A Spanish ship?”

“Yes. It would have been flying the Spanish flag.”

Marek looked at him, his eyes dark, one cheekbone streaked with golden sunlight from the windows. Marek was an incredibly handsome man. Whole. Fit. Strong.

Weston grabbed a Walkman and put the headphones on. Rather than popping in the first tape right away, he went back to the manual, rereading the entries for each of the tapes. Using the scant information listed for each one, he put them in a rough order, with the most likely tape first.

By the time he had that done, his hands were trembling from the adrenaline his body was dumping into his bloodstream. This was it. He had to find the information.

It had to be here. He needed proof.

The first hour passed, with nothing on the first two tapes. He didn’t dare fast-forward in case he’d miss something.

Marek was methodically working through his own stack of eight tapes, two of them carefully set to the side. He had a sheet of paper and was jotting notes in a blocky all-caps handwriting.

Weston slid in the third tape. According to the notes, Frances Sheridan had been the East Dorset wharf master’s youngest daughter, and one of the first women to enter the workforce as part of the war effort, working as an engineer and building ships.

He’d ranked this one highly, because he was hoping that she’d talk about her father, the wharf master.

It started with a bit of murmuring, probably the person handling the recording giving her instructions.

“Fine, fine,” said an older woman’s voice. The audio quality wasn’t great, and her voice was soft with age, but he could hear her well enough. Weston settled in to listen.

I’ll start then, will I? My name is Frances Sheridan. I never married. I’m seventy-five years old. My father was the wharf master, back when there was still good fishing here. Small vessels, the water here isn’t deep enough for the big ships.

She went on to talk about how she’d been the first woman to step forward and offer to go to work, back when only unmarried women between the ages of twenty and twenty-three had been allowed to join. She’d gone to work building war ships. Some of the work she described was that of an engineer, which she acknowledged, though she said she never had a title like that. She was a fisherman’s daughter at heart, and she knew boats, and what the ocean wanted from those who dared to ride her.

Weston forced himself to keep listening, though the tape didn’t have what he’d hoped for. He was nearly forty minutes in before he heard the muffled voice of the interviewer ask a question.

“What do you remember about Poole, what was happening here during the war? What was the feeling?”

There was a beat of silence on the tape before Frances responded.

All I remember of Poole was in the early years. Once I left in nineteen forty-two, I didn’t come back until the war was over. I was here during the blitz, and for six months after. The feeling? We were terrified, losing the war. Everyone knew someone who’d died. We’d listen to the news every night, pray quietly for the men who died in battle, prayed that London would survive another night. Prayed we weren’t next. Everyone knew they’d bombed London, but that wasn’t the only place. Portsmouth, Southampton, Bath, Coventry…they were all hit. This place, our home, didn’t feel safe anymore. When women started packing up their children and heading north and inland, to the country, no one said anything. To say anything would be admitting we were afraid, and admitting we were probably going to die.

There’s one time I remember when a ship docked in the middle of the night.

Weston sat up, then raised his hands, pressing them over the headphones so he wouldn’t miss a word she said.

I was out with Father, helping him. It was late, after dark, but there weren’t many dockworkers left, too many had gone to fight and didn’t come home. The fish needed to be unloaded, nets mended. We worked all night sometimes. America had just entered the war so this must have been February or March nineteen forty-two, and the mood was up that night.

Then this ship comes in.

It was a ship, not a boat. You know the difference? No? Well, it was a ship. Might have been a cruising ship before the war. It was flying a British flag when it pulled into port, but when I grabbed the line I saw one of the crew stashing away a Spanish flag. Spain had remained neutral. Flying their own flag protected them from both sides.

We had no record of it coming in, but I saw my father talking to a London man. You could tell just by looking at him, he was from London. Well off, expensive clothes, but his face was…his face made it seem like he’d been in the mud in France.

They talked, then the man went back to one of the warehouses. It was standing empty, every scrap of material that had been stored inside already sent off to the factories. But this London man went in. He opened the door, and men started pouring out, carrying trunks and boxes of all sizes—a lot of narrow ones. I promise you, those boxes hadn’t been there long, because I knew that warehouse was empty. These men doing the loading, they didn’t look like hands. They were dressed as nice as the London man, but they all looked grim.

Narrow boxes—the kind art was stored in. This was it. Weston pumped his fist once in the air, and Marek looked up. Weston grinned at him, but kept listening.

When all the boxes were loaded, the men went back in, and this time they came out… There was a pause in the tape, and he heard Frances take a deep breath before speaking again. They came out holding the hands of children. A dozen at least. Most too young for primary school. A few older girls, but none older than ten. The kids were crying, and by then some of the men were too. They led them up the gangplank onto the ship. Then one by one, the men got off. The children were crying for their daddies, but the men got off. The first man, the London man, stayed on long enough to speak with the captain. Then he came down, too.

The ship pulled out, almost the moment the man was off. You could hear the children crying until they were hustled inside. I watched that ship pull out and I was crying. Imagining if it was my little brother and sister, and my parents were sending them away to keep them safe. The blitz was over, so we thought things like that weren’t happening any longer.

We’d been smiling and laughing, those of us working that night, but not once we saw those children.

The interviewer spoke. “What happened to the ship, do you know?”

Frances replied, “Esperanza. She was the Esperanza.”

Weston went still. The Esperanza. This was his proof. The Esperanza had docked in England. He could now directly tie the painting that had belonged to the Ellingtons to the ship. But there had been children on the boat too. Weston’s stomach knotted.

She must have been captured by the Germans after she left here. Probably dropped the children and goods off in Wales or Northern Ireland. A week or two later, I saw a notice in the paper that she’d been sunk by an American ship. I never did figure out who the Londoner was, but I told myself those kids spent the war out in the fresh air, on a nice farm in Wales, and that their parents were still alive when the war ended.

It’s probably a bit of a fairytale, but those were the kinds of things you had to believe to get through it.

The rest of the tape was just the interviewer thanking Frances.

Weston hit the stop button and pulled the headphone off, dropping them to the table.

“Weston, what’s wrong? Did you not find what you were looking for?”

Weston unplugged the headphones, then shoved the entire Walkman into his pocket. “We need to go.”

Marek rose with him. “Wes?”

“I…I need to think.”

Without saying goodbye to Elliot, Weston left the little library. He walked down to the waterfront and started pacing on the wooden walkway. Marek watched him, a silent, patient presence.

The Esperanza hadn’t been captured by the Germans and used as a German supply ship. That was the lie that had been reported in the papers. Based on the journals he’d read, the USS Bluebird had gone after the Esperanza specifically because it was carrying treasure.

Yes, it had been carrying art and antiquities, but after what he’d just heard, he doubted that was the treasure they were talking about.

Children. There had been children on that boat.

What happened to them? The USS Bluebird took the art that had been onboard. Had they rescued the children?

The purists had stolen the art. That he was sure of. But had they stolen the children too? If so, where were they?

Who were they?

And there was a worse possibility.

Maybe the children had gone down with the Esperanza.

Weston felt ill. This was much bigger than he’d expected it to be. Yes, he could make a very good argument that the purists had stolen valuables belonging to the Masters’ Admiralty, using the painting as proof.

But he didn’t give two fucks about that damned painting now. He needed to find out what had happened to those kids.

He paced for another ten minutes, working through what he needed. He heard footsteps and looked up to see Rose and Tristan approaching. Rose wore dark jeans, a berry-red T-shirt and a trim leather motorcycle-style jacket. Large sunglasses with black frames covered her eyes and most of her upper face, and she wore black boots.

Rose was looking at Marek, and he only shrugged in return.

Weston stopped pacing and faced them. “We have to go to Boston.”

Rose and Marek looked at him with expressions of shock and consideration, respectively. Tristan nodded.

“Tristan, can you get us a plane?”

Now he frowned. “You’re about to lose your asylum. You can’t seriously be asking to use our resources.”

“I am. I have to get to Boston.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I…I’m not ready to say yet.”

“Then no.”

“Tristan. You know what I’ve been doing.” Weston took a step toward his friend. “I found what I needed, but it’s…it’s bigger than I thought. Lives may be at stake.”

Technically, that could be true. The children on that boat could, theoretically, still be alive, living in America with no memory of who they really were. Their parents were most likely dead, but they might have family somewhere. And most of all, they—the children who might not have any idea of what had happened to them, if they’d been as young as Frances thought—deserved to know the truth.

Tristan searched his face. “Weston, I wish I could help, but…”

“The people whose lives are in danger might have ties to the Masters’ Admiralty.”

“What?” Tristan rocked back on his heels. “Explain.”

“Get me a plane. We need to leave for Boston right now.”

“If you’re making this up—”

“I’m not. And if I am, you can drag me before your Admiral and then rendition my ass to a dark hole somewhere.”

Tristan stared at him for a minute more, then looked at Rose and Marek. Weston turned so he could see them too. They both looked baffled, though most of Rose’s expression was hidden by the glasses.

“Fine.” Tristan turned and walked away, tapping at his phone.

“Wes?” Rose asked.

Marek put a hand on each of their shoulders. “I don’t know what’s going on, or what you’re talking about, but I’m going with you to Boston.”

Rose stiffened.

“Not to return you to the Grand Master. I’m going with you to help you.”

Weston sighed. “Good, because we need your help. Actually, I think we need your grandmother’s help.”

Chapter Sixteen

It was both awesome and awful that only five hours after the conversation on the docks they were boarding a private plane headed to Manchester-Boston Regional Airport.

Rose didn’t know much about the Masters’ Admiralty, but arranging a last-minute international flight on a private plane was a Herculean task. You needed money, power, and connections to do it. Even more so because Rose was traveling on a fake EU passport. She hadn’t thought to ask how Weston had gotten her into the country, but Marek had asked when they drove the two hours back to Weston’s house.

Wes had pulled out a small lockbox and opened it to reveal three bundles of passports. Each bundle had four passports—one each for Weston, Rose, Tabby, and Caden. For the return trip to the U.S., Weston gave her a passport with her mother’s last name, rather than Hancock. The passport she’d entered England with had the same name. It was a common enough practice among people who held two passports to enter Europe on the European one and then return to the U.S. with the American one, so she should be safe enough, as long as they didn’t realize it was a fake.

Tristan was able to drive his SUV right onto the tarmac at the private plane jet center at London City Airport.

Rose slipped out of the car then went to the trunk, taking the backpack Weston had given her, mostly so it seemed like she had some sort of luggage. No luggage was suspicious. A porter took Marek’s and Weston’s suitcases, throwing them into a little cart and driving them into the hangar to be scanned. A small table was set up at the foot of the stairs, and one by one they placed their carryon bags on the table, where a gloved attendant hand-checked each, before waving them up the steps.

A trim young man in a flight attendant’s blazer welcomed them onboard with glasses of Prosecco.

The interior of the G6 was divided into three sections—the foyer/kitchen area, where they’d entered, and two seating areas. The middle seating area had only four seats, two on each side, facing each other. There was a bulkhead that separated these seats from the back of the aircraft, where there were two couches along each side, facing in toward the center aisle.

Rose dropped into one of the rear-facing seats. Marek took the one across from her, looking strong and unflappable, his shirt hugging the muscles of his shoulders and upper arms.

Weston sat in the other forward-facing seat. Tristan didn’t look pleased by that, but took the last chair, across the aisle from Rose. The flight attendant gave them a quick briefing, they buckled up, and then the plane started taxiing.

Weston looked tense. He had yet to explain why they were willingly returning to Boston. She’d gotten Tristan out of the way so he could listen to those tapes. Curiosity was eating away at her. What could he have heard that made him so tense and grim?

The only thing she could think was that he hadn’t found anything. If the proof he hoped for wasn’t there, he wouldn’t have the leverage he needed to threaten his parents and get the Grand Master to back off.

But if he’d found nothing, she would have expected more frustration. Perhaps he would have insisted they go back to the cabin so he could consult his serial killer room for another lead.

Once they’d climbed to thirty-thousand feet and the captain announced they could unfasten their seat belts, Weston yanked at the tab and jumped to his feet.

“Rose, come on.” He held out his hand.

She froze, her nerve endings tingling. A lifetime of conditioning had her bowing her head even as she undid the seat belt.

Marek pushed to his feet, strong, solid, and sure. He stepped between her and Weston. “No, Weston. You don’t speak to her like that.”

Rose couldn’t see Weston’s face, but she heard the noise he made. A noise of pain and sadness. Her heart lurched in response, as if his pain had hurt her too. Which was ridiculous and circular.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” There was a sigh. “I need to talk to you.”

“I’m coming with you,” Marek said.

“I’m not going to hurt her.”

That spurred her from the submissive silence his command had locked her into. She pushed to her feet. “I’m right here. I don’t need you to protect me.” She put her hand on Marek’s arm. “But that’s who you are. I understand that. Sometimes…sometimes I react.” She tried to put a note of humor into her voice but it was shaky. “All the brainwashing.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll just…” Weston sighed.

Rose kept one hand on Marek and took Weston’s hand with her free one. “What do you need, Wes?”

“Ah, for fuck sake, you three.” Tristan had his arms folded and eyes closed. They were standing only a few feet from him, but he was clearly trying to pretend he wasn’t there. “The couches in the back convert into a bed. Get on with it.”

Weston met her gaze and jerked his chin in a brief nod.

Rose changed her posture, resting her elbow on Marek’s shoulder. “A bed?” she purred, watching Tristan out of the corner of her eye. “I hope you’ve got headphones, Blondie.”

Without looking, he reached into his carryon, pulled out noise-canceling headphones, and put them on.

Weston led them through the small doorway to the area with couches, then closed the small door, separating the seating areas. It wasn’t soundproof, but between the noise of the plane and Tristan’s headphones, they might not be overheard when Weston told them…

Told them whatever it was he’d heard on that tape.

Rose sat back as Weston stopped the tape. The Walkman sat on the couch between them. Marek sat on the couch opposite, his brows beetled in a frown.

It wasn’t until Marek slipped to one knee in front of her, and Wes reached out and tentatively took her hand, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles, that Rose realized she was crying.

“There were children on the ship?” she asked in a choked voice.

“Treasure. The reason the Bluebird went after it was because they’d intercepted communications that said there was treasure.”

“My God.” The lump in her throat made it hard to swallow. Belatedly, she could feel the cold lines on her cheeks where tears made flesh wet, and the air pumping through the plane’s jets cooled the tracks of them.

Rose reached up and wiped her cheeks, doing it carefully to remove any eyeliner or mascara that had run down her face. To buy time, she’d insisted Tristan take her to several stores until she’d found the “perfect” makeup, telling him it was necessary because she had allergies. Putting on eyeliner made her feel much more in control of the world.

Marek held out his hand, offering it to her. She placed her fingers in his, so each hand was held.

“I can see that this information is hurting you.” Marek offered his other hand to Weston, who looked surprised—and was he blushing? Then Wes placed his hand in Marek’s. Rose stared at their joined hands, and a little thrill ran through her, as if by taking hands they’d completed the circuit, and now an electrical current was running through them.

As if they were three pieces of a single whole that, once together, sparked with life and power.

Rose started breathing deeper, and her body felt heavy. The feeling was both familiar and foreign. Arousal. She was aroused. But it felt bright and delicious, like a mouth full of Champagne. She was used to arousal feeling like a shot of Jaeger—hard and burning.

On reflex, her fingers tightened around theirs. Marek returned the squeeze. Weston hesitated.

“Rose?” Weston asked.

“I…I want this. I want you, both of you.” Stupid useless tears welled in her eyes. She normally never cried but in the last week, she’d cried more than she had in years. “But I can’t.”

“Why not?” Marek’s voice was calm and steady.

“Because I don’t know how to be with someone without BDSM.” Her voice cracked. “And I think if…if either one of you topped me…” How could she explain the anxiety that roiled through her like a bubbling cauldron? “I couldn’t take it.” She let out a hard, bitter laugh. “I could, of course, take it. Put a collar around my neck, tie my hands together, and I’ll do what you say, anything you order me to. And if either of you did that, I wouldn’t be able to…it would kill me.”

Rose shook her head. “No, that’s not the right way to put it. It wouldn’t kill me. It would snuff out the stupid little bit of hope inside me.”

“Hope?” Weston asked.

“Hope. Hope that maybe one day we…” She paused to take a breath. “I always hoped that Caden was right. That someday, he and Tabby and I would get out. We’d be free. And maybe, once we were free, Caden would change. And if he changed, maybe I would have been able to love him.

“If you use me, master me, the way he did, I would start to hate you, and it would kill that little bit of hope.”

“Then we won’t touch you that way,” Marek said softly.

Weston took his hand from hers. “I’m not going to touch you, Brown Eyes. I don’t ever want to hurt you. I’m sorry, so sorry, for the cuffs. I thought it would make you more comfortable.” He shifted away from her, turning so that his blind right side faced her. “I thought that Caden was giving you what you wanted. What you needed. I thought that I had fucked up all those years ago by not acting as your Dom.”

Rose laid the hand he’d held only moments ago against his shoulder. “We can’t change our past.”

“No, we can’t.”

Marek cleared his throat. “But we can make a new future.”

Rose didn’t miss the way he’d said “we.” What they weren’t acknowledging, or talking about, was the fact that they were behaving like a trinity.

Marek climbed to his feet, then went to the couch he’d been sitting on and fiddled with it.

Rose slid her hand down Weston’s arm, until her fingers lay on his wrist. It took a moment, but he turned his hand palm up, offering it to her. She slid her fingers over his, and that warm, bubbly feeling returned.

She must have made a sound, because Weston turned, looking at her. “Rose…”

There was a thunk and they both looked at Marek. He’d folded the couch out to form a bed. It was wider than a twin, but not as big as a double. He stepped back, then motioned for them to rise. They did, stepping toward the back of the plane, where there was four feet of clear space between the end of the couch-bed and the bathroom.

Marek pulled out the other couch. When he was done, there was a wall-to-wall bed.

Weston and Rose exchanged a look, then faced Marek, who was standing on the other side. He toed off his shoes, then walked across the bed to join them on the far side.

“So we’re, uh, having sex then?” Weston asked.

“Not necessarily.” Marek looked at Rose. “How are your ribs?”

She hadn’t even through about them. “They’re fine. Must have been a bruise, not a crack.”

Marek inclined his head. “May I?”

She nodded, though she wasn’t sure what he was asking permission to do. She was curious, and still aroused.

Marek cupped her shoulders. “Rose, you need to take back your power.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’re in charge. Weston is going to obey your commands. He’ll do whatever you say.”

Rose looked at Weston, whose eyebrows went up in surprise, but then he nodded. And he smiled.

He was smiling as if that wasn’t terrifying. As if being told you had to obey another person’s commands wasn’t soul-wrenchingly dehumanizing.

It was possible, just barely possible, that she was projecting.

“And you?” she asked Marek.

“I’ll obey if you’d like. Or I can act as your bodyguard. I want you to feel safe.”

“I wouldn’t hurt her,” Weston protested hotly.

“I know that.” Marek’s tone was matter-of-fact, not placating, and Weston’s shoulders relaxed.

Rose pulled her hand from Marek’s, but not because she was rejecting his idea or his touch.

She looked at Weston. “Take off your shirt.”

Weston flashed her a grin, then yanked it over his head with more enthusiasm than grace.

Rose looked at Marek. “You too.”

Marek also smiled, and took off his shirt by pulling at it from the back. They were smiling. They were excited, not terrified.

Her mind raced with the possibilities of what she could do. For a horrifying moment, some part of her wanted to take the belt from around Marek’s waist and use it. To beat them until they too were afraid, the way she had been so many times before.

She pushed back the dark, cruel thoughts. “Now the pants.”

In turn, each man stripped off his pants. Weston was naked beneath, while Marek wore black boxer briefs that hugged his thighs and ass.

Weston’s cock was semi-erect. He stood unashamedly naked. She glanced once more at the scars that marred the right side of his body, both from the burn and the surgeries that followed. Her heart bled for the young man he’d been, so noble and determined to save her, only to be struck down in such a vicious way by his own parents.

But the time for mourning had passed. She needed to live this moment as if there were no past, no future.

“Take off your underwear,” she told Marek. “I want you naked.”

Marek shucked his underwear, revealing his semi-erect cock.

Rose paused, unsure what to do next. Asking them to take off their clothes had been easy enough, but now that they were naked—both taller and stronger than her, clearly dominant men—she was having to fight the urge to drop to her knees. Last night she’d been able to just enjoy, but she’d been so emotionally and physically exhausted that it had been like acting in a dream. A wonderful dream.

This was a new day, and bright sunlight spilled in the plane’s windows.

Silence stretched to the point of being awkward. Marek grabbed his underwear and slid it back on, then slipped around behind her, his chest against her back, his hands settling lightly on her hips. “I’m here. I’m with you. You’re in control, Rose. I’ll help you.”

Rose reached down and pressed his hands more firmly against her hips. “Don’t let me kneel.”

“I won’t,” he murmured. Then Marek proved that for all his good manners and upstanding bearing, he had the soul of a sexual deviant. “What do you want him to do? You could have him stroke his cock until he’s ready to come but then order him to stop. You could make him kneel and watch as you take your clothes off, piece by piece.”

Rose’s nipples hardened inside her shirt. Holy shit. Having Marek at her back, whispering naughty things while Wes stood in front of her, naked and ready, was hot.

“Stroke yourself,” Rose told Weston.

His eyes blazed with desire as he curled the fingers of his right hand around his shaft, rubbing the head of his cock with his thumb.

“Make your cock hard for me,” Rose added, her nipples diamond hard inside her bra.

Weston let out a little groan, and Marek’s cock pressed against her ass. Weston kept stroking, his heavy-lidded gaze focused on her.

“Do you want to touch me?” Rose purred.

“Yes,” Weston ground out.

She laid her fingers over Marek’s hands and guided them up her sides, sliding them under her jacket until his forefingers rested just under the swell of her breasts.

Weston squeezed his cock hard, his breathing labored.

“Do you like this? Do you like seeing him touch me?” Rose hadn’t meant to ask that second question, because the answer could mean this whole scene came to a grinding halt.

“Yes, Brown Eyes, yes. I want—” He clamped his lips together to stop himself from speaking.

“What do you want?”

Wes shook his head. “This is about what you want.”

“And what if I want to watch you touch Marek?”

There was only the briefest pause before he said, “Then I will.”

Rose shook her head. “I won’t make you, either of you, do anything you don’t want.” Her words came out fierce and hard.

Weston looked at her, his hand still on his cock. “I know you wouldn’t.”

Marek’s fingers flexed against her rib cage, reminding her he was there.

“And what if I want Marek to touch you?” she asked.

Wes’s eyes widened before his hand started stroking again. “As you wish.”

Rose’s heart clenched, and she wondered if he remembered the night they’d stayed up watching The Princess Bride.

“Take your hand off your cock,” she told Weston. Then to Marek, “I want you to stroke him.”

Marek stepped out from behind her and went to Weston. He laid his hand on Weston’s shoulder, trailing his knuckles down Wes’s chest and abdomen until his fist bumped his cock.

Weston closed his eyes, his head falling back. Marek wrapped his fingers lightly around the hard length of cock, stroking up and down in sure motions.

Rose watched, her whole body tingling with arousal. Weston’s head tipped forward, his eyes opening. His gaze met Marek’s and then, with a little growl, he grabbed Marek by the back of the head and kissed him.

Rose blinked in surprise, then blinked again as a shiver of pleasure racked her. If she was asked to label herself, she’d call herself pansexual—as a serious submissive, she’d been part of just about any pairing even the kinkiest person could imagine. But she’d never reacted this way to seeing two men together.

Probably because this wasn’t just two random male submissives ordered to put on a show for the crowd. These were her men.

Don’t be stupid. At the end of this, if you’re lucky, you might have a few weeks with Weston before you have to pay for your crimes. And Marek is better than you, better than both of you.

Shoving that thought aside with an effort of will, she shucked her jacket. It was warm, too warm, on the plane.

They broke the kiss, and Marek kept working Weston’s cock.

“It’s…it’s been too long. I can’t last,” Weston growled.

“Don’t let him come, Marek.”

Marek used his thumb and forefinger to grip the root of Weston’s cock, pinching down.

Weston grunted out, “Thanks.”

“Marek, take off your boxers.” Rose watched him as she tried to think of what else she should make them do.

With a start, she realized that she didn’t have to wait. This wasn’t a BDSM scene, where the play could last hours before any penetrative sex occurred. This could be fast and hard if she wanted. Or if could be slow and sweet.

Slow and sweet sounded nice, but she needed their hands on her. Now.

“Undress me.”

They moved in sync, as if they’d rehearsed. Marek dropped to his knees, reaching for her shoes. Weston raised her hands, kissed his way up her wrist and forearm to her sleeve before grasping the hem of her shirt and working it up.

Marek had her boots and socks off in record time, then started on the button of her jeans, even as Weston drew the shirt up and off, leaving her wearing a black satin bra.

When she had gone to buy the underwear, she’d defiantly picked up a plain white cotton one, only to try it on and find it too heavy and restrictive. Realizing she might not have been missing anything, she went for a black satin bra, since lace ones didn’t look good under T-shirts.

Marek pulled her pants off, exposing the matching black satin thong.

Both men leaned back, looking her over, head to foot. It didn’t feel like they were inspecting a piece of property—she knew what that felt like. Instead, they were appreciating her, almost worshiping her with their gazes.

Feeling bold, she reached out and tangled her fingers in Marek’s dark hair and Weston’s honey-brown locks. She drew Marek’s face to her crotch, rubbing her satin-covered sex against his nose and lips. She pulled Weston to her breasts, lifting her chest slightly so her hard nipples rubbed against his cheek.

Weston groaned and then sucked her breast into his mouth, his saliva quickly soaking through the bra. Then his teeth scraped her nipple and she arched up, the muscles of her arm tensing as she tightened her hold on him.

Marek hooked a hand under her left leg and drew it up over his shoulder. When he pressed his face against her pussy, she could feel the heat of his breath, the rigid line of his teeth.

Weston yanked on her bra, pulling it down so her breasts popped out. Then his mouth closed on her, hot and wet, and sucked on her nipple. Exquisite pleasure pulsed through her, her pussy clenching in response. Marek pulled her panties to the side, and she felt cold air and warm breath against her.

She waited, breathless, for Marek to touch her with his lips. Weston’s free hand grasped the nipple he wasn’t sucking and she arched her body into them. Marek, the son of a bitch, moved back, keeping a finger’s width between his mouth and her pussy.

Rose gritted her teeth as Weston pinched and twisted her nipple, sending another wave of white-hot sensation through her.

“Put your mouth on me,” she gasped. “Now. Lick my clit. And I want your fingers inside me.”

Weston growled and lifted his head from her breast, even as Marek parted her with two fingers and licked from the entrance of her body to her clit. His tongue felt cool against her hot, hot flesh. She clenched and almost cried out when the broad flat of his tongue stroked her clit.

Weston sealed his mouth over hers, cupping the back of her head with his hand. It was a dominant action, claiming her mouth, and for a moment Rose wavered, but then Marek’s tongue stroked through her pussy again, and she remembered that he was acting on her orders. That she was in control here.

And even if she faltered and shut down, slipping into her submissive head space in reaction to Weston, Marek was there.

Rose yanked on Weston’s hair, breaking the kiss. She met his gaze, saw the first flickers of concern appear in his expression. Before he could fall out of the moment, she took his mouth, parting her lips against his and licking the seam of his mouth.

Weston sighed or growled, she couldn’t tell which, and then slid his tongue into her mouth.

Marek chose that moment to slip one finger into her pussy.

Rose broke the kiss. “Bed, bed, bed.”

Weston stooped and wrapped his left arm around her ass, picking her up and taking two steps back. Marek jumped to his feet and then onto the bed. Weston turned, toppling her out of his arms and into Marek’s.

She needed them.

Needed needed needed.

Rose lay back and, without ceremony, spread her legs, knees bent. She raised her arms above her head, grabbing onto the opposite side of the bed.

“Wes. I want you in me.”

Weston slid between her legs, braced his elbows alongside her ribs, then shifted his hips. The head of his cock stabbed against her inner thigh before sliding into position. Rose gasped as the plum-like head opened her folds, bumping against her clit before sliding down the valley of her pussy to the entrance of her body.

He held still, though she could see the strain in the muscles of his shoulders.

Weston looked down at her, hair falling over his forehead. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

It was the same thing he’d said all those years ago, when they’d first had sex. She hadn’t been a virgin, but she’d been terrified.

She wasn’t a girl anymore and wasn’t frightened. “You won’t hurt me.”

“I already have.” He turned his face to the left, so she could no longer see his good eye.

And that was where it might have fallen apart, if not for Marek.

“Then let’s heal the hurt,” Marek said. He was kneeling on the bed, erect cock prominent and attractive in that way cocks were only when a woman was aroused. He put a hand on Weston’s back, stroking him gently.

“You can touch him.” With his other hand, Marek reached out and tugged on Rose’s wrists.

It wasn’t until he said it that she realized she’d instinctively taken an appropriate submissive position, behaving as if there were restraints on her hands, though there were none except the ones burned into her mind.

Marek guided her arms around Weston, her arms curled over his shoulders, drawing him down until his chest brushed her nipples.

“Please,” she whispered.

“Always,” Weston replied.

Then he slid into her, his cock long and thick, filling her, pressing against her inner walls, forcing her body to yield to him.

Rose gasped, arched her hips, and came. That moment of penetration, so pure and intense, had her clenching down around him. It wasn’t the teeth-gritted leg-cramping orgasm that came from a vibrator, or the muscle-shaking relief of an orgasm long denied after hours of teasing.

This was like being lifted by the swell of a wave, rising higher, higher until it crested and she crashed down.

Weston nuzzled her cheek then started to rock in and out in a lazy fashion.

With his cheek pressed to hers, he didn’t see her wicked smile.

“Stop,” she said.

He froze. “Did I hurt you? I thought you came.”

“I did. Marek’s turn. You can watch.”

His nostrils flared in response, and she thought she’d made a mistake. But Weston slid his cock out of her and rolled off her onto his side, propping his head on his hand.

Rose turned to Marek. “I want you inside me.”

Marek looked rather serious as he slid between her legs. Weston grabbed the leg closest to him and lifted it, sliding it over his hip and opening her even wider.

Rose shivered with arousal.

Marek braced himself on his hands rather than his elbows, leaving his impressive chest bare. For her viewing pleasure.

Then he adjusted his knees, and his cock slid into her. Rose reached up to grab Marek’s shoulder with one hand, and the other tangled in Weston’s hair as he lay beside her. She arched her hips, taking him in another half inch. It felt good. It felt right.

Rose watched Marek from beneath her lashes. Spots of color marked his lower cheeks and neck as he started to thrust. She could feel Weston’s cock jumping and jerking in reaction to the sight of Marek’s cock disappearing into her pussy.

This was good. No, it was better than good. This was something she’d never really had before—a mix of gang-bang kink and tenderness.

Marek pumped for a few minutes then stopped. “I’m not sure how much longer I can hold off.” His voice was rougher than she’d ever heard it. As if this was his evil twin. She liked his evil twin.

She wanted this evil twin to keep fucking her.

But as hot as it was to have them taking turns, she wanted to have them both.

“Stop,” she said.

Marek immediately stopped. And that was the hottest thing that had happened so far.

“I want it to be all of us, together.”

“How?” Marek asked.

She applied gentle pressure to his shoulder and he slid out of her body, standing beside the bed. Rose rolled to the side, then gestured to the middle. “Wes, you lie there. On your back.”

Weston scooted over and lay on his back, blue eye tracking her movements. Rose knelt astride him. She ran her hands down his chest to his cock, holding it as she inched up into position. He raised his hands to her breasts, then hesitated.

“Play with my nipples,” she demanded. “I want you to pinch and twist and pull.”

With his cock in her hand, she could feel exactly what effect her words had on him. His hands closed over her breasts, first kneading them, then sliding his fingers to her nipples, twisting and pinching. Rose arched her back in pleasure and sank down on his cock.

When her ass hit his thighs, she stopped, wiggling a little, just for fun. Then she looked over at Marek.

“Have you had anal sex before?” she asked.

He might have blushed. “Uh, yes, but we don’t have any lube or a plug for preparation.”

“Stop being such a Boy Scout and get over here and fuck my ass.”

“Language,” he said reflexively.

Between her legs, Weston vibrated with laughter.

“Fucking is the right word for what I want you to do to me,” Rose purred. “You’re going to fuck my ass, and that’s going to make me move enough that I’ll be sliding on Weston’s cock.”

Marek disappeared into the bathroom.

Rose’s heart fell. “That was too much. Normal women don’t talk like that.”

Weston’s hands flattened and he palmed her breasts in an oddly comforting gesture. “Men only wished normal women talked like that. He—”

Marek returned, one palm rubbing the head of his cock, a dab of white on the tips of two fingers on his other hand.

“I got some lotion. It’s lemon-balm scented.”

Rose smiled in relief. “I thought you were giving up on us.”

“Never.” There was a lot of emotion in that one word. “But I won’t risk hurting you.”

“It really would be okay. I’ve had anal sex without prep or lube before.”

Marek shook his head. “You deserve prep and lube.”

Below her, Weston snorted out another laugh.

Rose ground her hips down and his laugh morphed into a groan. He squeezed her breasts and then plucked at her nipples.

Rose bent forward over Weston. He released her nipples with one last tweak that made her pussy clench, then he wrapped his arms around her.

“Hold her cheeks open,” Marek said in a gravelly voice. Ohh, the evil twin was back.

Rose reached back to obey, but Weston beat her to it. Marek hadn’t been talking to her. Hadn’t been giving her orders.

Weston’s fingers dug into the cheeks of her bottom, parting the globes of her ass. Marek’s fingers dabbed the cold lotion onto her asshole. Rose didn’t think now was the time to tell him that using lotion, especially scented lotion, wasn’t a good idea. Later. They could worry about that next time.

That thought brought her up short, jerking her out of the moment. Next time implied a future they definitely didn’t have.

Her moment of distraction meant that she jumped in surprise when Marek worked one finger into her ass. He paused, finger buried halfway in her.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No. I like it. It feels good.”

With her pussy full of Weston’s cock, Marek’s finger made her feel stuffed. She’d had double-penetration sex before plenty of times, though usually that was one man at her back using either her ass or pussy while the other fucked her mouth. This was different. This was intimate in a way being ordered to take a cock in mouth and ass while a third man casually cropped her nipples wasn’t.

Marek worked his finger all the way into her, then added a second. Rose held herself perfectly still for a few moments before she remembered she didn’t have to. She started to move, rocking back onto Marek’s fingers, forcing them deeper inside her. Changing the angle of her hips so she could grind her clit against Weston’s pelvis.

“Hurry the fuck up,” Weston snarled. “And if you say ‘language’ I swear to God I’ll strangle you.”

The fingers in her ass paused and then withdrew. Marek’s knees on the mattress made it dip. Weston bent his. Her legs, hooked over his, were drawn up. Weston let go of her ass and tangled a hand in her hair, pulling her down for a kiss.

Another set of hands settled on her ass, pulling it open, exposing her. Then the broad head of a cock pressed against the tight ring of muscle.

Marek shifted his hold, his fingers curling forward to hook around her hips while his thumbs dug into her ass, keeping her spread.

Then he was pushing. Rose sighed into the kiss and relaxed with the ease of long practice. His cock pressed in a half inch, opening her ass.

She nipped Weston’s tongue, then his lower lip.

Marek slid in farther, and she could feel the crown of the tip of his cock enter her.

Weston was still buried in her pussy and she felt incredibly full. Almost too full.

But there wasn’t such a thing as “too full.” Not with them. In a flash of insight, she realized there would never be enough.

“Fuck me,” she groaned, ripping her mouth from Weston’s. “Fuck us.”

Marek’s ironclad self-control must have cracked because he bent over her, one knee on the bed, the opposite foot on the floor, and pumped into her ass in a vicious rhythm.

His hand slid up her back, then around her side, stroking the outer side of her breast where it was pressed to Wes’s chest.

As he thrust forward, Rose was shoved up Weston’s body, and her pussy slid along his cock. With a growl, Weston pressed on her thighs, shoving her back down onto his cock and forcing Marek to retreat.

Marek thrust his cock into her ass.

Weston pressed her down, impaling her pussy on his cock.

Rose swallowed and realized this—this wild, uncontrollable arousal—was what it was supposed to be like. She’d always looked around the clubs and hotels she and Caden had frequented, and wondered what the hell was wrong with all these people. She and Caden hadn’t exactly chosen the lifestyle. Caden had always tempered pain with pleasure, taking the worst sting out of it until, over time, she occasionally looked forward to the pain, simply because it meant pleasure.

Now she understood. This was what those people were seeking. An intensity of emotion and physical stimulus that transcended too-simple labels of pleasure and pain.

Weston tore his mouth away, pressing his cheek to hers. “I’m going to come.”

“Good. Good,” Marek panted.

Rose couldn’t speak. She was hovering there, on the edge of something gloriously new yet achingly familiar.

Another thrust into her ass, faster than the others had been. There was no rhythm now. There was only pleasure and need and the fullness that made her clench her teeth and rake Weston’s arms with her nails.

She needed something, something.

Marek jackhammered into her, then stilled and groaned. Below her, Weston bit her shoulder and let out a groan of his own.

Wait, wait, I want to come with you.

“Ours,” Marek declared. “You’re ours.”

Weston turned his head, nipping her earlobe, and said, “Ours. Come for us.”

This time, the command didn’t scare her or drag her into the past. She came, throwing her head back so hard that it smacked into Marek’s chest. She screamed between clenched teeth as the orgasm went on and on.

Finally, the pleasure released her and she fell limply on top of Weston.

He hugged her. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

Marek slid out of her ass and lay beside them. “What happened?”

“I’m a fucking ass,” Weston replied.

“Language.”

Rose buried her face against Weston.

“Seriously?” Wes hissed. “Focus on what’s important. I ordered her to come.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t mean to.” Weston squeezed her. “I’m so sorry, Brown Eyes.”

“We can work on making sure—”

“How about you both shut up and stop ruining the moment?” Rose kept her eyes closed as she spoke. “I’m not sure I would have been able to come without the command. I don’t want to think about it too much. That was perfect. So, you two can shut up.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Weston started to laugh. His semi-erect cock was still buried in her pussy, but slipped out when he rolled her to lie between himself and Marek.

Marek looked down at her with dark eyes. “So I shouldn’t ask you if I hurt you?”

“If you want to be helpful, you can find a towel and a blanket,” she said. “But I’m just as happy if you stay right here. With me. With us.”

Marek did slide off the bed, disappearing into the bathroom, returning with warm, wet washcloths. He cleaned her ass with one, pussy with another, and then he cleaned Weston’s cock, tugging gently with washcloth-covered fingers. Rose watched Marek take care of Weston and something in her chest twisted.

Marek disposed of the washcloths, then returned with a blanket. He lay beside her, and Rose turned to him. He lifted one arm and she slid into place, cheek against his shoulder. Weston curled against her back, his arm sliding over her, his hand laying on Marek’s stomach below the blanket.

Rose was safe, warm, and loved. That last one might have been a figment of her imagination, but she was going to hold on to the feeling.

She closed her eyes and fell into a light sleep.

Chapter Seventeen

“I think it’s time,” Marek said, “that you tell me what’s really going on.”

Marek didn’t dare move too much—Rose was still asleep on his shoulder—but Weston had slid out of bed several moments ago, disappearing into the bathroom.

Now that he’d come out, Marek wanted him to start talking.

Weston nodded once, then started pulling on his pants and shirt. Rose, warm and soft at Marek’s side, shifted a little, her dark raven’s wing brows drawing together. He hadn’t planned to wake her, but Weston grabbed her foot and gave it a little jiggle.

“Wake up, Brown Eyes.”

Rose must not have been deeply asleep because she opened her eyes and sat up. She raised her arms, stretching them above her head. The blankets fell, and her particularly lovely breasts were on display. He hadn’t gotten to taste those pink nipples, and that was something he hoped to rectify.

Marek waited for Rose to rise, then he slid off the bed. He spent a few minutes converting the bed back into divans. He took his turn in the bathroom, emerging to see Rose and Weston standing in the space between the couches.

“Hungry?” he asked.

They both nodded. He slid between them, his skin reacting to the heat from their bodies. He opened the door and led them out into the main cabin. The flight attendant’s expression was perfectly neutral and pleasant. He advised them that they had about two hours of flight time left, then took their dinner order.

Tristan was less reserved, and rolled his eyes. “If you three are done, I’m going to lie down for a few hours.”

“Put a sheet down first.” Weston grinned.

Knight made a gagging noise but plodded into the back.

They took their seats, Marek and Weston across from one another, Rose across the aisle, leaning on the armrest so she’d be closer to them.

Weston took a minute, apparently to gather his thoughts. “We told you about the purists.”

It wasn’t a question, but Marek replied. “Yes.”

“The purists aren’t just ideologues. In fact, I don’t think that my parents care at all about that aspect of it. The purists may have started out as Nazi sympathizers. But now there’s something else going on.”

Rose took up the story when Weston stopped speaking. “They’ve been protecting something. A secret. Actually, many secrets. Caden…” Her voice trembled a little when she said the dead man’s name. “Caden and I kept trying to find the big secret. Something that, if we knew it, would give us leverage. We’d be able to leave.”

“And you didn’t dare leave unless you had it because of Tabitha,” Marek said, hoping to push the conversation forward faster. He felt a flash of annoyance but tempered it with patience. This wasn’t just a story to them. It was memories, each of which might come with an ache of remembered pain.

“For a while, we thought the secret was these tunnels that connected with the Trinity Masters headquarters. Then we thought it was what was in the tunnels.”

Marek kept his gaze steady on Rose, but then switched it to Weston when he took over.

“Art, particularly paintings. Once I’d recovered from this,” Weston motioned to the right side of his body, “I started sneaking back to Boston and cataloguing what they had in there. Every time I went, there was less of it.”

“All this hidden art became their piggy bank.” Rose’s lips twisted. “My job was to keep the map of the tunnels. Give it out to people who were loyal to the purists. I tried to stop them by editing the map, but they still got in. Members of the purists would go in, grab a painting or sculpture, and sell it. Instant money. And the Andersons were the worst. At one point, they cleared out most of it…” The end of her sentence trailed off, and she frowned as if remembering something.

“The art was all pieces that disappeared during WWII.”

“Nazi art?” Marek asked. That was quite the secret.

“That’s what I thought originally,” Weston said.

“And that’s what we thought, but when we approached them about it, they laughed us off,” Rose said.

“And I identified some pieces that the Nazis could have never gotten their hands on.”

Marek thought back to the tape. “The boxes the woman remembered being loaded onto a Spanish boat…those were the art.”

Weston nodded. “That’s what I think. I’d found some diaries belonging to U.S. seamen who served on the USS Bluebird. The ship that sank the Esperanza. They were hidden away in the office of the Grand Master.”

“You were able to access the office?”

Weston nodded. “One of the tunnels leads right to the office.”

“And the Grand Master didn’t know about it?”

“No.”

Marek whistled. “How was this kept from the Grand Master?”

“This is where it turns to theory. I think that the Grand Masters knew about the tunnels originally, but after the art from the Esperanza was hidden in them, they closed them up, and the Grand Master of that day ordered everyone who knew about them not to say anything.”

“But there was a woman, one of the Grand Master’s counselors, who was one of the purists,” Rose added.

Weston nodded. “I think that she told the other purists, in secret. And so they knew, when no one was supposed to. Generations passed, and the people who were told to keep it a secret must have, since the current Grand Master, and the one before this—”

“And the one before that,” Rose added.

“They didn’t know,” Weston finished.

“So the art isn’t the secret because they laughed you off,” Marek repeated, making sure he understood.

They both nodded.

Marek thought about it for a second, pieces clicking into place.

Weston didn’t wait for him to puzzle it out. “The real secret is where the art came from, and how it got into those tunnels.”

“A U.S. ship sank the Esperanza? The woman on the tape said it had been taken by the Germans.”

Weston shook his head. “I think it was a cover up. Some of what I found was information that suggested the Bluebird had gone to seize the Esperanza, specifically because they’d intercepted a German message that said there was treasure on the boat.”

“A German message?”

Weston nodded slowly, staring at Marek, as if waiting for something. He went on. “On the surface, it doesn’t make sense. A Spanish ship that stopped in England to pick up art and passengers. Then a message from the Germans about the same ship.”

“Was the message meant to get the Germans to attack it and the Bluebird beat them to it?”

“No. The message was warning them to stay away from it.” Weston absently rubbed at the wax-like skin under his right ear. “I think the Americans intercepted it and went specifically to steal the ‘treasure’ on the Esperanza.”

Marek felt a little ill. “But the treasure was children. What happened to those kids?”

Rose made a sad little noise.

Weston shook his head. “Not to sound cold, but the thing I spent years figuring out was the connection. Why would a Spanish ship be full of both art supposedly confiscated by the Nazis—because there was also plenty of that in the tunnels—and art from England’s wealthiest families. What’s the connection?”

Marek sat up straight, his blood running cold.

He didn’t say anything out loud, aware that one of the Knights was only a few feet away, on the other side of a very flimsy door.

Weston nodded, and Rose looked grim.

“It makes a horrible sort of sense,” Marek said.

“And it would explain why the Trinity Masters didn’t return everything after the war,” Weston added quietly. “If it had just been a matter of the art, then they could have returned it. Played the hero card.”

Marek shook his head. “Even if it had been full of German treasure, they shouldn’t have sunk it. Even in the height of the war, the allied forces were doing their best to protect art.”

“Then they set out to steal it. A corrupt captain, someone who saw a chance to profit on misfortune. Maybe it was a ship full of men angry enough about Pearl Harbor that they’d sink anything that wasn’t an allied ship.”

“But they didn’t just sink it. They must have boarded it to get all that art off,” Rose added.

Marek shook his head. “If the Trinity Masters stole from the Masters’ Admiralty, that would be one thing. But the children…”

Weston leaned forward. “That’s where you come in.”

Marek raised his brows.

“Your grandparents are members. And your grandmother must know damned near everything if she was able to help you find me in a rural cottage based only on a description of this.” He pointed to his right eye.

“She does know almost everything.”

“If they’d tried to smuggle kids out, and then that ship sank, someone would have talked about it. Even if they weren’t supposed to. Given the timing, it’s possible that the boat dropped the kids off somewhere along the way and was only carrying the art.”

Marek clung to that, liking that much better than the other possibility. “And you want me to ask my grandmother.”

“Without letting on that we might know the real fate of the Esperanza.”

“If this is true, the Admiralty will have to be told. They deserve to know.”

Rose sat back and crossed her arms. She swallowed and looked out the window. Marek glanced at her and then at Weston.

“This information is all we have to take them down. If this is the secret the purists are trying to protect, it will give us leverage. But it only works if we can use the secret, threaten them by saying we’ll tell the Masters’ Admiralty. If we actually do tell them, the whole situation will blow up. We don’t want that, because an investigation into it all wouldn’t end well for any of us.”

“If you don’t tell them yourself, you risk the Masters’ Admiralty finding out.”

Weston stared at him. “Would you tell them?”

Marek fished his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll do what’s right.”

“Fuck,” Rose groaned.

“I know what you’ve been through. Both of you. We’ll stop these purists,” Marek assured them.

Weston’s face closed down into grim lines.

Marek checked his phone, which was a special model usually only available to military personnel. He flipped it to satellite mode and placed a call to his grandmother.

It rang twice, and after a brief conversation with William, she came on the line. Marek put it on speakerphone, but turned down the volume. Rose slid out of her chair to sit cross-legged in the aisle beside him. Weston leaned forward.

“You didn’t come visit,” Jane Dell said.

Marek winced. “I’m sorry, Grandmother. Circumstances necessitated it.”

“Make sure you include that in my eulogy. ‘Circumstances necessitated me not coming to visit.’”

“I’m very sorry, Grandmother. I promise I will come visit.

“Did you find the one-eyed man?”

Marek made an apologetic face at Weston.

“I did. You’re actually on speakerphone with him. His name is…Wesley. And you’re also on with a woman named Rose.”

“The woman you were hunting?”

“I wasn’t hunting her.”

“Call a spade a spade, boy. Are you in jail?”

“No. I called to ask you a question.”

“Of course. Because you’d never call to just talk to me.”

“Grandmother, I call you twice a week. Religiously.”

“I’m a duty? Just another task.”

Marek reminded himself, several times, that patience was a virtue and that he had to respect his elders.

Rose was grinning at the phone. “I like her,” she whispered.

“Who was that? Is that the girl? Let me speak to her.”

Marek offered the phone and Rose frantically shook her head.

“Grandmother, I have a—”

“So you’re somewhere, not in prison, with the woman you were trying to rescue and the man who kidnapped her. Is he your prisoner?”

“No, Grandmother. The situation is more complex than I was led to believe.”

“Didn’t give you all the information? Sounds like those dumb fucks at MI6.”

“Language, Grandmother,” he chided gently.

“Caradoc has a lot to answer for. He ruined you.”

“Grandmother, I have a—”

“So it’s just the three of you? Are they attractive?”

Marek stumbled to a verbal stop. “What?”

“Wesley and Rose. Are they good-looking?”

“That’s hardly relevant.”

“Ha! They are. Are you going to return to the fold? Get in a proper marriage with a trinity?”

“They’re not part of the Admiralty.”

“That’s not a problem. I’m sure we can make them seem either smart or dangerous enough to get them in.”

Marek took a breath and spit out the question. “Was there a secret boat full of Admiralty children sunk during World War II?”

Silence. Marek looked at the phone screen. The call hadn’t dropped.

“Where did you hear that?” The cantankerous grandmother was gone. Though her voice still vibrated with age, this was the voice of Agent Dell. Marek had only heard it a few other times in his life.

Marek swallowed hard. “I will tell you that, once this mission is over,” he said quietly.

Another silence, before she said. “You’d better, Marek.”

He winced. “Yes, Grandmother.”

There was another beat of silence before she started speaking.

“This is what I heard. No one spoke about it in full. It was always just bits of information. Things I heard and pieced together.

“You must understand that the Admiralty was terribly divided during the war. There were some who sided with the Third Reich. People looking for someone to blame because their lives weren’t going well, and Hitler said it was the Jews’ fault, and they were happy to accept that. That’s a story that happened before Hitler and has happened since. Only the scale was different.

“The Admirals threw out anyone who thought like that, but there were enough of them that they took a lot of power with them. The Admiralty was weakened. Some people faked loyalty to the Nazis and pretended to be thrown out, in order to rise up within the party and feed information back to the Isle.”

Marek looked up, trying to catch their reaction to the piece of information she’d just let slip. Neither one seemed startled by it, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

“Early in the war, when it looked like we’d all be speaking German, members from all the different territories sent their children away. It was a desperate move. They were trying to save their children, and save the Admiralty. If the allies had lost the war, that might have been the end of us.

“The territories with neutral countries organized ships and overland caravans. The children went to north Asia, Africa, and South America.

“There had been at least a few successful trips. There must have been. But then there was one that went all to hell. It was a big ship, Spanish I think, carrying children from Germany, France, and England. The parents sent the children with guards, and all the portable wealth they could.

“It was taken by the Nazis. The children were never found. Probably at the bottom of the ocean. Later, while being used by the Germans to transport supplies, it was sunk by the Americans.”

Marek looked up. That story, that it had been first taken by the Germans, explained why no one had thought to look for the children, or art, in the U.S.

“Thank you, Grandmother.”

“Marek, this is one of the darkest tragedies, particularly in our territory. If you know anything about this, you need to call it in.”

Marek grimaced, then told a small lie. “Knight is with us.”

“Hmph.” Her voice returned to that of opinionated, cantankerous old lady. “Which one?”

“Tristan.”

“Come, boy, that hardly tells me anything.”

“Tall, blond.”

“Bah. The knights are too hard to keep track of.”

Rose was frowning in confusion, but Weston was grinning. That meant he probably knew more about the Admiralty’s internal structures than he should.

“Thank you, Grandmother.”

“You should be.”

She hung up.

“I love her,” Rose said in a breathless voice. “I want to be her.”

Weston quirked a brow at Rose, then said, “What she said confirms what we’ve guessed.”

“That brings me to the question, why are we going to Boston?”

The flight attendant appeared with food. Rose went back to her seat as he pulled out the large tables between the seats, then set up elegant place settings, including second glasses of Prosecco and bottles of sparking water. Then he returned with wide bowls of creamy risotto with truffles, crusty bread in ceramic baskets, and crystal cups of fig, sweet potato, spinach, and honey salad.

They ate for a moment, murmuring quiet responses to the flight attendant’s questions. When he once more disappeared, they resumed their conversation between bites.

“We’re going to Boston because all the records about the Bluebird, along with the diaries, are there. Maybe someone mentioned the children. Not directly, I would have noticed that. But there might be, must be, something.”

“We can’t get them,” Rose told Weston. “Juliette knows about the tunnels. She has people keeping an eye on them. That’s why Christian was down there. They were going to map them. His wife is some relation to the original architects.”

Weston took a bite. “I got down there unseen to get you out.”

“And after you did that, they will have realized there are holes in their security.”

Weston set his jaw. “We have to try.”

Marek leaned forward. “We will try. And if we aren’t able to access what we need, I’ll approach the Grand Master directly.”

Rose considered that, her head tipped in a posture reminiscent of a bird of prey.

“You could take me with you. Return me to her.”

“No,” Weston ground out. “Too dangerous.”

“She won’t kill me right away.” Rose’s lips curled in a snarl. “I have things to say to her.”

Weston took a thoughtful bite. “You two provide the distraction. That could work.”

Marek’s brows went up in alarm. “That isn’t what I meant.”

They ignored him. Rose turned to stare out the window, but closed her eyes. “There’s something,” she said, voice barely audible because she was facing away from them. “Something that I keep thinking of and forgetting.”

“About what?” Marek asked.

“About…” She whirled to face them. “About something that Caden hid. We had to go with them one time, to help clear out the tunnels. It was after you,” she looked at Weston, “after you were hurt and disappeared. They were cleaning out the tunnels. And there was something, a folder, an old-fashioned kind of folder, that Barton particularly wanted to make sure they took. Caden took it. Hid it in the tunnels. While I provided the distraction.”

She smiled as she said it, but there was haunting pain in her eyes.

“What was in it?” Marek asked.

“I never saw it, but Caden told me later that there was a name on the front.” Her eyes lost their haunted look and glittered with excitement. “It said Admiralty.”

Weston pushed his plate away. “Describe it.”

“It was dark leather—blue, black. That’s it. That’s all I saw. But Barton wanted it.”

“All right. Then we find the diaries, or we find that folder.”

“Agreed,” Rose said.

Marek had a fairly good instinct for when things were about to go wrong. And right now, he most definitely had a feeling that the—he paused, then allowed himself to think the word—shit was about to hit the fan.

Weston dropped his bag onto the bed at the hotel. Tristan had booked them rooms at the Hyatt Regency overlooking the Boston Harbor. Tristan said it was only to keep an eye on Weston, but having the room booked in his names with his cards meant they didn’t set off any flags. The knight would never say it, but he was doing his best to help.

Weston was relieved when the car that picked them up at the airport brought them here. He didn’t mind keeping some distance between them and the Trinity Masters headquarters until they solidified their plans, figured out how to ditch Tristan.

When Rose had raised her brows at the seamlessness of their travel, Weston had given her a wry smile. He’d been in awe of what the Masters’ Admiralty could do since the start. It only took one instance of having people pull you, quite literally, out of a fire and get you to a hospital in time for you to not die, before you developed a reverence for their powers.

Weston had devoted nearly half of his life to defeating the purists. He’d let Rose and Caden be hurt because he’d stayed away, dedicating himself to finding out their secrets. That choice had killed his brother. It ended now. For the first time in his life, Wes had a sense that karma was on his side.

Rose walked out of the bathroom, running a brush through her lovely dark hair. “Marek back yet?”

He shook his head. Marek had stopped by the hotel’s elegant and expensive shop to pick up a few things, including more clothes for Rose. All Tristan had gotten her was what she was wearing and toiletries.

Rose leaned back into the bathroom to set the brush down, then walked across the room to the window. When she passed by him, he reached out a hand and she grasped it briefly, before letting her fingers slip from his as she kept moving. Even that small moment of contact made him feel better.

Whole.

Weston watched her walk—the way her hips moved, the confident tilt of her chin. He knew that though she looked and acted like a femme fatale, inside she was the walking wounded.

Knight had booked them a suite, putting Weston, Marek, and Rose in one room with a king bed, while claiming the other for himself. The window looked out onto the narrow streets of Boston. Even on the eighth floor, he could hear the sound of traffic—particularly, horns honking.

The suite, while practical and great because it kept their names off the registered guest list, was proof that Tristan didn’t intend to help more than he wanted which was going to be problematic. Though Tristan was in part helping, he was, after all, a Knight. He would want to stay in the loop. To gather information. Information was the most valuable currency to the Admiralty. They had plenty of money and connection. What they craved was information. If the Admiralty found out what had really happened to the Esperanza there would be hell to pay, and they’d lose their all-important leverage.

“We need to come up with a timeline,” Weston said softly, aware that Tristan was in the living area adjoining their rooms, flipping through the television stations on the big screen. “We don’t dare stay in Boston too long without acting. The best thing we have on our side is the element of surprise—even if they have contacts with the airport or customs, they won’t be able to find us immediately.”

“But Marek came in on his passport.”

“They hired him, why would they have a flag out for him?”

Rose looked dubious.

“Are you okay with the plan? Okay going with him?”

Rose sat down on the edge of the bed, smiling coldly. “Can you imagine Juliette’s face if you came with us? Captain America, a dead man, and her arch enemy, all popping up in her office?”

Weston claimed the chair next to the bed. “She’s not going to see all three of us. You and Marek will provide the distraction while I find the diaries, or that folder, and get the hell out.” That was the part of the plan he was worried about—sending Rose to be part of the distraction. And he hadn’t missed that she didn’t answer his question about whether or not she was worried. “Then we confront the Andersons and end the madness. If you want to have words with Juliette, fine, but make sure that you get out of there.”

Again, Rose didn’t respond directly to his statement. “What do you think happened to those kids, Wes?” Her softly spoken question told him she’d come to the same conclusion he had.

“I think they were killed.”

“What kind of monsters kill kids?”

Weston tilted his head. “Do you really need to ask that question, Brown Eyes?”

She fell silent, and he kicked himself for reminding her how much she’d suffered at the hands of this generation’s monsters.

The door opened and Marek entered. He looked at them. “Is everything all right?”

“Tristan is settled in out there.” Weston nodded toward the door. “Not sure how we’re going to get past him.”

Marek put his hands on his hips, all noble and upstanding. Weston hid a smile. Captain America was a good nickname.

“We’re back on American soil. Who says we have to answer to him? I say we just walk out of here.” Rose raised her hands palm up and arched her brows. “We’re not his prisoners. Trust me. I know what being a prisoner feels like.”

“Never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Nope.”

Marek shook his head, looking serious. “We are not going to sneak out. We’re going to talk to Tristan and he’s going to let us go.”

“Ohhh, Marek, you’re such a badass. Just walk out there and talk to him?” Rose shook her head. “Bold, ruthless.”

Weston didn’t miss the slight wince on Marek’s face when she said “badass,” but at least he didn’t call her to task for cursing. Marek didn’t respond to her mocking.

“I could grab that lamp over there and knock him out,” Rose offered.

“Bloodthirsty woman. Grandmother will adore you.” Marek turned to the door. “We’re doing it my way.”

Before Weston or Rose could argue, Marek was gone. They followed him to the living room, Weston walking past Marek, wanting to take the lead on this conversation. He knew Tristan better, knew exactly how much information to give.

“We need to run out for a little while,” Weston began.

Tristan was glowering at the TV, flipping through channels. “Forget it.”

“Tristan.”

“We’re here, Wes. I kept up my end of the bargain. You owe me details.”

“You know I’ve been chasing art,” Weston started.

Marek butted in. “We now have some limited evidence that during the theft of that art, people went missing too.”

Tristan looked up. “You said lives were at stake. As in people currently alive. But if this is all about some Nazi art, those people are long dead.”

Marek frowned. “I’m surprised a Knight would say something like that.”

Weston winced. Tristan had some insecurity issues about his pedigree. Marek implying he wasn’t a good knight was going to severely piss him off.

Tristan’s expression was blank, but Weston could see his friend’s jaw muscle clench.

“The fate of these people does matter, even if they have passed away. Any descendants they have, any legacy they left—those things matter. They deserve to have their story told.”

Tristan turned back to the TV. “Two hours. You’ve got two hours before I call the Admiral and your grandmother, not necessarily in that order, and bring their full wrath down on your heads.” He sighed and turned off the TV. “But you’re going to tell me where you’re going.”

It was as good as Weston was going to get, and he knew it. “We’ll be back by then,” he said. “You can find us at the Boston Public Library.”

“Care to be more specific?”

Rose exchanged a glance with Weston, who gave her a subtle nod. “Here’s a clue for you, Blondie. Nitimur in Vetitum.”

“We strive for the forbidden?” Tristan asked after pausing for a moment to translate.

“I’m impressed with your Latin,” Rose remarked, obviously surprised.

Tristan crossed his arms. “What does that have to do with the library? How can I use that piece of information?”

“It’s a puzzle. It will give you something to work on for a couple of hours. See you at the library.” Rose gave him a brief finger wave and Weston decided to follow her lead. The quicker the exit, the better their chances of getting out before Tristan reconsidered. Marek stopped to say something more to Tristan but then followed them out.

Once they hit the street, Marek raised his hand, waving down a taxi. Weston asked that they be taken to Trinity Church and they were on their way.

“The church?” Rose asked. “You aren’t using the entrance at 500 Boylston?”

Weston shook his head. “You said Juliette was aware of that one. Besides, it’s probably still impassible since your foray into mayhem and murder.”

“I suspect they’re aware of all the entrances at this point. The woman, the one Christian married, is an architect and a descendent of the people who built the tunnels.” Rose spat out the name Christian.

“Then you and Marek will have to do a good job distracting Juliette.”

They pulled up alongside Copley Square and all climbed out. Marek, who’d had a stack of money inside his suitcase, paid the driver. Cold wind tunneled down the canyons made by the buildings, and beside him, Rose shivered.

They walked up the steps to the church. There was an evening service going on, so they mumbled something about attending it and slid inside without paying the entrance fee that tourists were charged.

Weston ignored the sense of deja vu and slipped along the wall behind the last pew, and then up the side aisle. The entrance was located under a floor tile in a small room in the front corner of the church. They slid inside. A few people glanced their way. Weston winced. Hopefully none of them would notice when only Marek and Rose exited.

Rose touched Marek’s arm, guiding him until they stood in the open doorway that gave access from the main sanctuary to this room. Weston crouched, found the correct tile, and hit the hidden mechanism to open it.

He turned and got his feet into position on the rungs of the ladder. “Rose, you said Caden hid the folder. Do you have any idea where?” If he couldn’t find the diaries, he’d have to look for that.

She turned slightly to face him and shook her head, and when her haunted look returned, he realized he’d inadvertently triggered another bad memory.

“Good luck,” Marek murmured without turning.

Weston started down the ladder, pulling the trap door closed on top of himself.

Rose tried to look casual. Behind her, she heard the tile clack back into place. It seemed horribly loud to her, but no one looked over. The scattering of attendees all looked peaceful and relaxed. The pastor’s voice was low and melodious.

She wished she could be as peaceful and relaxed as they looked. She was dreading walking into the library with Marek. It had been her idea, and it was a good idea, but she wished she’d never suggested it.

They’d actually gained time with the flight—landing ten minutes before they took off—due to the time zones. But her body was telling her it had been a really, really long day and she would have happily stayed in the hotel room.

Despite gaining hours, it was late in Boston. That meant there was a possibility that no one would be in the library. That was a hopeful thought.

She was gathering up her courage when the doors to the sanctuary opened and two men entered, walking quickly and quietly up the center aisle. Rose caught sight of their faces as they slipped into a pew.

She drew back, yanking Marek with her.

“What’s wrong?” he asked immediately.

“It’s Lee Hager, the Director of Operations at the library. He’s a member of the Trinity Masters. The other man is his husband, Barry. I’ve socialized with them at the society’s galas in the past.”

“So they’d recognize you?”

“Yes. I’ve been going to the library since I was a teenager. He’ll know me. And he probably knows they’re hunting me. He might even recognize you,” she whispered back.

Marek frowned. “Talking to them could provide a distraction.”

He had a point. They might be able to lure people out from under the library if they started a scene here in the church. But if walking up to Lee and Barry made them lock down their security, instead of drawing people out, Wes might be trapped.

He might be killed.

And then he’d disappear, the same way he had once before. The same way Caden had. Rose’s stomach churned.

“We could wait and sneak out when the service is over.” Marek’s voice was calm and reasonable.

“But Wes needs a distraction now.” Rose looked at the tile. She wasn’t thinking about being a distraction, that was just something to say. It was fear that made her move away from the entrance. Fear that she’d never see Wes again, that she’d found him only to lose him. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’re going down there.” She dropped to her knees and closed her eyes, feeling along the edges of the tile, doing what Weston had done just minutes before her.

When it sprang open, Rose quickly slid her legs in. “Hurry, and you have to pull it shut as you come down.”

Rose stared down into the darkness. An instinctive fear of the dark warred with memories for a chance to strangle her thoughts.

Marek’s feet hit the ladder, making it vibrate a bit. Then he pulled the trap door closed, sealing them in the darkness.

Chapter Eighteen

Juliette sat in her office, staring at the wall in front of her without seeing it. Marek Lee had gone off the radar. They hadn’t heard a peep from him since he’d left the States in search of Rose. Which made Devon testy and her nervous.

She’d convinced Franco she needed some time alone, so he’d agreed to work from home while she came to her office—the Grand Master’s office—deep under the Boston Public Library. Devon was at his office at work. No doubt he had needed the same time out. They’d talked of nothing but Rose for days. The longer they went without word from Marek, the more stressed out they all became.

Juliette ran her finger over the folio, tracing the word, “Admiralty.”

The Masters’ Admiralty.

Marek had mentioned it, dropped the bomb without realizing its impact.

Juliette hadn’t told Devon and Franco about the other society. She wasn’t sure what was holding her back. She usually told them everything. But this…

This wasn’t the first time since she’d become Grand Master that she’d felt completely out of her depth, but it was the first time she’d felt out of control.

Until she got a handle on what they were up against, she would remain quiet.

She bent her head and closed her eyes. She was so tired. So damn tired.

“What are you doing down here?” Weston had panicked when he heard footsteps, then calmed down when he’d heard Rose calling his name.

“A couple of members of the Trinity Masters showed up for the church service. They know me, so we decided it was better to come with you, to help you find your way in the dark. We can go up through one of the other entrances, still provide a distraction,” Rose said.

“Then let’s go.” Weston started forward.

He didn’t want to admit he was glad for that help. He’d been struggling to find his footing. With Marek’s hand on his elbow, he felt steadier. He could move quicker.

He stopped at the intersection of three tunnels and consulted his mental map. He hadn’t been down here in a long time, but the information was there, buried somewhere in his brain.

“Do you know where you’re going?” Rose asked.

“I’m sure he remembers.” Marek’s voice was confident and calm. The only light came from Marek’s cell phone flashlight. He held it up, casting a feeble cone of white light in front of them.

The walls of the tunnels were stone and brick, as Weston remembered. In some places, the floor was stone, in others it was wood. They trod carefully on the wood. The tunnels weren’t all one level. There were layers of corridors, and wood floors probably meant there was a tunnel underneath them. If the wood gave way, they’d end up taking a straight drop. That kind of fall would most likely be deadly.

He headed down the right-hand tunnel, then stopped a few yards farther on. There was a small alcove in the wall. He stepped into the alcove and looked up. Hot damn, he’d remembered the way after all. Planting his back on one side of the alcove and his feet on the other he used a chimney climb maneuver to work his way up.

“Uh.” Marek cleared his throat. “Where are you going?”

“Hidden passage,” he grunted. This was harder than he remembered. He’d been a lot younger when he’d last tried this. “There’s no roof to this alcove. It’s like a vertical access tunnel.”

He kept climbing up, passing into a tight, vertical chimney. It was only a few minutes before he emerged into the hall above.

He stuck his head into the hole he’d just clambered out of. “I’m up. That was the dangerous part. Can you two find your way out?” Enough time had passed that they’d probably be safe enough to head back to the church. If they were going to provide a distraction, they needed to get a move on.

Marek and Rose exchanged quiet words, then Rose called up, “You must be kidding.”

Damn. “Okay, I’ll come back down.” He swung his legs into the hole.

“No, she means that we’re not going to let you have all the fun. We’re coming up.”

“I thought you two were going to be a distraction?” he asked.

“That was before I knew we were going to play Indiana Jones.” Rose’s voice was artificially cheerful.

Scared, he realized. She was scared.

Of course she was scared. He was asking her to walk into the fire just to be a distraction. Weston was sure Marek would have protected her, but there wouldn’t have been much he could have done if that fucker Devon pulled a gun and shot her on sight.

“Good. I don’t really need a distraction,” he called down. “Come on up, Rose. You have to climb about four feet.”

When her head and knees emerged, he helped her out, then did the same for Marek.

Rose dusted at the seat of her pants, then looked around. “I think I recognize where we are.”

“By doing this,” Weston motioned back to the opening to the secret passage, “we bypass two of the biggest, most easily accessible tunnels. Even if they’ve alarmed this place, it would be impossible to watch every single tunnel.”

Rose grinned. “You’re not just a pretty face, Wes.”

His face was anything but pretty, but the way she smiled made him forget, if only for a second, the scars that marred his face and body. Marek smiled too.

Weston kept his expression from changing, but he couldn’t stop the suspicion that rose when he looked at Marek.

A buzzer went off on the console next to Juliette. She glanced up, surprised to see the flashing light. Devon had installed an alarm system in the tunnels. It had been a massive amount of work and monitored every tunnel. It was set up so that if there was any movement, it would send a message here and…

Her cell rang and she answered it.

“Juliette, a sensor was triggered.”

Devon had set the alarm to send a message to his phone, hers, Franco’s and Sebastian’s.

“I know.”

There were two beeps, indicating she had two more calls coming in. Obviously, Franco and Sebastian were checking in as well.

“Get out of your office.”

Juliette glanced over her shoulder at the locked main door, and the gate they’d installed to block access from the tunnel entrance. “No one can get in here.”

“Dammit, Juliette. I’m on my way, but it will take me a few minutes to get there. I’d feel better if you were somewhere other than that damn office.”

“I’ll wait for you here. Franco is on the other line.”

Before Devon could continue the fight, she disconnected. The calls with Franco and Sebastian had ended before she could answer them, so she fired off a quick text that Devon was on the way.

Franco replied quickly, assuring her he was too.

Sebastian was in New York for opening night of Christian’s new Broadway play. His reply text asked if she needed him to return, but she told him she was confident they could handle it. The alarm had been triggered twice before, both times by rats. Devon thought he’d fixed that problem, but it appeared he hadn’t perfected it yet.

That was probably what it was this time.

A second alarm, this one deeper in the tunnels, went off.

Juliette stared at the console screen. It could still be a rat.

Determining that required a trip into the tunnels, a place she’d come to hate.

The door lock clicked and she tensed. It swung open and the light in the corridor beyond silhouetted a tall man with strong shoulders. There was a bare second of tense fear before her brain registered that she knew that silhouette, knew those shoulders.

Devon had arrived in mere minutes. He hadn’t been at his office. If he had, it would have taken him closer to fifteen minutes.

“Juliette. Are you okay?” he asked.

She considered calling him out for the fact that he’d clearly been hovering somewhere nearby. That wouldn’t help the situation, so she held her tongue and nodded. “Probably just a rat.”

Devon lifted the lapel of his jacket and revealed the gun strapped there. “I’m not taking any chances.”

“Franco is on his way too.”

Devon didn’t seem content to wait for their third. Her secret agent husband might specialize in cultivating assets and gathering information, but he had no problem getting his hands dirty. And since she’d become Grand Master, he’d pulled away from his position at the agency. Being her counselor and chief fixer was a full-time job.

Sometime she wondered if he resented her for the things he’d had to do. The memory of the night Christian had shot Caden Anderson popped to the forefront of her mind.

He headed toward the previously secret door that allowed entrance to the tunnels.

Juliette placed her hand on his arm. “We need to wait.”

Rose sighed heavily. “What are we waiting for again?”

They were crouched together at the mouth of the narrow tunnel the chimney climb had dumped them into. Weston must have an incredible mental map of the place. She’d been holder of the map for years, but she hadn’t committee the thing to memory. Weston’s knowledge came from actual exploration, which was probably more memorable.

“Patrol pattern,” Marek replied.

“What patrol?” she asked. She tried not to sound exasperated, but she was. Highly. “We haven’t seen anyone. Maybe there’s a camera system or something.”

“We’d be able to see the cameras, or at least the wires. There’s no way they could get wireless cameras to work in here, and wired cameras don’t come so small that we wouldn’t be able to see them.”

Rose looked around the shadowy stone hall doubtfully. There were plenty of dark crevices where something could have been hidden. The hair on her forearms and the back of her neck was standing on end. If she were cynical, and she was, she’d say this was going too well. Way too easy.

At least she hadn’t had to go marching into the library with Marek to serve as a distraction. A stay of execution.

It was really all about life’s little pleasures.

Rose waited patiently for another thirty seconds, then accidentally gave Marek a small shove so he tumbled into the hall. “Oops.”

Marek looked at her, shocked.

Weston snickered. “Patience is a virtue.”

“I have no virtues. We need to hurry up. Speed might be better than caution at this point.”

“She pushed me,” Marek sputtered.

“Aww, I’ll kiss it better.” She gave Marek’s ass a little pat and she stepped over him into the larger hall.

Marek was still standing there gawking at her when Weston, chuckling at the byplay, turned left and started walking.

Devon led the way, gun drawn as the three of them carefully made their way through the narrowest tunnel.

Juliette was starting to think she could travel through this godforsaken labyrinth with her eyes closed. It was a spider’s web, but at least with the alarm system, they knew what direction to head. In the past, the three of them, as well as other members of the Trinity Masters, had attempted to follow a convoluted map, feeling their way through the place. More than once, that willy-nilly exploration had left someone in danger. Irina had fallen through rotten flooring, while Sebastian’s brother had been involved in a cave-in.

Of course, that cave-in had been caused by Rose.

Devon’s steps slowed and Juliette ran into the back of him.

“What’s wro—”

“Shh,” Devon whispered. “I hear voices.”

“This is it. This is where they kept most of it.” Weston gestured to the middling-size chamber. It was just off one of the larger main halls, and one of the only “rooms” in the labyrinth.

Rose nodded, unable to speak. She stared at the exposed wooden support beams, her jaw aching and legs trembling at the memory. She turned away.

“Rose?” Marek asked.

“Memories,” she said quietly. She cleared her throat. “This is where Caden found it. He took it and ran…” She had to close her eyes and replay the memory. “He took it out, but I don’t know where.” Her voiced echoed against the stones of the empty chamber.

Juliette stilled, listening. It was hard to hear anything over the sudden thudding of her heart. She’d convinced herself it was the rats again.

The idea that someone might really be down here…

“Up there,” Devon half-whispered, half-mouthed as he pointed to a section of tunnel above them. There was wood directly above, and the sound was filtering down through the spaces between the boards.

Juliette hadn’t been up there. At least she thought she hadn’t. “How do we get up there?” she breathed.

Franco frowned as he leaned closer. He was holding the light sticks they’d cracked before entering. He had one in his hand, and the others in an old-fashioned lantern he’d rigged up. The lantern held five or six sticks casting off green-yellow light. It was an old maritime lantern that had metal doors that closed over the panels of glass, allowing the light to be completely shuttered if needed. “If we double back and around to the left, there’s a tunnel that slopes up to connect with that one.”

“Too dangerous,” Devon breathed. “Wood floor. Charlotte said it wouldn’t hold. Haven’t had time to lay something else down.”

“Air shafts,” Franco countered. “If we go back for the map, we can find one of the air shafts that were built in to allow circulation.”

Devon took a few steps to the side, licked his finger, and held it up. He walked out of the circle of Franco’s light. Juliette followed, Franco on her heels.

Devon was standing in a small alcove. He studied it, looked up, and then said softly, “Found the air shaft. We climb.”

“The folder isn’t in here.” Weston headed for the entrance. “We’ll check the halls on either side on our way out. How long did he take to hide it?”

“Minutes,” Rose said softly. They had been long minutes.

“Then it can’t be that well-hidden,” Marek said. “Why don’t we take time to look now?”

Rose caught the flash of suspicion on Wes’s face when he looked at Marek. “The priority is the diaries,” Wes said. “We need to get to the Grand Master’s office. It’s going to take a while if we’re going to keep avoiding the larger tunnels.”

Juliette felt the leather of her boot soles slip on the stone and bit down on a yelp. Devon reached into the dark shaft and pulled her up. The voices were much clearer now, coming from the hall to their right. The deadly patch of wood floor was on the left.

Franco handed up the lantern, its shutters closed. Juliette’s eyes adjusted and now she could see it, faint light coming from around a corner in the tunnel. No, wait, she knew where she was. There was a large, empty chamber here. The fact that it was empty was one of the reasons they hadn’t bothered to fix the access tunnel.

Franco emerged, a shadow in the darkness. Juliette groped blindly and took his hand. They all paused to listen for a moment.

“We have to get closer,” Devon breathed.

Rose didn’t want to go any deeper into the tunnels. She wanted to get out. After Caden’s death, she’d had no problem playing the kamikaze, ready and willing to go down in a ball of flame as long as she took a few other people with her.

But now…now she’d tasted happiness. Tasted pleasure without pain. And she wanted more. She wanted a chance. She wanted another night with Weston and Marek beside her.

“There was construction,” she said. “They were building something, or maybe repairing. Caden was dusty.” He had been, hadn’t he? “The folio must be hidden in between some stones, or under the floor, or behind a wall.”

“It was. And we found it,” Devon said, stepping into the chamber, pointing his gun directly at the trio.

Juliette stepped next to Devon, and Franco appeared on her other side. He opened the shutters on the lantern and the green-gold light spread around then, adding to the hard, white light of the cell phone flash. Juliette’s gaze focused on Rose until Devon spoke again, his voice sarcastic and cold.

“You look good for a dead man, Weston.”

Juliette examined the man beside Rose. She’d never met Weston Anderson. He was tall with brownish-blond hair, and when he looked first at her, then at Franco, only one of his eyes moved.

“Asher,” Weston said coldly. Then to her, “Grand Master.”

Juliette stiffened, though she shouldn’t have been surprised. Rose would have told him. To protect her identify, she usually pretended to be one of the counselors and, if she needed, had someone else wear her robe and stand beside her to throw off any suspicion.

She finally noticed the third person, standing in the shadows.

“Marek?”

No wonder they hadn’t heard from their K and R man. He’d obviously switched camps.

Marek bowed, despite the fact Devon was still holding a gun on them. “Juliette. Devon. It’s good to see you both again.”

“You never called,” she said coldly.

“Circumstances prevented it.”

“I see you found her.” Juliette’s gaze slid to Rose and fixed. “Hello, Rose.”

A light came on, and Rose blinked. There were a few bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling. They’d been in place the last time she’d been here. The other man with Juliette had found the junction box resting on the floor and flipped on the lights.

Rose looked at Juliette. Her blonde hair fell in perfectly blow-dried waves. She wore a pea coat and jeans tucked into brown leather boots. Devon stood at her side, looking strong and dapper as always.

Though she’d dreaded someday marrying them, she couldn’t help the pang of loss she felt when she looked at them together. They’d been meant to be her trinity.

But instead, Juliette had, just like everyone else, cast her aside as if she were a piece of garbage. The third person with them was tall and slim with dark hair and eyes. This, then, was the person Juliette had chosen for herself.

Choice. Juliette had always had choices. Had control. Had power. Oh, she’d whined like a little bitch about how unfair her life was. How ridiculous it was that she’d been betrothed, but she’d had so many choices. Rose had none.

And Juliette let Christian get away with killing Caden. She condoned it, covered it up. She hadn’t pulled the trigger, but she’d had the power to punish the killer, and she hadn’t.

Caden, who’d loved her but tormented her. Caden, whom she’d wanted to love but couldn’t.

Juliette had Caden killed and then disappeared his body. Because with no body, there was no investigation. No crime. No proof of the murder.

Rose’s whole body flushed cold, as if she’d been suddenly doused in ice water.

“You,” she said in a perfectly flat voice. “You killed him.”

“No. I didn’t.” Juliette had expected the anger. No. Worse than that, she’d anticipated more of the same insanity that had gripped Rose the last time she’d been in these tunnels. It was strange, but for some reason, Juliette thought the crazy woman might have been easier to deal with than this one. Rose was full of rage, anger, her eyes burning holes through Juliette.

“The purists are to blame for what happened to Caden.”

The fucking bitch. Rose didn’t care if Juliette was right. How dare she even say his name. Rose bared her teeth in a snarl and leapt at Juliette. She had a moment of delicious satisfaction, seeing Juliette’s eyes widen in shock. Then she grabbed a handful of blonde hair and yanked.

Devon grabbed her, trying to pull her off of Juliette.

“Don’t you fucking touch her!” Weston snarled.

Rose gritted her teeth as Juliette slammed a fist into her stomach. She kept ahold of her hair, yanked her down, then raised her knee, catching Juliette in the solar plexus.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rose saw Weston grab Devon, yanking him off of her. There was the heavy thud of fists against flesh.

“Let go of me, you bitch,” Juliette snarled.

Rose hooked her foot behind Juliette’s ankle and yanked, hoping to knock Juliette back and land on top of her, but Juliette twisted in the air and they both landed on the floor, Rose’s knees singing with pain. Rose jumped to her feet. Juliette did the same.

Juliette flipped her hair out of her face, then lunged back toward Rose. Months of stress, rage, loneliness, came roaring to the forefront. She’d found the perfect punching bag, the perfect outlet for her anger.

Rose. Fucking gorgeous Rose.

Devon’s guilt, his tangible remorse since Christian’s trinity had found out some of what Rose and Caden had been through, told Juliette all she needed to know. Devon would have been delighted with their original trinity. Because he loved Rose. He’d always loved Rose. Did that mean he resented her for dissolving the trinity?

Fuck that. Fuck him. And her.

Juliette ignored the tears forming as she grabbed Rose’s blouse, tearing it in the process. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

Marek would never be proud of how long it took him to react, but the situation had gone from tense standoff to back-alley brawl faster than he’d known was possible. He looked between the women and the men. Devon had tucked the gun away—thank God—intent on playing fair. He landed a vicious punch to Weston’s right cheek. A sucker punch, considering Weston would have trouble seeing it coming.

That settled it, men first.

Marek jumped forward, shoving his way between then. The other man did something similar, grabbing Devon and hauling him backwards.

“I’m Franco, nice to meet you,” the dark-haired man called out.

Marek slid his arms around Weston’s shoulders in a standing full nelson. “Marek Lee. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Rose yanked back, leaving part of her shirt in Juliette’s hand. Cold air brushed over her bare stomach.

“I know you’re going to kill me. Because you’re just like every other Grand Master.” Rose wiped blood from her lower lip. “I haven’t forgotten that night you insisted on sitting up with Devon and me, going on and on about all the things you didn’t like about the Trinity Masters. All the things that should be different.” Rose gestured around with one hand. “Yet here we are.”

“You should have told me,” she snarled.

“Told you what?”

“About your parents, about the purists.”

Rose smiled. “The Adamses have spent so many years being blind and dumb that I didn’t think it would do any good. You know now, and what have you done with the information?”

Juliette stiffened, and Rose took advantage of the moment. Instead of a frontal attack, she leapt and then fell into a crouch, kicking out at Juliette’s knee. It was a vicious blow, meant to break the joint, but Juliette managed to twist, taking it on her calf muscle instead.

Juliette took a step back, trying to catch her breath. Pain sang in her leg. The tangy taste of blood told her she had a busted lip and her scalp burned from Rose pulling her hair. She was poised and ready to lunge again, but Franco grabbed her arm before she could move.

“Easy, Jules.”

Her breathing came rapidly, as if she’d run miles. “I wanted to help you. I’m trying to help you,” she spat at Rose. “I asked Marek to find you, save you. Not kill you.”

“Well, you found me. Congratulations,” Rose sneered. Then she rushed at Juliette once more.

If Rose wanted a fight, so be it. She scratched Rose’s cheek in her attempt to get a grip on her hair. The woman was moving too fast, all swinging limbs. Juliette wanted—no, she needed—to land one good, brutal punch to prove to the woman once and for all that she wasn’t weak. She wasn’t some starry-eyed little girl anymore. And Devon was hers.

He was hers.

Weston tried and failed to break Marek’s grip. “Let me go.”

“Calm down.”

Rose and Juliette were still fighting, and it was not a girly fight. They weren’t throwing punches. They were going for soft parts and vulnerable joints. Nasty fighting.

“Help her!” Weston demanded of Marek.

Marek let go of him. At nearly the same time, Franco let go of Devon, who he’d been holding with one arm while trying to calm Juliette with the other.

Weston looked at Devon. Devon Asher. The man who’d been meant to have Rose.

“Do you know what they did to her?” he spat at Devon.

Devon’s face was an expressionless mask.

Weston tried to stay calm but the words came, and with them fresh anger. “They started raping her, beating her, when she was a teenager, to prepare her for you.”

Devon’s mouth opened. “What? Prepare her…”

“For you.”

“No, it was their way of controlling her.”

“You were betrothed to her. It was your job—your right to protect her. And you didn’t.”

Devon’s jaw clenched. “I would have loved her. Taken care of her.” His eyes narrowed. “Them? You mean your parents. She grew up with you. It was your parents who did that to her.”

Devon was right, and if Weston’s long-suppressed jealousy and rage hadn’t been eating away at his insides like an acid, he might have been able to acknowledge that. But he really wanted to punch Devon in the face. Weston lunged.

Before Juliette could land the next blow, Franco interfered, gripping her around the waist, holding her arms against her sides so that she was helpless.

She cussed at him, crying out. “Let me go!”

His hold could have spelled disaster for her if Marek hadn’t managed to subdue Rose as well. That didn’t stop either of them from trying to continue the fight.

“Ah, for crap’s sake,” Franco yelped as he looked over at Devon and Weston.

Marek grunted as Rose took advantage of his hold to lift both legs and kick at Juliette.

“I’m beginning to sense,” Franco said as he desperately hauled on Juliette, “that we aren’t going to be able to control the situation.”

Control the situation. Marek released Rose, took two long steps, and while Devon was stuck in a headlock, hammering away at Weston’s hip with one fist while Weston tried to choke him, Marek reached into Devon’s coat for the gun. He yanked it out and took two steps back.

He raised the gun, prepared to fire a warning shot.

“No!” at least three people yelped.

Everyone stopped fighting and froze in place, as if he were holding a bomb.

Marek cleared his throat. “Please stand with your backs against the wall. Rose, Weston, on my left. Juliette, Devon, on my right. Franco, if you would be so good as to stand over there and help me keep an eye on the situation, I’d appreciate it.”

Franco smiled. “Sure thing.”

Juliette, Rose, Devon, and Weston were all breathing heavily. Rose’s shirt hung open, a bruise forming on the top of her breast, Juliette was dabbing at a bloody lip, Devon’s nose was bleeding profusely though he didn’t even bother to wipe it away, and Weston’s good eye was puffy.

Juliette took a moment to catch her breath. “I’m sorry,” she said at last to the room at large. She was the Grand Master of the Trinity Masters and she’d just lost her shit. Completely.

Franco walked over to her, cupping her cheek. “It’s okay, love. It’s all going to be okay.”

Juliette shook her head, just once. She’d never felt so defeated.

As always, Franco knew the way to bolster her, to infuse some of his endless positivity into her. “Take control of the situation, Juliette. You know what needs to be said. Say it.”

She looked across the room at Rose, fighting to put aside her anger, her guilt. Juliette, her family, the Trinity Masters…they had all failed Rose.

Failed her and Weston.

“Are you okay, Juliette?” Marek asked, taking recon of the room, checking out everyone’s injuries.

“I’m fine,” she whispered, managing to give Franco and Marek a weak smile.

Rose looked at Juliette. They’d lost. Everything they hadn’t wanted to happen, had. They’d been caught. They hadn’t learned anything.

And, worst of all, Marek was standing with Juliette and Franco, chatting with them casually. His back was to her and Weston.

“Marek,” she whispered.

“Damn it. Damn.” Weston put his arm around her, hugging her close. “I’m sorry, Brown Eyes.”

“No, I’m sorry.” She laid her head on his shoulder.

Devon walked up. “Rose.”

She looked up. “Devon.”

“If…if I’d known, what they were doing to you…”

“You couldn’t have stopped them. I was protecting someone.”

“I could have tried. I would have.”

Rose felt the sincerity in the words. She and Devon had been classmates, and there had been times, plenty of them, when she’d considered telling him. But when they’d been in school, she always locked away the memories of what happened to her at the Andersons’ house. She used her time at school to pretend to be normal. “Thank you for that.”

Weston stiffened at her words, but Rose ignored him. “When Juliette broke our trinity, it stopped them from getting leverage to the Grand Master. It was better this way.”

Devon examined her, looking rather helpless, then held out a hand. “Rose, I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

Rose gave him a one-armed hug, keeping hold of Weston’s hand with her free one so he wouldn’t misinterpret the gesture.

Juliette looked across the wide expanse, her heart in her throat as she watched Devon talking to Rose. She closed her eyes when Rose leaned toward him for a hug.

“Come with me,” she heard Devon say to Rose and Weston.

Devon had taken the gun back from Marek, but it was in the shoulder holster again, not drawn and pointed at Rose. Juliette pushed that thought away.

As Rose passed by her, following Devon, the other woman spoke without turning her head. “You still don’t have any idea what’s really going on here, Juliette.”

Chapter Nineteen

Devon opened the door and ushered them in. “Here you go.”

It might have been an invitation, if Devon hadn’t ushered with the hand holding the gun. He’d pulled it out as they’d neared the tunnel’s exit, no doubt ready to stop her and Weston if they decided to make a break for it. They may have hugged it out, but that didn’t change that fact, or the past.

Rose slid into the room first. It was a small room with empty built-in bookshelves along the far wall. The only furniture was an elegant dining table and six chairs. Clearly it was meant to be used for private meals or meetings.

Weston followed her in and Devon closed the door behind them. There was a heavy thunk as the key turned in the lock and then they were alone.

Rose looked around the elegant room. “Oh good, I was worried for a minute that an entire day would go by when I wasn’t being held as someone’s captive.”

Weston yanked out a chair and slumped into it. “I’m sorry, Brown Eyes. This whole thing went to hell.”

Rose went to Weston, nudged him to sit up, and then sat on his lap. She stroked her fingers through his hair. “It’s okay, Wes.”

He wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tight. “Is it? We’ve lost our surprise advantage.”

They’d lose more than that, because Rose knew that her time was limited. But she wasn’t going to tell Weston that. He couldn’t take any more guilt.

“No, we haven’t,” she half lied. “They don’t know exactly what we were looking for. We still have information they don’t have. We can use that.”

“If we use that to get ourselves out of here, then Juliette has the information.”

Rose fell silent. She laid her cheek on Wes’s silky hair. “Then we let her deal with them, and we run for it.”

Weston stroked her back. “That was our plan once before.”

“That plan was made by children. We’re smarter now.”

He laced his fingers with hers. “We are. And we have each other.”

That statement fell heavily, because it touched on the elephant in the room. Marek.

Rose couldn’t help but think back to the amazing sex they’d had on the plane. She knew better than to think good sex and a loving touch meant anything.

But she couldn’t stop herself from sighing.

Weston must have known what she was thinking. “We made a mistake, trusting him.”

“I know.”

“I thought…” Weston trailed off.

“I know,” she said again.

“We told him everything.” Now Weston’s voice was a growl. “If he tells Juliette everything, we’re fucked.”

Rose swallowed hard. If Marek betrayed them—though she was cynically sure he would call it “doing the right thing”—they wouldn’t be running anywhere. Rose had done some nasty stuff in the days after Caden’s death, and the fact that she was half out of her mind with grief was a reason, not an excuse, in her opinion. Plus, there was the fact that she was one of the purists. If Juliette cleaned house, she would need to eliminate Rose too. So even if she got a pass for burning down a building and trying to kill a few people, she’d betrayed the Trinity Masters by keeping the secrets of the purists.

Rose swallowed hard. This was the end for her. Weston hadn’t ever been formally inducted into the Trinity Masters, so technically he wasn’t bound by their rules. But still, he’d betrayed the Trinity Masters. And if Juliette found out that they’d been planning to use the Masters’ Admiralty against the purists without telling her, she would be livid.

Then again, maybe Juliette didn’t know who the Masters’ Admiralty were. Maybe that…

But Marek knew. Marek could, maybe would, tell her.

Weston had wrapped his arms loosely around her. Rose pulled them tighter, wanted to feel the pressure of his embrace. Then she closed her eyes and imprinted the memory of this moment in her mind. No matter what happened, she would have this moment with him.

Marek accepted the cup of coffee Franco handed him. It was a bit late for coffee, but the other man had proudly opened a cabinet in the Grand Masters’ office to show off a large, complex expresso machine. There had been a water kettle tucked in beside it, but Franco had been so enthusiastic about coffee, Marek hadn’t dared ask for tea.

The ritual and niceties were a show, a bit of playacting. Because this wasn’t a gathering of friends.

And the Grand Master was not going to like what he was about to say.

Marek sipped strong, sweet coffee as Juliette Adams took a seat across from him. Her cool, aloof posture and expression was somewhat marred by the bruises that were starting to show.

“I hired you,” she started.

Marek nodded.

“And yet I found you breaking into our headquarters, and if I heard correctly, planning to steal something.”

Marek nodded again.

Her lips thinned into a line, and Devon came to stand at her shoulder, just behind her chair. The threat was clear.

Marek took another sip.

“Care to explain what was going on?” Juliette’s voice was still cool and flat, but her eyes sparkled with irritation heading toward anger.

“You sent me to find and save Rose Hancock.”

“I know that.”

“You didn’t tell me that you planned to execute her once I brought her back to you.”

“I wouldn’t…” Juliette shook her head. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Really? It’s my understanding that her,” Marek had to search for a word, “partner was killed, and you were an accomplice to murder and conspired to thwart justice by disposing of the remains.”

“He was shot while breaking and entering. It was self-defense on the part of the shooter.” Juliette didn’t meet his eyes or address his comment directly.

“Rose is very certain that returning to Boston means her death at your hands.” He set the cup down, hard enough that the clink of ceramic on wood was startling. “I would never have accepted the job if you’d told me I was playing bounty hunter, not rescuer. I believe in justice, Juliette, and you don’t seem to be in the business of justice.”

“I saw her get kidnapped,” Devon said.

“Be that as it may, she was not being held prisoner.” Speaking the lie hurt. He didn’t like to lie, but the situation between Rose and Weston had been so messy and complex—and built on false assumptions—that he felt saying he’d been holding her against her will would have focused on the wrong aspect of what he’d found at that little cottage in Sussex.

“We didn’t know Weston Anderson was alive,” Devon said.

“Tell me, did you search for him when he disappeared?”

Juliette froze. “I wasn’t the Grand Master at the time.”

“Very well.” Marek picked up his cup. “Now that we’ve established that our previous contract is null and void—”

Devon started to retort, but Franco put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“—we can establish a new relationship.”

There was a beat of silence, then Franco pulled out a chair and sat down. “A folder. You were looking for a folder? What folder? Why?”

Marek regarded the other man. “You have it?”

“Yes.”

“It seems to me that the best possible course of action is to join forces.”

Franco nodded in apparent excitement. “Yes, yes. Information. Go.”

“First, I need to see Rose and Weston.”

Juliette took a breath and let it out slowly. “Rose is my responsibility. Weston is a legacy, but not a member. He’s free to go, but Rose stays.”

Marek shook his head. “No, I’m afraid that won’t work.”

Juliette’s blonde brows rose. “Oh?”

“They’re mine.”

That surprised them, Marek could see it on their faces.

“Like, you’re all in a trinity?” Franco asked.

“I feel no need to label it. But they’re mine. I had sex with them. Care for them. And to be perfectly honest, they need me.”

Devon looked at him like he was nuts. Franco nodded. “I feel you, man.” His eyed Juliette and Devon. “I know how that goes.”

Devon glowered at his husband, but when Franco reached out a hand, Devon took it.

Juliette had ignored the byplay and was looking at Marek. “I’ll lock you in with them on one condition.”

Marek didn’t miss the fact that she’d said she’d lock him in with them—if he insisted, he’d be a prisoner too.

They were worth it. He’d never question that his grandparents, on both sides, loved each other, but he’d assumed love came after their arranged marriages. He’d assumed that he would be like his parents and fall in love with one someone.

Turns out he was a mix of both, because he’d fallen in love with two people. They needed him, and he needed them.

“What condition?”

Juliette smiled.

Devon came back for them a few hours later. Weston was glad. Stupid to be glad, because this was probably the end for them, but the waiting was soul-crushing.

And, of all the mundane things to intrude on a life-changing moment like this, he had to pee.

Devon opened the door and stared at them. Rose was still on his lap. At one point, he’d felt wetness on his scalp from her tears, but he hadn’t commented—just held her.

“Come,” Devon said softly.

Rose slid off his lap and waited as he pushed up. His legs were a bit numb, and there were places on him that ached from the fight.

He stood, with less control than he would have liked. He’d either twisted his right knee or taken a blow to it that he hadn’t noticed at the time. Rose took his hand in hers. He led her to the door, keeping himself between her and Devon. If he had a chance, he’d try to take Devon out and they’d run for it.

In reality, they wouldn’t get far, but he wasn’t going to walk into this like a sheep to the slaughter.

Devon led them out of the side hall, passing other closed doors. Weston vaguely remembered where they were from his solo explorations after breaking in via the Grand Master’s office.

They emerged through a heavy wooden door, into the grand entrance hall. Devon pushed the door closed and it disappeared into the marble-lined hall, the outside of the door being faced with the same marble of the walls.

The grand entrance stretched out to their right and left. Columns supported the double-high arched ceiling. The hidden door was directly behind one of the columns, which no doubt helped to hide it. Massive double doors at one end of the hall marked the entrance to the formal rooms. Opposite them, down the long expanse of hall, was an elevator door. Weston had never used that entrance, the one accessed from the rare books room in the library above.

“The elevator isn’t operational.” Devon’s tone was almost apologetic. “As a security measure, we disable it unless we know someone’s coming.”

Rose nodded once and squeezed Weston’s hand.

“This way.”

Devon led them twenty feet down the hall, to the point where two other corridors branched off. They weren’t like the tunnels, or even the trim corridor they’d been in. They were wide and well lit, lined with the same marble as the entrance hall.

They entered the hall on the right-hand side. There were three doors off of it.

Devon motioned to the door marked with the letter A. “This one’s yours, Anderson.”

Weston shook his head. “We stay together.”

Rose looked around the hall and frowned, but didn’t speak.

Devon only nodded. He opened the door. “Both of you, then.”

Rose went in first, tugging him after her. She seemed almost eager.

Maybe she, too, wanted it to be over.

The room was small, but everything in it was elegant and expensive, from the plush carpet to the cherry wood vanity. There was a hook on the wall, a large black piece of fabric hanging from it. There was a second door across from the first.

Devon opened one of the large lower drawers in the vanity and pulled out a second piece of fabric, this one white. He placed it on top of the vanity.

“When the bell rings, exit that door.” He pointed to the one across from where they’d come in. Then Devon slipped out the other door.

Weston took a few steps and grasped the handle. The door opened. Weston froze. Had he known that would happen, he would have been much quieter. He waited like that, listening for sounds of Devon returning. But instead, the sound of shoes against marble continued to recede.

Weston motioned with his hand, waving Rose over. His heart started jackhammering against the inside of his rib cage.

Rose put a hand on his shoulder. “Wes.”

Something in her tone made him turn. She handed him the black fabric. He held it up. A hooded robe. He frowned in confusion for only a moment.

This was a formal ceremonial robe.

Rose picked up the white one and slipped it on, closing it in the front.

“Rose, the door isn’t locked. We have a chance to run.”

“I want to hope. It’s stupid. I know we’re doomed. I might even deserve it. But these…” She took a heavy breath. “These are the rooms they use for binding ceremonies. A, B, and C. Each member assigned to a room.”

He looked at the robe, and then back to her. “We’re getting married?”

Rose let out a little laugh. “Want me to get down on one knee?”

“Just because these are used for marriages doesn’t mean that’s what happening, Brown Eyes.” He stroked her cheek with his knuckles. “There might be…there might be a ceremony before…”

“Some sort of ritual before they shoot us in the head? Possibly. I was ready to run, but this…” She motioned to herself in her robe. “I want to hope,” she repeated.

Weston put on his own robe, and she helped him do the fastening in the front.

The bell rang.

Weston took her face in his hands and kissed her, fast and hard.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him back desperately, coaxing him into lengthening the kiss. Weston dropped his hands, running them down her sides to her hips.

The bell rang again.

Rose pulled back, licking her lower lip.

Weston laid his forehead against hers. “I love you. I always have. I always will.”

Rose let out a sigh. “I love you, too.” She said the words with an intensity that made it seem like she’d been waiting a long time to speak them.

Hand in hand, they went to the inner door, and stepped out into the dark chamber beyond.

Tristan crumpled yet another piece of paper into a useless little ball. Another dead end. He’d been roaming this bloody library for over an hour, meaning it had been more than two since he’d let them walk out.

Damn it, that had been dumb, but Weston was his friend. It didn’t matter. He shouldn’t break the rules for anyone. His loyalty should always be to the Admiralty.

But he’d given them two hours. After one, he’d headed to the library, planning to get a head start on this clue. He’d set up a satellite-enabled video camera in the room, so he’d be able to see if they came back after the allowed two hours.

They hadn’t.

“Hey, good-looking, what can I help you with? I’ve been watching you roam helpless as a little lost lamb for a good twenty minutes.”

Tristan turned to face the man who’d spoken. He was a slight older gentleman with thinning hair and wire-framed glasses. He wore a cable-knit cardigan sweater over a plain white shirt and loose-fitting brown pants. The man wasn’t even trying to hide his obvious appreciation for Tristan’s looks.

“Oh my,” the man said, circling him. “You are a well-put together man. The very image of a knight in shining armor. You do any acting? Modeling?”

Tristan shook his head and felt his face flush slightly under the man’s intense scrutiny. The old guy didn’t know how accurate he was with that knight comment.

“I, um, I’m not an actor, no.”

The man waved himself dramatically. “Gods be praised. A British accent. Barry is going to be so sorry he didn’t come back here with me after the service. He would have liked to see you.”

“Barry?” Tristan asked, trying to figure out a way to escape this man. The clock was still ticking.

“My husband. Now, tell me. What brings you to the Boston Public Library? Because given the way you’ve been roaming around here, it’s clear you’re not finding what you’re looking for. Unless of course, it’s me. And then all I have to say is bravo.”

Tristan was fairly certain the guy was joking. Maybe. Hopefully. “Do you work here?”

The man held out his hand. “I do indeed. Lee Hager, the Director of Operations here at the library. And you are?”

“Tristan,” he said, purposely leaving off his last name. “I’m looking for something. You might be able to help me.”

“You’ve come to the right person.”

Tristan figured he didn’t have anything to lose at this point. He was coming up empty on his own. As Director of Operations, there was at least a chance this Lee character would know all the ins and outs of the library. “All I have is a phrase. I’ve tried looking in the books the search suggested based on the terms, but I’ve come up empty.”

“What’s the phrase, sugar?”

“Nitimur in Vetitum. In Latin, it means—”

Lee’s smile faded in an instant, his eyes narrowing suspiciously behind his glasses. “I know what it means. Come with me, please.”

Lee escorted him to what was obviously the man’s office. He invited him to have a seat, then excused himself for a moment. Tristan saw Lee withdraw his cell phone. Maybe the phrase was some sort of password.

Tristan didn’t feel any threat from the man, so he remained seated and did what he hated most in the world.

Waited.

Chapter Twenty

The chamber on the other side was small, though perhaps intimate was a better word. It was dark, and the ceiling above was rounded, as if they stood inside a half dome or a cave. The entire chamber—walls, floor, and ceiling, was made of stone. It was lit by small spotlights that cast narrow cones of illumination onto the main features of the room.

Three high-backed wing chairs faced a large metal medallion in the center of the floor, each of them illuminated. In the floor, inset lines of paler stone marked paths leading from three doors, including the one they’d just come through, to the three chairs.

The bronze medallion, nearly two meters across, bore an engraving of the Trinity Masters symbol and motto. Rose was a fairly cynical person—she had reason to be, but the majesty of the room, combined with her tenuous emotional state, meant that the drama of the moment hit her hard. She was struck by what the Trinity Masters was meant to be—a way of protecting their nation. It wasn’t a shadow government, or a criminal organization, both of which she’d likened it to in the past.

The Trinity Masters was a living library. A place where knowledge and intellect was sheltered. Where artists and inventors were protected and nurtured.

Rose clutched Weston’s hand a little tighter. “Can you see okay?” she whispered.

“Not really.”

“Hold on to me.”

“I’m never letting go.”

She smiled in the dark, then stared forward, guiding him to the first chair. The three chairs faced the medallion in the floor, forming a semicircle.

Together, she and Weston stood in front of the first chair. The center one was empty.

And a man in a black robe, hood up, sat in the last chair.

“There’s someone else here,” she whispered to Weston.

“That I can see.” He looked around and the tension in his shoulders eased somewhat. “This is not going the way I expected.”

“Let’s be stupid and pretend everything is going to work out.” Rose reached up and pulled his hood up, so it shadowed his face. She saw the flash of white teeth as he smiled.

“Hope?”

“Hope.”

“Please take your seats.” The voice, male, came from the darkness on the other side of the medallion. There was a faint accent to it. Franco.

Rose headed for the center seat, but Weston stopped her. “I’ll go. If…if we’re wrong and this goes to shit, promise me you’ll run.”

“No. I’ll stay with you.”

“Tabby will want—”

“Don’t. Don’t do what they did. Don’t use her to control me.”

He leaned in and kissed her head. “I’m sorry.”

“We’re in this together, Wes.”

He slipped his hand into her hood to touch her cheek, then was gone.

Weston took the center seat, and Rose sat down in the first chair. She sat on the edge, feet staggered and weight forward so she’d be ready to jump up at any moment.

A figure stepped into the light. He was short, and wore a black robe trimmed in gold. A heavy chain was dropped over the shoulders, looping across his chest. Her chest. This had to be Juliette, but upon seeing the Grand Master in full robe and ceremonial dress, Rose had instinctively used the male pronouns.

Fucking patriarchy.

“Weston Anderson,” the Grand Master said. “You are a legacy to the Trinity Masters, but not a member.”

Weston looked forbidding in the dark robe, the hood hiding his face. All she could see were his hands and boots. His hands were curled over the arms of the chair, and they’d gripped tighter as the Grand Master spoke to him.

“If you wish to become a member, you may do so now. All debts will be forgiven, on both sides.”

Rose sucked in a breath.

“All debts,” Weston repeated.

“Yes.”

He turned to look at her. Rose didn’t move. He faced forward and nodded.

“I accept, Grand Master.”

“In the interest of time, we will skip the full ceremony. Repeat after me: Nitimur in Vetitum.”

Weston’s voice was strong and sure. “Nitimur in Vetitum.”

“Welcome to the Trinity Masters.”

“Thank you, Grand Master.”

The gold chain across her chest and shoulders glinted in the light as the Grand Master took a deep breath and started to speak.

“When you joined, you made a vow. You pledged your lives to our cause and our way. The time has come for you to meet your partners, your lovers, your spouses.”

Rose sucked in a breath. She’d been right. They were getting married. Her gaze jumped to the hooded figure in the third chair. Who was it?

If she were Juliette, she’d stick them with the most loyal, straight-laced member she could find on short notice. Someone who would keep an eye on her and Weston, and report everything back. Rose hid a grimace, then reminded herself that you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. She and Weston were both going to get out of this alive, and they’d be together. That was something she wouldn’t have dared hope for only hours ago.

“When I call your name, stand and remove your robe. Rose Hancock.”

Rose stood and stripped off her white robe. Normally members were either naked or, in the case of the women, in elegant lingerie. When she’d been in high school, she and the other legacies would browse the internet, picking out sexy lingerie they’d wear when they were called to the altar. Rose had always stayed in the background of the conversations, since she was rarely allowed to wear underwear, and if she was, it was always lacy.

And unlike the other girls, she hadn’t been a virgin.

That girl, the one internally cringing as she’d pretended to be excited about the day she was called to the altar, would have been shocked to know that she’d one day be standing here, about to marry Weston.

And she’d be wearing a pair of jeans and a ripped shirt.

“Weston Anderson.”

Weston stood and shed his robe. She got to admire his profile, the way the light above made strands of his hair glint gold. She focused her attention on the third figure.

“Marek Lee.”

“What?” Weston demanded.

Marek stood, throwing his hood back and then removing the robe. He put his hands on his hips.

“You son of a bitch,” Weston snarled. “What did you tell them?”

“Language,” Marek said mildly. “I haven’t lied or betrayed you.”

Rose stared at Marek in shock, her mind racing.

Weston started toward Marek and Rose raced forward, grabbing him by the elbow. “Hold on, Wes, hold on.”

He stopped, but she could feel him vibrating with rage.

Marek looked at them, his expression seemingly as calm as ever, but the edges of his eyes were a bit tight, and as she watched, he swallowed.

“Marek, did you join?” she asked softly.

He nodded.

“But what about your grandparents in England? Your parents?”

Weston jerked slightly as he registered her words.

“You were neutral, working with both the Trinity Masters and the Admiralty. Why would you give that up?”

Marek frowned. “For you. You’re mine.”

Rose leaned into Weston. “Why would you tie yourself to us?”

“Because I love you.”

Rose turned her face into Weston’s shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her waist.

“I don’t expect you to love me yet,” Marek said. “But I love you, and I can love both of you enough for all of us.”

“I thought…I thought you decided to do the right thing. Even if that meant betraying us.”

“I wouldn’t betray you.” Marek opened his arms.

This was too good to be true. She didn’t trust it.

Hope.

It was Weston who moved first, dragging her toward Marek. They embraced, an awkward thing at first, but then they slid into place, fitting together as if they’d been meant to be. Rose closed her eyes, her cheek against one of Marek’s, Weston hugging him on the other side, their arms encircling one another.

They embraced for a moment, before the Grand Master cleared her throat. “You three now belong to one another. Stand on the medallion.”

Arm in arm, they took up their positions and extended their right hands when asked to do so. The Grand Master took the chain from around her shoulders and bound their hands together.

“You are bound together now by our laws.”

There was a pause, and Rose realized what they were supposed to do before either of her men. Her men. She leaned forward and kissed first Weston, then Marek. Weston smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and then he turned and kissed Marek.

“Normally there would be a waiting period before the marriage, but lately our trinities have each been given a task. And I have a task for you.” The Grand Master stepped back, into the shadows. “Take a moment, if you need it, then meet me in my office.” The next words were wry. “I assume you know the way.”

There was the quiet sound of retreating footsteps.

“I can’t believe it,” Rose said. “I’m not dead.”

“We’re married,” Weston added.

Marek smiled. “And if there was time, I would enjoy repeating the experience from the plane. But now it’s time for us to tell the Grand Master everything.”

Rose and Weston both went stiff. “Everything?” Rose hissed. “No. Then we’ll have no leverage.”

“Damn it, Marek, did you already tell them?”

“No. But we’re going to.”

“No, we’re not,” Rose spat.

Marek slid one arm around her, and looped the other around Weston. “Yes, we are.”

“Why?” Rose asked.

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“I knew it,” Rose groaned, as she looked at Weston. “I knew he was going to say that.”

“And that’s why we’re here,” Weston finished. “To find either the diaries I read through before to see if there’s anything that could point to the fate of the children, or to find the folder Rose remembers.”

Juliette was looking at him, but Marek, Rose, and Devon were all watching Franco, who appeared to be having a seizure. Or an orgasm.

Juliette sighed. “Go ahead,” she said, without looking at her husband.

Franco jumped to his feet. “That’s it! That’s it! It all makes sense.”

“Explain,” Devon demanded, but he was smiling.

Franco took a deep breath, then started speaking in rapid-fire Spanish.

“Uh,” Marek said. “Does he know he’s not speaking English?”

“This happens sometimes when he gets excited. Just wait him out,” Devon said.

Rose was frowning as she listened, but bit by bit, she sat up straighter.

“Do you speak Spanish?” he asked Rose.

“A little. He’s talking too fast for me to get all of it, but I think I understand.”

Weston felt a pang that he didn’t know that about her. The history they had might have shaped both their lives, but he didn’t know everything about her.

That’s okay, she’s your wife; you have a lifetime to get to know her.

“Franco, my love, could you please explain again? Slowly. And in English.”

Instead of responding, Franco ran to a bookshelf and pulled on a book. A compartment hidden by several false spines opened.

“Oh good,” Devon growled. “I would hate for us to have even one fucking secret Weston doesn’t know.”

Heh.

Franco pulled something out of the small compartment and brought it over to the table, setting it down gingerly. It was an old-fashioned folio.

“I don’t know about the diaries,” Franco said in a voice that sounded strangled from the effort of speaking slowly. “But this must be what you’re talking about. Devon, get the box of clippings too.”

Devon exited the office, while Franco opened the folio and started pulling things out. He laid pieces of paper on the conference table, and Rose, Weston, and Marek came around so they weren’t looking at them upside down.

“What are we looking at?” Rose asked.

“Fake baptismal certificates, issued during World War II, by the Catholic Church to Jewish children. And these over here are baptismal certificates issued by the Church of England.”

Weston’s heart leapt. “You found them together?”

“Yes.”

Weston was about to explain the significance, but Franco beat him to it. “It didn’t make sense because there weren’t Jewish children fleeing England. I assumed that these were real birth certificates, and they were added into the folder but they didn’t really go together.”

Weston cut in quickly. He’d done all this research, damn it. He wanted to explain some of it. “But they did go together. These Church of England records must be for the children who boarded the Esperanza in Poole.”

“But that means there were other children onboard.” Rose pointed to the fake certificates.

Weston nodded, his excitement over the corroborating evidence muted by the horror this represented. “It makes sense. I knew there was art from both Europe and Britain on board. If the art was meant to be financial security for children, it’s logical to assume that there would have been children for whom that art was intended to provide for security. We have an eyewitness account of children getting on in England, but that was probably the last stop, meaning there were already children on board.”

Devon returned with a box of papers. Franco ruffled through it and pulled out a newspaper clipping that said, USS Bluebird Sinks Spanish Ship. He handed the clipping to Weston.

He skimmed the article. “Where did you get this? I’ve never seen this news report, and I spent years finding every scrap of information.”

“It was in a box, hidden in a room, down a well,” Franco said cheerfully.

“It wasn’t down a well,” Devon murmured. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he stepped away from the table.

Juliette let her fingers hover over one of the certificates. “What happened to these children?” She shook her head. “I know the Trinity Masters has its issues, but I refuse to believe that my great-grandfather had a neutral ship gunned down so they could steal the art, and in the process willfully kill a bunch of children.”

Devon glanced at his phone. “Do any of you know a man named Tristan? Lee has him upstairs.”

“Sh— Shoot,” Weston muttered, changing the word at the last second with a glance at Marek. “We forgot Knight.”

Rose grinned. “He’s not going to be happy with you.”

“Knight?” Juliette asked.

Weston pointed up. “There’s one part of the story I haven’t quite covered.”

“What’s that?” Franco asked eagerly.

Weston flipped the folio closed and pointed at the lettering on the cover. “The kids were the children of members of the Masters’ Admiralty. The art belonged to them.”

“The Masters’ Admiralty,” Juliette breathed. “Shit.”

“Language.”

“I called Harrison, after we found this.” Juliette pointed to the folio. “He and I both remembered Grandfather mentioning it, and a few of our members have had contact with people who’ve claimed they were members of the Admiralty, but I don’t know much about them.”

“There’s probably a reason there isn’t any contact between the organizations.” Marek was frowning at the papers on the table. “Whether intentional or not, the Trinity Masters were responsible for either the death or kidnapping of these children.” He gestured at the table. “And to cover it up, they kept the art and wealth and used it for themselves.” He looked up. “Your great-grandfather was right to hide this information, Grand Master. You may be powerful on this continent, but the Masters’ Admiralty has history and power greater than you could imagine.”

Juliette stiffened.

Weston cleared his throat. “And it just so happens that a knight of the Masters’ Admiralty is waiting for us. Upstairs.”

Marek had to admire Juliette Adams. She could think on her feet.

He, Weston, and Tristan sat on one side of a conference table. Franco, wearing Juliette’s black robe, was seated behind the desk. The seated position hid how short the robe was on him, and if the shoulders seemed a bit narrow, Marek doubted Tristan would immediately think that it was because the robe was actually meant for a woman.

Juliette had twisted her ponytail into a bun and stuck pencils through it. She sat behind the desk, a laptop on her lap, as if she were taking notes. Devon, gun held plainly in one hand, stood to Franco’s right.

From here, Tristan wouldn’t be able to see that Juliette was actually dictating what Franco should say, the words appearing on the computer screen on the desk, the monitor angled away from the table.

Weston looked at his friend. “Congratulate me, man.”

“Why?” Tristan looked wary.

“I got married.”

Tristan’s brows rose. “To?”

“Rose and this guy.” Weston jerked a finger at Marek. He waved.

Tristan narrowed his eyes. “If you made me arrange a fucking private plane just so you could get married, I’ll kill you.”

Weston grinned, but then relented and shook his head. “No, though that would have been a good one.”

“Wait.” Tristan looked at Marek. “Did you join the Trinity Masters?”

“Yes.”

“I plan to be somewhere in Africa when your Grandmother finds out.”

Marek winced. She would not be best pleased.

“It’s time to discuss why we are here.” Franco’s accent was more pronounced. It was a good disguise. If Tristan tried to describe the Grand Master, the accent would be the most memorable and defining feature. Though it was more than likely that the Admirals had information about who the Grand Master was, if only the family name and a list of likely candidates.

“Mr. Knight. Do you have the authority to accept information on behalf of the Masters’ Admiralty.”

“Accept information, yes. I cannot speak on behalf of my Admiral or the other Admirals.”

“It has come to our attention that a great wrong was done to your society. A wrong which must be made right. My goal as the Grand Master is to right the wrongs of the past. It is my hope that, in telling you what we have found, we will open a dialogue and restore the relationship that once existed between our organizations.”

Tristan’s body language radiated tension. “I cannot make promises, but will relay this information, Grand Master.”

“Mr. Anderson. Please tell him everything that you’ve discovered.”

Weston started speaking in a calm voice, starting with the main point: The Trinity Masters had been responsible for the sinking of the Esperanza, and had brought back the material contents of the ship to the U.S., where a splinter group of members who sympathized with the Nazi cause had taken the art and antiques and sold it to further their personal wealth. This was something the Grand Master had learned only recently.

Tristan’s right hand moved across his body, as if reaching for the sword that he wasn’t wearing. “The lost children. All this time, you were looking for the lost children?” He spoke to Weston.

“I didn’t know that until Poole. You knew I was researching art. My parents…my parents are members of the purists. I knew they were protecting something bigger than the art itself, but I didn’t realize what it was until we got the recording. I had to come to Boston to find supporting evidence.”

“Please show him,” Franco said, with perhaps a touch too much drama in his voice.

Devon brought over the folio. “This was found hidden in the…storage area where the art was. Most of the art was gone, but at some point, this was hidden.”

“My brother hid it,” Weston said. “He hid it because he knew it was important and didn’t want our parents to get their hands on it.”

Tristan abruptly slumped. “Bloody fuck. This is going to be a right mess.”

“I know, man. I know.”

“With the help of Mr. Anderson, we know the identity of all the remaining purists. Tomorrow, we will dispatch teams to bring them in.”

“Bring them in?” Tristan asked.

“Yes.”

“We don’t believe in summary execution.” Tristan looked around. “Did you execute Rose?”

“No, I just told you we got married, you dumb shite,” Weston said.

“Ms. Hancock is otherwise engaged,” Franco intoned.

In reality, she was on a laptop searching for information as to the exact whereabouts of all the suspected purists, and calling the strike teams to let them know to clear their calendars.

“I will relay all of this information. I suspect they’ll want whatever evidence you have.”

“We will of course provide it, along with any of the art still in the possession of the purists.”

Tristan turned to Weston. “Are you going after your parents?”

He nodded in a single, tight motion.

Tristan reached over and clapped Weston on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, man. For all of it. I’d come with you, but I have a message to deliver.”

“Thanks. You’ve been a good friend.”

Franco started to rise, must have remembered the short robe, then sat again. “Mr. Knight, I look forward to speaking with you sometime in the near future.”

Tristan rose and Devon went with him to show him the way out.

Franco stripped off the robe, and Juliette looked up, pulling the pencils from her hair. Devon must have passed Rose, because she came in a few minutes later, laptop and phone in hand.

“Everyone’s ready to go. Sebastian and Grant are going to the Prossers. Price and Gunner are going to the Hancocks.” Rose didn’t bother to refer to them as her parents. “Devon and Franco, you have the Jameses who are connected to the Wythes. Marek, Weston, and I will take the Andersons.”

“Devon’s going to bring back the equipment for a wire. Since it seems unlikely that they’ll respond to a summons from the Grand Master the way I hope the others will, I hope you can get information from them,” Juliette said.

Rose nodded coolly, but with no malice. Considering they both still wore the marks of their fight, Marek thought that wasn’t bad.

He stood, and Weston followed suit. “We’ll go,” Marek said, “and get some sleep.”

He took Rose’s and Weston’s hands and led them out. “Come on, spouses.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw both of them smile.

Chapter Twenty-One

They were on their yacht in Emerald Marina when Rose tracked them down via the least complicated way possible. Once they’d landed at Sea-Tac, she used a payphone at the airport—she was surprised they still had them—to call Elroy. She’d kept the conversation short, saying only that she had to talk to them, all three of them, right now.

The Andersons had been sailing down the West Coast and Elroy told her she would simply have to wait until they returned.

Two weeks had passed since then. Two wonderful weeks spent falling madly in love with her husbands.

That happiness didn’t end until this morning, when Elroy called and “summoned her” to the marina. Now she was striding down the pier to berth twenty, where their pleasure yacht, Eileen, was docked. When she walked onto the dock, she heard a bell chime on the deck, and Elroy appeared. He wore a blue button-down shirt and gray slacks. He looked much the same as he always had, with black hair unmarked by silver and the piercing dark eyes of a shark.

Rose’s heart squeezed tight.

“It’s okay, Brown Eyes,” Weston whispered.

Rose didn’t dare respond. She had the Bluetooth headset in her ear and a brand-new cell phone tucked into her jacket pocket. Additionally, a wire was taped to her chest, and everything she said or heard was being recorded. It was Marek who had suggested the cell phone and Bluetooth, giving them a way to talk to her. That had allowed her to relax a little.

She hadn’t been alone with the Andersons in years.

“Rose.” Elroy pushed out the gang plank. “Come up.”

The command made her muscles quiver.

“What’s the name of the boat?” Marek asked.

The question startled her so much that she answered, forgetting about Elroy’s order. “Eileen,” she said aloud.

“Speak up, Rose.”

Rose took a deep breath, then walked up, holding the rails as she stepped onto the teak deck of the thirty-foot boat.

Elroy examined her from head to foot. As if she were a piece of property. He paid special attention to the marks leftover from the fight.

“Were you disobedient, girl?”

Run, run, run.

“Why is it named Eileen?” Marek asked, again startling her out of her dark head space.

“Why is it named Eileen?” she asked Elroy.

“Watch your tone,” he snapped in a hard voice of command.

“I’m sorry, Sir.” The words were out before she could stop them. She felt herself starting to crumble.

Elroy grunted in satisfaction, then answered the question. “Victoria chose the name. It was her mother’s name.”

“I’m going to castrate that motherfucker and then cane him until his skin falls off. Then I’m going to poke out his eye with a burning piece of wood, then I’m going to…”

Weston’s angry litany made her feel better. It probably said something unflattering about her that she found listening to someone’s plans to torture and maim another human calming. Then again, Elroy was barely human.

Wes kept his focus on Rose, watching the scene on the boat through the scope on his long-distance rifle as he looked out the window of the yacht Marek had rented for the day. They were only six berths down, but to Wes, it felt like Rose was a hundred miles away. He’d been uneasy with the idea of sending her in alone, but in the end, they decided this was the best way. She was on speakerphone, the Bluetooth headset allowing them to hear everything that was said. If Elroy said anything, did anything to threaten her, Weston would shoot him. The son of a bitch would never touch her again.

He wiped his hand on his jeans, his palms clammy, sweaty. Seeing his father this close after so many years was even harder than he imagined.

Years of hatred had festered inside Weston for so long, it was all he could do to stand here and wait. Every impulse had him clamoring to pull the trigger right now, to put a bullet in the middle of Elroy’s fucking head.

He hadn’t meant to lose his shit, but hearing the way Elroy talked to Rose was too much. Weston put his finger back on the trigger, his hand shaking, the action not lost on Marek, who reached over to place a comforting hand on his back to steady him.

He looked at his new husband. Marek was solid. Weston didn’t realize how much he’d come to rely on the other man’s inherent strength. Just the touch of his hand helped to bolster Weston, allowed him to calm down.

It was probably better to let Marek continue to talk Rose through her conversation with Elroy. Marek was good at helping Rose fight the submissive instincts beaten into her since she was just sixteen.

God. So many years of abuse. Weston would spend every minute of the rest of his life making sure she never felt scared or worthless or owned ever again.

And that thought would have given him comfort if he hadn’t just sent the love of his life into the lion’s den.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he whispered, softly enough that Rose couldn’t hear.

Marek placed his hand on Weston’s shoulder. “Steady,” he mouthed.

Rose followed Elroy to the prow of the ship, where an elegant dining area was set up. There was a chill on the water, so a small boat-safe heating unit was turned on, creating a little warm spot around the diners. Victoria wore an expensive straw hat with a white ribbon, a white top with the collar turned up, and navy and white striped pants. Barton wore a polo and khakis along with topsiders. Barton had gained some weight, but he still had a full head of slightly wavy brown hair.

Well, at least now she knew Weston would keep his hair.

That thought made her smile, and her confidence returned. She sauntered over to the table and waited by the fourth chair. She raised a brow at Barton. He blinked, then shoved to his feet and held it out for her.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Nice move, Brown Eyes.” She could hear the smile in Weston’s voice when he spoke.

“Rose, darling. It’s good to see you.” She and Victoria leaned toward each other and gave one another air kisses.

“Victoria. You’re looking well.”

“Pleasure,” Barton grunted.

Now that the moment was here, Rose found herself hesitating. They were all monsters. There was no question about that. But she was about to confirm that their son was dead.

Elroy poured her a mimosa from a carafe, then topped up Victoria’s glass. “Where is his body?”

“What?” she said.

“Caden’s body. He’s dead, isn’t he?” Elroy’s shark eyes never left her face.

Weston had to swallow down the bile when Elroy asked about Caden’s body with the same casualness someone might discuss the previous night’s sports scores. They knew their son was dead. Knew it. And clearly didn’t give a shit.

Weston wasn’t sure why that came as a surprise to him. After all, his parents fucking killed him. His fingers drifted to the scarred skin on his neck.

Had they discussed his death with the same detached emotion?

Caden was their son, and it occurred to Weston that his death was nothing more to them than an inconvenience. They’d lost a messenger boy, a servant, someone to do their dirty work so they didn’t have to get any blood on their hands.

Weston knew all of this. And yet, there was still some small, lonely, scared boy inside that couldn’t completely grasp the fact that his parents didn’t love him.

He looked toward Marek, the gun lowering for a moment. Marek was there, waiting. He wrapped his arm around his shoulders, placed a gentle kiss on his wounded face.

Weston took a deep breath, Rose’s voice drawing his attention to the conversation on the yacht once more. He lifted the gun and took aim once more.

“Tabby’s not at her hospital,” Rose said, trying to stay one step ahead.

“No, she’s not,” Barton agreed.

“Where is she?”

“That’s not your concern, girl.”

“Don’t call me girl,” she snapped. “I’m not your girl. For God’s sake. They’re your children.”

“We knew the risks we took when we gave Caden the task. There were always risks, but we have to protect the Trinity Masters at all costs.”

“Protect the Trinity Masters? You must be senile.”

“I will take you downstairs, girl, and remind you of your place.”

Victoria placed a hand on her husband’s arm. “Elroy, please, can’t you see she’s grieving for Caden?”

“And why aren’t you?” she asked desperately. Damn it, she hadn’t been able to love Caden, not with all that lay between them, not when he didn’t know how to treat her, be with her, without making her his property. But he deserved to be loved. Caden had tried, so very hard, to protect everyone—her, Tabby, and all those people who would have been collateral damage. Over the years, these three monsters had ordered plenty of people killed whom Caden had instead smuggled out of the country, given new identities to.

Caden Anderson had deserved to be loved, and he deserved to be remembered.

“I am,” Victoria said softly. “But we can’t let anyone know. We need plausible deniability.”

“Plausible deniability? So if the Grand Master finds out that you stole all the art in the tunnels, that you’ve been covering stuff up and undermining the Trinity Masters for decades, you’ll blame it on Caden, who would have been a child?”

Elroy stood and unfastened his belt. “Downstairs, girl.”

Weston was nearly to the door that led to the deck, the rifle in his hand, when Marek grasped his shirt and tugged him back with force.

“I’m going to fucking kill him! I’m going to beat him to death with my own fucking hands!” Weston jerked hard, trying to break Marek’s hold.

“No,” he said. “Listen. Our wife is amazing.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you ever again. Put your belt back on and sit down.”

“Now punch him in the fucking dick,” Marek said.

“You just said a curse word,” Weston said in shock.

“My apologies. These people are quite despicable.”

Her husbands’ conversation gave her courage. Both Barton and Elroy stared at her not with shock, but like a cat who suddenly spots a mouse. It was as if they saw her for the first time in years.

“You’re not protecting the Trinity Masters.” She let scorn drip from her voice.

“We are protecting them, more than you’ll ever know,” Elroy said in a menacing growl.

Deep inside her, a warning alarm was going off, telling her that she should run from Elroy. But Marek thought she should punch him in the fucking dick.

She smiled.

Barton and Elroy looked at each other, then back to her. “You must understand,” Barton said. “We protect the Trinity Masters, and protect Victoria, at all costs.”

“Protect them from the Masters’ Admiralty?” she asked.

All three of them started. Victoria frowned. “Oh dear, Rose. What have you done?”

“What have I done?”

“You shouldn’t even say that out loud.”

“Why, because they might find out about the Esperanza?” Rose watched the blood drain from their faces with vicious satisfaction.

Weston and Marek stared at each other, confusion clouding Weston’s judgment. “What did Barton mean? Protect Victoria?”

Marek shrugged, and it was obvious his husband had focused only on the Trinity Masters part. But that reason wasn’t as shocking to Weston. That had been the Andersons’ “go to” excuse for all the crimes they’d committed over the years.

We’re protecting the Trinity Masters.

This was the first time they’d proclaimed that protection included Victoria.

Weston had always viewed his mother as a weaker third party, someone who was just along for the ride. In his mind, the masterminds behind everything had been Barton and Elroy.

So why did they need to protect Victoria?

Weston’s phone rang. The number was blocked, but Weston answered anyway. Devon was CIA and he was aware of their mission. He was probably checking their progress.

It was a distorted male voice, barely audible.

“Get her off the boat,” the man said.

“What?” Weston asked, his heart racing even as he walked to the door of their yacht.

“Get her off the boat. Now!”

“Who is this?”

“Do it now or she dies too.”

Panic gripped Weston as he took off at a sprint along the pier. Marek was hot on his heels, not bothering to stop him this time. “What is it?”

“We have to get her off the boat,” Weston said loudly over his shoulder. He was racing toward the Eileen as fast as his shitty knee would carry him.

“Who was on the phone?”

“I don’t know. She’s in danger, Marek. We have to get to her. Now!”

“Rose,” Marek said into the phone. “Get off the boat. Get off the boat.”

“Get off the boat.”

Marek’s voice was calm but urgent. Rose frowned. What was going on?

“Rose, you haven’t told anyone, have you?”

“No. I haven’t,” she lied. “I wasn’t sure what Caden found was right.”

They hadn’t said much. Had they really admitted to anything? Would it be enough? She had to keep them talking.

“Get off the boat,” Marek repeated.

“Ask them why they said they’re protecting Victoria.” Weston’s voice came out in two short bursts, and now she realized she could hear him breathing. Was he running?

“Why did you say you were protecting Victoria?” she asked Barton.

Victoria turned to look out over the water. “My mother was the sole survivor of a maritime disaster. Her name was Eileen Mayweather. Her sister and brother didn’t survive. She only barely remembered it. And didn’t remember her life before.”

Eileen Mayweather. Why was that name familiar?

Elroy snorted, apparently deciding her silence meant she didn’t know anything. “She doesn’t know anything.”

She’d seen that name somewhere. Recently.

On a birth certificate.

“On my God,” she breathed. “Your mother was one of the children on the Esperanza.”

“What did you say?” Barton snapped.

The shock their expressions displayed when she said the name of the ship was nothing compared to the horror on their faces now.

“Let me take care of her,” Elroy breathed.

“You’re never laying a hand on me again.” Rose knew it was true. She turned to Victoria. “Why didn’t you tell someone?”

“Tell them what? My mother was adopted by Robert Prosser. She remembered the ship. Remembered that they were all below decks, and the water came into the compartment where they were. She was closest to the hatch, and when someone opened it, she was the only one they could get out.”

“How could you be with them?” She motioned to Barton and Elroy. “These people kidnapped your mother, killed your aunt and uncle.”

“My life is here,” she said simply. “And if the Masters’ Admiralty ever came calling, I could protect us all.”

Barton turned in his chair, frowning. A moment later, Rose heard them too. Footsteps.

Weston reached the dock three steps behind Marek even though he’d had a head start.

“Rose!” Weston yelled. He was relieved when she appeared a moment later, his parents standing behind her.

He didn’t miss the horror on their faces when they saw him.

“Wes,” his mother mouthed, though he couldn’t hear her. “My son.”

Weston shook his head. She was no mother to him.

“You’re alive.” For a moment, Weston thought he saw a calculating look of pleasure on Elroy’s face. No doubt he was already trying to figure out how he could manipulate the black sheep son into returning to the fold.

“We’re leaving,” he said to his fathers. “You’re never going to hurt Rose again.”

Weston gestured for Rose to come with him. Mercifully, she saw the fear on his face and she moved toward him. Once she reached the dock, she matched his hasty pace as they walked away from the yacht. The warning from the man on the phone was still ringing in his ears. They had to get out of there. Now.

“You can’t run forever,” Elroy yelled at their retreating backs. “We will find you!”

Marek took Rose’s hand, encouraging her to move even faster. Weston limping behind them as quickly as possible. “We have to leave.”

“But…” Rose started to ask why, but Marek and Weston didn’t bother to explain. They raced along the dock, just reaching the edge of the pier when a bright flash of light blinded them, then scorching hot air and a crashing boom sent the three of them to their knees. Weston and Marek fell over Rose, covering her body with theirs.

Weston turned around, knowing what he was going to see before his eyes found it. Or didn’t find it. The yacht they’d all been standing on, just moments before, had exploded.

His parents were dead.

And the stranger on the phone had saved them.

“Oh my God,” Rose said, as she looked at the flames floating on the remains of the ship. For a moment, it looked as if the water was on fire. They sat there for a minute or two, each of them trying to come to grips with their near-death experience.

“They’re dead,” Rose whispered.

Sirens sounded in the distance.

Marek, as always, recovered quickly. “We need to get out of here.” He reached down to help Rose to her feet, then offered the same strong grip to Weston.

“I don’t understand,” Rose murmured as she looked at the destruction. “Who would…”

Weston shook his head. He could actually name too many people who would want the Andersons dead, but he didn’t bother making her a list.

For the first time in twelve years, Weston’s world felt…right.

His parents were gone, Rose was his. Marek was there, with them.

The sirens grew louder and a crowd was forming.

“Wes,” Marek said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Weston looked at Marek, and then at Rose. “It’s done. Let’s go home.”

Epilogue

Juliette and Franco met him in the great hall. Her office had turned into Grand Central Station lately, and she was tired of it.

The elevator doors at the far end opened, revealing a lone occupant. Today, Tristan had a sword strapped to one side of his waist. On anyone else, it would have looked like they’d just come from a LARP event, or the Renaissance Fair, but it looked right on him somehow. The sword looked more serviceable than ornamental, and two straps, the one in the back longer than the one in the front, kept it at the perfect angle and made sure it didn’t wave around as he walked.

It had been a tense month as they’d waited for Knight to return, but at least Rose and Weston were safe. And she’d managed to bring Marek Lee into the Trinity Masters. If anyone questioned her decision not to punish Rose and Weston, she would say it was all to get Marek. It would be a lie, but that’s what she’d say.

Franco wore the black robe—this time a plain black one that actually fit him. She held a tablet, as if she were planning to take notes.

“Grand Master,” Tristan inclined his head in a bow. The gesture went with the sword.

“Did you speak with your society?” Franco asked in his stronger-than-normal accent.

“Yes.”

“I’m extending an invitation for your Admiral to join us here in Boston and—”

Tristan held up a hand, breaking into Franco’s recitation of the lines they’d practiced.

“I’m sorry, Grand Master. I have a message for you.”

Juliette swallowed. Tristan Knight’s eyes were solemn. He looked like the cop who’d shown up at the door to tell you someone you loved was dead.

The silence ticked on before Franco recovered and said, “What is the message?”

Tristan cleared his throat and said, “The message is: ‘Some things cannot be forgiven.’”

Coming November 2017!

Treachery’s Devotion

Masters’ Admiralty, book one

A warrior with everything to prove.

Tristan Knight has served the Admiral of England since he was a teenager. As a knight, he has pledged his life to protect the Masters’ Admiralty, and when he’s assigned to escort an archaeologist on a research trip he knows the menial task is punishment for the failure of his last mission.

A woman in a gilded cage.

Sophia Starabba is a brilliant scholar and accomplished law enforcement officer, working for Italy’s cultural heritage protection department. But none of that matters to her family or the other members of the territory of Rome. To them she’s the “Principessa”- daughter of the Admiral.

The man who holds the key.

James Rathmann lives for mysteries. In another life, he would have been a detective, but a love for digging in the dirt made him an archaeologist. Now one of the world’s leading experts on coins, and curator at the British Museum, he’s been called to Rome to examine a recent discovery.

An old enemy back from the dead.

Among the coins they find something alarming—a silver coin bearing the mark of a villain everyone had assumed was long dead. Sophia leads them on the trail to identify the coin’s owner, and possibly discover the identity of the Domino, a killer and anarchist who plagued the Masters’ Admiralty a hundred years ago.

But the Domino isn’t dead, and together James, Sophia and Tristan will fight to stay alive and one step ahead of a killer who will do anything to destroy the Masters’ Admiralty.

Read more about the world of the Trinity Masters…

Elemental Pleasure

Trinity Masters, book 1

A dangerous Marine. A tech genius. A brilliant scientist.

When Carly Kenan joined the secretive Trinity Masters in college, she received entrée to an exclusive club that gave her access to wealth and power. But there’s a price all members must pay—they accept an arranged marriage, between not two, but three people.

Ordered to return to the Trinity Masters’ headquarters in Boston, Carly meets Marine Lance Glassco, a mathematician for DARPA, and Preston Kim, a dangerously intelligent chemist.

Though on the surface they have nothing in common, it’s clear the Grand Master thinks that together the three of them can do something amazing. And that’s why he’s declared that Carly, Lance and Preston must marry.

Though the physical attraction is instantaneous and incendiary, Carly is unprepared for the emotional intensity of the ménage relationship. Pushed beyond her limits, Carly runs from Lance and Preston. What she doesn’t understand is that she now belongs to them, body and soul…and they belong to her.

When Lance uncovers a dangerous crime at Preston’s company, Carly is caught in the crossfire and the struggling lovers are forced to move beyond desire…to trust. For the Trinity Masters, there is passion and power in three.

Primal Passion

Trinity Masters, book 2

An FBI agent. A billionaire CEO. A virgin scientist.

Deni Parker doesn’t have time for anything but her cutting-edge scientific work, and that’s how she likes it. She doesn’t have time for relationships. When she’s called to the altar—years ahead of what she expected—by the very intimidating, and far too handsome, Price Bennett, Deni’s more than a little unprepared.

Price didn’t join the Trinity Masters to play messenger. As CEO of a major security firm and heir to one of the largest fortunes in the world, he’s annoyed when the Grand Master orders him to transport the disorganized scientist to the ceremony to meet her partners. It’s only when they arrive that Price realizes he isn’t a messenger—he’s been matched with Deni.

Gunner Wells has been in love with Deni for years, but he’s resisted giving in to his attraction. When he arrives at the Trinity Masters headquarters to be bound in marriage, he’s delighted to discover Deni is not only a member of the secret society, but one of his partners…along with billionaire playboy, Price.

Their strong personalities clash—in the bedroom and out of it—but Price and Gunner have to put aside their overprotectiveness, and Deni must put aside her pride, when someone tries to stop her research—with deadly methods.

Scorching Desire

Trinity Masters, book 3

A reformed spy. A respectable lawyer. A renowned playboy.

When Damon Corso is blackmailed it’s not just his career that’s in jeopardy, but the existence of the Trinity Masters–America’s oldest and most powerful secret society. He and fellow member Marco Polin, a world famous playboy musician, enjoy sharing women, a secret that until now they’ve kept quiet.

Tasha Kasharin, the reformed spy sent to help them, knows this is more than simple blackmail. Marco and Damon’s lives are in danger. She ignores her increasingly vivid fantasies about being part of a trinity with them until their investigation is interrupted by the Grand Master, who calls them to the altar and binds them in a ménage marriage.

The men must trust their futures to the unexpectedly innocent woman who’s now their wife, while dealing with the change in their own relationship, and the complicated feelings that come with it. Blackmail escalates to violence, and they’ll have to trust and accept one another if they’re going to survive.

Forbidden Legacy

Trinity Masters, book 4

An enigmatic leader. A talented doctor. And the man who can bring them together.

Harrison Adams has served as leader of the Trinity Masters for a decade. He’s always placed the group above his own needs—even when it comes to the one woman who calls to him. When a dangerous threat to the secret society surfaces, Harrison sets a plan in motion that could save the organization, but it comes with a price.

Alexis turned down an invitation to join the Trinity Masters, afraid to relinquish control over her life, her future…her heart. That rejection means night after night of unrequited lust as she and Harrison are forced to ignore their desires. Her heart aching, she throws herself into her job and her difficult working relationship with her boss, Michael. He’s attractive and maddening, but Alexis has zero plans to give in to the crazy chemistry between them.

Harrison asks Alexis to experiment in a ménage relationship with him and she agrees unable to take another moment of longing for him. Perhaps with a third around she’ll be able to keep her heart intact. She is completely unaware their third will be Michael. She couldn’t have known how giving herself to them would inflame her desires. Or how much she would enjoy submitting to them.

But when an evil man looking for revenge sets his sights on Harrison, time is the one thing none of them have. And it soon becomes apparent Harrison’s forbidden legacy could destroy them all…

Hidden Devotion

Trinity Masters, book 5

A reluctant leader. A CIA agent. A lost legacy.

Juliette Adams’s spent her life running, from both her status as the daughter of the Grand Master and her arranged marriage. Until the day everything changed and she became Grand Master—a position she was never meant to hold.

Devon Asher has more than a few secrets, the least of which is that he’s desperately in love with Juliette, which shouldn’t be a problem since they were betrothed when they were children. Now that she’s Grand Master his secrets aren’t safe.

Franco Garcia Santiago always assumed the tales of a Trinity Masters were fantastical stories his grandfather made up, until Juliette shows up at his door. Together they uncover the secrets of the Trinity Masters, unaware of the danger they’re putting themselves in.

Juliette must decide if she’ll turn her back on her destiny or embrace the role of Grand Master, and if she’ll use her power to discontinue the trinity marriages she grew up despising, or follow her heart, which tells her happiness lies with both Devon and Franco.

Elegant Seduction

Trinity Masters, book 6

A spoiled heiress. A corporate mediator. And a man with a secret.

Sebastian has dedicated his life to upholding the ideals of the Trinity Masters. However, when his best friend, Juliette, is named Grand Master, he knows secrets he’s harbored will be revealed. While he expects Juliette to be angry, he does not expect her to call him to the altar, to bind him to a stranger, Grant, and to Elle, the woman who’s haunted his dreams for years.

Then Juliette reveals a secret of her own. There’s evil at play in the secret society and she needs him to root it out. Sebastian has no choice but to go undercover to spy on his own trinity. As the danger surrounding the trio grows, Sebastian is forced to choose between loyalty and love.

Because reluctantly bound to Elle and Grant or not, Sebastian can’t deny the pair have earned their place in his heart.

Secret Scandal

Trinity Masters, book 7

A dashing thief. A passionate scholar. And the beautiful bodyguard engaged to protect them.

Eli Wexler is a prominent art historian, a job that under normal circumstances isn’t dangerous. But Eli is a member of the Trinity Masters, and when he’s called to the altar he not only meets the man and woman he’s to marry, but is given a mystery to solve as well.

Jasper Ferrer realizes there’s trouble coming when he meets his trinity. Given Jasper’s checkered past, he doubts Eli will be thrilled by their marriage. Art historians, as a rule, dislike art thieves.

Irina Gentry knows what her trinity needs from her—her new fiancees are both art experts, and she’s there to protect them. It’s a job she’s more than qualified for, though she doubts there will be any need for her skills.

But the task the Grand Master gives them is far more dangerous than it seems. The quest for a long lost sculpture pits the new trinity against a hidden faction within the secret society, a faction who are willing to kill to keep the secrets Eli, Jasper and Irina are working to uncover.

Delicate Ties

Trinity Masters, book 8

A Broadway star. An adventurous architect. And the powerful Dom determined to claim them both.

Christian Rogers Stewart is no stranger to the stage, nor is he a stranger to the ways of the Trinity Masters. A legacy, he's grown up among brilliant, powerful people and he's more than ready to contribute to the society's noble cause when initiated as a member. However, he is blindsided when he's called to the altar by the Grand Master. First by lust for his arranged partners Charlotte and Vincent. And then by the revelation that the Trinity Masters are under attack, from within, by an insidious faction called the purists.

At their binding ceremony, Christian, Charlotte and Vincent are given two tasks: study the web of tunnels hidden beneath headquarters and investigate a suspected member of the purists, a fellow Dom in Vincent's clubs. By day Charlotte struggles to make sense of a coded blueprint of the tunnels. By night they investigate the wealthy, powerful Dom, with Vincent guiding his new lovers into the dark and sensual world of BDSM.

Both tasks lead the new trinity to earth-shaking discoveries. Not just about the purists, but about themselves and their own erotic desires.

About The Authors

Writing a book was number one on Mari Carr’s bucket list. Now her computer is jammed full of stories — novels, novellas, short stories and dead-ends. A New York Times and USA TODAY bestseller, Mari finds time for writing by squeezing it into the hours between 3 a.m. and daybreak when her family is asleep.

You can visit Mari’s website at www.maricarr.com. She is also on Facebook and Twitter.

Lila Dubois is a top selling author of paranormal, fantasy and contemporary erotic romance. Having spent extensive time in France, Egypt, Turkey, England and Ireland Lila speaks five languages, none of them (including English) fluently. She now lives in Los Angeles with a cute Irishman.

You can visit Lila's website at www.liladubois.net. She loves to hear from fans! Send an email to author@liladubois.net or join her newsletter for contests, deleted scenes, articles, and release notifications.

Other Books by Lila Dubois

Trinity Masters:

Elemental Pleasure

Primal Passion

Scorching Desire

After Burn (free short story)

Forbidden Legacy

Hidden Devotion

Elegant Seduction

Secret Scandal

Delicate Ties

Beloved Sacrifice

The Trinity Masters: Volume 1-4

BDSM Checklist:

A is for…

B is for…

C is for…

D is for…

E is for…

F is for…

Undone Lovers:

Undone Rebel

Undone Dom

Undone Diva

Standalone BDSM Erotic Romance:

Betrayed by Love

Dangerous Lust

Red Ribbon

The Glenncailty Ghosts, Modern Gothic Romance

Redemption

Lovers

Ghosts

Bones

Monsters in Hollywood:

Dial M for Monster

My Fair Monster

Gone with the Monster

Have Monster, Will Travel

A Monster and a Gentleman

The Last of the Monsters (c0ming soon)

Standalone Paranormal Romance:

Briar Rose

Calling the Wild

Kitsune

Sealed with a Kiss

Standalone Shifter Romance:

His Wolf Heart

Savage Satisfaction

Zinahs, Fantasy Romance

Forbidden

Savage

Bound

Boxsets:

The Trinity Masters: 1-4

Other Books by Mari Carr

Trinity Masters:

Elemental Pleasure

Primal Passion

Scorching Desire

Forbidden Legacy

Hidden Devotion

Elegant Seduction

Secret Scandal

Delicate Ties

Beloved Sacrifice

Sparks in Texas:

Sparks Fly

Waiting for You

Something Sparked

Off Limits

No Other Way

Whiskey Eyes

Big Easy:

Blank Canvas

Crash Point

Full Position

Rough Draft

Triple Beat

Winner Takes All

Second Chances:

Fix You

Dare You

Just You

Near You

Reach You

Always You

Compass

Northern Exposure

Southern Comfort

Eastern Ambitions

Western Ties

Winter’s Thaw

Hope Springs

Summer Fling

Falling Softly

Heaven on Earth

Farpoint Creek

Outback Princess

Outback Cowboy

Outback Master

Outback Lovers

Bundles

Cowboy Heat

What Women Want

Wild Irish Boxed Set

Trinity Masters Boxed Set: Volumes 1-4

Individual Titles:

Sugar and Spice

Everything Nice

Erotic Research

Assume the Positions

Do Over

Tequila Truth

Rough Cut

Happy Hour

Power Play

Slam Dunk

Seducing the Boss

Just Because:

Because of You

Because You Love Me

Because It’s True

Clandestine:

Mad about Meg

Bound by the Past

Covert Affairs

Madison Girls

Kiss Me Kate

Three Reasons Why

Wild Irish:

Come Monday

Ruby Tuesday

Waiting for Wednesday

Sweet Thursday

Friday I’m in Love

Saturday Night Special

Any Given Sunday

Wild Irish Christmas

Wild Irish Boxed Set

Wilder Irish:

January Girl

February Stars

March Wind

June Girls:

No Recourse

No Regrets

Boys of Fall:

Free Agent

Red Zone

Wild Card

Cocktales

Party Naked

Screwdriver

Bachelor’s Bait

Screaming O

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Beloved Sacrifice

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Coming November 2017!

Read more about the world of the Trinity Masters…

About The Authors

Other Books by Lila Dubois

Other Books by Mari Carr