Dawn's Path: Completed Work

She'd come to terms with her parent's deaths and was now coming to terms about what they wanted for her and how that differed and was the same as what she wanted for herself. Stubbornly, she'd kept the ice cream parlor, the shop they loved almost as much as her, going. What's the Scoop was a tradition in the tiny town. And by keeping it open, she'd kept the tradition and their memory alive.

She had been successful and managed to keep the shop afloat and in the black. But, the demands of both her lives and the mask she was forced to wear day after day had taken their toll. She could pretend, for now. But, not forever, she wasn't human anymore. And, eventually, people would begin to notice.

Her crimson hair would never fade. And her face would still be youthful and wrinkle free while everybody else aged and eventually died. By keeping the shop, she was holding on to her parents and living their dream. But, she couldn't stave off the inevitable forever. She would have to sell the shop and pass it on. For all intents and purposes, she had to die to the world she'd known and everybody else believed was reality. For her, their world was the fiction and hers the truth. But, it wasn't that way for them.

The offer was on the table and the right buyer found. Corrine, her best friend and counterpart for endless summers, had left money to her family when she died. Killed for keeping Robbie's secret safe. Robbie only felt it right that the shop should remain in familiar hands. Corrine's family was buying the shop and Robbie knew that they'd love it and care for it just as much as Corrine had.

Robbie walked away, ambling down the sidewalk with absolute surety that her parents were watching her, smiling down at her from their marshmallow and vanilla soft serve cloud from heaven. Happy with the decisions that she'd made. The house and the shop would always be a part of her life. But, she had to let them go. She had to look to the future. She owed her loyalty and her life to the Sons, and her love, to John Mark.

John Mark hung back, keeping his distance and giving Robbie time to say goodbye to the white bungalow of her childhood. The decisions she'd made weren't easy. And she'd spent many nights pacing the floors, worrying about if she was doing the right thing or not. He too, loved her parents. In so many ways, more than he'd loved his own. Robert and Danielle were surrogates to him and they'd been there for him when his parent's hadn't been.

He grew up next door to Robbie, suffering through her awkward teen years as well as his own. From his bedroom window, he watched as she blossomed from a knock kneed little girl into a beautiful young woman. He knew from the first time he saw her, staring back at him through her bedroom window, a shy, gangly legged, little girl with the curliest red hair and biggest green eyes that he'd ever seen. That he loved her. And at the tender age of five, he vowed right then and there that someday, he was going to marry her.

His last promise to her parents had been that he'd take care of their little girl. And he had. He protected her from an ancient ancestor, bent on claiming her for himself as the last living branch of his family tree. John Mark had shared his blood and his heart with Robbie. And now they shared a life and a sacred destiny. Together, they walked the warrior's path. The path wasn't easy, but traveling it with her, made the journey seem light. And he had not one regret other than Robert and Danielle weren't around to see the legacy they'd left behind in their daughter.

Robbie smiled at John Mark. He never crowded her. But, he was always there waiting to do what he thought was his job and protect her. Big as a house at over six-foot four inches tall, with broad shoulders and that hair dark as night pulled into a tight cue at the base of his skull, John Mark looked intimidating. How far he'd come from the scrawny boy next door she used to play with as a kid. She'd been his first and only crush. And he, the last guy on the planet she'd ever thought she'd end up falling in love with.

The first weeks of their relationship were not exactly the wine and roses kind of thing you read about in books. She'd just graduated from college when the accident that claimed her parents' lives happened. Moving back had been out of a sense of duty and running the ice cream shop, something to fill the void left by their deaths. She'd wanted to get out of this town and stay out. She'd wanted to have a rewarding career as a librarian. Instead, she'd ended up back where she'd started. And she'd never regretted one single day since.

John Mark slid an arm around Robbie's shoulders and tucked her tightly into the shelter of his torso. They walked, their strides matching, his a little shorter and hers a little longer to make up the difference in their heights. "You good?"

"Never better," Robbie answered.

Chapter 28

Angel flexed her fingers and relaxed into the makeshift bindings suspending her arms over her head. Completely defenseless, her wrists tightly wrapped and tied in an old t-shirt Lance had torn in half and used to restrain her, she'd never felt safer. A normal person would be struggling against the bindings Lance had used to secure her to the frame of the mirror over his dresser. The angle was awkward, stretching her back. But, Chris's decorator style didn't include suspension hooks in the ceiling or even as much as a four-poster bed and Lance had used what was available. The slats on the mirror's Shaker style framing were the best he could come up with.

She didn't like looking at herself in the mirror. The glass trembled slightly in its frame with every flex of her fingers. Chris had chosen sturdy masculine furnishings for this room. The dresser was six feet long and made of heavy, richly colored, highly polished maple. Angel's spine was stretched to the limit. The width of the dresser was such that with the lack of give in the bindings she had to balance on her tiptoes to keep from pulling too hard on the mirror's frame and breaking the glass.

Her ankles were tied similarly as her wrists. Spread-eagle and secured to the dresser's wide base, her legs were wide and open. She was naked and exposed. Stripped of her dignity. Her heart pounding in her chest, her mouth dry, and the cool, slick edge of the dresser biting into her hips, Angel's body automatically responded to the tightness of her restraints, the strain on her calves from supporting her weight on her tiptoes, and the burning in her shoulders. The subtle taste of discomfort was a preamble, just a warm up for the things to come.

Behind her the king sized bed was neatly made. The flickering flames of the candles Lance had scrounged up from somewhere cast orange shadows on the walls and gave the room a foreboding glow. They hadn't discussed a safe word. She'd never had a safe word before. With Roark, the game had been about his pleasure. And a safe word wouldn't have stopped him from doing whatever he wanted. She wouldn't need the weight of one word to stop Lance from harming her. But, she found herself wishing they'd established something, not because she couldn't handle the physical pain he would reluctantly inflict upon her. No, a safe word wouldn't be for her. But, for him, it was his pain at doing as she asked that was far more harmful to her than a few bruises.

Angel took stock of the various implements Lance had laid out across the gleaming surface of the dresser. Ordinary everyday items he'd taken his time to gather for such a nefarious purpose. They hadn't discussed hard limits either. There was no part of her body Roark hadn't violated for his pleasure. Nothing, he hadn't done to her. Lance had been thoughtful in his choosing of the objects. And as she looked down at them, she began to wonder if they should have talked about how far this scene he was so creatively constructing for her benefit would take them. A plastic coat hanger, a wide-toothed comb, laces from a pair of boots that had seen better days, neatly folded silk boxers, and of course, the leather belt, sitting on the edge of the dresser, coiled like a viper ready to strike.

Lance had pawed through the drawers in the bathroom vanity and had come up with a number of bottles and tubes of sweet smelling lotions and bath oils thoughtfully stocked for anyone who might temporarily call the suite he currently occupied home. He had lined them up in a neat row across the top of the dresser like soldiers ready to go into battle. Where the objects he'd selected might be for pain. The indulgent luxury of the oils and lotions were for pleasure. Angel wasn't so certain she deserved any pleasure. In fact, in as much as she looked forward to the punishment, she dreaded the idea of pleasure. Pain she understood. Pleasure was new, foreign, and she had no concept of how to interpret the dizzying sensation.

Whether, Lance fully understood what he'd done in positioning her face first to the wall or not, Angel wasn't sure. The Internet was a wealth of knowledge about BDSM practices and techniques. Some of the information was true. And some of it was not. He'd bound her in a classic punishment position. Spread her legs wide, left her with no play in the torn strips of cotton restraining her wrists and ankles in place, forcing her to strain and tip her ass high to keep her balance. Prepped to be used however he saw fit. What was worse, he'd given her full view to the room behind her. In binding her in front of the mirror, she had full view of herself. And she wasn't so certain she liked what she saw.

Angel was here, trussed up like a Thanksgiving Day turkey because she chose to be. As a human, she would have been helplessly bound. But, with her vampire strength she could easily free herself. One flex of a bicep would splinter the wooden frame of the mirror and grant her freedom. Her fangs weren't just for feeding. They were weapons of defense. She could end this anytime she wanted to. And a more reasonable part of her demanded that she do so, for Lance's sake. He wasn't a dom. A dominant alpha male, yes, but he was no man who would take pleasure from inflicting pain. And in doing this for her. Pushing himself and defying the very nature of his innermost being, she was hurting him, perhaps harming him far more than he ever would her.

After tonight, when the scene was finished and had played out, things between them would never be the same. Tied up, content in the tightness of the bindings on her wrists and ankles. Her body aching in anticipation of the pain and her mind wandering through darker places where the lines between pleasure and pain were so very blurry, she'd never been more selfish. Lance wasn't out to break her. He only wanted to give her a reprieve. But, in giving her the solace she needed, she might break him beyond any hope of repair.

She deserved to be alone in her sickness. There were plenty of other men out there who would get off on the fix she needed to make it through to the next day. Pain was her drug. Humiliation, degradation, and shame were as comforting to her as a soft blanket on a cold winter's night. Roark had turned her into this thing she was at the very core of her being. He'd trained her to respond to the sound of leather striking flesh. And he'd taught her to like it. And like an addict, she licked her lips in selfish, eager, anticipation for her next dose.

Lance gripped the edge of the white marble vanity and refused to meet his eyes in the mirror. His cock was flaccid in his workout pants, limp and useless, dangling between his thighs without any intent or purpose. Where he'd found the courage to tie Angel and leave her standing there spread-eagle, ripe and ready for him; he didn't know. He'd gone to the closet and yanked a hanger off the rack. He'd ripped up his favorite t-shirt in sacrifice to bind her wrists and ankles. He'd gone to the bathroom and found the stock of lotions and oils intended for guests that might actually have a more mundane use for them than what he had in mind. He'd lit the fancy scented candles. But, not even their sweet fragrance could cover the musky tinge of Angel's arousal, so thick and decadent in the air, and so apparent with the securing of the first tie around her wrist.

He hung his head and grated his fangs. He wasn't some ball less coward. Pain was what she needed. And although he had little idea of what he was actually doing. He got the gist of it plain and clear. She needed him to hurt her. Moving beyond this point for the both of them was the key to their future together. Tonight wasn't for him. It was for her. Pushing her past her craving for pain and bringing her to the pleasure on the other side of it. Too bad, his cock didn't see fit to get with the program. And unfortunately, neither did his head.

There were thousands of people who enjoyed this type of thing. He just wasn't one of them. The Internet was a wealth of knowledge on the subject. There was nothing a visa card couldn't buy. He'd added leather, toys, and a few things that looked particularly terrifying into a website's shopping cart. He just hadn't had the guts to purchase them. When did he become such a pussy? There was a naked woman tied up and ready for him in the next room. And he could not work up the balls to go out there, slap her around a little, which was what she wanted, and fuck her into next week.

Roark had really done a number on her. The bastard was roasting in hell and he was still causing problems. Lance knew damn good and well; Angel had climaxed for him their first night together. Her cheeks flushed, her body tightened around him, and her sighs of pleasure were the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. The taste of her, hell, he could still recall it. He hadn't had to use pain to bring her to that point. Sure, he'd had to push her. He'd pinched her nipples, not hard though. He'd held her wrists gently. And he'd been right in guessing that she'd need a little more spice to get her there. But, this...he'd tied her the goddamn frame of his dresser mirror with a fucking t-shirt. And why? Because she didn't feel safe enough in his arms to fully trust him.

He slid his hand down the front of his pants and fisted his limp cock. Thinking of how sweet she could be he pumped his fist up and down his flaccid shaft. Friction was a bitch. And he couldn't even work himself up to a decent state of arousal. He had a huge issue with hurting a defenseless female. But, of course, Angel wasn't exactly defenseless. He'd tied her wrists and ankles loosely enough that she could work herself free. And even if she couldn't, she could easily splinter the wooden frame of the mirror without even chipping a fingernail.

She was tied up because she wanted to be. And that was the knee to the balls of this little scenario. She was the one fully in control. All of this, the household items he selected to beat the shit out of her. The luxurious oils he'd smooth down her skin to bring her to the point of pleasure. And the pain, he'd no doubt unleash on her, was for her.

Angel needed him to take her to that dark place in her head where there were no boundaries between pleasure and pain. They hadn't discussed limits or safe words. And that might be a good thing, because, he'd be shouting it from the rooftops to stop this little scenario from unfolding. He didn't want to hurt her. But, if he didn't, he'd definitely harm her. Sure, they could make it work for a little while. They could pretend she was as normal as apple pie after church on Sunday, for a time. He wasn't interested in the temporary. He was in love and he wanted it to last. If he couldn't find a way to satisfy this darker need within her, no matter if she wanted to do it or not, she would find someone who could. And in hurting him by leaving him to sate that need, she'd do herself more harm than any damn belt ever could.

He tucked his flaccid cock away and gathered his wits. The damn thing would work when the time came. It had never failed him before. And he had to admit, even if he never said it aloud. A part of him was turned on and aroused as hell at the thought of spending hours teasing and tormenting her, of reducing her to a quivering mass of nerve endings and working her past the point of her control.

He was going to claim every inch of her body. His cock was going to be harder than it'd ever been. And he was not going to fuck her with it. He was going to make love to her, deeply, slowly, and thoroughly. He was going to own her orgasms. Savor them. And he was going to teach her that she could enjoy, feel, and love without needing the pain, without being totally submissive, or bound, to do it.

His cock sprang to life, fully on board with the thoughts in his head. Nice to know erectile dysfunction was solely a human affliction. Tonight would change everything. Their relationship would never be the same. He'd earn Angel's full trust. Deliver her from the bondage of her past through inflicting pain and pleasure in equal measure. In his arms, she'd feel safe. They'd push each other to their limits and beyond. And in defining limits and whispering safe words, with the sting of a belt on bare flesh, there'd be love. He could do this. Free her. Not out of duty or with a sense of foreboding, but because he loved her and there was nothing he wouldn't do to prove it.

Angel had the speech planned out in her head. She willingly left her wrists and ankles bound to the mirror's frame. But, forced to take a long hard look at herself while she waited for Lance to emerge from behind the closed bathroom door. She had not liked what she saw. She was a terrified, desperate, frightened shell of a woman who could not face love. She was going to have to cut him loose to save him from the darker parts of her innermost self. She would not corrupt him as Roark had corrupted her. She would never taint Lance with the filth of memories and a past he'd never escape. She didn't have it in her to condemn him as Roark had condemned her.

The hinges of the bathroom door whispered a soft, almost inaudible whine as Lance pulled the door open. Bathed in the incandescent light from the fixture over the vanity, he was a dark shadow. His facial features indiscernible. His bare feet made no sound as they closed the distance between them. Whatever words she might have been able to muster died on the tip of her tongue. His long fingers, the fingers of an artist or a concert pianist closed around the coiled belt on the dresser.

Angel's knees buckled, banging against the unforgiving cold, polished drawer fronts of the dresser. Forcing her to stay upright. The glass in the mirror wobbled from the sudden stress of her weight pulling on the wooden slats. His breath was hot, searing her skin as he exhaled against the curve of her spine. His hands skated over her curves, gentle as a whisper and harsh as a shout. The buckle of the belt jangled as he unwound its length. Panting, Angel bit back a cry of urgent longing as he cupped her bottom and massaged her flesh with his palm.

Abruptly, he removed his hand. Leaving her cold and her body tingling and desperate for more of his caresses. One glance in the mirror confirmed that the man standing behind her was not the Lance she knew. He had Lance's face, the contours of his shoulders and the hard planes of his muscular body. But, his eyes, there was the gleam of domination in them that Lance would have never possessed.

His mouth, full from the bulk from his lengthened fangs, was drawn into a tight, hard, unforgiving line. He slowly wound the belt between his clenched fingers, drawing it tightly, snapping it taut. Gasping and aching, wet and so eager to please, Angel moaned as the leather struck her skin.

The sting of leather against flesh was immediate and so reassuring. Relentless fingers gripped her hair, jerking her head back to extend her neck, wrenching the word from her throat. Whispered as reverently as if she'd seen the glory of heaven, she said it. And in that word, she found her redemption and her freedom. The very crux of everything she was had been reduced to one urgently uttered word so desperate and full of hope. "Sir," she rasped.