Page 22 of Bound

Things were better this way. The way they were supposed to be from the start between a globally loved princess and a mentally wrecked soldier. Their night of crazy coincidences was electrified by a crackling physical attraction, underlined by dangerous circumstances and raging adrenaline. No wonder they’d caved so quickly to temptation. And then again.

Hormones and happenstance.

Impulses and opportunities.

Not a life-changing bond.

Damn it, he wasn’t the long-term choice for anyone. Not for his parents, who decided a vanishing act from society was better than watching him grow up. Not for any of the kids in school, who figured his thrift store clothes and classroom focus were things to be afraid of. Especially not for anyone he met in the black ops world, thanks to a little thing called plausible deniability. Nobody got chummy when assuming they’d be going home in a body bag.

It’d likely been the reason he gravitated toward kink and the Dominant/submissive world. Dungeon playtime could be a magical hour or two of intense meaning, without any of the messy aftermath. Everything with Jayd, back in Paris, was supposed to be the same thing. Lots of meaning, plenty of passion, zero extra strings.

But here they were now. Trapped in one hell of a huge yarn ball.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

What was he going to do about it?

“So what are you going to do now, man?”

And there was the fifty-billion-dollar question.

Brick dragged his hand over his skull again. If he actually had all that, he’d offer every penny to Twylah and her friends for a fast face change—which would at least help with getting him off the island and back home in one piece.

But was that what he still wanted?

To break out of here as soon as he could?

Changing outwardly, even the terrain he crossed and the vistas he looked at, wouldn’t alter a damn thing inside. Some of that he could live with. Had already been living with. The nightmares and the panic attacks would never be completely in his rearview.

But what about the new shit? The stuff he could no longer ignore, now packed to the rafters at the deep grooves along the edges of his psyches. Nooks he’d assumed were filled a long time ago, soldered by the crucible of therapy or permanently thrown out because of cold, hard self-discipline. But here they all were again, torn open by the tenacity and sensuality of one little pixie princess.

The woman who knew none of this.

The princess who, right now, was probably feeling like his tossed doxy—important enough to be his submissive in Paris but barely worth his civility now, back in her fucking kingdom.

“Christ on French toast,” he mumbled. With a dagger in the butter, to boot. A dagger that felt plunged between his ribs and twisted through his heart.

“Whoa. What gives?” his friend demanded. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about the club, because you know we’ll handle the basics until you get back.”

“Right.” He hauled his head out of his ass long enough to refocus. “Thanks, man. I mean it, Z.”

Zeke chuffed. “You mean it…because you’re sticking around them-there Arcadian parts for a mite longer, eh?”

Brick closed his eyes and jiggled his head. It was no use. His thoughts were all still in the same place—namely the ones still doggy paddling in astonishment because of hearing it spoken aloud. But Z was right. As in, on the damn money. He was electing to stay, at least until the Cimarron boys booted him off this pretty rock.

“I know it makes no sense, man—”

“Why?” Zeke countered.

“I’m getting to that. You want to let me fin—”

“No,” the guy persisted. “I mean, why does it not make sense?” He gave that one a long rumble of punctuation. “Buddy, the way I see it, you’re finally making all the sense in the world.”

Brick released a low roll of thunder from his chest. “Finally?”

“Eh. For as long as I’ve known you, at least.”

“Which means what?”