"Son of a..." I glared down at my cellphone like it was the spawn of Satan. I'd called Tristan's cell four times. The man wasn't answering his god damn phone. Or answering emails.

"Can you drive a little faster?" I seethed, scooting forward in the back seat of the cab, smacking my hand against the plastic partition. The driver glared at me over his shoulder, the bill of his Red Sox's cap pushed up on his long head.

"What'da'ya want, lady? It's a sea of red out there."

It was, and unfortunately I lacked the powers of Moses to part the damn thing.

Reaching into my wallet, I wrestled out a twenty, shoved it at the driver to cover the eleven dollar fare. No waiting for change, I bolted out of the cab and hit the pavement in a loping run. Three blocks wasn't so bad and I'd dressed comfortable enough to manage the distance without hindrance.

Sure, I earned a couple of disapproving glares, and almost took out a Chihuahua in the process. When I was half a block out, I slowed down to a fast walk, passing the porter.

"Ms. Pierce." He tipped the black bill of his hat, opening the door. "Is everything alright?" Judging the line of his gaze, I realized my bruises must have been a lot more noticeable then I'd thought.

"Fine." I pulled my sunglasses off, clutched them in my hand. "Is he home?"

The porter's face folded into grim lines. "Yes but—"

"Good. I need to speak with him." Neil was hot on my heels as I raced through the doors, his gloved hand reaching the elevator call button before I could press it.

"Ms. Pierce," he urged, voice soft. "I was given explicit instructions not to expect you this weekend."

"What's your name?" I asked, smiling.

That kind, kind face continued to crumple. "Neil, Miss."

"Neil." I set a hand on his shoulder, edged in close. "We can continue this debate and make a scene, or you can let me up. Which one is going to get you in more trouble? Choice is yours."

Neil set his lips in a thin line. Punched the button. "Yes, Ms. Pierce. But I will have Mr. Shade know—"

"I know, I know. I'll make sure he's aware you did everything you could." The doors chimed open and I leapt on, watching as the numbers climbed in an agonizingly slow progression. Why, I wondered, did the world seem to crawl whenever you were in a hurry?

Finally, the parted and I was out. I'd barely made it more then three paces before I stopped short.

Tristan turned around, shirtless. Golden hair mussed and face shadowed with a haze of stubble. Whiskey soaked eyes latched on to me, silver bolts of surprise and question. My gaze dropped to his right, down to a pair of exquisitely shaped legs that uncrossed, stretched.

A woman rose. First hidden behind a curtain of pin-straight hair, lustrous brown. Then she whipped that curtain aside and the rest of her came into sharp relief. An exotic beauty dressed in all black, from fitted pants and thin-strapped tank top. Her lips, plush pillows painted a vibrant shade of red that rivalled my current frame of mind.

The bastard, I thought. Here I was going out of my mind with worry, and he had the nerve—no, the gall to bring another woman here. Jealousy spiked behind my eyes, down my throat and seared across the nerves of my spine, leaving my body rigid with rage.

But as fast as it was sparked, when I shot an accusatory glare to Tristan, his voice echoed back to me from that night he'd punished me for falling victim to my lesser emotions.

I've shown you nothing but complete devotion.

 I already am...

Drawing in a calming breath, I employed every ounce of self-control I possessed and wrestled in my rage, bottling it down as deep as I could.

"Shade," I said, pleased to hear that my voice was steady, light and without a hint of my inner struggle.

"Laura," he answered, his voice nowhere near as controlled as mine. "You're not supposed to be here."

"Maybe if you answered your phone," I replied, flashing my teeth in a smile that was a tad on the feral side. "I wouldn't have needed to show up, unwanted." Tipping up my chin, I waited for a response to my challenge, but Tristan, although unpleased about my presence, wasn't particularly bothered to do anything about it, either.

Swaying slightly, he brought an arm, gestured to the woman who stood in rapt and fascinated attention at his side. "Olivia Ramji, this is Laura Pierce. The one I told you about." 

"Mm. Yes. I see what you mean," the brunette said, her soft voice carrying a hint of New Delhi. Her dark eyes drinking me in. "Such a delight to meet you."  

"What's going on, Shade? I've been trying to call you all day?"

"Thought I made it clear this weekend I wasn't to be disturbed," he said dryly, reaching down for his glass of whiskey. Tristan drained at least three fingers in one, neat swallow.

"Yes, well I need to speak with you about—"

"Go home."

I took a step back, struck by his words the way that hurt more than Anthony's fists. I couldn't process, I couldn't understand this cold and callous man standing before me. Where was the warmth and tender man from last night? I'd never seen him so...undone, but rather then anger me, I was scared. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. And the closer I drew to him, the more afraid I became.

Twined within the bloodshot red of whiskey glazing the whites of his eyes was such raw, naked grief.

"What's wrong with you?" I whispered. "Please, just tell me what's going on?" 

"Shade," Olivia crooned, setting a hand against his arm, taking the empty glass dangling from his fingertips. "Why don't you get ready? I'd like a moment to speak with Ms. Pierce."

Tristan tipped back his head, golden hair falling away from his weary face. "Sure," he said, and lumbered off in swaying steps. I watched as he ventured out of sight, my heart aching with every step he took.

"I've never seen him this way."

"He doesn't show this to many." Olivia answered, setting down the empty glass on the coffee table. Her every movement, graceful and elegant.

"Why are you here?"

"We have a standing appointment," Oliva said, pulling the length of her impossibly straight, dark hair across one shoulder. Her full-lipped smile enhanced her already stunning features. "An anniversary, of sorts."

My aching heart sank to my stomach. "Are you lovers?"

"Hardly." She laughed. Linked her hands together. "We don't have sex. Ever. I provide relief in other areas."

"Such as?"

"Pain." Those dazzling eyes, black diamonds, glimmered. "My art is in giving pain. Though, I see you know a thing or two about that." She tapped a nail against my jaw. "Not the work of a professional."

I placed my hand over the offending bruise. "That wasn't—"

"I know," she said. "Not Tristan's handiwork." She tucked a hand through my arm, and led me towards the bedroom. The room where Shade and I had spent many of my most explicit and passionate nights. "I can spot the marks of a brute a mile away. And I know how to distinguish the difference between love and hate. Intention changes everything." 

The lights were off and candles scattered about. Large, tall and thick tallows and tapers, the lit flames dancing to a silent melody shared between fire and air. In the center of the room, at the foot of the bed, was what I could only describe as a medieval torture device.

A wooden cross wrack with leather cuffs set at each apex. Tristan stood in front of it, removed his robe and stood naked save for a pair of fitted black boxers.

"If you're going to stay," he said, spreading arms and legs, lining himself with the four points, "Watch, but say nothing. Do nothing." He shot his gaze to me, those arresting silver eyes of his glazed with such emotional turmoil I couldn't find my voice. "No interfering."

Still lost for words, unsure of what to make of this entire scene, I lowered to the side of the bed, my hands running along my thighs.

At the foot of the bed was a long, black case. I watched as Olivia unsnapped the closures and revealed the red velvet lining. Within the case were lengths of rods, coils of whips and a variety of reeds. She coupled Tristan's wrists and ankles, her hands stroking along his arms and legs, tender and gentle.

His breathing calmed at her touch. At this angle I could see his face reflected in the edge of the tall mirror perched against the wall. Serene, I thought. His eyes and the look in them distant. Olivia moved to the bureau, lit a couple spears of incense, paused to pour herself a drink into a crystal tumbler. Her eyes found mine, their look full of reassurance. She stroked a finger across her lips.

And I understood. No talking.

Finished her drink, she returned to her case, her hands skimming across her tools of the trade, selecting first a coiled length of black leather. She unfurled it, her fingers curling around the hilt and gave the whip a testing snap.

The loud crack sliced my straight through and in my lap, my hands shook. She took her place, swished the whip back and, in a strong, swift motion, brought it forwards in an upward stroke that caught Tristan from hip to shoulder.

Olivia adjusted her stance, and lashed again, catching him in almost the same position but on the opposite side. A bright, red x formed along the smooth face of his back.

I watched, horrified, as his body jerked, the way his muscles tensed then slackened with each stroke. But no sound. Not even so much as a grunt. By the tenth lash, my hands were at my mouth, smothering my gasps. She'd scored him from shoulder to thigh, the skin flaming but unbroken.

Coiling the whip, she set it back into the case. And pulled out a reed. Slender as a car antenna and just as spry. She tested it in her hands, flexing the wooden length between gentle fingers.

I couldn't watch as she brought the switch against his skin. But I could hear the whispered hiss as it sang through the air, the way it snapped against his skin. Over and over. Tristan wasn't so silent now, but his noises weren't ones of pain or pleasure but of purpose. When I found the strength to open my eyes again, I studied his face in the mirror and found his gaze locked with his own. Clear. So clear. Gone was the grief and the booze.

Seeing that calmed me. And I lost myself in that gaze. In him. In the snap and crack of that reed streaking over his skin. I don't know how long, I honestly lost all sense of time and circumstance.

It was only when Tristan's head sagged, when those eyes rolled shut and his voice shuddered out grating but strong.

"Riddoch."

Olivia's arm dropped and the lashes ceased. A film of sweat sheened across her skin, and her breathing laboured a bit with effort. Folding the reed back into her case, she snapped the case shut.

"Help me with him," she instructed, taking my hand. "Ankles first."

I rose on wobbly legs and fumbled with numb fingers to unclasp Tristan's right side from the cross. He slumped once his arms were freed and Olivia braced him between us, his arms draped over our shoulders. Together we walked him to the bed where he flopped, face down. His bad blazed with perfectly spaced cross cuts of red and pink, the lines so vivid they raised and puckered.

Stretched on the bed, Tristan groaned, his limbs shaking.

"Adrenaline," Olivia explained, pulling up the sheet to cover him to his waist. "He'll need ice and compresses. I'll show you."

She showed me what to do, working through the instructions as she laid out strips of gauze, soaked in a solution of ice water and alcohol, across the abraded areas. While she worked, Tristan's voice whispered out between his heavy breathing.

A name. He uttered it over and over again in his sleep.

Ailish.

"There, love." Olivia brushed a hand through Tristan's golden hair. The touch as tender as a mother to her son. "Sleep now."

"Who is Ailish?" I asked while Tristan continued to murmur and groan into his pillow.

"She's a memory. A painful one. And sometimes," she said stroking my cheek. Only then did I know that I was crying. "The only cure for pain is agony."