Restrain Read online

  Restrain: Book Four in the Bound Series

  Shandi Boyes

  Illustrated by

  SSB Designs

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2018 by Shandi Boyes

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  By: Shandi Boyes

  Editing: Mountains Wanted Publishing

  Photographs: Shutterstock Account

  Cover Designer: SSB Designs

  Contents

  Want to stay in touch?

  Also by Shandi Boyes

  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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Also by Shandi Boyes

  Acknowledgments

  Want to stay in touch?

  Facebook: facebook.com/authorshandi

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  Instagram: instagram.com/authorshandi

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  Email: [email protected]

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  Reader’s Group: bit.ly/ShandiBookBabes

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  Website: authorshandi.com

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  Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/cyEzNv

  Also by Shandi Boyes

  Perception Series:

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  Saving Noah

  Fighting Jacob

  Taming Nick

  Redeeming Slater

  Saving Emily (Novella)

  Wrapped up with Rise Up (Novella - should be read after Bound)

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  Enigma:

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  Enigma of Life

  Unraveling an Enigma

  Enigma: The Mystery Unmasked

  Enigma: The Final Chapter

  Beneath the Secrets

  Beneath the Sheets

  Spy Thy Neighbor

  The Opposite Effect

  I Married a Mob Boss

  Second Shot

  The Way We Are

  The Way We Were

  Sugar and Spice

  Lady in Waiting

  Man in Queue

  Couple on Hold

  Enigma: The Wedding

  Silent Vigilante

  Hushed Guardian

  Quiet Protector

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  Bound Series:

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  Chains

  Links

  Bound

  Restrained

  Psycho

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  Russian Mob Chronicles:

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  Nikolai: A Mafia Prince Romance

  Nikolai: Taking Back What's Mine

  Nikolai: What's Left of Me

  Nikolai: Mine to Protect

  Asher: My Russian Revenge

  Nikolai: Through the Devil's Eyes

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  RomCom Standalones:

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  Just Playin'

  The Drop Zone

  Ain't Happenin'

  Christmas Trio

  Falling for a Stranger

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  Coming Soon:

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  Skitzo

  Trey

  Dedication

  To the fabulous members of Shandi’s Book Babes.

  Thanks for continuing to inspire me to write.

  Every word I type is written for you lovely ladies!

  I hope you enjoy Restrained.

  * * *

  Shandi xx

  1

  The click of my heels racing down the narrow corridor nearly drowns out the deep, thick voice begging for me to stop. I don’t look back. I don’t need to. Although I recognize the voice, it isn’t the one I want to hear. It isn’t Marcus.

  My speed remains unchecked as I push through the heavy door leading to the ballroom where the Serena Scott Foundation is being held. Denying Brodie’s plea for me to stop, I weave through a horde of elegantly dressed people mingling in the opulent ballroom. Although I gain just as many curious gawks as I did the first time I stumbled into the foyer hours ago, not all their eyes are slit with disdain—some are doused with worry.

  Pretending the moisture in my eyes is from expensive perfume burning my corneas, I continue with my trek. I keep my head held high, my shattered heart not enough of a deterrent to warrant embarrassing myself in public. My soul may be shattered, but my Garcia pride remains intact.

  I'm halfway across the room when Brodie’s distinct rumble sounds over the string quartet entertaining the wealthy benefactors of the Foundation. "Cleo, wait up."

  I crank my neck to peer at him. Although I only met him last week, I hate that he is caught in the middle of a battle he doesn’t belong in.

  “I’m fine, Brodie,” I assure him before continuing my effort to leave the gala before my tears fall.

  The air in my lungs is brutally evicted when I spin back around and crash into a rock solid wall. Pain tingles across my face when my nose slams into an extremely hard pec. The pain is so intense, moisture floods my eyes. At least now I have an excuse to cry in public.

  “Shit, Cleo, are you okay?”

  Holding the bridge of my nose to ensure no blood trickles onto my priceless silk dress, I lift my tear-welling eyes. Dexter is peering down at me, his face lined with regret. When he spots the small trickle of blood pooling in the crevice of my nose, the worry tainting his face grows tenfold.

  “Here.” He clutches my elbow and guides me to the bar Andy is working behind.

  Noticing our collision, Andy hands Dexter a ziplock bag full of ice. I grimace when Dexter removes my hand to replace it with the bag. It isn't pain causing my scrunched-up expression; it's the freezing coldness of the ice pressed against my flaming-with-anger face.

  “I’m fine,” I assure Dexter, removing the ice from my nose.

  I roll my eyes at my pathetic reply. Are those the only two words I know today? I guess if I can convince those around me that I’m fine, I might believe it as well.

  I use one of the stark white cloth napkins fanned across the bar to pat under my nose. “See?” I express when my quick dab fails to produce any blood. Although our collision was painful, it was more the shock of it happening than actual pain. Physically, I am fine; it's just my insides that look wretched.

  Not getting the message, Dexter places the bag of ice on the bar then cradles my cheeks. His thumb gently pushes on my nose to make sure it's still in one piece before his fingers skim my blemished cheeks. His gentle touch as he inspects my face for damage soothes some of the nicks my argument with Marcus created. Don't get me wrong, another man's touch will never erase Marcus from my soul, no matter how long our stint of absence is, but it's nice to be rewarded with tenderness after my heart was just ripped to shreds.

  The exact moment Dexter's hands drop from my face, a broad arm wraps around my waist. My idiotic heart hopes it's Marcus clutching my hips for dear life, but my bo
dy knows it isn’t. It didn’t react like it does when its awareness of Marcus activates. It more jumped in fear than excitement.

  “Honey, how many times have I told you to watch where you’re going?” asks the thick, deep voice from above—a voice I immediately recognize.

  My spine snaps straight when Brodie’s beard tickles my lips as he places an impromptu kiss on the edge of my mouth. Although his lips are barely touching mine, the angle of his head doesn’t expose that. It looks as if we are kissing—intimately.

  Shunted in silence, I return Dexter’s baffled stare with as much confusion as Dexter is bestowing on me.

  “I thought. . . aren’t you with. . . hold on… What the hell is going on?” Dexter’s words are as baffled as his facial expression. His jaw is hanging loose, and his eyes are wide with shock.

  After running his slit gaze over Brodie for the third time, Dexter says, "You're the douchebag who just cut in while I was dancing with Cleo. One minute she was there; the next, she was gone."

  “It isn’t called ‘whipping them away for a quickie’ for no reason,” Brodie fires back, not the slightest bit deterred by Dexter’s name-calling.

  My and Dexter's eyes rocket to Brodie in sync. He waggles his brows before cuddling me into his side. Because of his tall height, I snuggle right into the nook of his arm like I belong there. My mouth opens and closes in preparation to deny his claims, but I'm stunned into silence; my mouth won’t cooperate with my brain.

  When the cockiness radiating out of Brodie becomes too much for Dexter to bear, he devotes his attention back to me. This time when he drinks in my wide eyes, flustered cheeks, and disheveled appearance, the worry in his eyes doesn’t grow. It dampens—majorly.

  “You went for a quickie?” Although he is staring straight at me, I don’t believe Dexter’s question is directed at me. He appears as if he is talking to himself.

  Dexter misses the brief shake of my head when Brodie says, "We better get going, Cleo. I'm eager to finish what we started." He looks Dexter dead set in the eyes. "If you know what I mean?" If he didn’t, the arrogant wink Brodie adds to his short sentence ensures there is no misconception.

  I'm taken aback when Brodie locks his lustful eyes to mine. He is playing the part so well that if I didn't know any better, I'd swear we had just returned from having a quickie. Marcus may never secure a role in a major motion picture, but if Brodie doesn't dull down his acting skills, Hollywood will come knocking.

  Not giving me the chance to protest, Brodie pushes off his feet and heads for the door I fled through mere minutes ago. His hurried pace only slows when a raspy voice calls my name. Cranking my neck to the side, I see Andy holding out my purse for me. My head is so fuzzy, I entirely forgot I’d placed it on the countertop after my collision with Dexter. I’d like to say my daft behavior is based on the alcohol lacing my veins, but that isn’t the case. I stopped drinking well over an hour ago, and even if I didn’t, every drop would have burned off during my exchange with Marcus. That's how heated our interaction was: potent enough to singe Satan’s bottom.

  When I reach out to accept my purse from Andy, my brows scrunch. Even with blood roaring in my ears, I couldn’t miss the crinkling of paper when I accepted my satin clutch from his grasp. Noticing a small piece of paper Andy inconspicuously handed me during our exchange, I raise my eyes to his. He smiles softly, acknowledging the paper is for me without a word tumbling from his lips.

  “Be careful, Cleo.” I’ve never been good at lip reading, but I’m certain that's what Andy mouths before his attention reverts to a benefactor requesting his assistance.

  Still jolted with shocked silence, I nod before allowing Brodie to escort me out of the gala. Since Dexter is paralyzed with astonishment, he doesn’t hinder Brodie’s endeavor. I don’t know if I should be peeved or pleased by that notion. Considering it's the second time in under ten minutes I’ve failed to warrant a chase down, it bruises my ego more than I’d care to admit.

  I swallow the horridly bitter taste in the back of my throat as I store the scrap of paper in my clutch. Andy seems like a great guy, but with my heart sitting in tatters, the last thing I want is more complications.

  My eyes lift to scan my location. Brodie and I are moments away from reaching the emergency door I exited moments ago.

  I dig my heels into the thickly piled carpet in an attempt to slow Brodie’s urgent pace. My efforts are utterly fruitless; his speed is so unchecked, we finalize the last half-dozen strides in two heart-thrashing seconds. "I swear to god, Brodie, if you've lured me into another trap, Lucy will be an only child," I grumble under my breath, my words wheezy.

  "I swear to god, Cleo, if you force me into this getup one more time tonight, I'll reconsider my stance on whipping women."

  Even hearing a whip of edginess in his voice—no pun intended—I freeze in place. His tone is playful, but it was void of any confirmation that Marcus isn’t lurking behind the door for me like he was last time Brodie stole my attention from Dexter.

  “Are you luring me into a trap?” I stare straight into Brodie’s twinkling-with-amusement eyes. “Is Marcus standing behind that door?” I point to the door we’re mere feet from.

  “Not even a snide remark on my whipping comment?”

  I’m glad he can find humor in my situation, but I am not amused. The more my shock at his admission we got freaky in the middle of a fundraising gala subsides, the more my anger is returning.

  Incapable of ignoring my rueful glare for a second longer, Brodie breathes out, “No. Marcus isn’t behind the door.”

  I don’t want it to, but disappointment slams into me.

  "My instructions were to collect you, bundle you into a car, then take you home." All the humor in his voice has vanished, leaving nothing but a thick timbre hindered by a snip of regret.

  “Marcus wants me to leave?” God—expressing it out loud hurt more than thinking it.

  The knife twisting in my heart pushes deeper when Brodie nods.

  “What does he think I was doing? I was leaving before you stopped me,” I retaliate, my anger so wrathful, I can’t stop it, even knowing it’s being forced on the wrong person.

  Peering at me with a set of remorseful eyes, Brodie pulls the listening contraption out of his ear and stores it in his pocket. The demands of the person squawking in his ear are loud; I hear their grumbly voice mumbling through his trousers the entire time he scrubs his hand over the cropped beard on his chin while he configures a reply to my question. His anxious response sets my nerves on edge. It isn’t one I anticipated from a bodyguard left to clean up the mess of his boss. It seems more personal than that.

  “What's going on, Brodie? This isn’t like you. It also isn’t like Marcus. I know him. That wasn’t him.” I mumble my last two sentences, my voice wary it’s allowing my heart to speak on behalf of my head before it’s had time to evaluate everything rationally.

  They say love can make you blind, but that isn’t the case right now. I know what I saw. I hate what I saw. But my gut is cautioning me not to jump to conclusions. Marcus said just last week I was fulfilling his requirements, so what has changed so drastically between now and then?

  “What did I do wrong?” My words tumble from my mouth before I can stop them.

  "I'm not the man you should be asking, Cleo.” When he spots a glint of moisture teeming in the corners of my eyes, he adds on, “I'm just doing the job I'm paid to do. Please don't make it any harder on me." I can tell by his tone he is remorseful for my situation, but he is also being honest. He is just doing his job.

  Brodie steps in front of me, engulfing me in his bottled-cologne scent. “What do you want to do, Cleo? Stay here or go home?” The brutal pain in my heart softens, encouraged by him seeking my opinion instead of forcing one onto me.

  Incapable of speaking for fear of crying, I nod.

  “Home?” Brodie confirms, unsure what my gesture refers to.

  When I nod again, Brodie releases a deep exhalation of air.
Gratefulness spreads across his face as he splays his hand on the curve of my lower back. Remaining quiet, he pushes open the emergency exit door, then nudges his head for me to enter before him. My eyes fleetingly scan the dingy hallway when I cautiously step into the mildew-scented area. Just as Brodie guaranteed, Marcus is nowhere to be seen. Half of me is grateful his pledge was spot on; however, the other half is devastated.

  I have so many emotions pumping into me right now, I'm at a loss as to what the hell is going on. Marcus didn't confirm that Keira is his sub, but he didn't deny it either. Add that to the culpability his eyes were carrying during our exchange, and all the arrows point to the same conclusion: Keira is his sub. Furthermore, if he didn't have anything to hide, why wouldn't he have just been honest? What good can possibly be achieved with deceit?

  The playful vibrancy bouncing between Brodie and me when we walked into the hotel hours ago has been snuffed, traded for a stuffiness that makes my stomach churn. Brodie doesn't speak until we merge onto the cracked sidewalk at the back entrance of the hotel.