Darker (2 page)

If you’re awake by then, I’d like to see you in my office at 4.30 p.m. James is expecting you.

You scared me. I was so worried about you.

Eva— You have some explaining to do, starting with what you consider to be meant by the concept of safe word.

Nathan

Shit. He was so kind before, so gentle. Contrite even. I don’t need to see his angry face, hear his harsh words to know he is livid now. An anger born of fear maybe, but I will be getting the full force of it. Soon. I know I’ve screwed up. Badly.

I glance at the clock—it’s quarter to four already. I scramble for my phone, text him quickly as instructed, keeping it cheerful.

Hi, Nathan, I’m awake now, a bit sore but fine. No need to come back up. I’ll be there at 4.30. Thanks for looking after me. See you soon.

Then I head for the shower.

Twenty hot, steamy minutes under the powerful jets of water help to relax my stiff body and I feel the kinks of tension easing as the warmth permeates. I’m feeling a lot less delicate as I scout around the spare bedroom, rummaging in my Harvey Nicks carrier bags for something decent to wear.

As my equilibrium returns to something more akin to normal, I’m reliving the whole bizarre episode and wondering how the hell it all went so wrong. I may be a bit flaky sometimes, naïve even, but I’m far from stupid. Very far indeed. It was simple enough—all I had to do was say ‘stop’. Or ‘red’. Or something like that. And I can’t deny I had my chances—he did ask me if I was okay.

What was I thinking? By the tone of his note, that’s pretty much what Nathan will be wondering as well, and I have no idea at all what I’m going to say to him.

At twenty-five past four, I slip out of the apartment. I cross the landing and press the lift call button. I have dressed myself carefully for the occasion in one of my new outfits, smart beige chinos with a floppy black silk blouse. I am tempted by the fuck-me red heels again but decide not to be too obvious and settle for shoving my bare feet into my black Toms slip-ons. I have my small black leather satchel for my bits and pieces—glasses, phone, tissues, a few quid in cash and my somewhat under-used credit card. The lift arrives quickly, and I am on my way to the eighth floor.

Exiting the lift, I approach James’ desk again, and if anything I’m even more nervous than yesterday. At least then I’d thought Nathan would be pleased to see me. Today, well, who knows?

James sees me, smiles and picks up his phone. “Miss Byrne is here, sir.” After a moment he replaces the receiver and smiles up at me. “Mr Darke is expecting you. Please, go straight in.”

The door to Nathan’s office is closed. I walk up to it, and decide against knocking. I walk in, before closing the door quietly behind me. He is at his desk, his eyes riveted to the screen of his laptop, his fingers leaping across the keyboard. His hair, loose when I saw him last in the bedroom of his apartment, is now scraped back into his severe businesslike ponytail. I stand, leaning back on the door, unsure what to do now. The obvious place to sit would be at the conference table, but the sharp recollection of being stretched across its polished surface yesterday and beaten with a ruler makes me hesitate. I’m unwilling to take a seat at
that
table but not sure if my legs will carry me right across the room to the visitor’s chair in front of his desk.

Long moments slide by as he makes me wait. He appreciates the importance of timing, I’ll give him that. Whether he’s about to deliver a withering dressing down like now, or a severe beating across my naked bottom like earlier, he knows the added value of making me wait. Giving me ample time to anticipate. To dread. Eventually he looks up, his dark eyes boring into mine. Still he doesn’t speak. I swallow—my mouth dry. If he seemed harsh, cold the night we met, he is positively glacial now. Christ, he’s so very, very angry. And I’m so very, very scared.

Defensively I try to convince myself it’s all his fault. If he doesn’t want me to pass out and spoil his fun, he shouldn’t hit me so hard. A glance into that icy gaze and any bravado I might have been gathering is splintered.

“Come here, Miss Byrne. Can you sit?” He gestures at the chair in front of his desk. I nod, then walk hesitantly to him, before easing my body gently into the chair. His expression is wry—he knows how sore I am. “Backside smarting, is it, Miss Byrne? Good.” He shoves his laptop aside. I have his undivided attention now, and he goes straight for the jugular. “So, Eva. Safe words. What are your safe words? What are they for? And why the fucking hell didn’t you use them?”

I stare at him, open my mouth intending to speak, but belatedly I realise I don’t have an answer. At least not one he’ll be interested in hearing. Does he really want to hear how I was paralysed by pain, unable to move, unable to speak or scream? How, somewhere buried in the fog of my brain I knew I had a solution? How I knew I could stop the agony, somehow, but forgot what I was supposed to do? To hear how pain and desperation and fear drove all sensible thought from my head? How I could only lie there until he beat me senseless?

No. I need to come up with something better. I think for a few moments, desperately casting around for something, however flimsy. Unfortunately, there really isn’t anything better, anything more convincing. There’s only the truth. And that’s it. So that’s what he’ll have to make do with. I open my mouth again, take a deep breath in a futile attempt to steady myself, and this time I tell him. The truth. All of it.

He listens quietly. His face is a mask of incredulity. An expression of utter disbelief—I assume, at my stupidity—drives all else from his handsome face. Or maybe he’s just completely astounded by my sheer bloody feeble weakness. He doesn’t interrupt, waiting until my voice trails away before delivering his reaction. And it is not sympathetic.

“You
forgot
. You wanted to tell me to stop, but you
couldn’t
? That’s fucking not true. I asked you. I stopped, I waited and I bloody well asked you if you were okay. God knows how many times, I asked you if you wanted to stop. I was totally focused on you and I thought you might be struggling. I asked you if you were okay to continue. You told me yes so I carried on.” His voice is cold, his words crisp, clipped, his temper only just reined in.

The door opens behind me and he falls silent, though his angry glare holds me in place, pinned to my seat like a specimen butterfly. I hear James come in, then the clink of coffee cups as he places a tray on the table. The table where Nathan gave me twenty blistering strokes with a ruler then followed it up with a mind-blowing orgasm. My lower body starts to clench. The sensations, and my response to him, no less powerful for being remembered.

“Thanks, James.” Nathan’s voice is chilled, clipped as he dismisses his PA.

“Right, Mr Darke.” And he is gone, leaving me once more alone with the very angry, very, very intimidating Nathan Darke. If Nathan with a whip in his hand seemed formidable, Nathan in an ice-cold seething temper is positively awesome, crushing. Am I cowering? I think I might be. If not, I should be. And I suspect I soon will be. I try to salvage something from the carnage.

“It won’t happen next time,” I offer earnestly. “I’m a fast learner.”
That’s true, I’m probably one of the fastest learners on the planet.

“You don’t need to learn. You just need to fucking understand a simple instruction and Do. As. You’re. Told.” The words are forced out through his gritted teeth. “Was that too much, Eva? What part of ‘tell me when you want to stop’ was not entirely clear to you?”

His sarcasm is cutting, unkind and, in my view, unwarranted. I feel my temper start to kindle a little, fighting back. “Damn it, you mean, clever bastard.” Is that my voice? Is that me being so rude? Yes, apparently so. How odd… Still, I’m in now so I rush on.

“I’m new to all this, or had you forgotten? How was I to know how I might react to the shock of having some sadistic pig thrash me senseless with a bloody cane? I know now, thank you so very much for the educative experience. I’m so obliged to you. And you needn’t worry, I’ve learnt my lesson. I’ll get it right next time.” I am standing, leaning over his desk, shaking with anger, with defensive outrage at his callousness. I might see fit to blame me for this mess, but somewhat perversely I don’t see why he should.

The thing is, if I’m totally honest, I do blame myself. He did stop and check. He did remind me, repeatedly remind me, of the safe words. I could have called a halt. I could have slowed everything down, managed my pain better. I could have, should have got through it, and claimed my reward in the form of another mind-blowing erotic experience. Then we’d both have been out of our minds with delight. But I just let him beat me till I passed out. Nice one, Eva.

He shakes his head, slowly, sadly—his lips turned down, flattened in disappointment. He leans back, no longer aggressive and judgemental, just disillusioned. My flash of anger subsiding, I start to panic. I’ve seen that look of upcoming rejection before as those around me have realised I’m not for them, not like them, not one of them.

I sit, ready to grovel now, my short burst of self-defence exhausted. “Please, Nathan, can we—”

“If you can’t manage to use safe words to protect yourself, to protect me too, damn it, Eva, then you can’t play these games. It’s too dangerous. Sooner or later I’ll hurt you. Really hurt you. I could end up in jail, you in the hospital or the undertaker’s. So it stops here.”

I am staring, the blood drains from my face, my head is swimming, spinning. “No. No. It can’t be. Another chance, surely I deserve that. Everyone gets another chance…”

I realise I must have said it out loud as he answers me, more gently now, “It’s not about chances, Eva, it’s about keeping you safe. As the Dom that’s my responsibility, and I just can’t do it if you don’t tell me when you need me to stop. Otherwise I’m just shooting blind. Taking risks. Taking big risks with your safety. So no, Eva, no more chances.”

“You’re dumping me. Over this. It was your fault, and now you’re dumping me.” I know I sound hysterical, hyperventilating like a child on the verge of a tantrum, but the sheer agony of this heartless rejection is choking me. I need him. I need this. I need what he can teach me. I flinch under the sudden pain. The grief, the sense of loss is overwhelming. Unbearable. I am crying, my face in my hands, sobbing just as I did last night as I relived the bitter pain of losing my father. This is just the same, another bereavement, my heart is being torn from me. I love him, like I loved my father. But he’s leaving me anyway. Like my father did. I can’t bear it. I just can’t. I can’t even start to contemplate my future without him in it.

“I wouldn’t call it dumping you, Eva. I care about you…”
Platitudes. Spare me, please!

Desperate, I’m ready to grovel, to plead. “Please, Nathan. Please don’t just send me back to Black Combe. Not yet. Let me try again.”

He has the grace to look uncomfortable, to shift in his chair as he picks up a slim file from the desk. “Ah, well it’s not that simple. About Black Combe… I’m not sure you can go back there either.”

The pain is sharp, physical, the pit of my stomach dropping away. My job. My new home. My new friends—all gone, gone because of this. Because he couldn’t keep his hands off me, because he was so determined to lay into me with a cane and I made one little mistake. No. It can’t be. I don’t believe this.

“Why?” I whisper, wide-eyed, bewildered in my grief and confusion.

He pushes the file across the desk to me. “Your certificates. Your birth certificate and your music degree. I had them checked out. They’re forgeries. Or one of them is. Which one is it, Eva?”

“What? What are you talking about?” I stare at him, astonished. “They’re both genuine. You can check.”

“I have checked. That’s the problem. The dates don’t add up.”

Ah, yes. The dates. I had hoped he wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t look too closely. More fool me. Of course he would. Bloody attention to detail control freak. As my silence lengthens, he continues, explaining, “Your birth certificate—which seems genuine, incidentally, so I’m inclined to think the degree certificate is the fake—says Evangelica Byrne was born in Edinburgh in April 1990. Yes?” He glances at me for confirmation. I nod dumbly, obligingly.

“And this degree certificate says that Evangelica Byrne was awarded the BMus degree by King’s College London, in 2005. First class honours no less. Impressive, but not possible Eva. You were only fifteen in 2005.” He waits, tapping his long fingers on the sheet spread out in front of him.

I sit, my eyes fixed on my shaking hands, twisting them in my lap. I can explain. I can. He’ll think I’m a freak, but that’s no worse than the rubbish in his head now, what he thinks he knows about me. He thinks he’s caught me cheating, lying. And that’s why he wants to fire me from my job. At least I might be able to salvage that.

I look him in the eye. “Both documents are genuine.” With a deep breath, I continue, “I entered Kings in 2003, when I was thirteen. I got my first degree two years later, in 2005, when I was fifteen as you say.” I sit still, waiting for him to react. He shakes his head. He doesn’t believe me. Shit, I’ll need to prove it, and that could mean—will mean—all my cats out of their little bags.

“You’re a superb violinist, Eva, I don’t doubt you do have a degree in music. Why bother to forge one? You could play professionally…”

Yes, I could, I’ve turned down more offers than I can remember…

“But at fifteen—no university would even accept a student at that age, let alone have one graduating.”

I take a deep breath, square my shoulders and look him straight in the eye. “They do, if the student has an IQ of one hundred and eighty-one, seventeen GCSEs and counting and eight A levels. Do you want to check those certificates too?”

I have the intense satisfaction of seeing his jaw drop. For a few moments he seems truly speechless then he regroups a little.

“But why? Assuming it’s all true, what was it all for? I mean, three or four A levels makes sense, five even at a stretch. But eight? And how many GCSEs was it?”