SANCTUARY: Beards & Bondage Read online

  SANCTUARY

  Beards & Bondage

  Rebekah Weatherspoon

  Rebekah Weatherspoon Presents

  Contents

  Books By Rebekah

  Praise for Rebekah’s Work

  About This Book

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books By Rebekah

  BEARDS & BONDAGE

  Haven

  Sanctuary

  THE FIT TRILOGY

  Fit

  Tamed

  Sated

  SUGAR BABY NOVELLAS

  So Sweet

  So Right

  So For Real

  VAMPIRE SORORITY SISTERS

  Better Off Red

  Blacker Than Blue

  Soul To Keep

  STAND ALONE TITLES

  The Fling

  At Her Feet

  Treasure

  Praise for Rebekah’s Work

  FIT

  “I felt satisfied by a complete story at the end, and would highly recommend this to anyone looking for a fun, relatable contemporary romance.” - Elisa Verna, Romantic Times Book Reviews (TOP PICK REVIEW)

  SATED

  “…I LOVED IT. The book was respectful of geeks, people with disabilities, people of color, and the BDSM community, and it was informative and entertaining, and it was funny.” - Carrie S, Smart Bitches Trashy Books

  TREASURE

  “This story is rich yet beguiling, magnificent yet down to earth, and intriguing yet heartwarmingly human.” – J.J., Rainbow Book Reviews

  SO SWEET

  “Reading this novella made me happy. I'm definitely looking forward to more.” - Lime Cello, Heroes & Heartbreakers

  AT HER FEET

  “Indeed, the more I read At Her Feet I came to realize that it is the best and most original book that I have read in any genre for a very long time.” – Jim Lyon, The Seattle PI

  About This Book

  When she needs a sanctuary...

  Targeted by a sadistic former client, attorney Liz Lewis needs a place to lay low. When a friend offers her his family farm as a safe house, she eagerly accepts, unaware that she'll have to share the farm with her friend's brawny, beautiful brother, Silas McInroy.

  ...she invades his...

  Weary of a world that doesn’t understand him, Silas just wants to be left alone to grow the best produce upstate New York has to offer. Still, he's not going to toss a woman out when her safety is on the line. But the only way to explain her presence on his farm is to claim that they fell in love online...and the last thing he needs is a fake relationship that threatens to become more and more real every day.

  With her world turned upside down and danger on her trail, Liz knows that this temporary refuge can't last forever...but leaving the comfort and ease of Silas's arms and farm to face the reality of her life may be the hardest thing she’s ever had to do.

  *** WARNING: This book contains scenes of mild bondage and domination between a gorgeous lawyer and a sexy farmer who is terrible with women. And five farm dogs with varying degrees of loyalty to both the hero and heroine.***

  To Victoria and Kasia, my lady lawyer loves in the city.

  One

  August

  Liz

  It’s hot as fuck. I come out of the subway on a hundred and sixteenth street, hoping that I’ll find some relief in the night air. August in the city is always on some other bullshit with its stifling heat. Okay, there is some relief. Like the difference from walking into a boiling hot room where the furnace is out of whack into a sauna. The temperature drops as I make it to the street, but not enough to stop the sweat that’s already coating my entire body. Everything feels thick and even sometimes when the air moves between the buildings and down the boulevard, it’s not enough. I need AC and I need it now. I reach into my bag and pull out my phone as my heels click their way to the crosswalk. Sweet sweet cell service.

  The text alert from Scott pops up on my screen.

  Thanks for fucking bailing. LOL

  My buddy-in-professional law had this shit coming. He convinced me to go out with him and some of his prep school dormmates who are now working for a rival firm. It took us both less than one whiskey on the rocks to realize the douche factor the two brought to the table was more than we could tolerate without billing for our time. But these were Scott’s friends so I excused myself to the bathroom and slipped through the crowded bar and out the front door. He’d dealt with them alone for years—what was a few more hours?

  I smile as I reply.

  I should be demanding an apology from you.

  Where’d you pick up those winners?

  I hit the send arrow, then I switch over to my group text with my sister and three best friends. We actually have important things to discuss.

  Who’s awake?

  Brookie: I’m not. Stop messaging.

  Some of us are trying to sleep.

  No!aaa: I’m at Stoney’s but he’s working. What’s up?

  Don’t make me come up there, BROOKLYN.

  Brookie: Try me, ho!

  Rayna: I’m hiding from a patient.

  What’s up?

  I glance up as I hear a horn blare down the block, then back down at my phone. It’s almost ten and the night is just getting started. My neighborhood is alive. Kids still on the corner. Teens talking. Older kids making jokes and making plans. I smile at three boys clowning their friend about his phone. They all nod and smile back. I absently hope they stay out of trouble. I consider stopping at my bodega for a can of mango iced tea, but there’s rosé chilling in my fridge. That’s what I want. Frosty booze and the new season of Great French Baking Competition.

  Brookie: LOL you’re the worst nurse ever.

  That’s your grandma!

  Rayna: And she fucking bit me while I was getting her into the bath.

  I deserve a break. Don’t you have trial in the morning?

  Go to bed!

  Brookie: I’m trying, but my needy sister is

  blowing up our phones.

  I’ll needy you. It’s not important.

  Get your sleep. I’ll come over tomorrow.

  AND WHOOP THAT ASS.

  Brookie: Yeah, assault on a district attorney. LOL

  Try. It. Night!

  She adds a smiley face with its tongue sticking out.

  Rayna: Is this about Claudia’s bachelorette weekend?

  I look away from my phone long enough to make it up the front steps without eating shit on the worn marble. I key into my building then stop at the mailboxes before I respond.

  Yeah. She said no to Vegas.

  She wants somewhere with less flashing lights.

  No!aaa: Cruise!!

  Brookie: No!

  Rayna: No.

  Yeah, no.

  I think we should take her to a spa.

  Rayna: I’m on it. I’ll look for a place tomorrow.

  While Nan is napping.

  Guys I might see Langdon tomorrow.

  I feel my whole body cringe as I unlock my mailbox and grab my mail. I don’t know Rayna’s ex, but their breakup sounded messy. She’s pretty sure he cheated. He wouldn’t fess up to it. There was family d
rama. Their grandmas were friends. They aren’t anymore. He continued to be a prick. She split for a new life in the City, only to have go right back to the middle of nowhere to care for her grandmother when she got sick. I think about how I want to respond so I don’t hurt her feelings.

  She misses New York. She misses us. There’s nothing for her to do in Oklahoma. She’s with an eighty-year-old woman all day who seems to have a penchant for biting. I’m sure seeing her ex probably sounds like a great idea, a perfect distraction. I stop at the elevator and press the button, wait for it to come down from five. I unlock my phone and stare at the chat box. None of the girls are responding.

  It’s possible they are all busy and they’ve all looked away from their phones at once. It’s more than likely they are all trying to think of what to say. None of us have met Langdon, but we all hate him. The elevator dings. I lock my phone and wait for my neighbor’s teen girls whose names I haven’t learned yet to step off the elevator. They smile at me and say hello as they squeeze by with their freshly applied makeup and cut off shorts and high top sneakers. Damn, I miss the days when summer actually meant something. I step inside and hit the button for three.

  I’ll ask Rayna how she feels about seeing him. I’ll tell her not to see him again if seeing him this time makes her feel crappy. I’ll definitely tell her not to bang him. As soon as I get inside. The door dings open. I make it a few steps down the hall before my phone starts vibrating in my hand again. Someone’s responded in the group chat. I glance back at the screen as I unlock my apartment door.

  Brookie: For fun or for fingerbanging?

  I snort as I turn on the lights and drop my stuff on my kitchen counter. I lean down and pop off my stilettos. I grab one in each hand. I’m going to put them back on their rack. Then pajamas and wine. So much frosty wine ’cause I deserve it after the day I’ve had. I’ll let Rayna say what she needs to say about how long it’s been since she’s been properly fingerbanged and then I’ll give the best friend response I can give. I take three, maybe four steps and then I freeze.

  There are moments in your life, split seconds, when a part of your brain processes more than you ever thought possible. Where your senses pick up details that they normally wouldn’t, but those details are all there, in stark clarity. Still that moment is always too short and your realization of those details always comes too late.

  I’m not alone in my apartment.

  I spin around and he's standing there, between me and my door. A white guy. I can’t gauge how old he is. Drugs and/or alcohol or the stress of breaking and entering have weathered his features. He’s wearing a thermal hoodie and he’s sweating. Not shocking considering how hot it is outside. His dark hair is shaved close to his head. Both of his ears are pierced with small diamond studs. There’s nothing in his hands, but it looks like there’s stuff weighing down the pockets of his dark cargo pants. This is the stuff I notice when I finally realize I am not alone in my apartment.

  “Liz Lewis,” he says. He's about my height, maybe a little taller since I’m not wearing my heels anymore.

  “Get out of here,” I hear myself say.

  “Afraid I can't do that. You and I have a date tonight.” I don't know this man. I know he doesn't really know me, but he's in my fucking apartment. He takes a few steps toward me. I glance down at his hands, clasped together in front of him. His knuckles are turning white.

  A heat settles over me. A calm. I'm going to have to fight this guy. “Get the fuck out of my apartment,” I say even louder.

  He shakes his head. “Dorrit Junior sent me. He told me to take my time, sick fuck that guy. Man.” He laughs, this sick laugh like I totally understand why he’s in my apartment. “Always the rich ones. Such sick fucks. He actually told me to use my hands. We’re gonna have some fun. And then I'm going to put you to sleep.”

  David Dorrit Jr.. I know the name better than I’d prefer. He’s the king of rich assholes and he has his whole family in on the game. Hotels. TV. Cosmetics. The works. He hired our firm. Hired me and my associate, Kelsey. Hired us and we lost. Kelsey quit after that case. Quit being a lawyer. I think she quit New York altogether. I haven’t heard from her in months. Did he break into her place too?

  “You don't have to do this. You can leave right now. I won't call the cops. You won't have to add rape to your rap sheet,” I tell him.

  His head cocks to the side and he lets out a loud burst of laughter. “Rape? Nah, honey. You black bitches ain't my type. No, Mr. Dorrit said you made a promise that you didn’t deliver on. Now he wants me to deliver you.”

  He’s done. I can tell. There's something in his eye. He's done talking. He’s going to kill me. I lunge for my bag, but he knocks it off the counter. I hear my shit spill all over the hardwood floor as I take a step back. He rushes me. I turn to run, but his whole body slams me into the other side of the counter. The adrenaline rushes through me and instinct takes over. I hear my mother’s voice in my head. The memory of her talking to Brookie after a boy chased her five blocks just to read the tag on her bra.

  If someone’s fucking with you, you fight dirty.

  I knee, I kick. I get free and he’s on me again. We both land on the floor. The wind’s knocked out of me. Later I’ll feel just how badly I’ve bitten the side of my tongue. I kick some more. He’s going to have to kill me, I tell myself and there, somewhere in the back of my brain, I know. I just know. I don’t know how—he’s not going to win this fight. I’m not going to fucking die.

  I kick again. Wildly. He’s trying to slam me harder into the floor, but his arm is trapped under me. He tries to lift us both up. I smash the back of my head into his nose. I’m free. He’s groaning, calling me a bitch.

  I try to get up and run, and he grabs my ankle. My knee hits the floor as the momentum of his hold throws me onto my back. My wrist hits the base of the island. My other hand hits my stiletto. He still has a grip on my ankle, and his head is tilted back.

  “Goddamnit. You broke my fucking nose,” he says, like there’s been a pause in the action. Like I’m going to give him a minute to regroup before we continue our wrestling match. Like I’m going to give him a few minutes to catch his breath and stop the bleeding.

  I grip my shoe tight and swing forward. The heel goes right into his throat.

  I stand in my open doorway looking at his lifeless body bleeding out on my floor as I call 9-1-1.

  “A man broke into my apartment. I killed him,” I say when the woman on the other end asks me to state my emergency. “I killed him.”

  “Are you sure he’s dead?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say. I leave out the part about him twitching while I grabbed my phone and how I watched the twitching stop from across the room. I don’t dare turn my back on him. I can’t look away. I know how that horror movie ends.

  The woman on the other end asks me my address. I give it to her. I try to breathe.

  I hear my neighbor’s door open. I don’t take my eyes off the dead man on my floor, but I can sense Mr. Guerra as he steps out in the hallway. He comes closer and I can see him out of the corner of my eye in his boxers and Yankees t-shirt. He shoves his glasses into place. I know he sees the blood all over me. There must be some on my face.

  “What’s the matter, Lizbetta?” he asks.

  “Is that the man?” the dispatcher asks.

  “No, it’s my neighbor.” He glances pasts me then jerks back out into the hall once he sees what I’m looking at. Then he reconsiders and tries to step past me and into my apartment. I grab his arm and shake my head. I’m fucking shaking, but I’m not stupid. He does not need to complicate things.

  “Wait for the cops,” I say to him.

  “We’re sending some officers right now.”

  “I’m staying on the line until they arrive,” I tell her.

  “Okay, ma’am just stay right where you are.”

  “Okay,” I say. I can’t move anyway. I can’t force myself to look away. I can’t stop shaking. There wa
s a man in my apartment and he tried to kill me. It’s all I can think about, over and over. There was a man in my apartment. He got into my apartment. Someone sent him to kill me, but he didn’t. I killed a man. I can’t stop shaking and I can’t stop thinking about what I just had to do.

  The officers arrive. They take me down the hall. They ask me questions. More officers come. Mr. Guerra tells them what he heard. He asks if he can stay with me. They tell him he can. He tells them that they need to take me to the hospital. They won’t let him come with me though. He asks me if I want him to call anyone. I say no. I’ll handle it. I’ll handle it when I’m ready. I’m not ready to tell the girls. I’m not ready to tell Brooklyn. I’m the mom of the group. I know this. They know this. I have to take care of myself before I can take care of them.

  They take me to the hospital. I hate emergency rooms. I hate the expected chaos that no one even bothers to control. It’s summer. Summer in the city when the heat makes people do stupid, foolish things. There’s a child in the bed across from me. She’s staring at the ceiling holding her arm. Her mother won’t stop crying. And there was a homeless man in the bed next to me, bleeding from his face, and they had to move him. He wouldn’t stop screaming. I think he’s why the mother’s crying. Not the kid with the broken arm. The nurses seem to be annoyed with me because I’m in the least distress, because I’m so calm, but they don’t fucking know. I’m not calm. I just can’t talk. I can barely breathe.