The Drazen World: Subjugate (Kindle Worlds Novella) Read online

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  Table of Contents

  Subjugate | by Tara West

  thanks to...

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  Books by Tara West

  About Tara West

  Subjugate

  by Tara West

  I get a sexual high when I’m in complete control. The bonds help me breathe. I feel safer when my boyfriend, Dr. Brad Thorensen, is bound, but I’m not sure he’s willing to be kept in chains much longer.

  The cuts on my wrists are nothing compared to the scarring of my soul. Dark memories of a tragic event resurface and threaten to send me spiraling back into the pit of despair.

  Will Brad help loosen the chains around my heart, or will he sever the cord that binds us together?

  Ariana Delarosa Alvarado

  This is a continuation to Dominate, A Drazen Kindle World novella.

  thanks to...

  Special thanks to C.D. Reiss for the honor of asking me to write another Drazen World story. You truly are the Shakespeare of Smut.

  Ginelle, thanks so much for your honest feedback.

  To my editor, Theo Fenraven, thanks again for whipping my manuscript into submission with your red pen of shame.

  one

  My heart beat like a steel drum in my ears. I didn’t care that the springs from the dirty mattress dug into my back or metal restraints cut into my wrists. All I cared about was getting free. I turned my head when Reggie leaned over me, the whites of his wild eyes shining against his ebony skin, his stale breath mingling with the scent of my blood and piss. He pressed the blade into my neck while he loosened his belt. Did he think he could subjugate me into submission? Because I wasn’t fucking talking.

  “Fucking cunt!” He slapped me so hard, my world spun. “Tell me what you said to the cops, or I swear I’ll cut you.”

  “I didn’t tell them nothing,” I cried, my chest rising and falling with panic that turned my limbs to ice. “I swear it, Reggie. Please let me go!”

  “Don’t lie to me, Carmelita,” he growled, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he dragged the blade down to my breast. “You know what I do to whores who lie?”

  The metal headboard rattled while I fought against my restraints. When he cut the strap of my tank top, instinct took over, and I kneed him right in the junk.

  “Ooof,” he groaned, falling over on his side.

  “Help!” My blood-curdling scream rent the air like frosted glass shattering in the dead of night. “Someone please help!” I thrashed on the bed, screaming at the top of my lungs. I knew once Reggie got up, I was fucked.

  “Cut!” a woman yelled.

  Had someone heard me? Was I saved?

  “Ariana! Ariana, look at me.” A brassy blonde woman with smoky blue eyeshadow and lines around her drawn mouth glared down at me as she shook my shoulders. “Girl, get the fuck out of character.”

  I gaped at her for a long moment. I knew this woman. Johanna Johnson, the producer and acting director of a new television crime drama, LA Lights. What was she doing here? “What happened?”

  She jutted a manicured finger toward the bastard who’d just tried to cut me. “You kicked your costar in the groin.”

  My costar? I gaped at Reggie for a moment. No, wait. That wasn’t Reggie the pimp. That was Dwayne Livingston, the actor playing Reggie. Fuck.

  Someone uncuffed me, and I knelt over Dwayne, who was curled into the fetal position and alarmingly silent. “Dwayne? You okay?”

  “Uhhhh....” was all he could say.

  So not good.

  “I’m so sorry.” I smoothed a hand down his muscular back, and that’s when I noticed blood dripping from cuts on my wrists.

  Holy hell, was that real? My wrists stung like hell, so yeah, it was probably real. When did that happen? Damn, that was a lot of blood, and it just kept flowing. The room moved like the set was spinning in a centrifuge. I collapsed, looking up at set lights. Then my world darkened.

  two

  “Ariana, wake up.”

  I groaned, throwing a forearm across my eyes when light hit me like a bullet to the brain.

  “Go away.” I swatted the air, hoping to hit whoever was shining the light in my eyes.

  “Ariana.” The voice was stern but not harsh. Deep, but surprisingly soothing.

  One eye shot open, and I looked up at the tall doctor with wheat brown hair and eyes so blue, they rivaled the spring sky over a Texas prairie.

  “Brad?” I rasped.

  What was he doing here? Then again, what was I doing here? Brad was wearing in a lab coat, which meant we were either at a hospital or our kinky role-playing fantasy had ended up with me drinking myself under the table.

  “Where am I?” I asked, squinting. Didn’t that switch have a dimmer?

  He frowned, smoothing a hand across my brow. “At the hospital.”

  His touch sent shivers down my spine. We’d been dating almost a month, and he still had that effect on me. “What happened?”

  He crossed his arms, that thin lab coat stretching across a broad chest. “I don’t know. I can’t get a clear answer from your producer. You passed out, and they rushed you here in an ambulance.”

  “Oh,” I mouthed, unable to think of what else to say. I’d passed out at work? Weird.

  He grabbed my hand, holding it up for inspection. “Mind telling me why your wrists are slashed?”

  I gaped at the bandages circling my wrists. What the hell? And then, within a heartbeat, it all came flooding back.

  The air whooshed from my lungs as I gaped up at him, horrified by my own behavior. It was as if I’d let my character take over my mind. Method acting on steroids.

  “It was the handcuffs,” I said.

  His normally full lips pressed into a thin line. “Handcuffs?”

  “My pimp was trying to get me to talk. He didn’t know I was an undercover cop.” That was the gist of it anyway. I was playing the role of Lieutenant Isabella Garza, a detective turned undercover prostitute.

  He arched a thick brow. “Sounds intriguing, but are you sure those were handcuffs and not hacksaws?”

  “I’m sure.” I touched my bandaged wrist and winced. Ouch! “I didn’t realize I cut myself.”

  “You didn’t realize?”

  “I was in character, okay? Do you know if Dwayne’s okay?”

  “The guy playing your pimp?” Brad laughed. “Yeah. He said he didn’t want kids anyway.”

  “Oh, no.” I gasped, shooting up in bed. “Where is he?”

  “He went home.” Brad snickered. “I was joking. He’s fine.”

  A migraine somewhere in the back of my head shot to the front, its long tendrils lashing my brain like a thousand tiny whips. I sank against my pillow with a groan. “Please don’t joke with me, Brad. I don’t think I can handle it.” I hated that he’d reduced me to a whiny, pathetic puppy. I was used to playing the dominant one, not th
e other way around.

  He sat beside me, patting my leg while flashing that cornbread smile. “Do you want me to take you home?”

  “I’d love that,” I said. I thought about adding I might not be up for sex tonight, but I figured he already knew.

  What I wanted right now was my warm pajamas, a tall glass of wine, and some meaningless TV. Or maybe meaningless orgasms. Sex was supposed to be good for your health. But even as I closed my eyes and envisioned Brad tunneling into me, I couldn’t escape Bud Boudreau’s snarling face. How could I let that man continue to ruin my life? He was dead and gone, rotting in hell, no doubt, yet the rape still haunted me.

  Not rape, Ariana. Rapes.

  Shut up! I told myself.

  The first time was easier to acknowledge. The first time hadn’t been my fault. I’d done a good job of suppressing memories from the second incident until today. At first, I tried to rationalize that second incident away as if it hadn’t happened. It didn’t count since Clint got him off me. Why was I thinking of it now?

  three

  Even though I’d complained to my producer the show must go on, she insisted they weren’t shooting my scenes today. I worried the cast and crew were frightened of me. They were probably waiting until after the priest doused the set with holy water before I was allowed to come back.

  “It’s a good thing you got that tetanus shot last month,” Dr. Brad was saying to me as he changed my bandages and dabbed antiseptic on my wounds.

  The cuts didn’t look as bad as yesterday. That’s what I kept telling myself, but I knew they looked like a failed suicide attempt, like I’d tried to slash my wrists with a butter knife. I had to look away from the ugly reminder of my manic episode. I watched the curtains slapping the window as the creaky ceiling fan overhead spun in an unrhythmic vortex.

  Why had I tempted Bud Boudreau? I’d been so careful after the first time he raped me, never visiting the ranch unless I had a boyfriend in tow, much to my parents’ dismay. They had a thing against multiple facial piercings and tattoos, but last year, I’d gotten this burst of bravery. Stupid me thought after a few kickboxing classes, I could take Bud down. He did get taken down, but I did not come away unscathed, and neither did Clint, the ranch hand who’d walked in on Bud trying to mount me from behind. Clint gaped at us both and then kicked Bud right in the cajones.

  “Ariana, you need to see a therapist.”

  I stared blankly at Brad for several heartbeats. The ceiling fan continued to rattle above me, but my heart rattled louder, matching the erratic tempo of the fan. “I know,” I finally said, folding my hands in my lap and staring out the window.

  “You’re agreeing with me?”

  There was no mistaking his incredulity. Kudos to Brad for being brave enough to even recommend a therapist. Last time he’d said the “T” word, I’d kicked him out of my house. But he was right, damn him.

  “Savannah is seeing a therapist who’s helping her.” I let out a weary sigh, focusing on the grime beneath my fingernails. Or was that dried blood? Dear God. “I don’t know. Maybe I should give it a try.”

  He cupped my chin, gently brushing his lips across my forehead. “That’s my girl.”

  When his mouth hovered dangerously close to mine, I jerked away.

  “Ariana.” He frowned, looking as if I’d stuck him in the heart with a spear. “It’s me.”

  “I know.” I stared at my fingernails again. Yeah, that was blood. “I need a bit of breathing room, okay?”

  I didn’t want to kiss Brad, and I didn’t know why. What was wrong with me?

  He backed up a step, jamming his hands in the pockets of his khaki pants. “I’m worried about you.”

  “I’ll be fine.” No, I wouldn’t, but he didn’t need to know that.

  He took another step back. “You sure?”

  “Brad, you’re suffocating me.” I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. The fan spun with an awkward tilt, like one of those amusement park rides. I should probably take it down.

  He snatched used gauze and antiseptic off the nightstand, wadding them up in his fist. “You know where I am if you need me.”

  I knew, and I needed him. God, how I needed him. But my fucked up brain wouldn’t let me have him.

  Damn you, Bud Boudreau. I hope the devil is shoving a hot poker up your ass.

  four

  “You okay?” Johanna leaned against the doorframe leading to my dressing room, staring me down as if I was the teenage daughter she’d just caught sneaking back home through the bedroom window.

  “I’m fine,” I lied, playing with the rubber bracelets I wore to cover my cuts. “I wish everyone would quit asking.”

  I’d looked up Clint on Facebook, but his profile hadn’t been updated in months, and I couldn’t tell if he’d found a new job. After putting Bud in the hospital by kicking his scrotum into his bladder, he’d said he couldn’t work at the BB Ranch anymore. Something about how he couldn’t walk into that barn again without seeing images of me hog-tied by that monster.

  “Good, because we need to reshoot that scene.”

  I gaped at Johanna as if she’d sprouted dildos out of her ears. “Excuse me?” She had to be fucking kidding.

  “Ariana,” she said with a groan. “Your lines were all screwed up.”

  “They were?” But I’d been totally in character.

  Johanna held out her iPad. I saw myself thrashing on the bed. Fuck, I looked like that exorcist kid, fighting the priest’s holy water. I waited for my head to start spinning. Instead, I went totally off script. “Fuck you, Bud Boudreau!” I’d yelled, then my knee went up, and my costar went down.

  “Who’s Bud?” Johanna asked.

  “Nobody,” I lied. I did not want to shoot that scene again!

  She set the iPad on my dressing table, fixing me with her no bullshit stare. “Ariana, you can level with me.”

  “He’s a guy who raped me.” I shrugged, feigning indifference, as if my world wasn’t unraveling. “He’s dead. It doesn’t matter.”

  She knelt beside me, clasping my forearm, her voice dropping to a soothing whisper. “Clearly it still matters.”

  “I’ll get through this,” I said through clenched teeth. This was ridiculous. Why couldn’t she drop it?

  “You need to see a therapist.” It was a command.

  “I know,” I groaned, raking my hands through my hair and wishing I could pull it all out by the roots, or at the very least, punch someone.

  “Good, because I already scheduled you.” Johanna stood and handed me a crisp white business card with the words “professional and discreet” written across the top. “She’s my therapist.” Her eyes narrowed, and she gazed at me as if I was five years old, and I’d just shit my pantalones. “So be nice.”

  Hijo de puta. “When am I supposed to go?” I hated myself for sounding like a petulant child.

  “Now.”

  The word felt like a punch to the gut, bruising my insides and making me want to vomit. Therapy was like ripping open a raw wound without anesthesia. “But the scene.”

  “Can wait.” Her collagen-enhanced lips hitched up in a rueful smile. “You need to get this fixed before you make all our male cast members impotent.”

  five

  I walked into the shrink’s office, not knowing what to expect but not prepared for the smell, kind of an earthy mix of eggplant and mold. I spun a slow circle, eyeing window shelves lined with a variety of plants, from the prickly kind to the leafy ones, and even a plant that looked suspiciously similar to cannabis. This lady either had a degree in botany, or she was crunchy times ten.

  “Hi, Ariana. Won’t you have a seat?” The shrink sipped a cup of tea while leaning back in a bowl-shaped wicker chair that practically swallowed her whole. She was a middle-aged white lady with dreadlocks and a long broomstick skirt. Yeah, she was crunchy all right. She probably hadn’t shaved her armpits in years. I only hoped she didn’t uncross her legs, because it smelled bad enough in here. She saw my petr
ified, plastic, and perfumed producer? What on earth did these two have in common?

  I scowled at the patchwork sofa she pointed to before slowly lowering myself onto the edge of a faded cushion. I cleared my throat, turning up my nose. “Before we get started, I need to say something.”

  She chewed on the end of a pencil, eyeing me thoughtfully. “Okay.”

  “I’m a strong woman. I’m not like these Hollywood pansies.” I wasn’t one to cry over every chipped nail or uneven spray-on tan.

  “Duly noted.” She scribbled something in her spiral notebook. I imagined the words she’d written: raging bitch.

  “I’m only here because of a few incidents in my past.” I clutched my knees, trying to squeeze out the tension that had curled around my shoulders like an anaconda with an appetite. “Not because I’m crazy.” I briefly glanced at my rubber bracelets, gently adjusting them so they covered my cuts.

  “Of course you’re not crazy.” She flashed a smile, one that didn’t reveal her teeth.

  I immediately didn’t trust her. What was she hiding behind that thin layer of brown lip gloss? And what white girl painted her lips brown?

  “Don’t patronize me,” I spat. “You don’t know if I’m crazy. You’ve only just met me.”

  “All right.”

  Damn, was this bitch going to agree with everything I said? Ugh. Might as well get it over with, like ripping off a bandage. “I was raped by my best friend’s dad. I guess it’s had an impact on my personal life.” I let out a shaky breath and looked around the room, anywhere but at Dr. Crunchy Underwear.

  She scribbled something in her notebook. “Go on.”

  Why was she documenting this? What if I didn’t want it documented?

  “The first time, I didn’t see it coming.” My voice cracked, and I fought to steel my resolve. Rip off that damn bandage, Ariana. “The second time, I thought I was prepared, but I didn’t realize how strong he was, even though he was drunk.”

  It had all happened so fast. I’d kicked and missed. He’d spun me around and hog-tied me like he was roping a calf. My hands were bound, and my pants had been ripped off in under a minute. Before I knew it, I was facing the barn wall on my hands and knees, him straddling me from behind just like the last time. Only this time there’d been a big difference. Bud Boudreau couldn’t get it up. I’d thought it was the alcohol. Later I learned erectile dysfunction was a symptom of the advanced prostate cancer that had spread to his penis. So technically he didn’t rape me that second time, but he sure as hell violated me. If I was to count that second time as a rape, I’d call it a raping of my mind and soul.