Dark Horses: (Blood Brothers #5)

  Blood Brothers #5

  Manda Mellett

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Other Works by Manda Mellett

  Teaser: Slick Running

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Published 2017 by Trish Haill Associates

  Copyright © 2017 by Manda Mellett

  Edited by Elizabeth Wright

  Book and Cover Design by Lia Rees at Free Your Words

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  www.mandamellett.com

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-912288-00-7

  Prologue

  Two years ago

  “They say, if you save a life you’re forever responsible for the person whose life you saved.”

  My eyes close briefly in exasperation, letting out the words with a frustrated sigh. “I didn’t save her life.” A bonding session between brothers, as usual, rapidly evolves into a light-hearted argument.

  Nijad sits forward and points at our older brother Kadar, the emir of Amahad, “For once,” he grins, “I agree with him. You might not have literally saved her, but you watched over her while she was at risk.” Breaking off he shrugs. “Without you, she could have died.”

  “Hypothetical, and in this instance, wrong. It was just a precaution.”

  Kadar shakes his head. “Irrelevant, brother, the intention was there. I reiterate. If you save a life, you take on that responsibility.”

  “Utter rubbish. That particular quote has come from the movies, no culture will lay claim to it, not even ours.” As Arabs, we might have numerous sayings attributed to our heritage, but would certainly not own that one. “Just think about it. Any doctor, lifeguard, fireman… their lives would be ruined by the complication of looking after everyone they’ve saved. No one would ever apply for the job, let alone volunteer.”

  “Your only interest in her at that time was that of a medic?”

  I nod emphatically. “Yes.”

  “Bullshit, brother.”

  “You’re talking crap, Kadar.”

  As my younger brother chuckles, I direct my next comment to him, “For fuck’s sake, Ni. It was the only reasonable thing to do.”

  “You’re talking out of your arse again, brother. Something drew you. Whether or not you had any obligation to her, she owned you from that point on.”

  But while I shake my head in denial, I can’t stop myself reflecting on his words. Was that really the point where it all began?

  Chapter 1

  Jasim

  Feeling like bashing my head against the nearest available brick wall, and ascribing the ability to keep a tight rein on my temper to nothing other than my lifetime of diplomatic training, I only just stop myself rolling my eyes. When Bates pauses for breath, I take my opportunity to step in, trying to explain once again, this time using the simplest possible terms I can find.

  “Dungeon monitors…”

  Bates interrupts yet again, his hands waving dismissively. “Your club, Club Tiacapan, can afford to pay for monitors, hell, you’ve got six figure membership fees. Here, I can’t afford to pay for any more staff than I already do; security on the door and the bar staff. Sure, we’ve got one monitor, but there’s no money for any more.”

  I suppose I should be grateful Bates has approached me for advice having at last recognised that there have been too many accidents and incidents of abuse at his underground, and poorly, run BDSM club in Soho. Being the founder and now part-owner of one of the most exclusive clubs in the UK, with the reputation of being one of the most respected in the world among those serious about the lifestyle, I’m well qualified to give my opinion. But if all the man is going to do is raise excuses why he won’t act on my suggestion, what I’m doing here is a complete waste of effort on my part, if not on his. But for the sake of the unsuspecting who play in his club, I feel bound to stay.

  As he rattles on, telling me for a second—or is it third time?—all the reasons why it’s impossible for him to take on board my ideas, I allow myself a moment to enjoy the juvenile joke of what his name would be, were he to go by his full surname on the floor instead of the simpler Master B. There’s little reason to wonder why.

  “Bates,” I now use a voice I seem to have borrowed from my older brother, the emir of Amahad. The one he uses which makes the even the roughest desert sheikhs quake in their boots. It has the desired effect on the man I’d given up precious time to meet with tonight, and he at last stops his tirade. “We don’t pay our dungeon monitors. Those who have gained Master status at the club take their turn at overseeing the scenes and making sure all play is conducted in a safe environment. If, as we’ve already discussed, you added training and mentoring to the services you offer here, you’ll likely find the right kind of Dominants who’ll want to give something back and won’t expect a penny for it.”

  As Bates goes to answer, probably to refute my suggestion—the man has already told me he wants to improve the reputation of his club while rejecting every single proposal I’ve so far offered—there’s a knock on his office door. The club owner seems almost relieved at the interruption, and eagerly calls out permission for whoever it is to come in.

  The bouncer, who appears to be Bates’ sole member of security, enters. He shuffles a little as though embarrassed. “Sorry to burst in like this, boss, but there’s a woman downstairs and I don’t know what to do with her.” He’s a big man, about my height, standing at least six-foot three and heavily built. On the surface, it looks like they’d be few people who would cause him any problem.

  Bates frowns. “A member? Someone looking to join?”

  “No, nothing like that. It’s a girl.” As he wipes his hand over his sweaty face, I notice he seems frazzled. “She’s been mugged and assaulted in the alleyway between this building and the one next door.” Still appearing flustered he continues, “She’s injured, but refuses an ambulance, doesn’t want the police called, and is afraid to leave in case her assailant’s still out there. She managed to get away, but he took her handbag.” He looks down and then back up, “I offered to get her a taxi, but her purse must have been in her bag and she’s got no money.”

  Both Bates and I rise to our feet. Whatever the deficiencies of his club, both he and I are Dominants, and the idea of a woman atta
cked and hurt calls to our overriding protective instincts.

  “How badly is she injured?” My background in medicine spurs me to ask.

  The bouncer shakes his head. “She’s obviously taken a nasty blow to the head, but beyond that she won’t say. Look, I’m sorry to disturb you, Master B. I know you’re in an important meeting, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Is she able to manage the stairs?” As the bouncer indicates he thinks she can, I turn to Bates, “Bring her up here, I was a medic in the army, I can take a look at her, see whether we should insist she goes to hospital or not. Unless, of course, you’d prefer your own first-aider to examine her?”

  The club owner’s brow creases, which makes me wonder whether he’s even got a member of staff with that qualification, then consider he’s probably realising it’s not good advertising to have someone bleeding in the club’s reception. My thoughts are confirmed as he decides and instructs, “Yeah, that’s the best idea. Bring her up discreetly, Al. Jasim, it would be useful if you could check her out. Thank you.”

  As Al disappears on his errand, the owner of Tops and Tailends turns to me and shrugs, “I doubt you have these problems. Being on a busy street leaves us open to all sorts wandering in. We’ve had to boot away many a drunk before now. In your location you won’t have so much foot traffic passing by.”

  No, we certainly don’t. Never. Club Tiacapan is situated in a secluded mansion on the outskirts of Hampstead Heath to the south of London. The two organisations couldn’t be further apart either in locale or clientele. As I think about the differences, I ask myself again whether I’ve wasted my time coming here tonight. My instincts suggest nothing I’ve said will be acted on. If I’m wrong and changes will be put into place, that’s all to the good, keeping BDSM play safe is a goal I’m happy to help achieve. But if Bates has just been going through the motions, considering improvements his members have asked for without any intention to follow through, there’s a lot of more appealing activities I could have been taking part in this evening.

  My fingers tap on the table in front of me as I study the man I’d come to meet, and then my attention is drawn to the door as it opens for the second time.

  It only takes a split second before I’m on my feet, my hands going out automatically to steady the girl who’s entering. Fuck, she’s young, she barely looks in her twenties. She’s got almost jet-black hair, reaching down to her waist, a lithe figure, not overly endowed, and a clear complexion that’s marred by blood running down the side of her face from a nasty gash on her forehead. Her eyes are wide and staring, and she’s shaking like a leaf.

  Pushing gently on her shoulder to encourage her to sit on the chair I’d just vacated, I notice Al’s carrying something in his hand. Recognising what he’s holding, I nod my appreciation at his foresight in bringing up a first aid kit with him. “Thanks.”

  Now I turn my attention to the girl, who’s clearly in shock. Her body is trembling and her face is very pale. “Water?” I suggest to Bates.

  “Does she want anything stronger?” He seems eager to help.

  “Not until we know what we’re dealing with.” I crouch down in front of her, bringing myself to her height so I don’t scare her any more than she already is, and slowly reach out my hand. I wait for her eyes to meet mine, then, using as gentle a voice as I can, speak to her. “I’d like to look at your wound. Clean it up and see how bad it is. Is that alright?”

  Taking her small dip of her head as permission, my fingers touch her chin, and gently I turn her head. As I look at the blood coming from her temple, relieved to see it’s no longer flowing freely, I suspect that it’s not as deep as I first feared. Still, I’ve got to check whether it needs stitches. Opening the first aid box, I’m pleased to find it well stocked and that antiseptic wipes are to hand.

  “This might sting,” I tell her, as I open the pack, “Are you sure you don’t want to go to A & E? I’ve got my car here…”

  There’s a flare of something unreadable in her eyes as she replies adamantly. “No.” Then she remembers her manners, “But thank you for helping me.”

  “No worries, sweetheart. I was a medic in the army, so qualified to provide first aid treatment at least.” I talk partly to reassure her as I start to clean the wound. “Can you tell me what happened?” She winces, the cut smarting as I touch it. “Sorry.”

  “I’ll call the police.”

  “No.” Throwing a horrified glance toward Bates, she tries to justify her refusal to involve the authorities. “He’ll be long gone now, and it was too dark to see anything of him. Please, I don’t want to go spend half the night at the station when I’ve got no answers to anything they’d ask.”

  She’s seems so determined, and really, if she can’t give a description, what could they do? But it does seem odd she doesn’t want to report what happened. Who is she? And why doesn’t she want to seek proper help?

  “I’ll get that water.”

  As Bates disappears on his errand, I take the opportunity to study her. She’s on edge, her fight response absent, and if I’m any judge of character, an insistence on dialling nine nine nine would have her running. Although inside I’m seething that anyone could even think of hurting a tiny slip of a girl like her, I force calm into my voice, “Okay, no police. But, sweetheart, to treat you properly, and make sure you haven’t any serious injuries, I need to know what he did to you. Tell me what happened, and we’ll take it from there. If I’m satisfied I’ll be able to treat you here, we won’t need to be making any phone calls.”

  Her eyes flick to mine, and another small dip of her head shows she agrees with my bargain. In part, as well as needing to hear her story, I’m hoping that talking will help take her mind off the pain I’m undoubtedly causing, however soft my touch. While I continue to gently wipe away the blood, she commences to tell me her story.

  “I was out for the night with some girlfriends, it was supposed to be girls’ night out, but I’m sure you know what those can be like. Good intentions and all that.” She attempts a sheepish grin, “It wasn’t long before our joking and laughing attracted attention. Some blokes sitting near us bought us a few shots. They were nice enough, and well, my friends, they sort of hooked up with these guys, and decided to go on to a club. I didn’t fancy it. I wasn’t feeling in the mood to make it a late one. I decided to go home.”

  “Go on,” I encourage, as she breaks off, her face tightening again as she remembers.

  “I was heading for the tube, walking along the road outside this place. I could already see the illuminated Underground sign, when suddenly I was pulled into an alley.” She pauses, and swallows as she forces herself to relive her ordeal. “It was so unexpected I didn’t react at first. A man grabbed my bag off my shoulder—and I couldn’t hold onto it. I was angry, thinking he’d got what he wanted and was going to run off. Stupidly, it crossed my mind that in my heels I’d never catch him.” Another moment of silence, and she bites her lip. Her voice starts to shake, “But that wasn’t all he wanted.” She gives a full body shiver. “He pulled me further back into the alley, his hand was over my mouth and he seized hold of my coat like he wanted to tear it off.”

  As she stops talking, I’ve cleaned all the blood. I’m happy she doesn’t need stitches, and a couple of butterfly plasters will keep it closed. But what worries me most is the enormous bump on her head. She must have clouted hard for it to have come up like that. “Tell me the rest, sweetheart,” I encourage, needing to know exactly what happened so I know what to do next, my rage almost like a wild beast I’m having difficulty keeping contained.

  “I elbowed him, hard, as hard as I could, but it wasn’t enough to do anything except make him angry. He pushed me hard against the wall, and that’s when this happened.” To show me what she means, she starts raising her hand toward her forehead. I catch it in mid-air, to stop her hurting herself, noticing how cold her fingers are.

  “Did you pass out, sweetheart?”

  “I
don’t know, I was stunned. If I did, it could only have been for a second or two. He,” her voice starts to break, “He pulled me up, and I think he was going to, to… rape me.”

  I’m sure that had been his intention, but I don’t think he did. She’d be far less coherent had he gone all the way. But it had gone far enough to badly shake her up. Pulling back, I stare into her eyes, set deep in her face making them seem large, although tears now make them glisten. Her makeup, carefully applied for a night on the town, emphasises and draws my attention to the dark orbs. My main reason is to check the dilation of her pupils, but I can’t ignore the fact that they’re almost the same dark brown/black of my own and have visible flecks of gold and a reddish tinge toward the centre.

  Beautiful eyes which roll as she answers my unspoken question, “But he didn’t, of course,” there’s a touch of spirit in her voice which was missing before, “I’d be a complete mess if he’d done that.”

  I note the deserved pride now she’s remembering how she’d fought her assailant off. “How did you escape him?”

  “Luck.” She shivers, “pure luck. My coat was undone. As he pulled it, I slipped my arms out. And ran. Luckily someone was coming in this… club?” I realise she doesn’t know where she’d walked into and in the circumstances, don’t think it’s right to enlighten her as to exactly what type of establishment this is, so I nod to confirm it this indeed a club, though I very much doubt it’s the type her friends were planning on visiting tonight. “Well, I tailed him and followed him through. The bouncer wasn’t impressed, and I think I’d have been chucked straight back out, had it not been for this.” She points to where the blood had been on her face, now all cleared away, and the cut neatly fixed up with steri-strips.

  “What’s your name?” I ask, realising I’ve been remiss in not asking before.

  “Janna. Janna Stevens.” She says it in a way she’s hopeful I might have heard of her, but the name means nothing to me. Only a slight disappointment shows on her face, so if she’s any kind of celebrity, she must be a small one. An actress, perhaps? A small role in one of the soaps I don’t watch? It’s impossible to say.