Second Chances (Blood Brothers #3) Read online

  Blood Brothers #3

  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

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  The Blood Brothers Series

  Teaser: Turning Wheels

  Teaser: Identity Crisis

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Published 2016 by Trish Haill Associates

  Copyright © 2016 by Manda Mellett

  Editing by Kate Marope at The Ribbon Marker Editorial Services

  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.

  Prologue

  I’m no stranger to fear. Real fear.

  It’s not that delicious fear that comes when watching a horror film, hiding your face in your hands while silently screaming for the heroine not to open that door. It’s not that vague feeling of unease when you hear an unexplained creak in the house. It’s that bone-deep fear when you’re anticipating something dreadful to happen, and there’s nothing, absolutely-fucking-nothing you can do to stop it, no way to escape the consequences of your actions. Like standing in front of an avalanche rushing down the hill knowing there is no chance of getting out of its path. Inevitable and unavoidable.

  Deep-seated fear is my constant companion. No waking breath can be taken without it. No word uttered or action performed without my heart beating too fast, my palms sweating, and involuntary shivers trembling through my limbs in case I say or do the wrong thing. Fear haunts my dreams every night as I lie sleepless beside him. Each day the fear grows worse, knowing the time might be close where he goes too far and kills me. The possibility increases exponentially with the slightest thing I do that he could perceive as wrong. No, I’m no stranger to fear.

  It didn’t start out that way, of course. The man I met and got involved with was a gentleman in every sense of the word—handsome, kind, caring, and rich. But then he began to change, and slowly, oh so slowly, his true colours began to emerge. It took me a while to notice, and even longer before I admitted the abuse; in the beginning making excuses for his actions and blaming myself. Then, as the situation deteriorated, my sense of self-preservation told me I had to get out. But by the time I’d come to that decision, the noose had already tightened around me, strangling me as it held me captive, caught in his trap; his own personal plaything and punching bag.

  Most people would find it difficult to understand the hold this man has over me and just how hard it is for me to break free. Until they hear his name. Then they understand. Ethan St John-Davies. One of the richest, most powerful and influential men in the UK.

  Chapter 1

  Zoe

  Having a tyre blowout is frightening enough; the sudden lurching of the car, the loud bang making me jump, then the glance in the review mirror showing me rubber flying out behind. And all the while, I desperately fight the car’s natural inclination to pull to the offside, struggling to persuade it onto the safety of the hard shoulder, hopefully without hitting another vehicle or causing a major accident.

  But that’s not the reason why, only seconds later when the implications of what’s happened hit me, I sit with my head resting against the steering wheel, violently shaking. I’m going to be late!

  I’ve suffered the repercussions for not being on time before; what he called my ‘correction’. Shit! Let’s call it what it is: good old-fashioned abuse. Last time I was lucky to escape with a blow to my stomach and right kidney, followed by a brutal kick to my ribs. Lateness, for whatever reason, is a punishable crime in Ethan’s world.

  Practicing deep breathing, trying to calm my nerves using techniques I’m so well versed in—a daily exercise to suppress my anxiety—I start to wonder whether it would be better just to sit here and let fate fall as it will. A person’s life expectancy is apparently only an average of forty minutes if you stay in your vehicle when broken down on a motorway. Will I be crushed by a heavy goods vehicle before he comes for me? He could find out exactly where I am; he has the ability to track my every move if he so wants. Every second of every frigging day.

  For just a moment it’s tempting to wait in the car and take my chances, but despite the months of living in hell, I’ve still got higher expectations for my life than ending it splattered over the highway. So, pulling myself together, I grab my phone and step out. Then, multi-tasking while climbing over the safety barrier, I look up the contact for the AA. Changing a wheel is, I have to confess, beyond me, and even if I knew what to do, my hands are nowhere near steady enough to turn a nut. I can only hope the road recovery experts will be quick to help.

  I select the right number, and am ready to dial when a truck pulls up behind my car, and a chap gets out. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with his vehicle, making it obvious he’s stopped close by me on purpose. Immediately I feel uneasy—I don’t know him from Adam. I’m a woman on my own, easy prey for someone with suspect motives. Then, as I realise no one could do worse to me than Ethan’s already done, my fear of the stranger begins to recede.

  I stare at him curiously as he walks purposefully towards me. He’s not the type of man Ethan would send, definitely not. No, this man is well below his station. He’s wearing dirty and well-used navy overalls open to the waist and shrugged down around his hips, and a once-white T-shirt covers his chest. He looks tough and rough, but even so, as he stomps towards me, any worry about the legitimacy of the reason why he’s stopped disappears when I catch the concerned expression on his face, and hear his opening words uttered once he’s within earshot. His clear worry for my safety dispelling any lingering fears.

  When I’m able to hear him over the noise of the traffic racing past, he assures me he means me no harm. “Hey, sweetie, need help? That’s your rubber all over the road, isn’t it? Want me to change your wheel?”

  He might be my knight in shining armour, but things aren’t as simple as that. What is the right course of action? There would, of course, be consequences to a wrong decision. Or the right one for that matter, depending on Ethan’s mood tonight. Glancing suspiciously up at the traffic camera just a hundred metr
es further up the road, I can’t forget it’s relaying and recording everything I do. It’s all too easy for Ethan to get access to such systems; it’s even possible he has someone watching me at this very moment. But whether someone’s monitoring it in real time, or will call up the video to examine it later, the end result is the same. Ethan would be able to discover whatever decision I make.

  Although it is kind of a stranger to stop and offer assistance, the right action is not to accept, and definitely not to include him in any escape plan. Oh no, I’ve already learned in the worst possible way how brutal Ethan can be if I involve anyone else.

  So, staying dumb of my greater plight, I just wave my phone at him declining his offer of assistance. “Just calling the AA now,” I explain, “Thanks for stopping, though.”

  He looks surprised that I’d refuse his aid, and then, misinterpreting my anxiety, he holds out his hands in a gesture of reassurance open and facing up as if to show he’s no threat. “Hey, love. I just stopped because it looked like you were in a spot of bother.” He walks over to the car and checks the rim of the now tyre-less wheel, then glances up. “The AA will probably take an hour or more at this time of day,” he scoffs, “If it’s just the tyre and you’ve got a spare I can have you on your way again in a few minutes?” His voice rises at the end of the sentence, so I know it’s a question.

  Staring at him, I’m amazed a complete stranger would bother to fix an unknown person’s car; I’d almost forgotten there can be kindness in the world. But then his words sink through the fog in my brain, and I realise he’s offering me the chance to get back on the move again. If he can change the tyre quickly, maybe I won’t be too late home—and maybe the outcome won’t be as bad as I fear. Perhaps Ethan wouldn’t bother to check the camera feed if I get home on time? Quickly I make a decision. Nodding at him, I manage to summon up a smile, the expression feeling strange on my face, “Thank you. That would be fantastic.”

  Taking the keys from my outstretched hand, he locates the spare fast; it’s only a space saver which will slow me down, but at least I’ll soon be on my way again. As I hover behind him I begin to shiver in the cold winter air, my hands wringing and twisting together. I bite my tongue to curb any words to hurry him along as I can see he’s working as fast as he can. He wastes no time swapping the wheels over, rolling the one with the shredded tyre across to show me. “Reckon you hit a nail or tack, love. Just bad luck.”

  Bad frigging luck. You’ve got it, mate.

  “You alright? You look a bit shaky. It can be a shock.” He’s staring at me, his face kind, open with concern. “You gonna be okay to drive?”

  Yes, I’m in shock. I’m trembling, but can’t find the words to explain to this helpful man that the best way to alleviate my fear is to get back on my way as fast as I can. Putting as much confidence in my voice as I summon up, I reassure him I’ll be fine. From his expression, he doesn’t believe me, but I turn away before he can say anything else, throwing a quick ‘thank you’ over my shoulder. Digging around in the passenger footwell, I locate my handbag from where it fell on the floor during my mad swerve to get the car off the carriageway. Extracting my purse, I offer to pay him.

  He laughs, waving his hands in refusal, pushing away the notes I’m holding. “Just happy to help a beautiful woman.” He smirks as he throws the compliment out, but there’s no malice or threat in his face. Reaching into the pocket of his overalls he pulls out a card, “Name’s Josh, sweetie. Give me a call if you ever get stuck again.”

  Glancing down, I see he’s a mechanic from the local garage. Pocketing the card without thinking, and thanking him profusely once again, I take back my keys and go to my car. A flash from his headlights shows he’s waiting until I get moving, and then I see him following at a safe distance as I increase my speed along the hard shoulder until I’m going fast enough to slide out into a welcome gap in the rush hour traffic. A minute later, looking in my rearview mirror, I see he’s also successfully navigated the almost constant stream of cars. By this time my saviour’s a few vehicles behind.

  Flicking my eyes to the dashboard clock, with no further problems I calculate I’ll only be a quarter of an hour late; perhaps Ethan will overlook it. It’s not like I don’t have a good excuse. Allowing myself to relax a little, my eyes dart back to the road as a van speeds past, hoots, and the driver waves. I’m pootling along at fifty on the spare, and he’s got his foot down. I even manage a smile as I recognise Josh, and give a quick wave as my Good Samaritan disappears, merging with the vehicles in the fast lane.

  But my optimism soon fades. It doesn’t take long for me to realise that I’d underestimated how quickly the rush hour traffic would build up. Nor had I made any allowance that the dark clouds, which had been threatening all afternoon, would unleash heavy sleet and hail; apparently providing more than sufficient reason to cause the whole motorway to come almost to a complete standstill.

  By the time I pull up outside the large ornate gates and impatiently wait for them to slide open, I’m nearly an hour late. With a sinking feeling of dread, I make my way slowly along the sweeping drive leading to the front of the mansion, taking care not to kick any gravel up onto the manicured grass either side. In the mirror, I see the gates automatically close behind me, locking me inside my prison as securely as any high-security detention centre. My apparent freedom this afternoon was an illusion, a taste of normality solely to mock me. The GPS tracker in my car, Ethan’s illegal, but unlimited access to CCTV footage, together with the not unlikely possibility he could have had someone following me, curtails any thought of escape.

  Like it had flashed through my mind briefly when the mechanic, Josh, had come to my aid, I’d also had the fleeting thought of confiding my plight to the dentist I’d been to see today. But I have already learned my lesson of what happens to innocent people if I try to enlist their help. Ethan made sure I only needed one example of that. He allows me a modicum of normality, permitting me occasionally to go off the estate, but it’s only one more way to toy with me, allowing me a brief glimpse of the life I’m missing. That I was allowed out at all is a privilege. That I’m home late will be something for which I’ll have to pay.

  I park, switch off the engine, then remain in the car for a second trying to compose myself, erasing any trace of guilt that could appear on my face. It’s not my fault I’m late, but if I look like I need to shoulder any blame, Ethan will jump on that weakness immediately.

  Suddenly the driver’s door is pulled open. I look up into my tormenter’s face.

  “You’re late.” His tone is emotionless.

  Eighteen months ago

  “Hey, girlfriend!” As I pulled Sophie in for a hug and a kiss,she turned her head and accidentally ended up giving me a smacker on the lips.

  “Hi yourself, babes!” The grin almost split her face in two, as I slapped her lightly on the arm.

  “Carry on like that they’re going to think we’re a couple of lessies.”

  She immediately pulled away, glancing around as if evaluating the quality of the males in the pub. She’s like that, always looking for her next conquest. I barked a laugh at her, and together we went to the bar and ordered a round of drinks. While waiting to be served she started regaling me with all she’d been up to, and didn’t stop talking, except to nod briefly at the bartender and give her choice of vodka and coke. By the time, we were sitting at a table in the corner where we could gossip to our hearts’ delight my mouth had already fallen open.

  “Both of them? Together?” As she smirked her confirmation, I found myself wondering exactly what goes where in such a situation. I was far less worldly than my friend, whose primary goal in life seemed to be collecting as many and varied sexual experiences as she was able to. But this particular story had rendered me speechless.

  Now it was her turn to give me a slight rap on the hand to get my attention. “So what’s up with you, bitch? ‘Bout time you got laid, isn’t it? How long’s it been now?”

 
Sophie and I had a long friendship going back to our Uni days when we shared a flat together. Living a fair distance apart, our contact nowadays was limited to these Friday girls’ nights out which tended to follow the same pattern. Each time we met, she would entertain me with her long list of conquests while I sat back and listened. Not that I didn’t enjoy living vicariously through her experiences, it’s just that occasionally I’d have liked to have some of my own stories to reciprocate. And she’s right; it had been an awfully long time since my last sexual encounter with anything that wasn’t battery operated, and even that, like the others before it, hadn’t been anything to write home about.

  I had nothing to compare with Sophie’s adventures. Oh, I’d had a few intimate liaisons sure, but had never seen much point in it myself; a few fumbles, then he, whoever it was, did the deed and left me cleaning myself up, waiting for him to leave so I could have a session with my trusty vibrator. Okay, the first time was understandable, with both of us virgins and neither having a clue what to do; the whole rather unfulfilling and embarrassing, and, in his words, messy event, saw us amicably agreeing to part ways just a short time later. But, as years passed and after several more tries with various partners, which always left me feeling similarly unsatisfied, I was not overly fussed to repeat the experience. Hence my envy of the way Soph appeared to put it all out there, and the enjoyment she got from doing the dirty deed.

  But needing to contribute something to the conversation, I took advantage, when she paused for breath, and just dropped it in there, my voice animated, “Guess who I’m working for?” Watching her shrug, as obviously it was impossible for her to answer without me explaining, I continued excitedly, “Ethan bloody St John-Davies!”

  “What? He’s like one of the richest men in the country, Zoe!” After a quick flash of her eyes letting me see I’d caught her interest, she grabbed her phone out of her bag. “Go on, tell me more.” She gazed intently at the screen, fingers of one hand flying over the keys, but waving her other to show she was still listening.