Chapter one
Lance
“Please, sir. I want some more.”
Trussed up in black leather, shackled in chrome, my wife begs to be punished. The whip cracks—a vicious snap that slices the air. Her answering moan makes my stomach churn.
This isn’t foreplay. It’s a punch to the gut I never saw coming. A knife to the heart, I don’t deserve.
Her tongue darts between pink lips, hungry for the next hit. It burns. I know that look, but I never thought I’d see it aimed at someone else.
“You want some of this, wench?” he growls.
I stop breathing. My body locks to the spot.
Hamish Campbell, my oldest friend, strolls to the bed and lifts the blindfold from her eyes. He leans forward, planting a soft kiss on her lips. The air crackles with sex, of what’s been done and what’s to come.
Then he raises the whip and cracks it hard across her stomach. She squeals. Grins. And opens her knees wider. Her hips rise from the bed, and he presses his free palm on her stomach, securing her to the white silk.
Eight months away from home.
Eight months desperate for her to be back in my arms.
Eight months of dreaming of our reunion.
But this is the last scenario I imagined on my return from war—bearing witness to a porno starring my wife.
“Hell... you turn me on, baby,” she purrs. “I can’t believe our months of freedom are up already.”
Freedom.The word slams straight through my ribs.
Her face turns sad and forlorn. The expression flickers, not from guilt or shame, but disappointment. My homecoming is not the celebration for her that it is for me; it’s an interruption to her fun.
A floorboard creaks under my boots as I turn to leave. Ainsley’s head whips toward the door, and our eyes lock through the crack.
“Lance? Shit. Lance. What are you doing here?”
Panic takes hold. She thrashes at the cuffs, desperately trying to free herself. Hamish scrambles to pull on random bits of clothing without looking at me. A gazelle avoiding a lion’s gaze.
“Bloody hell, Hamish. Untie me,” Ainsley screams from the bed, her eyes frantic.
I look from my wife to her lover and back again. She’s distraught. Good, let her feel a fraction of what’s tearing through me.
I don’t shout.
I’ve lived through worse.
But the raw cut through my heart bleeds heavy, every hope I had of coming home fading with it.
“Get dressed. Both of you. I’ll meet you downstairs,” I snarl, walking away before the rage eating me alive wins.
Downstairs, my hands shake as I pour myself a glass of whisky. A big one.
The glass rattles against the oak table my mother gifted us for our wedding. There was no way we could have afforded it ourselves. It’s far too big for the house.
Why we needed such a large table, I’ve never understood. But it was the one Ainsley wanted, so I didn’t argue. Looking around now, I see the truth. This house, our life…it was always built for her. Never for us. My wife bulldozed her way through our world, laying the path as she wanted it.
Needing something stronger, I rummage through the cupboards. My whisky collection is obliterated. Of course, the bastard drank it. Why wouldn’t he? He’s helped himself to everything else. Bastard.