Surrender to Fire: Maison Chronicles, Book 3

Dedication

This book was conceived during a wild week in New Orleans. Without the Nine Naughty Novelists, it wouldn’t have happened. I adore you all. Big thanks also go out to my editor, Noah—your edits were invaluable and your comments priceless! They made me laugh out loud while in polite company, which led to more than one situation of tap dancing around the exact content of said comment bubble.

To Kinsey, who believed in this story from the beginning and cheered me on when I needed it most. And finally, as always, to Ky.

Chapter One

Some days, Ben & Jerry were the only men Camille Verona needed. She scooped a spoonful of Cherry Garcia and shoved it in her mouth. Her wrists were so much lighter without her cuffs and though it wasn’t unwelcome, the change certainly added to her imbalance. Desperate for some kind of distraction, she flipped through her limited cable channels. Not that it would matter if she found something to watch; her vision was still blurry with tears. She sniffled, regretting that her stuffy nose dulled the taste of her ice cream.

With a frustrated flick of her wrist, Cam let the remote fly across the room. It hit the floor, on the empty spot that used to hold a recliner. Just last week as she’d scrubbed the apartment, she’d stared at it and rolled her eyes, wishing she could get rid of the thing. Another sniffle, another scoop of ice cream straight from the container.

And it was only Tuesday.

Cam plopped down the cold cardboard pint carton and spoon before wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her oversized LA Kings T-shirt. A familiar name sounded from the TV and caught her attention—
author Indigo Baumgardner
. She spun on the couch, swiping at her eyes so she could focus on the screen. Two
Midnight Entertainment
reporters (more like paparazzi) were following her literary client down the street. Like she was surfacing from a deep dive, their interrogatives filtered through to Cam’s ears.

“Ms. Baumgardner, is it true? Is your memoir plagiarized from your one-time lover?
Memoirs of a Dominatrix
has hit all the bestseller lists— Are you ashamed to have duped millions of readers?”

Cam’s heart stopped. Blood rushed to her head and she couldn’t hear anything, but Indigo’s one-finger salute was unmistakable. She spun to look for him, to share her shock, but came up empty. No recliner. No muddy boots by the door. No Master. Shawn, not Master. Not anymore.

The program flashed back to the studio, where the two anchors (more like professional gossipers) chatted about the allegations. Cam crawled across the freshly steam-cleaned carpet to the TV, even though no one was there to appreciate the motion. As she neared, she started making sense of the words.

“…say that her college sweetheart, one Angela Simmons, died in a car accident right after their breakup, two years before Indigo’s so-called memoir was contracted by the Finnick Literary Agency in Los Angeles.”

Oh. Fuck. She cringed—Angus Finnick was going to have an aneurism when he got wind of this. The company president was a kind-looking older Brit, but he had a temper that made even his seasoned employees duck and cover.

“Build Me Up Buttercup” rang from her purse across the room, the cheery tune grating on her nerves. As she dove for the cell, her landline began to shrill through her one-bedroom apartment.

“Hello?”

“Thank fuck you picked up,” Ian, her boss, rasped across the line. “We need to talk about Indigo—”

“I just saw
M.E
. Do you think it’s true?”

He sighed. Cam flopped onto her back, blood echoing through her ears now that the landline had stopped ringing. One breath later, it started again. Half listening to Ian, she fumbled on the end table next to her, found the base unit for the phone and flipped the volume to Mute.

“…can’t prove anything, not yet, but the lawyers are on it.”

She should be panicking. Yesterday, maybe she would have. If this had landed three hours ago while she was still in the office, she’d be in Meltdown City. Not after her evening, though. This shitstorm would have to get in line. From her spot next to the couch, she could just see the edge of the Ben & Jerry’s carton. She leaned up just enough to snag the container then returned to the carpet. After putting Ian on speakerphone so she could idly listen to his Chicken Little act, she dipped into the melting goodness.

“Cam, are you listening? I said Finnick texted. He wants us in his office at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow. We need to hash this out. Did you or did you not give this book due diligence before you bought it?”

As she licked the spoon clean, Cam thought back to her first acquisition as a junior literary agent. She’d pulled Indigo’s submission from the slush pile, fought with Ian until he let her contract it. No one, not even her, had expected it to be a wild success, but once the book bloggers picked up the memoir about the seedy underbelly of San Francisco’s kink scene and the good Midwestern girl who’d thrown herself into it, nothing could stop the momentum.

It had been the right book at the right time, with just the right audience picking it up to review before the release. Now it was a disaster heading straight for her career.

“Ian, you were involved in the project. We fact-checked. We knew the names were changed and, given the content, we knew there weren’t many people who would come forward and corroborate events. I can bring my files to the meeting in the morning.”

Silence. “Are you all right, Cam?”

A hysterical laugh bubbled from her lips. “You didn’t just ask me that.”

She could practically picture him pulling at his spiky, blonde-tipped hair. “You’re just awfully calm about this.”

A lingering drop of ice cream fell from the midair spoon and landed on her chin. Cam swiped at it then licked the smudge from her finger. “Crisis mode. It’ll sink in tomorrow, I’m sure.” Yeah, maybe if she could purge all this tension somehow, but it had been months—okay, years—since she’d had that happen.

“Okay, doll, whatever you say. I’ll keep fielding the calls from the top floor. You power down your phone, turn off the TV and ignore your emails. Try to get some sleep, please. I recommend two fingers of bourbon, but I’m old-fashioned that way.”

Tempting, but ice cream would do for now. It wasn’t like she could beg Mas—damn it, Shawn—for help. Though his brand of distraction, she now had to admit, hadn’t really done it for her, even if the benefit of having a spotless apartment wasn’t a hardship.

“Thanks, Ian. I’ll be in early tomorrow to get everything together before this meeting. Everything was done to the letter with this book. It was my first—I was more than meticulous. If that—” she bit her lip before letting the curse slip, then said, “—that
woman
did something shady, we’ll let her hang for it, but she won’t take us with her.”

“That’s the feisty Cam I’m used to hearing. Bring her to work with you tomorrow. ’Night!” He hung up without waiting for a reply, as usual.

She lay on the carpet until her ice cream melted, until
Midnight Entertainment
gave way to infomercials. Tears didn’t fall. No, she’d been trained too well for that. They piled in her chest and throat and behind her eyes. She considered grabbing her toothbrush and cleaning solution and scrubbing the bathroom tile, but it gleamed, just like the rest of the home.

At some point during the night, she dragged herself into her big, lonely bed to stare at the goodbye note sitting on his side of the bed.

I tried, but you’re just not a trainable sub. My services are required where they’ll actually do some good, with a slave eager to serve and please. As you can see, I’ve taken my things with me, as well as your collar and cuffs. You won’t be needing them.

He may as well have carved the words into her flesh. It was just what she’d suspected for months—submission, not quite her thing. When he gave her commands, she played along, hoping her disconnect was a phase. As usual, he’d seen through her. Torn aside the lies she’d told herself, though that truth didn’t mitigate the hurt.

Indigo’s fiasco had thrown a margarita on her wound, citrus and salt burning through open cuts. She’d have to treat the evening like any other with Shawn. Grin and bear it, internalize the ache in her back and knees until it ended, then say “Thank You, Master”, pretending the chores relieved her stress. They used to. They still did for him.

At least she was used to getting fucked after a good punishment. This night, she could get through, no problem.

Damien Winter’s new office had quite a view and though downtown LA was no New York, the weather really couldn’t be beat. Smirking at the cliché, Damien turned away from the panoramic window and concentrated on the work that covered his desk. While the news mumbled in the background, he sifted through files, trying to get his new workspace organized. Though he’d only been in this office a week, there weren’t too many loose ends, all thanks to the anal-retentive attention to detail of his partner, Evan Sommer.

For over a year they’d made joking wagers. The loser was supposed to leave New York, but since neither one had wanted to abandon their adopted city, the bets hadn’t been serious. Four months ago, everything had changed when Damien’s brother’s life collapsed like a shoddy building. Derek’s wife had left him and their infant daughter without a backward glance, and Damien had volunteered to take the Los Angeles office. It didn’t hurt that he’d just ended things with his most recent submissive.

On his desk sat a picture of Derek and his baby girl. Damien had been smitten from the moment he first held Cordelia. Even thinking of her, his chest ached with longing, but seeing the shit his brother was going through only reinforced his new no-relationship rule. And with his so-called “impossible standards”, he’d just have to continue living vicariously through Derek and Cordie. He’d just seen his family on Sunday, but already he couldn’t wait to spend time with them again. He’d underestimated how nice it was to live closer to them, and Sunday family gatherings had quickly become the highlight of his week, aside from teaching.

As he wrapped up in the office, anticipation shot through him. This Saturday he’d been booked at the Maison Domine lodge for a temperature-play demonstration. He ran through his lesson outline, his heartbeat kicking up as he thought about how the submissive’s skin would grow hot and cold, pinking under his ministrations. The mindfuck demos always held the biggest thrill for him: the audience more captivated, the sub less able to predict his movements, the tension building not from pain as much as from anticipatory fear.

What he wouldn’t give to be able to drag the sub offstage and lose himself in her after the demo, if only to cap off a cathartic evening. But she didn’t belong to him. He was only borrowing her for these lectures, thanks to an open-minded local Dom he and Evan had known for a few years.

And that arrangement suited him perfectly. The last thing he wanted right now was his own submissive, despite the visceral pleasure she might bring.

Needing to get his mind off the upcoming event, Damien grabbed the remote from the far corner of his desk and surfed through the TV channels until he landed on the news. He preferred New York news coverage—fewer celebrity fluff pieces—but the local station would do for a distraction. The traffic report hit the screen and he cringed. If he left now, it would take twice as long to get home. Though he wasn’t unhappy in LA, he did regret the loss of the New York subway system.

Traffic gave way to news and the pretty young anchor, wearing her most serious face, introduced what she called “the literary scandal of the decade”.

“Today the investigation into the allegations against memoir Dominatrix Indigo Baumgardner deepened. Sources say that the events depicted were entirely stolen from the experiences of her one-time lover, the late Angela Simmons.”

Damien’s stomach churned. He’d read—and enjoyed!—that book. Was this the year of lying women? First his ex, Natali, then his ex-sister-in-law, now the author of the year—all caught telling whoppers. He’d never been adept at prevarication, unlike his brother’s wife. But she’d had the collusion of her mother and best friend, all working to keep Derek in the dark. He wondered who’d hidden the truth about Indigo’s book. Her editor? Her agent?

He again looked at Cordelia’s picture, using his anger as a reminder of why a long-term relationship was a bad idea. No, he’d stick to teaching. At least that way he could siphon off some of his tension and need to dominate without messy entanglements.