Broken

Chapter One

by

Rebecca Zanetti

Clarence Wolfe strode up to the entrance of the super-secret sex club as if he had done so a million times before.

Down the street, partially hidden by the branches of a sweeping cherry tree, Dana Mulberry ducked lower in her car and pressed the binoculars to her face so hard they pinched her skin. What in the world was Wolfe doing at a Captive party?

She swallowed hard. Her heart rate, already thundering, galloped into the unhealthy range. It had taken her weeks to find out about the club and track down the location of the newest party, and yet another week to finagle an invitation to the casual play night as a guest. And there he was—the ex-soldier, the beyond-hunky badass who’d relegated her immediately to the friend zone—walking inside like he owned one of the coveted million-dollar memberships.

She shook her head. Twice.

When she focused once more through the binoculars, there Wolfe prowled, clear as day in the full moonlight. He had followed the rules for the night, too. Male doms were to wear leather pants and dark shirts, females any leather outfit, and subs were to wear corsets and small skirts if they were female, and knit shirts and light pants if they were male.

Apparently, Wolfe was a dom.

Figured.

She had assumed she’d chuckle at seeing guys in leather pants, but there was nothing funny about Wolfe’s long legs, powerful thighs, and tight butt in those pants. In fact, he looked even more dangerous than usual—and she would’ve bet that wasn’t possible.

Where in the heck had Wolfe found leather pants? Was he really some sort of dom who went to clubs? He didn’t even like people enough to spend time with anybody in a dungeon.

She giggled, the sound slightly hysterical, and cleared her throat. What now?

She looked down at her tight green corset and black skirt—shorter than she dared admit. At least it covered the still-healing knife marks on her upper thighs. She hadn’t told anybody about them—not even her doctor. The guy who’d cut her had been killed in jail, so why did it matter?

Forget the nightmares. They’ll go away soon.

Her more immediate problem was that Wolfe had just walked through the front door of the mansion hosting the latest Captive party.

The man she needed to find was inside. She’d spent too much time gearing up for this.

Would Wolfe blow her cover?

She’d been sitting in her car for an hour watching people arrive—or maybe gathering her courage. This was so far outside her experience. She hadn’t even known sex clubs existed until that movie came out about BDSM.

But her boss at the national newspaper, where she used to work, had once said she’d do anything for a story. He’d been right. Mostly.

Okay. She could do this.

In fact, why not look at Wolfe’s presence as a positive? He was unexpected backup. Yeah. That was the idea. Forget the fact that the sexiest man she’d ever met was in a sex club right now.

Good plan.

She slid from her car, tugging her skirt down as far as it would go—which wasn’t far. Her heels tottered on the uneven sidewalk as she clip-clopped along a high stone wall that probably protected another zillion-dollar mansion.

She crossed the street, head high, shivering in the chilly breeze as she knocked at the heavy door.

It opened immediately.

A man in full tuxedo greeted her. He was six feet tall, built like a linebacker, with curly blond hair. “Can I help you?”

There was no way anybody could get past this guy without permission.

She handed over her gold-foiled invitation.

He accepted the paper, holding up a small tablet to scroll through. “Ah. Miss Millerton. You answered the questionnaire and signed all the necessary documents.” His gaze sharpened. “A couple of quick questions.”

She forced a smile, feeling way too exposed. Hopefully, the questions weren’t about her cover ID.

“All right,” she said.

“What’s your safe word?”

“Red,” she answered instantly.

“Good. If you need help, who do you yell for?”

She paused, thinking back to the documents she’d read. “For anybody, but especially the dungeon monitors.”

“Good.” The man stepped aside, revealing a rather ordinary-looking vestibule with another wide door straight ahead. “Go ahead and have fun, sweetheart.”

Fun? Right.

She nodded and tottered across the dark marble. Somehow, he beat her to the door and opened it.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Music blasted from hidden speakers. In front of her, a palatial living room had been set up with a dance floor on one side and a full-length bar on the other.

Bar. Definitely bar.

She needed a drink.

A quick glance around the dim room, lit with deep purple spotlights, didn’t reveal Albert’s location—or Wolfe’s.

Good.

She made her way through the crowd, reaching the bar where a tall female bartender in a leather outfit leaned over, her full breasts spilling from a tight V-neck.

“What can I get you, hon?”

“Tequila. Shot,” Dana said.

Should she ask for a double? No.

The woman poured a generous shot and pushed it across the polished wood. “You a guest tonight?”

Dana tipped back the drink, sputtering a little as it burned down. “Yes.”

The bartender grinned, revealing a tongue piercing. “You new?”

“Yes,” Dana coughed.

“I’m Jennie,” the woman said, pouring another shot. “Mistress Jennie.”

Dana accepted the second shot, her hand shaking. “Thank you.”

“You bet. Just have some fun. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Playrooms are all over the house. If there’s a red sign on a door, you can just watch.”

Good to know.

Dana took the second shot, feeling the warmth rush through her body.

“Hello.”

A man appeared at her elbow. About fifty, he had shrewd eyes, an iron-hard body, leather pants, and a red leather vest.

“Hello. I’m Dana,” she said, forcing another smile.

“Charles.” He took her hand and held it longer than necessary. “You here to explore?”

Oh, crap.

“I’m easing my way in,” she said, trying for flirtation and failing.

“In fact, I’m looking for my friend Albert Nelson. Know him?”

Charles slid closer, his pupils dilated. “No. But I could make you forget him.”

He grasped her hand again.

“No, thanks,” she said firmly.

“Come on—” Charles started.

“She said no.”

Charles’s hand disappeared from hers as he was shoved toward the dance floor, barely catching himself before crashing into two dancers.

Dana looked up, heart pounding.

“Wolfe.”

Only training kept her face from blanching at the raw fury in Wolfe’s bourbon-colored eyes. He leaned in, lips brushing her ear.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

She shivered, anger rising to the surface. She planted her hands on her hips. “What are you doing here?”

His gaze swept her body—from her tight corset to her shaky heels—then locked on her face.

“Subs don’t use that tone, baby. One who does ends up over a knee. Quickly.”

She glared. “I am not a sub,” she hissed.

“You’re dressed like one.”

“There weren’t many options,” she snapped.

“Wolfe.” A man in leather approached, brown hair slicked back, tattoos down one arm. “You found a friend? Finally going to play?”

Wolfe didn’t look away from her. His face remained calm. Too calm.

“I’m not usually a public player,” he said.

What did that mean?

Before Dana could ask, Wolfe subtly shook his head.

The man smiled at her. “I’m Master Trentington. Want me to show you around?”

Dana tilted her head, trying to stay polite. “Actually, I was looking for Albert Nelson. Do you know him?”

Trentington reluctantly released her hand. “I do, but he’s not here tonight. I’d love to be your guide instead.”

“No,” Wolfe said sharply, positioning himself between her and Trentington.

He glanced over at Jennie. “Spare cuffs?”

Jennie grinned and tossed him a pair of pink, fur-lined wrist cuffs.

Wolfe snapped them on Dana’s wrists before she could react, clipping them together easily.

“They show ownership,” he murmured.

She tugged, but they wouldn’t separate. “Excuse me?”

“If you kick me, I’ll toss you over that bar and beat your ass.”

Her abdomen rolled at the threat, heat pooling between her legs. She shook her head to clear it.

“Are you on a job?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“Clarke Wellson. You know him?” she asked.

“No, but I’ll do a background check later.”

Wolfe smiled, surprising her. “You look incredible.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, uncomfortable.

“Okay, I’m going to mingle and ask questions. You?”

Wolfe’s smile turned dangerous. “I just cuffed you. No dom would allow a sub to mingle.”

“Uncuff me.”

“No.” He crossed his arms. “Last time you didn’t have backup, you almost died.”

She gritted her teeth. “You’re not in charge.”

“The cuffs say otherwise.”

She kicked him, hard, right in the shin.

He stiffened and swiftly lifted her, depositing her on the bar as a heavy thud sounded nearby.

A woman screamed.

Wolfe dropped her to her feet and shoved her behind him. She peeked around his arm just in time to see the dead man lying on the floor—a bullet hole in his forehead.

Her stomach lurched.

“That’s Albert,” she whispered.

Wolfe glanced back at her. “Well, shit. That’s Clarke, too.”

Sirens wailed in the distance. Wolfe grabbed her bound wrists.

“We have to get out of here. Now.”

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