Sweet: A Dark Love Story by Kit Tunstall, R.E. Saxton

to have a crush on him. She had little else in her life, though Clay and Claire had already been part of her world at that point, and she had been living with them. Declan had always left her feeling confused and a little breathless, and when she had spent so much time learning about him and fixating on him, thinking about his suffering and crying sometimes at night alone in her bed as she imagined he was doing the same, it was only natural for an impressionable teenage girl to develop a star-crossed crush.
    But she had outgrown it, and so it meant nothing. Why was she even thinking about this?
    That question had an obvious answer. She was thinking about it because her butt was still sore from where he had spanked her with the flogger, and she ached deep inside her core from his possession earlier in the day and this evening. The man she had once crushed on could now crush her at a whim. Of course she was thinking about him and ruminating about everything she knew, searching for weakness or a way out.
    Feeling better about the situation after that epiphany, she crawled under the covers, not bothering with nightwear. Her body was achy and out of sorts, and the idea of slipping on clothes was intolerable.
    Even the soft Egyptian cotton sheets against her skin felt unbearably rough as she laid in bed and curled into a ball, doing her best to shut down her brain and focus strictly on sleeping. Perhaps it was a cowardly escape, but it was the only out available to her, and if she dwelled on her circumstances any longer, she would turn into a blubbering mess, which would serve no useful purpose and would certainly do nothing to liberate her from Declan’s captivity.

Chapter Five
    Declan flinched when the bookcase squeaked slightly, but heard no sounds of her stirring. After a moment, he pushed it open the rest of the way and slipped from the narrow passageway. There was a passage to every room, all accessible from the master suite. It had been a feature included in the house, which he had purchased from an eccentric old man who had claimed he’d kept his mistresses in each room, all living harmoniously with each other on his private island.
    Considering he had been withered by cancer and on the verge of dying when Declan had made his acquaintance to purchase the property, he would have to take the old man’s word for it. Something in Reginald’s eyes had convinced him the stories weren’t just silly boastfulness. At the time, he’d had no plans to turn the island into anything remotely approaching his own personal harem.
    He’d simply needed a place to escape from the world and grieve his losses in peace. There was no peace for someone who lived in the public eye, and though his moderate fame had been due more to his business acumen, Hilary’s active involvement in charities had ensured both he and she were well-known faces among the elite.
    Her sensational murder at the hands of Joseph Evans had catapulted him into a realm of infamy of which he wished he had remained blissfully unaware. How he had hated the unceasing scrutiny, the false sympathy, and the hint of avarice in prying eyes as the people surrounding him poked greedily for information or picked through his exposed emotions, as though they were prizes to be gathered and stolen away, rather than real, raw, human suffering.
    The island had become his sanctuary, and had also become the place where he had formed his plan to get revenge and fill the gaping hole left in his life after the loss of Hilary and Cordelia. Had he ever questioned the rightness of his plans before? Had he ever considered that perhaps he was directing his anger toward the wrong person? They were unsettling questions, and he regarded them as he stood over her, watching Kat sleep. The wrinkles in the bed linens indicated she had tossed and turned, but she appeared to be in a deep sleep now.
    He stood over her as a silent sentinel, wondering why he felt so protective, and just who he thought he was