Enthralled: Bound, #1

By Calla Morte

Is this love, or an illusion? Amethyst Mackenzie is living a charmed life on California's beaches when her carefree existence comes to an abrupt end. The culprit: enigmatic, commanding Chase Bradford. She's utterly unable to resist him...but he's the coldest, most arrogant man she's ever met, and he scares her nearly as much as he excites her. Is the former stage magician turned renegade billionaire using his talents to entrance her, or is something else pulling them together and igniting their desires?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Short Attention Span Press
• Release date: Jan 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507017609

Book preview

One

I stroll along Laguna Beach, digging my toes in the sand and luxuriating in the warmth of the setting sun and the satisfaction of knowing everyone who sees me knows me only by my alias: Stone Mackenzie. Most of them don't know me at all, which is even better.

Already in mid-September I am one of very few people still wearing a skimpy little sundress. The middle-aged surfers are in their usual gear, but everyone else has donned short-sleeved shirts or even sweaters, and in some cases jeans. They're all play-acting at autumn in spite of the gorgeous temperatures.

I shake my head, sending long honey-blonde hair swaying and tangling around my tanned-looking shoulders. Californian people are weird.

Not that I have any business looking down on anyone else's games of let's pretend, though. After all, there's no such person as Stone Mackenzie.

And the honey-blonde hair with golden-brown lowlights owe everything to hair extensions and dye, and nothing at all to nature. My own real hair is a nearly colourless platinum ash. The only thing I like about it is that it absorbs dye easily, and hangs on to artificial colour forever.

Even my tan is a fake.

But this life...this gorgeous, carefree existence, here under the California sun? The friends who ask few questions, and have never once questioned my origins or my lack of ambition? This feels as real as anything I've ever experienced. Working odd shifts in a shop selling beads feels blissful to me. I suppose knowing I can quit any time I want to helps, but the laid back shop owners and my fellow employees are the best part.

Living at Jonathan's apartment with Shade, I'm more relaxed than at any prior time in my whole nineteen years. Truth is, I've packed more tension and competition into that relatively brief span than most people three times my age manage in a lifetime.

Obscuring my true appearance suits me just fine. And since there's nobody else around to care who I really am, I can't see that it hurts anyone.

For just over a year now, Sebastian has been my only direct link to the past. My brother is twenty-five, and maintains an easy connection to our parents, able to speak to them—even visit them—without getting railroaded into doing what they want. Easy for him, of course: he's pursuing graduate studies in chemistry, and interning in one of our father's research labs. What Sebastian wants to do has always lined up so perfectly with what they would have chosen for him that there's never been any conflict about it.

But there was no way they would ever have accepted drifter as a career choice for their only daughter. So I'd walked away without a backward glance, needing time off. They thought I should be starting university this month. They'd thought I should start last September, too. For over a year now I've defied them by doing...nothing. Nothing much at all.

I'm still in recovery from high school, honestly. Maintaining a straight-A average, wearing the proper clothes, attending the right events? I'm so done. I may have no clear idea what I want in life, but an amiable divorce and a bleak existence in an upper-middle class suburb absolutely isn't it. My mother doesn't even like her life, but that's never stopped her from trying to pressure me into living some version of it.

So I fled, and now I'm here.

It will do.

Except for the first couple of weeks I was travelling, I've spent practically none of the money in my savings or chequing accounts. I have enough there to live comfortably for several years, even if I hadn't lucked into my current rent-free situation. In spite of that, every few months Sebastian shows up with a cheque from our mother. I've turned almost all of them down, promising I'll take the money if I ever need it.

I have no intention of ever needing it. I can work. If the situation at Jonathan's apartment changes—if he kicks us out, or tries to change our arrangement—I'll find somewhere cheaper to live, although I have to admit I'd really miss his beachfront condo. But it's not like I have any ties to Laguna Beach, not really, or any roots here in Orange County. I could move if I had to, if it was what I needed to do in order to keep living my own life.

I can tell from the way my stomach growls that it must be nearly lunchtime, and since Jonathan will be expecting me, I turn back toward the path that leads up to his building. I'll probably have time to eat and be in the shower by the time he gets home.

I mean, it's not like he'd freak out if I'm late, or even if I choose not to be there at all today. I've taken days off before without any problem.

But he's been so generous to Shade and me—especially me, since unlike Shade, I've never dated him. They're friends from way back, and I suspect they've been lovers, not that I want to pry. But I only know him at all because Shade works at the shop with me, and she told me about his kink. I was interested enough to agree to meet him.

I'm on display twice a week, Mondays and Fridays. He's never touched me, and he knows I'll leave if he ever tries to. He just watches, usually silently, almost reverentially. In return I live rent-free, sharing a bedroom with Shade; I don't pay utilities. I don't even buy groceries unless I'm in the mood for something, and on the few occasions Jonathan's noticed a particular brand or item in the kitchen he's added it to his grocery list and made sure we have ample supplies of whatever it is.

Perhaps I'd mind more if I were the perfect shy-virgin type, if I never touched myself or thought about sex at all.

But if anything, I'm an over-sexed virgin. I think about sex all the time. The only reason I've never had a lover is that somehow I've never been lucky enough to feel an attraction to anyone. But I still dream about sex every night, and fantasize about faceless men, and quite honestly, if I tried to keep my hands off myself for a week I think I'd go crazy.

From my point of view, basically: so what if Jonathan likes to watch me? It doesn't make any difference to me one way or the other, as long as he respects my boundaries.

In a way it's a good thing I'm not attracted to him, because I don't think he'd be into that anyway. I don't think he wants this to be anything more than what it is.

So I let myself in, and one organic salad and quickly-grilled rare steak later I'm in the bathroom. I hurry through brushing my teeth, but take my time getting undressed.

When I hear the front door open and close again I adjust the water temperature and step in.

This is the bathroom Shade and I share, and it's freaking huge, just as big and lavish as the ensuite off Jonathan's bedroom. The shower is like a little room made of glass, with a showerhead at each end. Not that I've ever had company in here, but it's a nice thought...

I pull one of the metal stools directly under the spray and lather my hair, taking my time. Jonathan keeps the shelves stocked with the Lush products I prefer, and really, this shower—and what follows—is as much about my pleasure as his.

I hear him enter the room and sit in the leather armchair near the door, but I don't open my eyes. In as far as is possible, I dismiss him from my thoughts.

Instead I lose myself in a private fantasy. The man of my dreams is featureless, as though my imagination doesn't want to pin him down until I've met a worthy candidate in real life. But he's always tall, and slender, with broad shoulders. His hair is black, in total contrast to mine. His skin is healthy, bronzed in the way I can only achieve with the help of potions and powders.

He is insistent, and like me, he is always ready.

I sit down and lean back, my shoulders resting against the cool blue tiles of the wall, and lift one leg to rest my foot against the safety bar mounted along the door. I am utterly exposed, spread wide for the eyes that watch me, but in my head I'm giving access to my demanding, perfect lover. My fingers flick gently across my sensitive, throbbing clit, then settle into a rhythm as I begin to rub the engorged skin on either side.

I imagine my hands are His, and reach down with my left hand to hold myself open, offering myself to this spectre that haunts my every fantasy.

I don't penetrate myself, not even when I get to the part where I imagine Him thrusting his cock inside me. I've tried it before, of course, but it mostly just felt awkward and didn't really contribute anything.

But now, rubbing myself frantically as I imagine my lover's thrusts, I find myself wondering if maybe I should buy a small vibrator. I've never needed one; it's always been easy to get myself off. But perhaps it would lend a certain reality to my dreams. I've never felt stuffed full of anything. Thinking about it now, imagining His cock filling me and satisfying me, brings me to the edge of orgasm.

And then over, my clit twitching under my still-working fingers as I pulse and contract, shivering with the force as I come.

I stay in position, slumped under the warm water and breathing hard while I pull myself back together. That gives Jonathan time to leave. There's no way not to hear the click of the bathroom door as he pulls it shut behind him, but I still don't open my eyes. We both prefer it that way. From my perspective, it keeps the fantasy I've been indulging in separate from my less-exciting reality.

I wonder, not for the first time, why it is that Jonathan prefers to leave without making eye contact or conversation. Is he imagining I don't know he's there?

I have no intention of asking him, of course. I don't want to pry, or make him feel awkward or embarrassed, and anyway, it would be more of a connection than I want with him. We aren't in a relationship, and I don't want us to be anything more than friends, ever.

Then I'm startled into opening my eyes and sitting up when I hear him greeting someone. The answer is too muffled for me to make out the voice, but he's definitely just let someone else into the apartment, and it didn't sound like Shade.

It sounded like a guy.

I towel off and dress hurriedly, feeling nervous for some reason. Maybe it's just that I was so recently exposed that I still feel vulnerable, but I have to take a deep breath and brace myself before heading out into the rest of the apartment.

The last person in the world I expect to see is my brother, but there he is: Sebastian Mackenzie, in person. He's got the same weird colouring I have, and like me he darkens his hair to a less-dramatic shade of blonde. Unlike me, he doesn't wear blue contacts or hide behind sunglasses, so his eyes are a deep purple startling even to me, and I've been seeing the same eyes since I was old enough to look in a mirror. I cannot even imagine how bizarre that eye colour must look to other people.

Also unlike me, he has an almost normal skin tone. Pale, admittedly, but not so white that he has to field off constant questions about whether he's albino. There's a reason I slather on the goop he sends me, and it's not just that it protects my sensitive skin from the sun and wind. It protects me from people's seemingly endless curiosity about my appearance.

I don't think I'm ugly. I really don't. But for a long time now I've wished I looked slightly more ordinary.

Leaving the town I grew up in, and getting Sebastian to help me change the way I look, has made me feel free and unobserved for a full fourteen months now. It's been wonderful.

How is it that I know, as soon as I see his face, that it's about to end?

I hug him, glad to see him anyway. Never the most demonstrative person, he stiffens slightly but then hugs me back. Sebastian and I are close, but to me he's always felt like there are protective walls around him.

Hey, I say, stepping back. You don't have my next box of magic potions.

I should probably explain: my father is CEO and chief stockholder of Glamourized Inc., and my brother—to whom my father has more than once said he intends to hand the reins when he retires—is already interning in one of their research and development labs. So when I tell you I religiously slather myself with fake tan and hair colour, well, I'm not talking about stuff you can buy off the shelf at any price. My brother makes up special batches for me, stuff he's designed to protect my skin as well as disguise it.

Although I suppose, since he uses it too, he could have himself in mind when he works on his cosmetics. I doubt it, though. He's never cared nearly as much as I do about how weird we look, or about being able to spend hours under the sun, or walking in the wind or cold. If I hadn't been born, I imagine he'd be working on something else.

Not that his research isn't lucrative. The plant-based creams and lotions he makes up for me will turn a profit, somewhere down the line. But by the time anyone can walk into one of the pricey stores that sell Glamourized products, I'll have moved on to some new prototype.

He looks down at me, and already I know he feels bad about what he's about to do.

Mother wants you to come home, he says, and amends that to, needs you to come home. For a little while. Our neighbour died, and...she's really upset.

Our mother always wants me to come home, but I can tell this is serious, even if I can't quite process what the hell he's telling me. Old Mr. Emmett? I ask, beyond confused. What does that have to do with me? I mean, that's really sad news, but why would that make Mother want me at home? We barely knew the man.

No, Sebastian says patiently. The neighbour on our other side.

We don't have a neighbour on the other side, I start to say, and then it sinks in. He's talking about Mr. Bradford, who owns the house just down the road from us. It's a huge, elegant mansion, set so far back from the road that I only know what it looks like from trespassing in their woods when I was little.

But the Bradfords don't live there, not really. They were around sometimes when I was a child, but then they moved away, and the house has been either empty or loaned out to other people ever since.

Mr. Bradford? I ask cautiously, and Sebastian nods. His mouth tightens, making him look grim, and I don't blame him.

Mother and Mr. Bradford have some sort of...history.

Back when she met my father, my mother was employed at one of his stores. No, really. I always thought that part of my parents' life sounded so romantic. She was a shopgirl, and my father was the shop owner's son. But after the divorce, well, my mother had nothing but the house in Ontario and the monthly support checks my father sent her.

She told me once, bitterly, that it felt like being kept on a leash. There was always enough money to support us, and our father always paid for upkeep on the house, but there was never enough for her to go back to school and make some kind of life or career for herself.

She'd been on the brink of taking a minimum wage job, but then Mr. Bradford stepped in, and bought the spa for her, and that's what she does now: manages the spa, and oversees a staff of masseurs and manicurists who are all technically better-educated than she is.

I was only a child when all that went down, but I pieced together the story over the years and finally went to Sebastian with my suspicions, and he agreed with me: no matter how often our mother referred to her friend Nate Bradford, there was no way that was a gift from 'just-a-friend.'

I figure that's why he and his wife and their son moved away, actually. I think his wife found out something was going on, and made him leave. I mean, I could be wrong—and there's no way I'm ever asking my mother directly—but it's always been my theory.

But she hasn't seen him in years, I say, thinking out loud, and look up to find my brother appears faintly disapproving. I'll go, I'll go, I say hastily, realizing he thinks I'm looking for excuses not to. I just find it strange that she thinks she needs me at home for this. Is he even being buried in Cloverdale?

I doubt it, Sebastian says. He wasn't from there, was he? I've never heard anything about his parents. All I know is, Mother is going to pieces over this, and she thinks having you home will help.

Why not you? You're the one she gets along with.

Oh, she wants me there too, he says smugly, folding his arms across his chest. But I told her I can only afford a week away from university, so by the time I get you home I'll only have a few days left.

We both know what he means. We discussed this before, back when he was helping me alter my appearance. I look so dramatically different from my passport photo that we agreed that before I ever crossed the border to go back to Canada, we'd hole up in a motel for a few days and de-tan me and chop my hair off short.

I sigh, heavily. I don't mean to be awful, and if my mother is in bad shape over this death then of course I'll go home for a while, but I hate the thought of parting with my tan and my normal-blonde hair. I don't want to turn back into a purple-eyed ghost.

As if reading my mind Sebastian pulls me in for another hug, this one totally unexpected. I don't even know why it bothers you, he murmurs. You look beautiful as yourself, you know. Ethereal, and magical.

Yeah, sure, I'm Queen of the fucking Elves, I say bitterly. But I'd rather be Malibu Barbie.

He laughs. Give her a few weeks to work through this, and once she's stopped crying and drinking I'll bring you back to California and help you find your dream house, he promises, and I have to laugh.

Two

Three days later I'm pacing a hotel room in Seattle, glancing into the mirror every time I pass it. A highly-paid hairdresser cropped my mane yesterday, leaving me with a pixie cut of my own platinum hair. Sebastian has been slathering me with one of his concoctions every hour on the hour. It's