Bound to Please

By Jade Buchanan

Melaina Carey has a secret she's desperate to keep hidden from her nest mates. Her life may have been saved when she was turned into a vampire, but it brought with it a whole new host of problems.

Her secret is about to be revealed and the two men she fears -- and lusts after most -- are about to put their centuries of experience to the test.

They aren't going to let her hide anymore. Tristan and Dougal know there's something wrong with her. When they discover what it is, they're determined to help her.

There is no way that Melaina is going to submit easily. Tristan and Dougal are going to have to prove they are man -- and vampire -- enough to control her every move.

Warning: This book contains subjects not intended for the faint of heart, including blood play, rope bondage and erotic pain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Changeling Press
• Release date: Apr 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9780204200642

Book preview

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Chapter One

The knife bit deep, cutting through skin. Blood gushed, falling to the ground like big, juicy red raindrops. The metallic smell permeated the air, filling her nostrils with the sickly sweet odor.

Melaina Carey dropped the knife, hearing the clang when it hit the floor and bounced once. She ran her fingers over the wound, painting her skin red. Disgusted with herself, she flung her hand out, spraying ruby liquid against the wall to her side. The drops clung tenaciously to the concrete, yet another colorful layer added to the stained wall.

She was sitting in the dark, surrounded by inky blackness. The red of the blood stood out, neon bright in the otherwise black pit. Underlying the metallic scent, there was an infinitesimal odor of decay. Rot and mold clung to the walls, resisting gravity’s pull, unlike the blood now dripping to the floor.

With a tired sigh, she lay down on the hard-packed dirt floor. Blood surrounded her, pooled around her. She was tired, unbelievably exhausted all of a sudden.

Ten minutes later, she got up reluctantly, slumping toward the tiny cramped bathroom. She picked up the knife on the way and slid it onto a shelf set just outside the door. The walls were tiled, chipped and spattered with something she didn’t even want to guess at. She peeled off her clothes once inside the narrow space, the black fabric soaked in blood. They fell with a splat, landing on a sheet of plastic that had been set out beforehand.

Stepping into the shower, she jerked the hot water knob. With a burping groan of protest, water started to spit out of the overhead nozzle. Moving into the spray, she let the heated water pour down on her aching body.

It was one of the reasons she came to this dilapidated building whenever the need hit her. Shitty environment, but the water was hot. It sluiced off her toned body, tinting the bottom of the stall crimson.

With a tired sigh, she dropped her head to the industrial grey tiles in front of her. Moving into the spray, she let it run down her back. It was always the same, the shaking, the headaches. The tension she desperately tried to hide from her nest mates. She always ended up here -- in this run-down building, in a run-down neighborhood on the edge of town -- covered in blood.

Her headache was leaving her. The tension that always seemed to fill her was dissipating. For this one moment in time, she was at peace in her own body. But, underlying that peace was the ever-present knowledge that this sense of calm was fleeting. The need would come back, it always came back. Whatever piss-poor attempts she made to alleviate it were never enough to make it go away completely.

Raising her hands, Mel inspected her fingers. A half-hour in the shower and they were still smooth and wrinkle free. Perfect. Her body was always damnably perfect. Too bad her insides were so fucked up.

She finally decided enough was enough and she shut off the water with a snap of her wrist. Her perfect wrist -- able to shut off a water knob and plunge a knife into a body with the same ease of movement. Snorting in disgust, she stepped out of the shower stall, shuffling over to the sink set half a foot away. Her change of clothes had been folded neatly on the edge of the sink, an exact match to the ones lying on the floor. With quick, brisk motions, she dried herself with the towel set on top, dropping it to fall on the growing pile of cotton on the floor.

Shaking out her jeans, Mel slid them up long slender legs. While smooth, they were saved from perfection by the light smattering of beauty marks interspersed like dark droplets of paint against a milky white canvas.

She wiggled her toes, hopping from one leg to the other to avoid the pool of thin, watery blood spreading on the floor. Her bra was next, a black scrap of lace, followed by her black, long-sleeved pullover.

Stepping up to the sink, she bent over, studying her reflection closely. Large copper-flecked hazel eyes stared back at her, rimmed in thick black lashes. Her nose was short, her cheeks full with pronounced cheekbones. They were pale, devoid of color, making her bright eyes stand out even more. Pallid, bloodless lips completed the picture, along with a thick black crop of pixie-cut hair. She looked fragile. She snorted. Appearances could definitely be deceiving. With a practiced twist, she lifted the corners of the plastic sheet on the floor, tying her ruined clothes inside.

Striding out of the bathroom, she surveyed the mess in front of her. It would be so much easier if she did this completely bare-assed naked, but somehow it didn’t seem dignified.

Stopping to pick up a lighter set aside on a shelf -- ignoring the knife beside it -- she touched the flame to the bundle in her hand, throwing it toward the worst of the gore. Mel watched it catch and spread flames along the blood-spattered floor.

Satisfied, she sat back to watch the flames flicker in front of her, careful to stay far away from the death trap it presented to her. The flames died out, extinguishing themselves in the concrete and metal room.

With one last glance, she left the building, gliding out into the night, stopping to pull on her boots. Her one vanity, the four-inch spikes had set her back a couple hundred bucks. There was no way she was going to see them ruined if she could help it.

Staying to the shadows, she surveyed the area. When she was certain that she was alone, she started walking. Four blocks over, she found her bike. The key was hidden inside her right boot, in a pocket sewn inside the leg. She started it, listening to the purr of the engine.

A half an hour later, she drove past a wrought iron gate -- a gate that was normally kept closed -- and stopped outside a large house. It sprawled over six lots, a rambling monstrosity set in the heart of the city.

Swinging her leg over the bike, she left it in front of the house, striding to the front door. Inside, she was greeted by three identical scowls of male ire, on three very different faces.

The entrance opened up into the living room, a stunning display of copper and black. Seated on the leather sofa was a man who looked like he was born in the room. Military-short black locks framed a rugged face, shadowed by the hint of