Beneath the Scars
Cherise Sinclair
About Beneath the Scars
Masters of the Shadowlands: 13
Another great addition in one of my all time favorite series!! A scar can be left on the skin or on the soul from wounds inflicted. This story takes us on a journey of a man who bares his on the outside and a woman who wears hers on the inside.
~ SNS Reviews
Josie doesn’t need any help raising her son.
Pregnant at sixteen, Josie learned the hard way about men and their empty promises. She picked herself up and is raising her eleven-year-old son. By herself. And that’s the way she intends it to stay. Unfortunately, her impressionable boy becomes fascinated by the scruffy, intimidating biker who lives next door.
The scars on Holt’s face are only the most visible of his wounds.
Out of the hospital after being attacked in his own damn house, Holt is coming to terms with the fact that his scars frighten people. Like his now-ex-girlfriend who ran after one look at him. Like his redheaded neighbor who hauled her boy away as if Holt was a serial killer. Fine. He’ll give the pretty bartender all the space she wants.
The Shadowlands will bring them together…
When Josie starts bartending in the exclusive, private club, she discovers her neighbor is a member. And a Master—a skilled powerful Dom who can make her fantasies come true. Slowly, the firefighter breaks down the walls around her heart, teaching her how to trust. How to love…
But when her son’s choices lead to disaster, can their relationship survive?
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Beneath the Scars
Masters of the Shadowlands 13
Cherise Sinclair
VanScoy Publishing Group
Beneath the Scars
Copyright © 2018 by Cherise Sinclair
Kobo Edition
ISBN: 978-1-947219-08-3
Published by VanScoy Publishing Group
Cover Artist: April Martinez
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, business establishments, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this eBook only. No part of this eBook may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without prior written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Warning: This book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. This book is for sale to adults only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase.
Disclaimer: Please do not try any new sexual practice, without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither the publisher nor the author will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from use of the information contained in this book.
Table of Contents
Cover
About Beneath the Scars
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
About Simon Says: Mine
Excerpt from Simon Says: Mine
Also from Cherise Sinclair
About Cherise Sinclair
Acknowledgments
So many hugs go to Bianca Sommerland, Monette Michaels, and Fiona Archer for being the best crit partners ever. Love you guys.
Thanks to Ruth Reid, Barb Jack, Lisa White, and Marian Shulman for beta reading the manuscript—and making me laugh at my bloopers and your comments. Y’all are amazing.
A big shout-out goes to Red Quill Editing’s editors for their meticulous work in making this book the best it can be.
My Shadowkittens—oh, what can I say? Thanks to you all for demanding Master Holt’s story and for all the inspiration, ideas, hot pictures, serious conversations, and laugh-out-loud fun. And hugs and kisses to Lisa Simo-Kinzer, the most tactful person I’ve ever met.
For Autumn: Master Z says thank you for the Cops ‘n’ Robbers theme.
A big hug—and much sympathy—to Leagh Christensen for trying to ride herd on a group of kittehs. You rock, girl!
Finally, if you’ve enjoyed the recent Shadowlands T-shirts, the credit goes to Niki Ellis for her brilliant designs. Muah!
Author’s Note
To my readers,
The books I write are fiction, not reality, and as in most romantic fiction, the romance is compressed into a very, very short time period.
You, my darlings, live in the real world, and I want you to take a little more time in your relationships. Good Doms don’t grow on trees, and there are some strange people out there. So while you’re looking for that special Dom, please, be careful.
When you find him, realize he can’t read your mind. Yes, frightening as it might be, you’re going to have to open up and talk to him. And you listen to him, in return. Share your hopes and fears, what you want from him, what scares you spitless. Okay, he may try to push your boundaries a little—he’s a Dom, after all—but you will have your safe word. You will have a safe word, am I clear? Use protection. Have a back-up person. Communicate.
Remember: safe, sane, and consensual.
Know that I’m hoping you find that special, loving person who will understand your needs and hold you close.
And while you’re looking or even if you have already found your dearheart, come and hang out with the Masters of the Shadowlands.
Love,
Cherise
Chapter One
Why was her kick-ass heroine drooling over the hero as if he was an ooey-gooey-chocolate chewy? Grumbling under her breath, Josephine Collier stepped out of her car. The half-written book was a teen fantasy—not a love story. Why couldn’t her heroine understand that romances rarely turned into happy endings? Honestly.
Then again, teens were naïve. Not to mention stubborn.
Her soon-to-be-a-teenager son jumped out of the car.
Definitely stubborn.
“Groceries, honey,” she reminded him as he turned toward the house, and his long-suffering sigh made her snicker. She ruffled his light brown hair. “My child, you sound as if Darth Vader has been torturing you with long needles.”
“Mo-om.”
Three years ago, he’d loved helping with each and every chore. Now…well, now he was eleven years old and ever so jaded with life.
Grinni
ng, Josie picked up a sack and glanced next door at the one-story duplex where her great-aunt, Stella Avery, lived. Where would Josie and Carson be without the wonderful woman? In fact, she’d become so beloved that Josie and Carson called her Oma, German for grandmother.
The bright tropical sun on white stucco made Josie squint, but she could see the driveway on the right side was empty. Oma must be at her Friday afternoon bridge club—her first recreational outing after spraining her ankle three weeks ago. After “serving time” in the rehab hospital, her great-aunt was thrilled to resume her busy social life.
Josie trotted up the porch steps and into her rent-with-option-to-buy house. Although the bungalow was close to forty years old, she hadn’t thought twice about signing the contract. Oma was getting older, and Josie needed to be close enough to help out.
She and Carson had only moved in a few days ago, and she already loved the place.
After weaving her way through the unpacked boxes, she set her sack on a kitchen counter.
Following, Carson left his groceries on the table, grabbed a bag of chips, and attempted a get-away to his room.
She cleared her throat. “There are several more sacks in the trunk. Please bring them in while I put stuff away.”
This time, she got his patented eye-roll.
She smothered her smile and said worriedly, “Oh, honey…if you do that hard enough, your eyes might pop out and fall onto the floor.”
Shocked, he paused for a whole second before catching on. Although he didn’t quite suppress a snort of laughter, he still managed to look put-upon as he stalked out the door.
She shook her head. Sometime in the last few months, her affectionate, funny, sweet son had been replaced by a moody adolescent. Wasn’t puberty supposed to occur later? More like thirteen or so? She wanted to bang her head on the wall and wail, I’m not ready.
Then again, according to her friends, no parent was prepared for the angel-to-demon transformation.
Ah, well, she’d cope. She’d had a fair amount of practice in surviving whatever the universe threw at her. By herself.
A wave of loneliness swept over her along with the longing for someone beside her. Uh-uh. Not going there. Remember how well being involved with a guy worked in the past?
Besides, she had no time for anyone. Not if she wanted to write for a living someday. Even though the four books she’d written were selling well, they didn’t bring in enough for her to quit her bartending job.
And she needed to keep things uncomplicated for her son, especially this year. Poor Carson. His transition from elementary to middle school in September had been…difficult. Now, he had the added trauma of moving away from the apartment complex and his buddies there. Losing friends and having to go through unexpected changes hurt; she’d suffered through those changes herself.
Seeing her baby unhappy was even more painful. Everything inside her wanted to help, to make it better.
Had he been more resilient when younger? Like when he first learned to walk? He’d been so adorable. Shaggy hair falling into his bright eyes. Adorable red overalls. Knees bow-legged from the diaper. An infectious giggle when he took three steps. A heartrending wail when he toppled over.
Falls and scraped knees could be quickly cured with hugs and kisses. It wasn’t so easy to ease the anguish of not being invited to a birthday party or sitting alone in the school cafeteria—and mommies were supposed to be able to mend everything.
Dammit. Her heart ached for him. Sadly, the best she could offer was stability and safety. A listening ear. And all the love in the world.
After stowing the groceries, she looked around. Where were the other sacks?
With a sigh, she walked outside. Car trunk open, groceries still there. Missing: one boy.
Aaaaand, he’d wandered next door and was talking to the tenant of the other half of Oma’s duplex.
Standing with his back to Josie, the man was pointing to parts of his huge black and red motorcycle. The bike was a Harley, according to Carson, who seemed to think a motorcycle was the gateway to heaven.
Uh-huh.
Every mother in the world knew a motorcycle was the gateway to the emergency room.
Even worse, men who rode motorcycles could be…questionable. Would Carson be safe around this neighbor?
Crossing her arms over her chest, she gave him a good looking-over…and got a bit short of breath.
Oh…wow.
The man was tall and lean. His faded, ripped jeans covered long powerful legs. A faded black T-shirt stretched over a broad muscular back. Circling his biceps, black and red tattoos were only partially covered by the sleeves. Muscles bunched in his shoulders as he stood the bike up to show Carson something. His dark blond hair was long enough to touch his collar.
Pure man-candy and definitely on the scruffy side. A black leather motorcycle vest had been tossed over a handlebar.
Her eyes narrowed. Carson was off for Thanksgiving vacation or he would have been in class. Shouldn’t this man be at work on a Friday? What did he do for a living? Then again, many people took time off at Thanksgiving.
Oma said the guy had assumed the lease from the previous tenant, Uzuri. Surely the property managers had done a background check and confirmed he was gainfully employed and all that. If nothing else, he’d managed to afford an SUV and a motorcycle.
Looking past the driveway, Josie noticed that the flowers Uzuri had planted in the front door pots were dead. How could he have let the defenseless plants die?
No, she probably didn’t want her boy over there. “Carson,” she called, picking up a grocery sack. “Let’s finish this up.”
Her son turned…and so did the man.
Her stomach tightened. A partially healed, red slash ran from his left temple, through his scruffy beard, to his jaw. A yellow bruise decorated his right cheekbone. More nasty cuts covered his forearms.
She stiffened. Maybe she was jumping to conclusions, but as a bartender, she’d seen far too many brawls. The man had been in a knife fight.
And he was talking to her son. Fear sharpened her voice. “Carson, now.”
With a sullen pout, Carson trudged toward her, so obviously unwilling she wanted to shake him.
To her dismay, the man accompanied him. He was a good six feet tall.
Taking a step back, she looked up and into eyes the blue-gray of Tampa Bay just before dawn.
“Your son says you’ve moved in next door. Welcome to the neighborhood.” He had a mesmerizingly smooth, deep voice.
His greeting was polite. Friendly. But, but, but… Biker. Fighting. Knives. She took another step back, and her response came out thin and unfriendly. “Thank you.”
His expression went blank. “I’m called Holt.” He waited a beat for her to introduce herself, then glanced at the car where Carson was pulling out sacks. Rather than offering to help—which, honestly, she’d have refused—he nodded at her boy. “Nice meeting you, Carson.”
As the guy headed for his house, Carson stared at her. “Wow, Mom, way to be rude.”
She had been, no doubt about it. When she looked over her shoulder, the black motorcycle in the driveway seemed to grow in size with her fears. “Maybe, but I want you to stay away from him.”
“Mo-om, why?”
She grabbed the last sack and slammed the trunk shut. “Because I said so.”
Even as the words left her mouth, she winced. Throughout her childhood, her father had shouted that rejoinder whenever she’d asked why. When Carson was born, she’d sworn she would be a better parent than her father.
Her son stomped into the house, muttering, “I’ll talk with him if I want to.”
She stared after him, and her shoulders slumped.
Good job of parenting, Josie. FAIL.
Jesus, the woman had looked at him as if his face was rotting off. Thoroughly annoyed, Alexander Sullivan Holt stalked into his half of the one-story duplex.
As he closed the door, a deluge of memories froze him i
n place. “Bastard! She’s mine.” A knife drove into Holt’s upper back. Holt spun and cold burning pain slashed his face. He punched. Connected. Even as the man bellowed in anger, warm liquid poured down Holt’s face—and more flowed down his back. Blood. A fiery pain blossomed over his shoulder blade.
After a second, he managed to pull in a breath and shake off the flashback. Hell. The slices on his gut and back were burning as if brand new—no, the pain was simply because every muscle in his body had tensed.
He moved on into his place. It was a shame his new neighbor hated the sight of him…because he’d enjoyed looking at her. Although he liked long hair on a woman, her short jagged cut was damned cute, reminding him of a sprite or pixie or something. And the color—like burnished copper with lighter gold streaks—was amazing. Green eyes. Freckles sprinkled over her face and arms. Very Irish, he’d guess. She had an average sized, sturdy body, and rather than artificially glamorous, she seemed refreshingly real.
And direct. She sure hadn’t hidden the fact that she wanted her kid to stay well away from him. He’d never thought a soft Texas accent could contain so much ice. Of course, he had to appreciate a woman who looked out for her cub—he’d seen too many who didn’t.
Still… It sucked to be looked at as if he was Freddy Krueger.
After punching up a Disturbed album, hearing the first strains of “The Sound of Silence”, he wandered into his small kitchen and pulled out a beer. It was only early afternoon, but he didn’t give a damn. He downed half of it in a long series of gulps.
Pausing for a breath, he studied the bottle for a moment before emptying it into the sink. Maybe he was screwed up—and so ugly he made pretty redheads turn pale—but alcohol wasn’t the answer.
He should eat something instead. Not that he was hungry.
His cell phone rang from somewhere in the living room.
After a short search, he located the damn thing beside his recliner. With luck, the caller wouldn’t be a reporter. It’d been a couple weeks or so since he’d been sliced up like mincemeat, and the news services surely must consider him old news.
