Branded
Tara Sivec
Branded
Ignite Trilogy #2
By Tara Sivec
Branded
Copyright © 2014 Tara Sivec
Digital Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
License Notice
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you wish to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Disclaimer
This is a work of adult fiction. The author does not endorse or condone any of the behavior enclosed within. The subject matter is not appropriate for minors. Please note this novel contains profanity and explicit sexual situations. All trademarks and copyrighted items mentioned are the property of their respective owners.
Editing by Nikki Rushbrook and Donna Soluri.
Cover Art by Lola Famure
Interior Design by Paul Salvette, BB eBooks
Other books by Tara Sivec
Romantic Comedy
The Chocolate Lovers Series:
Seduction and Snacks (Chocolate Lovers #1)
Futures and Frosting (Chocolate Lovers #2)
Troubles and Treats (Chocolate Lovers #3)
The Chocoholics Series:
Love and Lists (Chocoholics #1)
Passion and Ponies (Chocoholics #2)
Tattoos and TaTas (Chocoholics #2.5)
Romantic Suspense
The Playing With Fire Series:
A Beautiful Lie (Playing With Fire #1)
Because of You (Playing With Fire #2)
Worn Me Down (Playing With Fire #3)
Closer to the Edge (Playing With Fire #4)
Romantic Suspense/Erotica
The Ignite Trilogy
Burned (Ignite Trilogy Volume 1)
Branded (Ignite Trilogy Volume 2)
Scorched (Ignite Trilogy Volume 3) – Coming Spring 2015
New Adult Drama
Watch Over Me
Romantic Comedy/Mystery
The Fool Me Once Series:
Shame on You (Fool Me Once #1)
Shame on Me (Fool Me Once #2)
Shame on Him (Fool Me Once #3)
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Other books by Tara Sivec
Prologue
Chapter 1 – Phina
Chapter 2 – DJ
Chapter 3 – Phina
Chapter 4 – DJ
Chapter 5 – Phina
Chapter 6 – DJ
Chapter 7 – Phina
Chapter 8 – DJ
Chapter 9 – Phina
Chapter 10 – DJ
Chapter 11 – Phina
Chapter 12 – DJ
Chapter 13 – Phina
Chapter 14 – DJ
Chapter 15 – Phina
Chapter 16 – DJ
Chapter 17 – Phina
Chapter 18 – DJ
Chapter 19 – Phina
Chapter 20 – DJ
Chapter 21 – Phina
Chapter 22 – DJ
Chapter 23 – Phina
Chapter 24 – DJ
Chapter 25 – Phina
Chapter 26 – DJ
Chapter 27 – Phina
Chapter 28 – DJ
Chapter 29 – Phina
Chapter 30 – DJ
Chapter 31 – Phina
Chapter 32 – Anthony Giordano
Chapter 33 – Phina
Chapter 34 – DJ
Chapter 35 – Phina
Chapter 36 – DJ
Chapter 37 – Phina
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
I killed her.
The beautiful, smartass firecracker that exploded into my life with the force of an atomic bomb – she’s gone because of me.
All those moments spent fighting with her were a waste of time. Time that could have been better spent getting one of those rare laughs that were just for me, memorizing every freckle on her nose and showing her just how much she meant to me, even though I fucked it all up in the end when she needed me the most.
From the very first time I tasted her lips, she was mine. With that cherry red lip-gloss and her hands on her hips, all sass and snark and attitude – she was mine, but I fucked things up with her that time, too, at that damn graduation party.
Who the fuck knows at eighteen-years-old that the girl he felt up at a party would turn out to be his entire world years down the line? I sure as hell didn’t. I drank too much and I didn’t even get to remember what should have been the best fucking night of my life. I kissed those perfect lips, slid my hands up her tight shirt and tried not to blow my load when she moaned into my mouth. Then I blacked out, forgetting all of the important things, and walked away the next morning like the cocky little punk I was and tried to forget about her. I thought I’d done a pretty good job of it until four and a half months ago, when she walked back into my life. All that bullshit I’d spouted off to my best friend about how it’s unnatural to spend your life with one woman…fuck, what I wouldn’t give to go back and beat the shit out of that stupid asshole who thought he knew everything.
Eighteen weeks spent fighting her continued brush-offs and fighting with her when I should have been on my knees begging her to never leave me.
Eighteen days spent learning about what made her into the woman she was and trying my hardest to prove to her that she was worth more than she thought.
Eighteen minutes spent praying to a God I’d never believed in, begging Him not to take her from me.
Eighteen seconds too late.
I’ve counted each and every minute with her these last few months, the good and the bad. 181,440 minutes that I would give anything to do over. Sitting here with a half-empty bottle of whiskey in some dive bar I don’t even remember the name of, I count the drops of condensation on my glass as they slide down, each one fading away and disappearing into the napkin underneath it, just like every moment I spent with her. I had her and I let her slip through my fingers. I should have held tighter, fought harder, gotten there sooner.
I’ll never run my fingers through the long, crimson hair that reminded me so much of fire when the sun hit it. I’ll never feel the heat of her body pressed to mine again, or the way she’d whisper my name against my lips right before she came.
Fuck, that goddamn sigh…it was like she just breathed my name, as if it were the oxygen in her lungs that gave her life. I can still hear that fucking sound every time I close my eyes, and it completely guts me.
She branded her name on my heart and I know I’ll never be the same. I’ll never get the chance to tell her that I don’t fucking care about the scars on her body. I don’t care about anything but seeing her smile and hearing her laugh.
Staring up at the clock on the wall behind the bar, I realize it’s been eighteen hours since I last saw her alive. In my mind’s eye, I see her standing there, a flush on her cheeks and determination in her eyes as she told me to go. I did as she asked because I was angry and I knew she was hurting. I couldn’t stand the thought of causing her any more pain than I already had. It seems that all I’ve ever done is hurt her.
She told me to go, and I did.
If only I would have stayed.
Eighteen days earlier…
Hilarious.
I perfected the art of the resting bitch face, however, and one nasty look from me shut them right up. It probably didn’t hurt that, on the first day of high school when my name was announced and my fellow classmates snickered, I told them my name means fiery one and they shouldn’t piss me off or I’d burn their asses. I may or may not have also said something to the effect of my family being in the mob…what can you do? High school is a bitch, and so am I.
Standing in front of the full-length mirror behind my bedroom door, I stare at my body. As bodies go, it’s not a bad one. Some might even say it’s pretty damn hot. There’s a pun hidden somewhere in there that has everything to do with a few well-placed scars I keep hidden beneath the right pair of lace boy shorts. It’s gotten a little tricky over the years, but I’m nothing if not resourceful. I’m not a slut by any means, but I like sex. I like being in control and bringing a man to his knees. I like the salty taste of a man’s skin against my lips and that initial burn when he thrusts inside of me. I’m not opposed to a firm smack against my ass and I’ve been known to demand a little hair-pulling here and there, too. No one gets to see me fully naked though, that’s where I draw the line – underwear stays on or the lights go off. Until the other night, I’d never had any man argue over my weird little demand. They see my flat stomach, sculpted by hundreds of crunches a day, my long legs, toned through an abhorrent number of squats and lunges, and my 36C all-natural breasts, straining against a miniscule piece of lace, begging to be touched. With my long hair, big green eyes, thick black lashes and full, heart-shaped lips, I am the total package and they care fuck-all about anything else outside of getting their dick inside me. They don’t mind moving my underwear to the side or blindly feeling around in the dark. They do as I ask or they leave. Period.
Why the fuck didn’t he leave the other night?
I didn’t mark my body for attention. It’s not a cry for help or a result of some lingering childhood trauma, regardless of what one or two of my former shrinks might lead you to believe. I like pain, that’s all there is to it. So many things about life can make you feel dead inside, and the sting of burning flesh and the throb of pain makes me feel alive.
My name is Seraphina Rosalia Giordano, and I like to brand myself.
I realize that sounds a little sick and twisted when you say it out loud, but I don’t mind. I like people thinking I’m a little fucked up in the head. It forces them to keep their distance and helps avoid attachments. There are only two people I just couldn’t shake and my best friend, Finnley, is one of them. Honestly, she’s the only person I didn’t mind allowing into my life because she’s genuinely good, through and through. She’s never tried to use me for her own personal gain and she would give you the shirt off her back if it meant your happiness. Still, I’ve never let her see the truly dark side of myself. That’s something no one needs to see, especially someone as decent and sweet as Finnley. When we met, I almost hoped that some of her goodness would rub off on me, but even at fifteen years old, I was already a lost cause.
For the first time in my life, staring at the scars on my hips, running my fingertips over the small circles of rough, uneven skin pisses me off. My best friend, who means the world to me, almost lost everything in a horrible house fire four months ago. Her estranged husband died, the love of her life almost died and she did die. For seventeen seconds, Finnley’s heart stopped beating. When she came back to life, her legs, her hips and part of her stomach were covered in burns. Burns she never asked for and scars that she’ll have for the rest of her life because of some sick fuck who couldn’t let her go. Finnley, ever the optimist, is just grateful to be alive, but I’ve seen what those scars have done to her self-esteem.
Then you have me, a woman who willingly puts these marks on her body just to feel alive. I should be disgusted with myself; I should hate myself more than I already do. Unfortunately, all the guilt and self-flagellation have only made me angrier. I can feel the rage simmering just below the surface, building up inside of me, making me crave the burn. I know that eventually, I’ll be forced to light a cigarette and add a few more ugly marks to my skin just to relieve the pressure. It’s been so long since I’ve done it; I’ve been distracted with Finnley and trying to be a good friend to her. I’ve been at war with myself for months, not wanting to dishonor her by adding to my scars and yet, needing it so much it almost hurts to breathe.
My hands itch with the need to feel the searing burn on my flesh. My throat tightens with a locked-away scream, dying to get out and take all my frustrations with it as I blister my skin. The pack of Marlboro Smooths and the yellow BIC lighter are only seven steps away from me in the top drawer of my nightstand, taunting me. Seven steps across my plush, cream carpet where I can flick my BIC, take the one drag off a cigarette needed for the end to glow with red embers and then…bliss.
Instead of doing what I need, what I want, I walk seven steps in the opposite direction, stopping in front of my closet. Tonight is Finnley’s night and I refuse to voluntarily mar my skin with the kind of scars she has to look at day after day on her own body, wishing they weren’t there. I have so many reasons to add another brand to my body, especially after what happened the other night, but I won’t. I will take a deep breath, put on the dress I bought for the art gallery event tonight in Finnley’s honor and proudly stand by her side as the rest of the world is introduced to the beauty that she creates. My best friend is an artist and tonight, we are celebrating her recovery and her first show. I will don a smile, drink champagne and pretend like everything is okay. I spent the first eighteen years of my life learning how to hide my pain and the marks my father left on me, and then honed my skill for the next fifteen, concealing the misery and the darkness inside me; tonight will be no different.
And yet, I know everything is different now. I crossed a line two nights ago and I can never go back. I should have known better than to let him back in, the him in question being the second person – and the only man – that has crossed my path in my thirty-three years that I just can’t shake.
I’m not the woman he used to know and the things that happened in this very room just forty-eight hours ago are proof of that. I wanted something and I took it, just like he did when we were eighteen years old. He wanted to know what my fantasy was and I told him. He was only too happy to oblige, although looking back on it now, I’m sure he had no idea what he was getting into. If I close my eyes, I can still feel that hard, firm chest that I rested my back against, strong arms holding me in place and callused hands sliding over my breasts. If I open them again, I see someone else’s head between my thighs at the same time. I always wanted to know what it was like to be with two men at once, and he gave me my fantasy.
I’m not a slut, let me just remind you of that. This wasn’t some skeezy, porn-style double-penetration. One only held me, his dominant presence a soothing, calming foil to the other, a man whose touch brought me more pleasure than I’ve ever felt before. On the surface, it felt exactly how I thought it would feel, but on the inside, the experience left me feeling hollow…empty. I had more orgasms in one sitting than I’d ever had in my entire life and my body was on fire as one licked and pushed and sucked while the other’s hands roamed over my shoulders and slid through my hair. The fire was all on the outside, though. My skin was covered in sweat and flushed with pleasure, but on the inside, I was a cold block of ice that nothing could thaw, not even multiple orgasms.
I suspect my inability to let go of the past and my desire to live out one of my fantasies has something to do with my love of power. My current shrink will tell you that my need to control everything around me along with my penchant for always keeping a pack of cigarettes in my t
op drawer when I don’t smoke is because of my childhood. It’s always because of your childhood, isn’t it?
A quiet, pleasant teenager who helped old ladies cross the road takes a gun into his high school and blows away twenty-five of his peers. “His parents must have done something wrong.”
That nice, older man who waved to everyone and always brought chicken parmesan to the neighborhood block parties had seven mutilated corpses buried in his basement. “I bet you he was abused by his mother.”
The college student on a full scholarship who always made the dean’s list, volunteered at homeless shelters on the weekends and was the head of his youth group at church drugged and raped seventeen girls on campus. “His father probably let him play those graphic video games when he was younger.”
The sweet, beautiful girl who loved to dance and draw pretty pictures for her mother to hang on the fridge likes to brand her skin. “I bet you her mother skipped town and her father liked to take out his frustrations on her by stabbing a lit cigar into the smooth, pale skin of her eight-year-old body.”
Sometimes the shrinks are wrong, but in my case, they’re probably right. I couldn’t stop my mother from leaving, I couldn’t stop my father from using me as a punching bag and an ash tray until I was old enough to fight back and I couldn’t stop the boy I thought I was in love with from taking something from me and then running away as fast as he could. But this, this I can control. I say when, and how and why it’s going to hurt. I administer the pain myself because it’s better than letting someone else do it. If someone else hurts you, they have all the power. I refuse to give up my power.
Borderline personality disorder, depression, anxiety, post-traumatic stress, daddy issues, mommy abandonment issues…I’ve been given all the typical labels at one point or another, but I refuse to let them define me. I’m Sicilian. I have a temper and an attitude and I like being in charge. So what if I’ve carried on my father’s discipline tradition? Who cares about a few burns here and there when I feel like life is going too well for me and I need to bring myself down to earth? My father was a genius at knowing exactly when things were looking up for me so he could knock me down a few pegs. An optimist is a fool, and I am no one’s fool. I’m a realist. Some people just aren’t meant to live happily ever after and float away on clouds full of rainbows and puppies.
