True North (Compass series Book 4) Read Online Free Page A

hands on my knees, sucking oxygen into my lungs.
    He’s right. I can still feel him choking me, but it doesn’t hurt per se and I can draw air unimpeded. I look up to see him studying me.
    “You okay?”
    Is he joking? He’s the one who shoved me against a wall, a couple of inches away from crushing my larynx. But he’s not kidding. His thick brows are drawn slightly together. He means it.
    “Yeah.”
    I stand up more fully, but still lean against the wall for support. A few people from the dinner walk by, and we both acknowledge them with nods as they pass, like Cris and I are standing here having a conversation instead of assaulting and being assaulted, respectively. I should tell him to get the fuck out of here, call security, something. Instead, I wait, hoping he’ll do more than threaten me. I can’t deny I’m curious, and that’s overridden the rage I ought to feel.
    After they’ve passed, but before Cris walks away, I hold up a finger, asking for a second so I can take a steadying breath. I’m not an idiot, nor am I naïve. I know what BDSM is and I’ve sure as fuck seen my share of porn. But I’ve never known anyone who actually does that stuff. Do people, really? And if they do, how do I get in on that?
    “What do you mean, ‘do it properly?’ How do you—”
    He shakes his head, silencing me. “I’m not talking to you about that. India’s already going to be ticked off I said anything. You ask her. But if she doesn’t want to talk about it either, you drop it. Understood?”
    His tone is casual, like he wasn’t just strangling me, but his gaze is sharp. I don’t think he’s remotely kidding about being willing to fuck me up, and I’m not especially inclined to test him. India said he was a cartoonist, but I have yet to see evidence of a sense of humor.
    “Yeah.”
    “Good. See you around, Slade.”
    I nod distractedly and straighten my tie as he heads back to the dining room. What kind of sick, secret world are these people a part of? And how can I get there? Maybe India’s the key. I start running through my mind to figure out when I’ll be able to get her alone because I need to ask her. I want to follow these breadcrumbs they’ve been dropping before they disappear.
    “You want to hurt people? Go right ahead. But you make sure they want it and you fucking do it properly.”
    “There are people who are into that shit. Find them and mind-fuck them stupid.”
    Tell me where, India. Maybe I don’t have to live like this anymore. Like some fucking fugitive. The rush and the exultation when I’m haranguing someone, the sense of triumph, and god, that inevitable surge of arousal when they break. It lasts until I’ve blown my load and then the sick feeling sinks in. The guilt, the shame. Because that’s fucked up. What the hell is wrong with me? What the hell kind of sick fuck needs to beat the crap out of a woman or humiliate her to get his rocks off?
    The only time in recent memory I’ve come and not felt queasy about it or had the urge to down enough gin to get a horse plastered afterward was with India. I’d gotten at least some of what I’d wanted and I could live without the rest. Especially if I got to trade the lack of out-loud humiliation for a clear conscience. I’d do it. And I suspect she can help me. The question is, will she?
    *
    It’s almost twenty-four hours until I can get her alone. When I see her walking down the elegant hallway of the Grant-Arthur, I quicken my steps to catch up with her and grab her by the arm.
    “I need to talk to you.”
    She shakes me off with a murderous glare. “That’s too bad. Because I don’t need to do anything.”
    “You’re right. I apologize.” I let go of her and take a step back.
    She cocks her head, her eyes narrowed, but she’s not running away. “What do you want, Slade?”
    “I want to talk to you about—” About what? I think you and your husband might be kinky as fuck, and I want to join you at the freak show?