Cruel Water (The Dirty Heroes Collection Book 11)

  Cruel Water

  The Dirty Heroes Collection

  Dee Palmer

  Contents

  The Dirty Heroes Collection

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  The Masked Prince - Sneak Peek

  Chapter 1

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Dee Palmer

  Disgrace Sneak Peek

  Prologue

  Copyright © 2020 Dee Palmer

  Published by Dee Palmer

  Cover Design by Jay Aheer, Simply Defined Art

  Formatting by Raven Designs

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in an form, including but not limited to electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase to, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Once upon a time, a scorned Queen opened a box, unleashing horrible evil on the world's heroes.

  Instead of gallantry and chivalry, they now possessed much more perverse traits. They’ve fallen victim to their darkest and most deviant desires.

  This is one of their stories...

  Blurb

  I’m not a sadist by choice,

  I’m a sadist by design,

  Cursed to inflict pain on others

  And yet I find no pleasure in it,

  Only a moment of release from my eternal torment.

  And yet, it’s not enough

  I’m not a sadist,

  I’m a monster.

  One night changed all that,

  One night she dragged me from the oceans dark depths

  Cresting the cruel waters she came to my rescue, like an angel.

  A mermaid.

  And now I’m going crazy and don’t know what to believe.

  Was she real?

  Did she truly soothe my demons and take away my pain?

  How am I even alive?

  So many questions taunt me.

  So many answer evade my grasp.

  What is true? What is real? What to believe?

  All I know for sure is I have to find her again,

  I have to know,

  Can she really save me from myself?

  Introduction

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  1

  My neck cracks with the stretch, tension in the muscles of my shoulders, back, and everywhere else evaporating into the dimly lit room that now reeks of satisfied lust and broken spirit. Drawing in a satisfied breath slowly through my nostrils, I step back and survey my most recent masterpiece.

  There’s something so very beautiful about a face contorted with pain, raw, vulnerable and utterly truthful. They will grit their jaws, pinch their lips tight to prevent the howl of agony escaping, squeeze their eyes so tight in a valiant effort to take themselves anywhere other than here, with me. This is their truth in the face of their lies.

  They tell me want this. They crave the pain I offer, beg me, and each one has been so utterly convincing—right up to the point where their bodies tell a different story that allows them into my dark world. Cries muffled by the rubber gag in their mouth, as they stoically endure what I so desperately need to deliver. Shock will widen their eyelids. Desire might darken their pupils for a moment before it’s too much, so much so that their eyes look like inky wells of hopelessness. Held breath and taut muscles are evidence of their level of endurance. Telltale twitches of parts of the body one would least expect reveal so much more than a desperate cry, but it’s in the eyes I see their truth. They might be self-confessed masochists, because I insist that they are, still this is not fun. This is beyond, this is something they do because…

  Because I’m broken, I’m a challenge, and they think if they give me what I want, they’ll fix me. That I’ll change maybe, that I’ll be able to love. They are so very, very wrong.

  I’m not broken; I’m cursed. As much as I might try to navigate around the proclivities of my predicament, I am left with the undeniable truth. I inflict pain because I need it. I need it to calm the demons in my soul, to quiet the storm that rages constantly in my head and to catch a moment of peace. A sadist by design, not by nature, yet I can’t deny how utterly captivating it is to witness someone giving themselves to me, completely.

  It’s intoxicating, and I’ve long since given up any hope of my life being any different. All I can do is manage my expectations and theirs.

  “Would you like some water?” I ask. I’m not a complete monster. Aftercare is something I don’t enjoy, but I know it’s necessary. She nods, her face wet with tears, cheeks flushed a deep red hue, almost the same as the blood smeared across her breasts. She was very brave; I have to give her that. She blinks, and fat tears drop onto my knuckles as I place the glass against her bottom lip, the gag unclipped and now balanced on her neck like some sort of kinky novelty necktie.

  Her body is stretched taut against the St. Andrews cross in my own private dungeon. It’s frivolous to have a room just for my pleasure, I know, but it’s my club, and I make the rules.

  Rule one: I don’t share.

  Rule two: Actually, there aren’t many rules after rule one. No that’s a lie, there is one rule significantly more important than the no share rule; it’s the ‘L’ rule. Never speak, utter or even think the L word.

  She blinks again, sucking down large gulps of water. Her nostrils flare with the continued need to fill her lungs with fresh air. Her chest rises and falls with each labored breath. Her firm, round breasts swell and glow with the a slick sheen of perspiration coating them. Blazing across her body like a Jackson Pollock, her once pale skin is littered with an intricate pattern of stripes, slashes, and the mottled hues of burgeoning bruises.

  It’s glorious.

  I deftly unhook the restraints, and she falls limply against my naked chest. I tense. Not with her weight but with the soft sigh she releases and the tightness of her arms secured around my neck when I lift her in my arms. She winces when I move, and pain clearly flashes through her when I lay her carefully on the bed.

  “Can I get you anything else?” The icy chill of indifference races the length of my spine, and I find myself straightening to full height, towering over her. Her response is innate, she shudders with a mix or worry and trepidation.

  “No, no I’m fine. That was wonderful. Thank you, Sir.” She lying and I let out a heavy sigh. She swallows thickly and reaches for my hand; the glance I cast makes her recoil. She’s right to be scared. I have no limits when it comes to inflicting pain. Still, even I have to draw the line somewhere. With all the tools in my arsenal, it’s my honesty t
hat always hurts the most.

  “Then you are dismissed. Permanently.” My level tone is implacable.

  “What?” Her body curls around the impact. Her hand clutches to her chest as she lurches to sit up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. However, she doesn’t try to stand, opting instead to pull her legs against her body to hug for comfort.

  “You may remain a member of the club; however, if you approach me or attempt to contact me in any way, you will find your membership canceled.”

  “I…I don’t understand. I did everything you asked. I took…I took everything. Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I can.” Dispassionate and without a hint of conflict, I deliver the final blow.

  “You’re so cruel.” She sobs.

  “Life’s cruel.” It’s not a speculation; it’s a fact. Why should playtime be any different?

  “Please don’t, Eric. Please let me in. I can help. If you’d just let me, please. I…I—” She stutters and I cut in.

  “You what?” My lips curl around the sardonic snarl.

  “Nothing.” She sucks back the emotion, making her lips tremble. She bites them closed and lowers her head in resignation.

  I get a twinge of something, regret maybe. Not of my decision; that was inevitable. I can’t change who I am, and I won’t let them believe otherwise. So maybe it isn’t regret, maybe it’s despair that what I am searching for simply does not exist.

  “Good girl.” I tuck her damp hair behind her ear and immediately regret the tender display of affection when her eyes glisten with fresh tears and misplaced hope. She worries her bottom lip, swollen from biting back the pain for the last hour, before she can muster the courage to beg once more I turn my back and walk out of the door.

  That twinge wasn’t regret. It wasn’t guilt. It was self loathing.

  It would appear I am a monster, after all.

  2

  Sliding a fresh white shirt across my shoulders, I start to button up. The soft cotton clings to the residual dampness on my skin from my shower. I finish the last button when the door to my office bursts open and a fiery raven haired storms in, slamming the door behind her. I barely raise a brow, even if she’s dicing with death by barging into my office with so little respect. If she wasn’t such a good friend and an amazing manager, her flagrant disregard for my boundaries would be an issue.

  As if the dramatic entrance isn’t enough to indicate her current mood, she halts at the other side of my desk with a fierce scowl, narrow eyes, and her fists pressed hard against the smooth line of her tan leather pencil skirt. Her emerald silk blouse nips at her waist and is conservatively fastened over her ample breasts right up to her slender neck.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” She is the epitome of calm and controlled. Even now, when her blood is clearly boiling, her voice maintains a level of threat with an undertone of menace that most Dominants would give their eyeteeth for.

  “I take it that’s a rhetorical question?” Slumping into my chair, I hope my bored indifference will be enough to end what I can only assume is going to be some sort of lecture. Kicking my legs up to rest my feet on the corner of my desk, I recline my chair to almost horizontal and tuck my hands behind my head. Stephanie growls and presses her finger tips pointedly on to the surface of my desk. Leaning over, the waves of frustration rolling off her force me to engage. There’s a ridiculous silent standoff that I will take no pleasure in winning even if I did have the energy.

  Exhaling, I pull myself to sitting, Stephanie pours two tumblers of whiskey from the decanter on my desk and hands me one. She perches her curves on the desk and holds the glass up for me to clink. I’m not in the mood. I down the liquor and relish the blissful moment of burn hitting the back of my throat. She tops my glass up. Her features soften as she does. Her hazel eyes seem more feline than human with the way she applies her liner. Her lips are red and glossy. She is a very attractive woman, a timeless beauty, always immaculate, and only when this close, can one see the telltale soft lines around her mouth and the corners of her eyes which betray her age. Her tone, however, is still markedly pissed.

  “No. No, it’s not rhetorical. I seriously want to know what the hell, Eric! Why did you just end it with Belle? She was perfect.” Her exasperation makes me bristle. It’s not like I plan these things. It’s not me that lies.

  “She wasn’t a true masochist, Stephanie.”

  “You ask too much, Eric. No one can endure that level of pain without getting anything back.”

  “I know.” Tension pulses through the veins in my temples and crawls backward into the muscles in my neck. Stretching from one side and then the other, I try and ease the buildup. My fingers press hard against the pressure points, and when that doesn’t work, I take another pull from my whiskey. My gaze meets Stephanie’s. I can see she’s waiting for more of an explanation, only I’m not sure I am inclined to share my own personal hell this early in the evening.

  She lets out a heavy breath and tilts her head, her tone bordering on sympathetic. “You’re the worst kind of sadist.”

  I scoff. “There’s a good kind?”

  “Yes, I’m the good kind. I love dishing out pain, humiliation, degradation as much as the next sadist, but I love my pain sluts. I adore that they give so much for my pleasure. You? You seem to despise them for it.”

  “I don’t despise them, Stephanie. I nothing them.”

  “See, the worst. It’s lucky I love you,” she quips

  “It’s lucky I know you don’t.”

  “Whatever. I care, and I hate seeing you like this.” She moves to take the seat in the high backed leather chair opposite, though still close enough to continue as drink dispenser.

  “Like what?”

  “Lost. In pain. Alone. Take your pick.” She pours some more whiskey. The uncharacteristic draw of her bottom lip into her mouth is evidence she is weighing how far she wants to take this conversation. I like her. She is probably the closest thing I have to a ‘friend’; however, I don’t do touchy feely bullshit. I keep my dark close and my demons closer. “You need to let someone in, Eric.” I narrow my eyes, and she braces, her mouth tight and her shoulders straight.

  “I need the release. That’s all I need. That is the beginning, the middle, and the end of it. The difference between you and I is I don’t want to be like this. It’s not a choice for me, and seeing them look at me like they can save me… Trust me, I’m doing her a favor.” I clarify absently. Rolling the tumbler around so the golden liquid coats the sides, the clear shine of the sugars clings to the glass before once more being swept into the swirling contents.

  “She gave you the look, hmm?” Stephanie’s insightful deduction is accurate as always. Reaching for my forearm, she squeezes.

  I nod. “Yes. How can anyone look at me like that? With awe, longing, with love.” The taste of that word in my mouth makes me want to retch. “They look at me like I’m some sort of god.”

  “Well, not to state the bloody obvious, but have you seen you recently? Six foot seven, muscles like Apollo, golden brown eyes that would set most panties on fire. And you do yourself no favors with the smoldering tortured soul routine. And cut your damn hair!” she tuts playfully; however, with my darkening mood, her attempt at humor is lost on me.

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “No, you’re right. It’s not just that. Looks will only get you so far in this game. But in here, you take them to a place few can understand, let alone appreciate. You say they are not true masochists. Well, you’re wrong; they are. But even a good masochist can’t exist in a vacuum. You have to give them something of yourself. They don’t need rings and roses, just some acknowledgment that you see them, want them…need them. You are the Dominant, yes, but you are nothing without them.”

  “I know.” Placing the glass down, I drop my head in my hands, feeling every bit of the weight of my darkness on my shoulders.

  “You are the sorriest sadist I’ve ever met; that’s for
sure.” She ruffles my hair and gives it a sharp tug so I am now looking at her earnest and somewhat troubled face.

  “So now I’m a shit sadist?”

  She sighs softly and her red lips curve in a motherly smile. “Eric you are… I don’t know what you are.” She shakes her head, and I feel her loss for words like a knife’s point pressed to the throbbing vein in my neck.

  “I’m cursed,” I state coldly.

  “How so?” Releasing her hold, her hand flies back as if I’ve said the most ridiculous thing since Zuckerberg said ‘of course your data’s safe’ and it’s actually scalded her skin. “Cursed because you can’t get aroused unless you are inflicting pain? Join the club. Oh wait…you already own it.” Derision drips from her perfectly pursed lips, but the cut of her tone is dulled by the sympathetic tilt of her head.

  “Cute.” I snark, and reach once more for the decanter. She beats me to it and refills both our glasses. The alcohol is barely registering, and I’ve consumed almost half a bottle in this short time. I should be three sheets to the wind, yet I feel empty, numb and not remotely drunk. I let out a heavy sigh and pinch the throbbing pressure at the bridge of my nose. The malty liquid rolls in my mouth before I swallow down another mouthful and face her. “If that was true, it wouldn’t be so bad. I don’t get aroused. I get a moment of respite from the constant torment, a moment of calm, but there is nothing sexual. I wish there were. I wish I felt something other than this emptiness.”