Page 185 of Dirty Discipline, Vol. 2

Judge, jury and, well, executioner’s too harsh a word, but I’m prepared to act as her jailer if need be. The thought of handcuffing this little minx enters my head and I realize having her bound and helpless is something I’d relish. The grin that settles on my face must be wolfish, because Helena gasps and takes a step back. It’s comical she thinks she has any place to go.

“Now, come on, Helena.” I hold a hand out to her. “It’s time to get out of this dump.”

“What?” she looks startled. “I can’t go with you. I don’t know you.”

At last she’s showing some common sense, but her timing’s off. I want to get her out of here with no fuss.

“Not yet,” I concede, “but you and I are going to get to know each other a lot better.”

Even as I say the words, I imagine slowly undressing her, revealing that delectable body inch by inch. I picture myself throwing her down on the bed and fucking her senseless. That’s going to have to wait, however, until she’s clean and sober. I don’t have many scruples, but I require consent from my women. And she is going to be mine, no matter what I promised my brother about keeping things strictly professional.

Helena opens her mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. Her big, blue eyes grow wide and, for a minute, I think she’s going to puke. Then she stumbles toward me. Cursing, I rush to grab her just as she drops to the floor. I look down at the aggravating bundle of femininity in my arms and heave a sigh. She’s out cold.

“Well,” I say as I scoop her up and hold her close to my chest, “at least if you’re unconscious, you can’t complain about me moving you into my house.”

Carefully, I carry her past several gawping onlookers, out through the back of the club, to where my car sits idling in the alleyway. Manus holds the door open, and I settle Helena onto the back seat before sliding in next to her. I make sure she’s comfortable as Manus gets in behind the wheel.

“Put in a call to Dr. Marshall,” I instruct the heavy-set man, who appointed himself my personal bodyguard when I was barely out of high school. “I need her to come and look at this wee girl.”

Before I can decide how to tackle her obvious issues with booze, I need to know what else she might have been taking. She’s too pale, too thin, for her own good. I need Dr. Marshall to check her over and then I can work out how best to care for her.

As the slender blonde shifts on the seat next to me, her skirt rides up to expose almost virginal white lace panties. A sudden thrill shoots through me. I’m going to enjoy taking Little Miss Carmichael in hand.

Chapter Three

Helena

Waking in unfamiliar surroundings, I realize immediately the soft pillows cushioning my aching head are not my own. The cozy duvet covering me is not the one from my bed. As my eyes adjust to the half-light, I turn my head slowly to look around. Everything in this room speaks of luxury, from the tasteful furnishings and sumptuous silk drapes to the gorgeous embossed wallpaper whose pattern I can only just make out. For a moment, I wonder if I’m in some fancy hotel. I stayed in rooms that looked a lot like this when I traveled with my parents. They used to bring me along on their business trips sometimes, and they always insisted on staying in the very best places. If this is a hotel, how the hell did I get here?

I try to sit up, but my body refuses to cooperate. My muscles are weak and it feels like someone’s tried to drive a dagger into my skull. As my head sinks back onto the pillows, I notice a jug of water and a glass sitting on the nightstand. I try to reach for it, but the effort of moving is too much for me. I collapse back onto the mattress.

Almost immediately, the bedroom door opens and someone rushes toward me. I raise my head as much as I’m able and see a woman, middle-aged and motherly. Following her is a man who, through the haze of my confusion, seems familiar. A man who, even as I lie here in a state of misery, sparks a primal awakening in me.

“Help Miss Carmichael sit up,” the woman instructs him.

Responding to her no-nonsense tone, his mouth sets in a hard line. This is not a man who’s used to taking orders. No, I realize as I study his dominant stance, he’s accustomed to telling people what to do and having them rush to obey. Nevertheless, he steps forward and I offer no resistance as he puts his brawny arms around me. He helps me shuffle my butt into a seated position. Rather than rest me back against the pillows, he moves onto the bed beside me and pulls me against his chest. Considering the intimacy of his embrace, I should be wary but, for some reason, I feel right at home. Just how natural it is to have his arm around me is unsettling.

“I’m Dr. Marshall,” the woman introduces herself, “and you already know Mr. Donovan, I believe.”

Aidan Donovan? I turn to look at the face of the man who holds me in a tight grip and try not to flinch from the forbidding expression that greets me. No, this isn’t Aidan. I’ve only met him twice, but this is not the man my parents tasked with looking out for me after their untimely deaths. This is one of the younger brothers, but which one?

I study him for a moment, and it comes to me. He’s Jacob, the dark horse. Or should that be darker horse? I’ve never found Aidan Donovan, head of the Irish mob, to be a ray of sunshine. Why my parents would trust such a man to look after me is a mystery.

“Jacob Donovan,” he confirms, his deep voice rumbling into the silence, “in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I knew that,” I reply, “Jacob.”

I like the way his name feels on my tongue, but Dr. Marshall must hear the hoarseness in my voice because she lifts the jug from the nightstand and pours me a glass of water. Jacob takes it from her and holds it to my parched lips. If my hands weren’t trembling, I’d insist on taking the glass from him. As it is, I allow Jacob to help me take a few sips.

“Better?” The tenderness in his voice catches me off guard as he removes the glass and places it back on the cabinet by the bed.

I nod and instantly regret it. My head aches and the up and down motion makes me dizzy. I still have a terrible thirst, even after the water. Discomfort must show on my face as Jacob and the doctor exchange a look of concern. It’s weird, having strangers fussing over me, so I turn my attention to studying the back of my hands. There’s a small, round band-aid on the left one. I can’t think why it’s there. It seems an unlikely place to have cut myself. I rub my finger over the little circle and look at the doctor, question written all over my face.

“Ah, yes,” she says, “we needed to draw a little blood to run some tests and had trouble finding a decent vein.”

That’s a problem doctors always have with me. My veins like to hide. As I consider the doctor’s words, I frown deeply.

“Tests? Does that mean I’m ill? Is this some sort of clinic?”

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