Perfect Submission (3 page)

I know fulfilling this need of hers will
free her mind from the suffering she’s had to endure. But the
desperate need in her voice destroys the last of my defenses. I’m
doing this as much for her as for myself.

I move back into her, pushing the two of us
forward onto the bed with the force of my thrust.

Isabelle screams. “Yes!”

I grip her hips and thrust again. Deeper.
Harder.

“Oh my god! Yes!”

I slam into her again. Fuck, there’s nothing
left in the world, nothing but heat and force and the clench of her
ass gripping my cock, demanding every inch of me. The friction is
insane, every thrust driving me past all control, past reason and
logic, into a haze of pure animal lust.

Isabelle whimpers and writhes against me,
thrusting back to meet my ravenous plunging. I hold her down, my
erection harder than ever, every new stroke a fucking miracle.
Fuck, it’s an avalanche building, a fucking tsunami so close to the
edge. But I can’t let go, I can’t give in, not until—

I yank Isabelle’s body back against me,
sliding a hand between her legs and finding her clit. It’s slick,
wet with needy juices. I gently press down, teasing her as I slip a
finger into her waiting pussy. I circle back up to her clit and put
more pressure there as I thrust into her one last time and finally
she comes, moaning as her body convulses and my own epic climax is
ripped from my body.

I pull out, yelling my release as I spurt a
torrent of hot cum over her naked back and ass. The pearly liquid
marks her flesh like rope, like bonds.

Like a brand.

Mine.

I fall asleep in Cam’s arms believing
everything will be OK. But the real world is still out there, and
there’s no hiding from it for long, not with my mugshot on the
front page of the society section, and a murder charge hanging over
my head.

First thing in the morning, I’m back at the
police precinct. This time, I’m in an interview room instead of a
holding cell, and I have Cam by my side, and lawyers too: our
friend Justine, and a law school buddy of hers, Grant West, a
specialist in criminal law.

“This is just an informational interview,”
Justine explains to me with a reassuring smile. “We’re allowing the
detectives to ask you some questions. And it gives you a chance to
explain your side of the story.”

Grant nods. He’s wearing an expensive suit
and has a designer briefcase resting against the metal table. I’m
hoping all that money comes from being unbeatable in court. “Keep
your answers short and simple. Don’t let them bait you. I’ll let
you know if you should answer, or keep quiet.”

I’m nervous just listening to them. I look
to Cam.

“You can do this,” he tells me firmly. “Just
stay calm. Tell them the truth, and everything will be fine.”

I nod, fighting to keep my breathing steady.
The last thing I want is another panic attack like last night. But
Cam takes my hand and holds it tight, and just like that, my fear
eases.

He’ll protect me. He won’t let them take me
away again.

There’s a noise from the hallway, then the
door to the interview room flies open. A heavy-set man in rumpled
clothes strides in. He drops a file on the table and looks at us.
“Well, ain’t this the soiree. You all need to be here?”

Justine gets up. “We’ll be right outside,”
she tells me, nodding to Cam.

He rises from his seat too. Panic grips me,
and I feel myself shaking as I let go of his hand.

“You’ve got this,” he tells me, his eyes
filled with confidence. “I believe in you.”

I want to prove him right, so I take a deep
breath and brace myself as he and Justine exit the room. Another
man files in right after them, a younger detective with an attempt
at a goatee and a nervous twitch.

The older guy sits. “I’m Detective Bates,
and this is Officer Ruiz.”

Bates hits the button on an old tape
recorder. “This interview is being recorded. Are we ready to
begin?”

I nod, my stomach tied up in knots.

“Alright then,” Bates continues. “This is an
informational interview with the suspect, Isabelle Ashcroft,
charged with the murder of Richard Clayton.”

He says it all with a yawn, reaching to
scratch at his two-day stubble. “Also present is the suspect’s
lawyer…”

“Grant West,” Grant speaks.

“OK, Miss Ashcroft.” Bates glances at the
file in front of him. “As stated, you stand accused of the murder
of Richard Clayton. He died on August seventeenth—“

“A death ruled accidental by the coroner,”
Grant interrupts. “Not to mention the Hillway Shores police
department, the Alachua County PD, the DA…”

“Are you going to interrupt the whole way
through?” Bates seems unimpressed. “Because this can take all day
if you want it to. We ain’t got nothing else planned, do we?”

He turns to his partner. The kid shakes his
head. “No, nothing.”

“Grant.” I give him a look. “It’s fine.
Let’s just get this over with as quickly as possible.”

“Smart girl.” Bates nods. He flips the page.
“Now, the night of the fire. You were how old?”

“Thirteen.” My voice trembles.

“Do you remember much of what happened?”

My gaze flicks to Grant and he nods at me.
“Go ahead, Isabelle.”

The memories are hazy at first. I’ve tried
so hard to forget everything that happened that night, it’s like
digging up fossils from the past.

Sins that should be left buried.

I take a deep breath. “I was at the
Clayton’s house by myself. I was home sick from school, the other
kids were all gone. Mrs. Clayton left for work, but Richard been
fired from his delivery job a couple of months before. So he was
always around the house.”

I pause, already slipping back into the
past. I’ve been blocking it out for so long, now it all comes
rushing back.

“He was a drinker,” I say quietly. “It got
worse after he lost his job. He couldn’t get work because of the
DUIs on his record. He was always angry, or complaining. Or…” I
stop.

Bates and Ruiz wait, watching me. I hate
their eyes on me, so I stare at a scratch on the table, and force
myself to continue.

“There were four of us kids,” I say. “Two
boys, they were older. Clayton would push them around sometimes. If
they stepped out of line, he’d give them a beating with his belt.
Mrs. Clayton looked the other way. She said, we should learn to
behave.”

I swallow. My throat’s dry, but there’s no
water, so I keep talking. “I shared a room with the other girl,
Britney. Well, it wasn’t much of a room, it was the laundry room
out back, they shoved a couple of beds in there. Mr. Clayton was
always walking in, pretending like he needed clothes from the
hamper, or to run a load.” I shake my head, my skin prickling just
at the memory. “Britney was younger than me, but she looked older,
I guess. She got a growth spurt, started filling out, you know. And
Mr. Clayton…he noticed. He started hanging around more.”

I remember Britney; she was just a kid.
She’d gone into the system only recently, after her mom died, since
her dad was stationed overseas and there wasn’t any other family to
take her. The Claytons were her first family—she didn’t know how
the system worked. I was the one who taught her how to hide snacks
under the mattress so the boys couldn’t steal them, and shove a
chair under the bathroom door handle so Mr. Clayton couldn’t
‘accidentally’ walk in when she was in the shower.

“Miss Ashcroft?”

I blink. The detectives are waiting.

“Right. Where was I?”

“The day of the fire. You were home
sick.”

I nod. “Right. I was in the living room, on
the couch, reading. Mr. Clayton came in. It was only the afternoon,
but he was already drunk. He stumbled over a table, started yelling
and calling me names. I tried to leave, but he followed me back
into the bedroom.”

I gulp. “He was saying all kinds of things.
How I should be grateful he’d taken me in. How I could be sent
somewhere much worse, if I didn’t behave myself. He said I should
be nice to him. That I should show him how much I appreciated
him.”

My throat tightens. The walls close in on me
again, but I fight to stay strong. “He tried to grab me,” I
continue, feeling tears in the corner of my eyes. “He threw me on
the bed. His hands… his hands were all over me, he was grabbing,
trying to… to force himself.” I haven’t talked about this with
anyone but Cam, and never in this much detail. I don’t want to
remember my terror, my determination to protect myself. “I fought
him off, I ran, trying to get away. But he chased me. He tripped
again, on a toy or something. He fell, and hit his head. I didn’t
stay.” I whisper, “I ran, I went straight to school. I never said
anything. I didn’t know about the fire until I got home again that
night and saw the fire trucks.”

I stop. Grant gives me a nod. I’m doing
OK.

“How did the fire start?” Bates asks.

“I don’t know, I wasn’t there. I mean, he
was smoking…” I stop. “I remember the ashtray, on the table. It was
always full. Maybe I knocked it—”

“That’s enough for now,” Grant cuts me off.
“My client has stated she wasn’t present when the fire
started.”

“She said she wasn’t sure,” Bates corrects
him. “But she also stated she left Mr. Clayton suffering from a
potentially life-threatening head-injury.”

“After fleeing a sexual assault,” Grant
fires back.

Bates’s eyes narrow. “Yes. The assault. That
would make a person angry, angry enough to fight back. Maybe even
to kill. Hurting Mr. Clayton would make you feel better, wouldn’t
it? You’d want to see him burn after what he tried to do to you.
You’d want revenge.”

I can’t even speak. My mind’s racing,
desperately trying to sort out all of the memories of that day.
Bates is making me doubt myself. Did I leave him to die
intentionally? Am I capable of doing something so cold, so
cruel?

“So I’m asking you again, Miss Ashcroft.
This is your last chance to save yourself. To confess before your
case goes to trial. Tell me the truth. Did you deliberately set
fire to the house that night to injure your foster father?” Bates
leans across the table, fixing me with an accusing stare.

“No!” I protest. “I didn’t!”

“We have a witness who says otherwise.”
Bates leans back. “This witness says you did set that fire
deliberately in an attempt to injure or even kill your
guardian.”

“That’s not true. There was nobody else
there!” I yell.

Or was there? I don’t even trust my own
memory anymore. Everything’s a whirl of confusion, Clayton’s face
blurring in my mind.

I can’t hold back the tears anymore. I break
down.

“That’s enough.” Grant stands. “This
interview is over.” He takes my arm and helps me up, ushering me
out of the room. The door slams shut behind us, but it sounds to me
like a prison cell door closing for good.

They have a witness. That means no matter
what I say, I could be spending the rest of my life in jail.

“They have a witness?” My voice rises in
anger. I dropped off Isabelle with Keely after her interview at the
police precinct. Now, I’m meeting in my office at Ashcroft
Industries with the lawyer, Grant, and my private investigator,
Jake. We need to figure this situation out, and I want to have a
plan in place before I tell Isabelle.

“Dammit, Grant, why didn’t we know about
this? What the hell am I paying you for?”

He gives me a look. “It’s been barely
twenty-four hours since she was arrested. Now we know what’s making
them reopen the case. I count that as a win.”

“It won’t be a win until all charges against
Isabelle are dropped, and she’s free to live her life in peace
without the fear of being locked up in jail,” I retort angrily.

I’m pacing my office like a caged animal,
every muscle in my body tense as hell.

I’m the one who’s responsible for her
wellbeing. I let her down, and now I can’t rest until she’s safe
again.

“Let’s just take a breath,” Jake speaks up.
He’s slouched in his seat, looking like he just got in from a hard
night’s partying – and way too relaxed for this situation.

“Do you know what’s at stake here?” I
demand, turning on him. “Murder is a serious charge. She could
spend her life behind bars.”

“She was a minor,” Grant points out. “Even
if she’s tried as an adult – which she won’t be – they’d be crazy
to go for first degree murder. At most, involuntary manslaughter,”
he shrugs. “That’s what, seven years? We could even get them down
with a plea bargain. A couple of years, maybe. She could walk in
twelve months on good behavior.”

I stare at him in furious disbelief. Twelve
months of Isabelle’s life, stolen just like that? Just one night in
holding left her a total wreck. My girl is strong, but prison would
destroy her. There’s no way I’m letting anyone put her away.

I promised I would protect her.

“We’re not taking a plea,” I say through
gritted teeth.

Grant clears his throat. “Have you talked to
her about that?” he asks.

“I don’t need to.”

Grant pauses, like he’s weighing
something.

“Spit it out,” I demand, impatient.

“Look, she’s a sweet girl, sure. But it
sounds like it was a pretty messed up situation.” Grant shrugs. “Do
you really know what she’s capable of? I hate to say it, but maybe
the cops have it right. Maybe she started that fire, didn’t think
it through until it was too late—”

He’s cut off by my hand gripping tight
around his neck. I slam him back against the wall, choking him
hard.

“Isabelle didn’t do this!” I growl,
furious.

“Easy there,” Jake says as he pulls me back.
I don’t let go. I can’t. I’m in a red haze, all my anger focused on
Grant, who’s turning red and struggling under my grip.