Ella Dominguez - Becoming Sir

To family, friends & coworkers who keep me entertained, inspired & who can never be replaced.

To the following amazing, responsive & speedy beta readers for their keen eyesight & insight: Becki W., Yvonne L., Monica M., Terrie A., Lita T., Gabby B., Christina M. & Dorothy R.

To Gwen from Rebel Books Chicks & Terri from My Book Boyfriend for their significant contributions & invaluable feedback (& whom I’m seriously girl crushing on)

To the best fans an author could ask for & loyal readers whose kind words keep me going.

To the readers & lovers of The Art of D/s Trilogy who encouraged me to write Sawyer’s story.

http://houseslut.tumblr.com

Sawyer’s eyes rested on his face in the mirror. What was reflected back was someone he didn’t like, but that he had come to accept; someone cold, hard, and murderous. His dark, ominous eyes held a note of desolation that was hard to hide, and his handsome, scruffy face looked older than his true age of thirty-eight.

His eyes flicked to the sink as he washed the last of the blood from his hands, the crimson swirling into the abyss of the drain pipe. He hoped he had just killed for the last time. Three times he had murdered in the name of loyalty to his friend, confidant and business partner, Dylan Young and his wife, Isabel. There was no doubt in his mind that he would do it again if push came to shove, but he prayed to a God he doubted existed that it would never come to that again. Sawyer had his fill of death and was put off by how easily he found it to take another person’s life. He would be content if only the murders of these three people were on his hands, but there were many more than that. Dozens. Who the hell was he kidding? The number was far more than that and he damned well knew it. He was good at killing and that was one of the many reasons the CIA had hired him.

His breath caught at the sudden and sharp stab of pain that shot through his chest. The gunshot wound emblazoned over his heart was still on the mend and the bullet still lodged near his aorta. Lifting his shirt, a fresh blood stain soaked through the gauze bandage reminding him of his own mortality. He had come so close to losing his life it was frightening to think about.

After his beloved wife Serena had died so many years ago, nothing mattered to him, not even his own existence, but with Sonya in his life, he felt a sense of responsibility to her, as well as to Dylan and Isabel. They all needed him and it was both touching and terrifying to face the reality that so many people relied on him. What if he failed them? He couldn’t bear the thought.

He made his way from the bathroom to the kitchen and found the cleaning supplies he needed to create the mysterious concoction that would eliminate all traces that he, Dylan and Isabel had been in the house. It was just another of the many tricks of the trade he had learned from his days with The Agency. Clearing his mind of everything but the task in front of him, he mixed the ingredients. After he finished, he found some latex gloves with the housekeeping supplies and went about the undesirable and tedious chore of setting up the crime scene.

What a fucking mess. Images of Isabel standing over her father, Emilio Ibanez, at point blank range invaded his thoughts. The distressing words she had spoken, begging him to explain his abuse of her and his heartless response about hating her and never having wanted her.

Sawyer wasn’t sorry in the least for having taken Emilio and his henchman Simons lives. That abusive son-of-a-bitch Emilio was a menace to his family and society, and they both deserved to die for all the shit they had done, not only to himself, but to Dylan, Isabel, her mother, and God only knows who else.

As if it was second nature, Sawyer finished staging the scene and typed out a suicide note and letter of admission of guilt on Emilio’s behalf for his actions against Isabel’s mother and for murdering Simons. It was only a partial lie at best seeing as Sawyer had been the one to deal the final blow with a deadly shot to Simons’ heart. He had simply carried out his revenge on Simons and finished what Isabel had started. It only seemed appropriate after Simons had wounded Sawyer in almost the same spot only days before.

Nearly two hours after the whole ugly fiasco had played out, Sawyer’s job was complete. He walked out of the house feeling satisfied and met Dylan and Isabel back at the car. He climbed into the driver’s seat and Dylan moved next to him.

“Is it done?” he asked with hooded eyes.

“It’s finished,” Sawyer responded, his mellow baritone voice edged with control.

“I’m starting to think this will never be finished. I’m so tired, Morrison.” Dylan’s voice was distant and the sincerity in his tone tore at Sawyer’s heart.

He peered over the back seat to see Isabel in a crumpled heap, sleeping soundly. He reached over and pushed her wavy and tangled blonde hair from her blood spattered face and ran his index finger over her leather and diamond collar fastened securely around her frail neck. She looked like a sad, delicate, corrupted angel.

“I promise you, Young, one way or the other, it’s over. You and Isabel need rest; lots of it. Take as much time as you need and leave the business to me. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

Dylan leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

The drive back to the airport was short. Sawyer attempted to lift a still sleeping Isabel from the back seat, but the pain was too much. Dylan gently pushed him aside and lifted Isabel into his arms and carried her onto the jet. Seating himself next to them, Sawyer became engrossed in watching Dylan and Isabel. They were such a beautiful sight; Dylan holding onto Isabel as if nothing else in the world mattered to him, and Isabel resting oblivious to the world in his wearied arms. Their love was so pure and intense; Sawyer couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. He wanted what they had; he wanted to command and own his own submissive like Dylan; he longed for the kind of devotion that they shared.

As if reading Sawyer’s thoughts, Dylan spoke without taking his eyes off of Isabel. “You can have this kind of love, too, Morrison,” he spoke softly, running his fingers over Isabel’s lips and then through her hair.

Again with this. Sawyer recalled his previous conversation with Dylan about the BDSM lifestyle. Yes, he wanted to experience that kind of powerful love and commitment with Sonya, but how would she feel about it? Would she take the same interest in it that he had? He held out hope that she would.

“Yes, I want it, too,” Sawyer replied. “Show me, Young. Teach me.”

“Are you ready for this, Morrison?”

Sawyer was halted by Dylan’s iron grip on his shoulder just before they made it to the entrance of the Dark Asylum club. His expression stilled, his mood instantly growing serious. No, he wasn’t ready. He had been putting this day off for months; making excuses and avoiding it like the plague.