Say My Name (Stark International Trilogy 1)

I turn my leg out, revealing the curving red ribbon inked onto the soft skin between my torso and left thigh, the ribbon curling from my pubis to my hip. And on it, the ornately scripted initials, TS, KC, DW. Small and intricately designed, like the text of a medieval manuscript, so that the letters appear to be little more than a random design. Of course, they are anything but.

I remember that night with Jackson—one night that held all the force and emotion of a lifetime. He’d traced his finger on the ribbon, and asked what it meant. I’d told him that it meant nothing, but that was a lie. The initials mean everything. They are a mark of both shame and power. A reminder of who I was, and who I will never be again.

They represent men like Louis. Men I’d gone after in those years before Jackson. Men I’d taken to bed so that I could use instead of being used.

I drag my teeth over my lower lip, silently thanking Jackson for stopping me last night. Preventing me from going so far that I would have no choice but to add LD—Louis Dale—to my collection.

I haven’t done that—trapped a guy in my sights and gone after him like that—since before Atlanta. But last night, I’d craved that release, that control. This morning, I would only have regretted it.

I shift sideways so that I can glimpse my back. From this angle I can tell only that something has been inked in red between the two dimples above each of my ass cheeks. But that’s okay, I know the tat. Even though I have never seen it except in reflection, I know the line and the curves. An ornate J intertwined with an S, like a fancy monogram.

Jackson’s initials—and they are marking me.

I sigh and reach back, pressing my palm flat over the tat. I’d gone to Cass the day I returned from Atlanta. I didn’t explain, didn’t say a word. It was at least a month before I told her anything about Jackson and me. But I’d needed the ink right away. I’d needed the pain that marked the memory. And I’d needed a piece of him to be with me always.

There are other tats. On my breasts, between my shoulder blades, marking my hips. A silent path winding through the pain in my life. All discreet, so that no corporate skirt and blouse would ever reveal my secrets. But all there when I need them.

Right now, I tell myself, I don’t need them. I’m doing fine. I have a career in which I’m advancing, good friends, a great boss. I’m moving forward in my life; I no longer have to stand naked before a mirror and trace the path of my triumphs and tragedies to give me strength.

And for years, I’ve felt strong and capable and in control.

But now the world is getting gray around the edges again, and the control I’ve always clutched so desperately is slipping away as if I’m holding tight with buttered fingers.

Fingers of panic are creeping back in through the cracks in my veneer, and I know why. Because instead of conquering them, I hid from them. I ran as fast as I could from Jackson, and then curled up into a little ball, living an anesthetized life.

But he’s back now, and I’m tingling all over, just like a numb limb coming back to life, and I honestly don’t know if I can handle this.

No, that’s not true. I know that I can’t handle it. I know, because I couldn’t handle it the first time.

Somehow, I need to get Jackson Steele out of my head.

Except, dear god, I want him.

There, I’ve said it, even if only in my head. I want him.

Time and distance haven’t lessened the desire any more than hurt and anger have.

I want his touch. I want his hands. I want everything he has to offer.

But god help me, I don’t want to lose it again. I don’t want to be so overwhelmed that control is ripped away from me. I don’t want to be scared of my own reaction.

I can’t handle that sensation of being lost outside myself—as if someone else is feeling things. Doing things.

And I sure as hell can’t handle the nightmares that come with it. Nightmares that I’ve mostly left behind—and that I do not want coming back. Not now. Not ever.

Even more, I don’t want to be used.

I don’t want to be chattel.

Just the thought of it makes me panic, and I have to close my eyes and hug myself and breathe in slowly and steadily.

Hell, maybe I should be grateful he tossed me that ultimatum. Because I was an idiot to think that I could work with him, even if that was the only way to save the resort.

No. I can’t give up. Not yet. Not until I’ve tried everything.

Which means that my plan is to dig into the extensive array of files that the company has on every building project around the world.

And even though I already know that every potential replacement is fully booked for years, I also know I have to try.