Eden Bradley - The dark garden

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I need to thank so many people for helping me to create The Dark Garden.

First, to B., for giving me the opportunity to write full time, and for always believing in me.

To my fabulous critique partners, Gemma Halliday and Jennifer ColganI couldnt have done this without you! To the dynamic duo, Jax and Amanda, the writing team of Cassidy Kent, for spending an entire weekend brainstorming this story with me. To my amazing agent, Roberta Brown, for convincing me that I could do this and for being endlessly enthusiastic about my work. To Sunny, for pushing me in the direction of New York. To Sasha White, for cheerleading me through this book and making me write more than I ever thought I could. To my Divas, for the constant support. And last but not least, to my brilliant editor, Shauna Summers, for making this the best book it could be.

ONE

R OWAN RAN HER HAND OVER THE COOL METAL OF the chain suspended from the ceiling, drawing her fingers along the sleek, steely surface, one link, then the next. She curled her fingers around the length of it, slid her hand down until she felt the soft touch of leather against her skin, moving her fingers absently over the buckles of the cuffs.

She breathed in the familiar, earthy scent of leather. Club Priv. The most exclusive BDSM club on the West Coast. Rowans second home.

She surveyed the space where her friends and acquaintances were preparing for the play party tonight. The room was, as always, womblike, with its dark red walls and dim purple and amber lights. The mesmerizing, tantric cadence of a Gregorian chant filled the air. She crossed the expanse of wood floor to find a seat on one of the red velvet couches that edged the play area, nodding quietly to those she knew, careful not to intrude as they cleaned and prepared their equipment and set the mood with their partners.

The familiar faint buzz of sensual anticipation that was always present at a play party was heavy in the air, a palpable shared energy that built up as the evening wore on. And as had happened all too often lately, a surge of disappointment rose up in her at the emptiness inside that this place had once filled so beautifully.

When had it all begun to mean so little, when at one time it had been everything to her?

She watched as more people filtered into the room and willed herself not to fidget. Why was she even here? She had no intention of playing tonight; she wasnt in the mood. She was far too edgy, and dominating even the most beautiful boys at the club, the most obedient, was no longer satisfying. Shed been like this for months, and nothing seemed to help. Yet at the same time, her writing, her dark secret writing, was going better than ever. Words seemed to flow out of her fingertips effortlessly in a tide of language and emotion. It should have been a release, yet she never came out of it feeling sated anymore.

The music changed to the familiar trancelike tones that signaled the official beginning of the evening. Submissive men and women were bound to the large wooden crosses, the spanking benches, the racks. They were beautiful, all of them, regardless of their shape or size. She had always thought so. There was beauty in the act of submission itself, something which never failed to amaze her.

She had talked about it at the discussion group she ran one Tuesday night each month for those new to the lifestyle. They talked a lot about the psychology of BDSM, of the rituals and symbols that were the basis of it all. She was glad she was able to help people make the transition into accepting this secret side of themselves. But in the five years she herself had been involved, there was a part of her that never quite felt whole.

Dont think about it now, dont think about why.

One of the male submissives she often played with approached her with a smile of greeting, knelt on the floor before her. He was one of her favorites. Blond, with soft, curling hair and a cherubic face, he had a sweet temperament and the stamina of a racehorse. She shook her head, letting him know she wasnt prepared to play.

Are you sure, Mistress?

Not tonight, Eric. But dont worry, youre sure to catch somebodys eye. She reached out and stroked a finger over his shoulder with a sigh.

May I serve you, Mistress? A drink, maybe?

Thank you, no. Go play. Enjoy your evening. Im going to observe tonight.

As you wish. He boldly took her hand and brushed a kiss over her skin.

Rowan smiled. Off with you, now.

Yes, Maam.

She forced her focus back to the floor. The club was crowded tonight. Almost every play station was in use. Groups lounged on the couches, as she did, or sat at the small caf tables placed here and there, the submissives, or bottoms, serving food and drinks to their Masters and Mistresses, or kneeling on the floor at their feet. A small group of new submissives were huddled against one wall like a bunch of teenage girls at their first dance, waiting to be noticed. All wore the white leather protective collar of the club along with their scanty lingerie, signaling their availability and their status as bottoms. Rowan was glad that as a dominant at the club, shed never had to go through those first excruciating experiences, that waiting to be chosen. She chose her partners. It would never be any other way for her. Controlling her sensuality was key. She had allowed herself to be controlled by another once and had paid far too high a price.

She shivered, pushing away the memories, down deep where they belonged, where she had kept them locked away for so long.

When she glanced up, a shining cascade of strawberry blond hair caught her eye and April, a new friend from the monthly discussion group, came to sit on the floor near her feet.

Good evening, Mistress Rowan. The pretty young womans voice was light, lilting. Her warm smile reached her round, cornflower blue eyes.

Rowan laughed. Dont be silly. Im not your Mistress, no need for such formalities. She patted the seat next to her. Come, sit with me.

April smiled, tugged at the hem of her short baby pink leather skirt, and settled onto the cushions close to Rowan.

How are you, April?

Her lashes fluttered as she looked away. Nervous. Yearning.

Ah. Who is he?

April gestured with her chin toward a large man with close-cut dark hair and a goatee, dressed in the standard Dom attire: black jeans, a black T-shirt, a black leather vest. He was strapping a naked woman to a St. Andrews cross, a large wooden X on a platform with hooks to which he attached the girls leather wrist and ankle cuffs.

Rowan nodded. Decker. Hes Irish, but hes been here in the States for a while, and hes been at the club at least as long as I have. Does something in the music industry; a sound engineer, I think. Hes very experienced, has great technique. You could do worse. He plays with all the girls here, and theyre all half in love with him. But hes never stuck with one woman. He wont scene with anyone for more than one night at a time. Hes not the commitment type. You should know that.