Page 80 of Beneath the Surface

He’d read about her before—her name had appeared in an academic journal when Professor Murdoch had dissected his research. Isobel’s statistical analysis was pivotal in unraveling his conclusions, the one note of credit that made her name stick in his memory like a thorn. But in the flesh, she was so much more than the name on the page.

Her auburn braid gleamed under the stage lights, perfectly woven down her back in a statement of precision and control. Her hazel eyes sparkled with intelligence as she answered questions with wit and authority, her voice smooth but firm. She was articulate, charming, and infuriatingly bright.

Hale felt the first stirrings of a dark fascination. How could someone so submissive in nature—he could sense it in herposture, in the way her lips quirked slightly downward when she didn’t agree with the panelists—possess such audacity to challenge his work?

Her smile was professional but warm, her laughter ringing softly over a pointed but kind clarification to another speaker’s question. He watched her hands, the way they moved deliberately with her words, occasionally brushing her braid back over her shoulder. He pictured those same hands gripping the edge of a desk, trembling with anticipation.

“A scholarship for the most promising candidate of the year.” The words of the moderator snapped Hale’s attention back to the present. Isobel’s name was called, and she stood to accept the honor, her cheeks flushed with a mix of pride and humility. The applause roared, but for Hale, the sound faded into nothingness. His gaze followed her every move as she made her way across the stage to accept her award.

The smile on her lips, that natural grace, made him clench his fists. She was perfect. Too perfect. She was everything he despised and everything he desired—submission wrapped in strength, defiance disguised as charm. She would need to be broken. Corrected. Punished for her insolence.

Back at his hotel room that evening, Hale poured himself a glass of scotch and sat by the window, watching the rain streak across the glass. Isobel’s image was seared into his mind. He could still hear her voice as she’d spoken about the importance of rigorous statistical analysis, the smugness in her tone when she indirectly referenced her work debunking his conclusions.

He threw back the scotch, the burn in his throat igniting his thoughts further. She had dared to challenge him, publicly undermine him, and yet… she had no idea of the storm she had stirred. He imagined her face, those intelligent eyes wide with confusion, with fear, as she realized just how far he was willing to go to claim her.

The braid. That long, elegant braid. He could picture it wrapped around his wrist, pulling her closer as she knelt before him. Her lips, so soft and full, would part obediently as he guided her into submission. Her sharp mind would falter, reduced to nothing but his will. Her curves, her body—he envisioned her bent over his knee, her bottom flushed from the impact of his hand, her cries echoing with the perfect mix of pain and pleasure.

She would learn discipline. She would learn respect.

And then there was her submission. It radiated from her, even as she tried to hide it behind her professional façade. He saw it in the way her shoulders relaxed slightly when someone praised her, the faint blush that colored her cheeks under scrutiny. She was natural prey, though she probably didn’t even realize it. He’d have to show her. Teach her what it meant to truly give in, to truly surrender.

But first, she had to pay for what she’d done.

The statistical analysis. That damned paper gave Dr. Murdoch the ammunition to dismantle his career. She thought it was just numbers, just data. But it wasn’t. It was his life’s work. And she had ripped it apart with her spreadsheets and her smug little formulas. She had humiliated him, taken what was his, and presented it to the world as flawed, as wrong.

Hale set down his empty glass with deliberate precision, his pulse quickening. She would be his. Not just for revenge, but because he needed her. Because she was the perfect canvas for his control, the ultimate conquest.

Weeks later, he returned to South Dakota and watched her again from afar at the clinic she volunteered at. He’d begun studying her movements, her routines. She was an open book to him now, predictable in her habits. He wasn’t sure yet how he’d make his move, but he didn’t need to rush. For now, the hunt was enough to sustain him.

But, he promised himself, that braid would be in his hand. And her defiance, her brilliance, her submission—they would all belong to him.

Once he had her, he would whisk her away, disappear into the shadows he knew so well, and she would be completely at his mercy. His fantasies had played out every possible scenario in his mind. The thought of her bound before him, her spirit crushed, her body yielding to his darker desires made his pulse quicken.

Malcolm’s smile twisted into something ugly, something vile. He had every intention of showing her the most extreme sides of D/s, the parts Brad had likely shielded her from. She thought she knew Dominance, submission. She thought she had been trained. But what Brad had taught her was nothing compared to what he planned to do. He would break her in ways she couldn’t even imagine, push her past the point of no return.

And when she begged for mercy, her voice trembling and hoarse from crying out, he would only push harder. More pain, more control, more degradation. Isobel Everhart would be his masterpiece of destruction.

His mouth curled in a perverse smile as the images flickered through his mind. He could almost hear her screams, feel the tremors in her body as she yielded to him out of sheer desperation. He would take his time, stretch it out for days, until there was nothing left of the proud woman Brad Killian had fallen in love with. She would exist only to serve his darkest whims.

Malcolm’s fingers traced the edge of the magazine as he settled back into his seat. The anticipation was intoxicating, but he had been patient. It was all about timing. He had waited this long, but now it was time.

Thirty

The hospital buzzed with activity—nurses hurrying from room to room, muffled conversations, and the distant beeping of monitors. Isobel sat on a hard chair in the waiting room, her hands clasped tightly together, her nerves fraying with each passing second. Dillon and Riley stood like statues near the door. Their presence was a small comfort, but the tension in the air was suffocating.

Molly was in surgery, and every minute felt like an eternity. Isobel stared blankly at the tiled floor, her mind racing with worry. She barely noticed when a man in a hospital security uniform approached the officers, clipboard in hand.

“Officers Dillon and Riley?” the man asked, his voice calm and professional.

Dillon straightened. “That’s us.”

The man nodded, adjusting his glasses. “I’m Mitchell Harris, head of security for the hospital. Dr. Blackwell notified us about the protection situation. We’ve had a minor issue with our surveillance system. I need one of you to accompany me to review the footage and ensure everything’s secure around Ms. Everhart.”

Dillon frowned, exchanging a glance with Riley. “What kind of issue?”

“A brief breach in our system. Likely nothing, but given the situation, we’re being extra cautious. It won’t take long, but I’d prefer one of you to verify while the other stays here with Ms. Everhart.”

Riley hesitated, glancing at Isobel. “I’ll go,” he said, his voice low. “Dillon, you stay with her.”

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