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Two years into our relationship and our dynamic had transformed into a full-time twenty-four-seven d/s relationship. I had thought that I’d never commit to a full-time dynamic, but it had progressed so naturally, that when Jason had brought it to my attention one day, I had just smiled and shrugged.

They were my Dom’s and I was their Sub—that was all that mattered to me. I enjoyed them taking charge and taking care of me. Following their rules was such a turn on for me. Most of the time, we were on the same page about our relationship, and when we weren’t, we paused and spoke about our feelings. If one of us really wasn’t listening, then we used a safe-word, my guys included.

Since I’d been at work when I had used my safe-word, it was more of a wake-up call to my overprotective and very worriedDom’s. They knew my job could be crazy and unpredictable. They were just worried that I wasn’t home. It was late and the weather was crap and we lived in an unsafe world.

So when I texted our group chat at two in the morning, I was not surprised when I immediately received a response from Nico, to get home safe in the rain.

Maya:

Finally clocking out and headed home

Nico:

Get home safe Little Dreamer. Shit went down at the clubhouse. We’ll be home late.

I was a little surprised that they hadn’t come to pick me up, but his text was all I had to go off.

“Night Dwight,” I mumbled to the night-shift security guard as I walked by, finally headed for the main door of the hospital.

“Goodnight, Miss Maya. You have a safe drive home now.” The older man gave me one of his bright white smiles.

I returned his easy smile and wondered if I should just wait out the rain a couple hours, maybe find a supply closet that one of the residents had carved a sleeping cubby into.

As quickly as that thought entered my mind, I dismissed it. I’d just finished a fourteen-hour shift, at the end of a six-day run. I was about to be off for the next eight days and I was more than ready to be home and in my own bed. I wouldn’t even bother showering until I woke up.

A crack of lighting flashed across the sky, followed quickly by a booming blast of thunder that rattled my bones and the windows. “Shit,” I muttered as I paused at the door. My Honda Civic was parked somewhere in the middle of the employee lot, a good hundred yards away from the door. There was no doubt about it, I was getting soaked.

I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt up over my head and muttered, “Fuck it.” I darted out into the night and the torrential downpour, praying I didn’t slip and fall.

When I was finally safe in my car, I started the engine before I stripped off my soaking wet hoody. I grabbed a dry one from the mountain of laundry that was tossed in the back seat, still there from the weekend before when I’d planned to go to the laundry mat, but never made it.

Now I was grateful for the dry clothes as I waited for my car to warm up in the early spring night. While I waited, my car made a dinging noise and I groaned when I saw the gas light had come on. “Motherfucker,” I sighed.

Annoyed, I pulled out of the parking spot and fixed the radio as I pulled out of the lot. I headed down the road toward home, hoping that the twenty-four-hour gas station by the house wasn’t closed because Barry decided to drink on the job and locked up early.

Ten minutes later I pulled into the well-lit gas station and sighed. It was still raining torrentially and the overhangs didn’t helpwhen the rain was blowing sideways. I was the only car in the lot though. I quickly got out my car and did the deed of paying with my credit card before I put the nozzle in my tank, then rushed back into the car.

I was just settling in when two cars raced into the parking lot, a fancy BMW coupe and a late model Buick LaSabre. The LaSabre roughly cut off the BWM, boxing it in between me and pump. I watched in horror as an older white man climbed out of the BMW and started shouting at the driver of the LaSabre.

My blood chilled in my veins as the driver of LaSabre opened the door and stepped out. Dressed in black from the hood on his head, to the heavy black boots he wore, the man that stepped out was broad-shouldered and tall. Much taller than the older white man that had stepped out of the BMW.

One look at the man covered in black clothing, had shivers running down my spine. He may be some twenty feet away and in the pouring rain, but the man was intimidating as hell, as was the Glock 9mm he pulled out of the back of his pants.

I gasped, watching the scene unfold before me, like watching a car crash—I wasn’t able to look away. Lighting flashed as thunder rolled through and the black-clad man fired off the 9mm several times.

The older white man jerked back violently, as his body absorbed the bullets.

I covered my mouth to keep myself from screaming, as the shooter pumped several more rounds into his victim, and he fell backwards onto the hard pavement.

There was no doubt in my mind I had just witness a hit—this was an outright assassination. And I was in the wrong place at the wrong damn time. Motherfucking shit.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

There was a loud thump as the gas pump finished filling my Civic. I jumped in my seat, startled and drew the attention of the shooter. That intimidating man, dressed in all black, turned my way. He gave just the slightest tilt of his head, as he acknowledged my presence.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I gasped, fumbling for the lock on my car door. I couldn’t drive away; the nozzle was still in the gas tank.

Slowly, oh so slowly, the man in black turned and stalked toward me. In no time at all, he was before me, stopping right outside my driver’s side window, towering over my car. He placed a hand on the roof and leaned down to face me, using the Glock to knock on the window to get my attention.