Truth Revealed (Confession Duet Book 2)

  Also by KD Robichaux

  Note from the Author

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright 2017 by KD Robichaux. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Truth Revealed Production Crew

  Editing by Hot Tree Editing

  www.hottreeediting.com

  Cover Design and

  Formatting by Pink Ink Designs

  www.pinkinkdesigns.com

  Cover Photography by FuriousFotog

  www.onefuriousfotog.com

  Cover Model: Matthew Hosea

  Note:

  This story is not suitable for persons under the age of 18.

  *Potential triggers lie within this book

  The Blogger Diaries Trilogy:

  Wished for You

  Wish He was You

  Wish Come True

  The Blogger Diaries Trilogy Boxed Set

  Standalones:

  No Trespassing

  Anthologies:

  Tempting Scrooge

  The Confession Duet:

  Before the Lie

  Truth Revealed

  WARNING

  This story contains:

  Triggers

  A woman’s recollection of being raped

  Stalking

  A damaged submissive heroine

  and a possessive alpha Dom who would do anything to heal her

  In this story, Vi learns how a BDSM relationship could be healing after experiencing her sexual assault. The information my character, Dr. Walker, gives to her during her therapy sessions is real documented cases from survivors who found a D/s relationship therapeutic.

  This is not to say it would work for everyone.

  If you are a survivor of a sexual assault, please do not attempt the things in this story without consulting a professional first. What worked for Vi could cause a trigger effect on someone else.

  Just know I’ve done my research, not only on the internet, but also by talking to an actual therapist very familiar with alternative lifestyles.

  To all the survivors out there.

  “I imagine healing

  will be slow

  and deliberate.

  I imagine healing

  will be whatever

  I want it to be.”

  ~J.R. Rogue

  BLACK HOODIE PULLED up over my shaved head, I keep my face lowered but my eyes raised, following thirty feet behind her. Either she feels me watching her, or she’s paranoid about where she’s headed. I shadow her often, and usually without her hurried footsteps or quick glances over her shoulder, so I’m gonna go with the latter.

  Where are you scampering to, sweet Vivian?

  My obsession. My guilty pleasure. I’m a glutton for punishment. She breathed life into my soul nearly thirteen years ago, only to suffocate it until it was dead three years later. A decade. Ten whole years I’ve been keeping tabs on my ex-wife. The hobby causes a mixture of emotions. It’s thrilling yet soothing. I fucking know it’s wrong. But for some reason, even after she admittedly broke my trust and cheated on me, I still feel protective of her.

  I’ve background checked every person she’s spent time with. She’s had relationships here and there. Only a few have turned intimate. Soon after, and without any of my doing, those relationships ended. She was the one who always broke up with them. I’ve studied her expressions closely when she thinks she’s alone, trying to figure out what she’s thinking. The only conclusion I can come up with to explain her sudden ending of her relationships after the first time they have sex is because of me. I once told her I would ruin her for all other men. Looks like I kept my word.

  Unlike her.

  Loyalty. That’s all I’d fucking asked for. My one deal breaker. I’d gone back and forth in my head before I sent her the divorce papers, wondering if I could forgive her, work through her adultery. But in the end, I stuck to my guns. My lawyer took care of everything. I never even had to speak to her again after that last phone call.

  “I… I slept with someone.”

  With those words, she’d not only broken my heart but killed a part of me. The human part of me. The part that cared about people’s feelings and worried about others’ wellbeing.

  Vi turns right at the end of the block, and as I near the edge of the building, I peek around it, seeing she’s continuing her trek at her hurried pace. I follow, staying out of her direct line of sight if she were to turn around, always keeping a few bodies between us for her eyes to land on first instead of my dark figure.

  It’s early evening; the sun’s barely visible above the horizon in the distance. It’s the time just before the streetlights turn on. This is out of the norm for her. Completely out of her routine. Where are you going, little mouse?

  For the next seven years after we divorced, I spent my time “being all I could be.” I made my way up the ranks, winning marksmanship competitions in Ft. Benning, earned my Ranger tab, blah, blah, blah. And then, three years ago, I was deployed to Afghanistan. In the middle of a firefight, I was shot twice, once in the back and once in the leg, while I helped my men onto a chopper getting everyone out safe. The one in my back is still there. Apparently it was safer to let it become a permanent part of me than to try to dig it out that close to my spine.

  They gave me a bunch of awards for getting shot. How weird is that? I was fine. I wanted to stay with my men and fight. But they sent me home. Kicked me out of the army with honor. But, ya know, at least my Purple Hearts—yep, plural, since they’d given me one after a previous deployment, when I was stabbed in the arm during a raid—and my Medal of Honor are real pretty.

  But throughout all this, I’ve kept tabs on Vi, kept an eye on her every step of her journey. From finishing college after she finally settled on journalism, to quitting her job at Rock On Rock Gym, then starting out as the lowest person on the totem pole at the newspaper. There she made her way up through the ranks for several years until she earned her own column, before she suddenly quit.

  For weeks, I watched out my window as she only came out of her apartment to make a grocery run before locking herself back in for five days at a time. It made me anxious, almost itchy, when I didn’t see her multiple times a day anymore. She no longer left early in the morning for a workout at the climbing gym before her eight-hour day at the paper, which was broken up only by wherever she decided to have lunch that day. Nor did she go out for after-work drinks with her coworkers.

  So I started following her everywhere. Maybe I wouldn’t have done this for so long and so obsessively if I hadn’t kept her from being mugged. Just thinking about that night pisses me the fuck off, so I shove it to the back of my mind.

  Those brief moments I could see her had been enough f
or me between mercenary missions—or security jobs, as we call them out in the open. But when the third month of her only coming out to make a quick trip to the grocery store came to pass, I became fed up. What was she up to?

  You couldn’t have paid me to believe the answer to that question.

  I pulled a B and E and installed a program on her computer to track all her activity before slipping out undetected—but not before stalling at the coatrack by her door and burying my face in one of her sweaters. Fuck, she still smelled the same, like warm vanilla and gardenias.

  After opening my MacBook Pro, with a few keystrokes my computer’s background changed from my normal plain, solid black, to one of Vi and Sierra smiling at the bottom of a rock wall while holding up peace signs. I was in her computer, seeing it as she would. I glanced to the right of the screen, seeing column after column of word documents. Clicking on the top left one, my brows lowered in confusion.

  Her Savage Master

  a BDSM Romance

  by

  VB Lowe

  I closed the doc and opened the one beneath it.

  Her Master’s Revenge

  a BDSM Romance

  by

  VB Lowe

  I sat forward in my office chair, heart pounding as I closed that one and opened another.

  Taming Her Master

  a BDSM Romance

  by

  VB Lowe

  File after file, story after story, written by VB Lowe. Vivian Brown Lowe. Not only was my sweet Vi writing BDSM stories, but she was doing it under a pen name created from her old married name—my last name. When we’d divorced ten years ago, she’d gone back to her maiden name. What could all this mean?

  I opened up Safari and searched VB Lowe, throwing myself in my seat as if I’d been knocked backward when the results popped up. New York Times Bestselling Author VB Lowe. Authorvblowe.com. Wikipedia. Amazon page. Goodreads page. Facebook page. Twitter. Instagram. The search results went on and on.

  I clicked on her Amazon page. Every title on her desktop screen was listed with a book cover next to it, each with a dark theme and red font, and every single one with a hot couple in various sexual poses in different states of undress. All with an average rating of at least four stars.

  This? This was what my sweet, innocent, virginal Vi had been doing, locked inside her apartment?

  I checked the publishing dates of her books, seeing the first one had been published over a year ago. She must have been writing while she was still with the newspaper, and when she became a success, decided to quit and write full time. The perfect job for my reclusive, loner ex-wife.

  Seeing her cross the street at the next intersection snaps me out of the memory. As I speed up my pace so I don’t lose track of her, I catch a glimpse of her dark curls disappearing into a building with an unmarked door.

  An unmarked door I’m very familiar with.

  And rage fills me as I realize…

  My Vivian just walked into my BDSM club.

  WHAT THE HELL am I doing? I think, as I shakily hand the bouncer my driver’s license after giving him the password he demanded when I walked in. Checking my name to make sure it matches the one on his list, he eyes me then hands the card back, opening the door behind his tall, solid body. He doesn’t say a word, and I timidly step forward. As I cross the threshold, the door closes behind me, and I’m engulfed in darkness except for the tiny red lights along the floor that lead up a set of stairs.

  My heart pounds, my anxiety through the roof. My contact, known only to me as Seven, gave me all the instructions I needed to get inside to meet him here. I had found him over a year ago when I was researching BDSM for my books. Without hesitation, he kindly and openly answered all my questions and volunteered information I didn’t even know I was looking for. His stories and experiences were inspiring, and I found myself writing novel after novel, hitting best-seller lists with each new story I released.

  I’ve never met Seven in person before. We’ve Facetimed, but he wore a black mask that covered his entire face. He kept his voice low, and I don’t think I’d be able to recognize it if I had to pick it out of a group.

  After over a year of learning the lifestyle and writing my series, it never dawned on me to meet him until he brought it up in our last conversation on Messenger. I haven’t been out with anyone, friends nor family, in three months. These stories and this world have consumed my entire being, calling to a part of me I didn’t know existed. He invited me to come so I can watch scenes play out in person instead of just the videos he’s sent me, with the participants’ permission, of course. They were all thrilled when I included their nicknames in the acknowledgments of my books.

  So here I am. At the top of the steps, I look around, taking in Club Alias in its dim lighting. The main room is a large, circular, open area. A dance floor is in its center, and there are two bars on either side. Leather booths surround the dance floor, creating a short wall around it. Behind the booths, I see the outer wall has open doorways leading into separated alcoves. These are the playrooms. There are no doors. Seven told me this is a safety precaution. No one is locked behind closed doors where they can’t call for help if needed.

  The process of getting a membership here is extensive. Only the most trustworthy clients are allowed. Yearly memberships are a hefty sum of money too. The logic behind it is that only people willing to pay that kind of cash would be dedicated to keeping Club Alias the high-class and safe environment it’s known to be.

  Seven told me to meet him at the bar at 7:00 p.m. I pull my phone out of my purse and check the time; it’s 6:38. Early for any type of nightclub, especially for one such as this, I assume. There’s no one on the dance floor and only one couple in a booth over to the left. I could use a drink to calm my nerves. I don’t drink much or very often. Usually only a glass or two of wine every once in a while, but now is definitely one of the times I could use a little liquid courage. So taking a deep breath, I make my way forward until I reach the bar on the right and take a seat on one of the barstools.

  A woman in a tight red corset and a black thong behind the bar makes her way over to me, her eyes downcast behind a lace half mask. “What would you like, madam?” she asks, keeping her eyes lowered and her face blank.

  “Ummm, do you have any type of wine or just mixed drinks?” I question, not seeing anything but liquor behind the bar.

  She lifts her gaze to mine, a bright smile lighting her face. “Ah, you must be a new sub. Yes, we have wine. Would you like sweet or dry?”

  “Sweet, please. And no, I’m not a sub,” I reply, and she quickly lowers her eyes once more, her face looking almost panicked.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, madam. I meant no disrespect. I assumed you were a submissive because of your question instead of a command.” Her voice almost trembles.

  I quickly try to calm her. “I’m neither. I mean, I’m not a Domme or a sub. I’m here to do research for my books. I’m meeting Seven here… at seven.” I can’t help but snigger.

  She gasps, gives a little hop, and clasps her hands together. “You’re VB Lowe? Oh my goodness, I’m so excited to meet you! I’m Dixie. You put me in the acknowledgments of your last book!”

  A smile splits my face at recognizing Dixie from her videos before I feel heat rise in my face. I keep my real identity off the internet. There are no pictures of me on any of my accounts, and I don’t do book signings. I ship autographed books to my readers through my website, but there is no real information about who I am anywhere. My author bio is more fictional than the stories I tell. Dixie is officially the first person who has ever met me as an author, and I tell her so.

  “I’ve never told anyone who I am. You’re the first to put my pen name to a face,” I say shyly, tucking my hair behind my ear.

  “Are you fucking serious right now? Shut up! Can I hug you? Like, don’t think I’m a stalker fan or something, but I have all your books. I fucking love you!” she squeals, and I nervously glance at the coup
le in the booth on the opposite side of the dance floor, seeing their curious expressions. “Sorry,” Dixie whisper-hisses, covering her mouth and hunching down, as if to hide behind the bar.

  I laugh, shaking my head. “I’ve never gotten to hug any of my readers before, even though several have told me they wish they could. So yeah. I’ll take one.”

  She hops again before making her way out from behind the bar and over to me. I spin on my barstool and barely have time to stand before she throws her arms around my neck and squeezes me to her. She jumps up and down and squeals, her excitement infectious. When she pulls away, I’m grinning from ear to ear.

  “It’s so nice to meet you. Thank you for sending me the video of your bullwhip scene. That was incredible to watch,” I tell her.

  It had been fascinating to watch her complete trust in her Dom. She hadn’t moved a muscle as his bullwhip whizzed through the air before making a loud crack against her skin, the area turning a pretty shade of pink. She’d moaned in pleasure. I can remember clearly the sound of wanton lust as if I were hearing it through headphones as we speak.

  “You’re more than welcome. Reading it after you put it into written form was so fucking hot,” she says. We then hear a door close somewhere as it echoes throughout the empty club, sending her to scurry back behind the bar. She hurries to fix my glass of wine, setting it in front of me before taking her place where she was when I first sat down, her eyes casting downward once again.

  Her immediate change in attitude and demeanor sends nervous butterflies into flight inside my belly. I sit back down on my barstool and glance at the time on my phone.

  It’s 7:00 p.m.

  “THE FUCK IS she doing here, Seth?” I roar, my fist coming down on his desk inside his office of Club Alias, our mercenary team’s headquarters. To everyone not privy to the BDSM club upstairs, it looks like a mere security services office on the bottom floor.