Threads That Bind Us (Syndicate of Fate Book 1), page 1
Threads That Bind Us
Syndicate of Fate
Book 1
Rae Douglas
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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Copyright @ 2024 Rae Douglas
Threads That Bind Us, Syndicate of Fate Book One
First Publication: June 24, 2024
Cover art: Amanda Hawkins (@eternalgeekery)
Developmental editor: Rose Santoriello (@monsterromanceauthor)
Proofreader: R.N. Barbosa (@barbosbooks_)
Formatting by Rae Douglas
All rights reserved. Except for in use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the express written consent of the publisher.
Published by Rae Douglas
hello@raedouglas.com
raedouglas.com
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For oldest sisters, those who find themselves in darkness, and everyone who has ever learned control by giving it up.
And for Rose. For inspiring Ana and inspiring me. Thank you for being the symbiotic parasite that lives inside my brain.
Trigger and Content Warnings
Trigger Warnings
Murder (on page)
Torture (on page)
Domestic violence (between a supporting character and her partner, off page)
Miscarriage as the result of domestic violence (between a supporting character and her partner, off page)
Childhood cancer diagnosis (teenager, non-fatal, supporting character, treatment as a major plot point of book)
Abandonment by mother/mommy issues
Explicit Sexual Themes
Femmedomme
Pegging
Begging
Orgasm denial/control
Restraints (improvised)
Squirting
Power exchange
Public play (agoraphilia, not exhibitionism, no one is watching)
This book is a work of fiction and should be treated as such. While thorough research and personal experience went into crafting Gwen and Charlie’s love story and sexual journey, this romance book (like all others) should act as inspiration, not education. If you’re inspired by any of the activities Gwen and Charlie explore, please seek out educational resources on risk aware consensual kink (RACK).
Playlist
Goodbye Earl - The Chicks
The Night We Met - Lord Huron
Do I Wanna Know? - Arctic Monkeys
Sour Diesel - ZAYN
Power Over Me - Dermot Kennedy
If I Killed Someone For You - Alec Benjamin
Silence - Marshmello, Khalid
Angel of Small Death and the Codeine Scene - Hozier
New Girl - FINNEAS
Worship - Ari Abdul
Lose Control - Teddy Swims
invisible string - Taylor Swift
Contents
Prologue
1. Gwen
2. Gwen
3. Gwen
4. Charlie
5. Gwen
6. Charlie
7. Charlie
8. Gwen
9. Gwen
10. Charlie
11. Gwen
12. Charlie
13. Charlie
14. Gwen
15. Gwen
16. Gwen
17. Gwen
18. Charlie
19. Gwen
20. Charlie
21. Charlie
22. Gwen
23. Charlie
24. Gwen
25. Gwen
26. Charlie
27. Gwen
28. Gwen
29. Gwen
30. Charlie
31. Gwen
Epilogue One
Epilogue Two
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
Charlie
Six Months Ago
Fresh blood coats her arm, staining the sleeve of her shirt. Copper hair is braided against her head, framing round, flushed cheeks on pale skin. I can’t see her eyes in the shadow of this disgusting alley, and that’s a damned shame, because she’s a vision.
She’s breathing hard, still holding the bloody switchblade in a shaking grip. The man she stabbed has his hands pressed to his abdomen, blood seeping through his fingers. He’s tall, unkempt, and a belligerent regular at the strip club we’re behind. I recognize him from the number of times the bouncers have had to escort him out when he gets too handsy with the dancers.
Seems like that won’t be an issue anymore.
The woman—I wish I knew her name—watches as her victim slumps against the alley wall, tension stringing her body tight. He sneers fucking bitch loud enough for even me to hear, but she doesn’t seem to react. She just observes him as he bleeds out on the ground, long enough that the puddle of blood beneath him grows stagnant.
I’ve watched dozens of people kill with more expertise and skill than what she displayed, but seeing her press that blade into this pile of filth, watching her twist the knife, was one of the most erotic things I’ve ever experienced. Troubling, though maybe not surprising, considering my line of work. The jerk of her muscles thrumming with adrenaline and what must be fear, the twitch in her jaw when she thrust up into his abdomen. It was like watching a savant touch the keys of the piano for the first time.
It’s clear she’s a novice at this. There are places she could have stabbed him that would have prolonged his agony, or hastened his death, whatever her goal was. But she’s clearly a natural. And there’s something I can’t explain that draws me to her.
She caught my eye in the strip club. Her outfit was out of place for a patron, too conservative to be here for fun. She scoped out the club until she spotted her target—the guy currently laying facedown on the ground. At first I thought she was pissed at her boyfriend or something, which isn’t an uncommon occurrence at this establishment. Instead, she squared her shoulders and sat within this guy’s line of sight.
It didn’t take more than a half hour for him to lead her by the hand toward this alley. I should have stayed in the club and waited for my contact, but something pulled me toward her, and I never ignore my intuition.
I’m thankful I didn’t, because missing out on this would be the disappointment of a lifetime. I keep watching as she gently pushes his body with the toe of her tennis shoe, and he slumps further into the ground. She hesitates, glancing toward the door to the strip club and down the alley where I’m lurking in the shadows. Finally, she squats down in front of him, and with the most controlled fury I’ve ever heard, says, “I wish I could fucking kill you twice.”
It’s like her voice activates some sort of current beneath my skin. A riptide of lust crashes through me at the sound of her anger. My blood hums in my veins, and I have the irrational desire to be on the receiving end of her rage.
I’m transfixed, carnal desire leaving my cock hard and my chest tight as I watch her shift her victim until she can find purchase at his shoulders and drag him clumsily toward the dumpster at the other end of the alley.
For a split second, I think about making myself known, telling her that garbage pickup happens in less than two hours, and she’s not giving herself enough of a head start. That there are security cameras in the club that are going to show her leaving with him. But I imagine my presence would only terrify her.
She tucks his body as far behind the dumpster as she can, covering what’s exposed with dirty cardboard boxes. After surveying her work, she glances down at herself. She’s managed to keep her jeans fairly clean—a miracle, to be honest—but her t-shirt is covered in blood. I tense as she lifts it over her head. Christo. I try my very best not to stare at the soft slope of her pale shoulders, at the way her thin tank top conforms to her curves, at the place where it rides up at her waist.
I must let out some small sound, because she whips around and looks directly toward me. I still can’t see her expression clearly, but her shoulders are tense, her head turning from side to side, searching for the source of the noise.
I hold my breath, waiting for her to calm, to convince herself she imagined the sound. Eventually she does, balling up the shirt and aiming toward the trash. At the last second she thinks better of it, grabbing her switchblade off the ground, wrapping it in the shirt, and tucking it into her bag that she’d tossed on the ground.
She sends one last glance back at the dumpster and then starts toward the mouth of the alley. I press myself farther into the enclave I’m hiding in, holding my breath again. As she passes, I get a momentary closer look. She’s tall, with gentle curves and long limbs. Freckles like stars dance along her shoulders and crawl up her neck under the harsh light of the streetlamp. She’s turned away from me, and I’ve got
It takes me a moment to process the way I reacted to her, so ensnared by something I’ve seen hundreds of times before. It almost pains me to admit I’ll likely never see her again. I need to brush off this experience and go find Lexi inside the club, but my eyes keep flickering to the other end of the alley. To the place where I’m certain I watched her become a killer.
It’s irrational, but before I know it, I’m calling Zane, telling him to coordinate with Renee and be at my location for a cleanup in twenty minutes. I find a rotting two by four and jam it under the doorknob of the back entrance to the club to avoid interruptions.
I know better than to touch anything before Renee arrives to do what she does best, but the curiosity is too strong. I yank my sleeve over my hand and shift the boxes.
His body is rolled onto its side, his face pressed into the rancid ground. I reach into his back pocket and slip out his wallet. Bryan Crankshaft. Height listed as a few inches taller than he actually is. Address in Anacostia. He’s got a Metrocard, cigarette papers, two expired condoms, and a credit card that doesn’t have his name on it, but instead says McKenzie Willard.
Renee shows up first, blocking the mouth of the alley with her car and practically skipping to my side. She’s got her platinum blonde hair in dutch braids, and she’s decked in a skintight black outfit with platform combat boots. She looks like a video game character, and would take such an observation as a compliment.
“Kind of messy for you, boss,” she says, her voice high and lyrical as always. She squats next to the body, poking it with a manicured nail. “Out to the farm?”
I nod, and she stands up, dusting her hands off and glancing over her shoulder as Zane arrives. While Renee prepares her materials, Zane finds his place next to me. He stares at Bryan’s body for a few moments before clearing his throat.
“That’s not your work.” He doesn’t pose it as a question, and it doesn’t require a response. Zane’s been my driver and right hand for nearly four years, and he’s seen my handiwork up close and personal too many times to count.
As Renee rolls Bryan’s body onto a tarp, something catches my eye.
Tucked under the wheel of the dumpster is a watch. Its face is small and slightly cracked, and the clasp is broken. The band is black leather, impressed with a snakeskin pattern, and even though it’s dark, I can tell it’s soaked through with blood. It could be anyone’s. It could have been here for weeks before tonight. But despite the blood, it seems fairly clean, and for some inexplicable reason, I reach down and snag it.
It’s pretty. Vintage. Delicate in design but sturdy in structure. I slip it into my pocket, rubbing my thumb over the pattern in the leather.
Zane and I leave Renee to her work, and as he drives us out of the Navy Yard, I stare out into the starless night, thinking about fate and copper hair.
Chapter 1
Gwen
I’m scribbling furiously on the notepad balanced on my knee, with its Children’s National logo emblazoned in red across the top, a little gray teddy bear waving at me. Cheerful little asshole. On my right, Ana is squeezing my hand so tightly that both of our fingers are turning white, but I don’t shake her off. I want to grab and hold her. I want to sob together. Whatever the oncologist is saying is literally life-or-death important, but I can’t focus. My attention flits to the uncomfortably happy photos of sick kids on the walls, to the old carpet and heavy furniture, to the bright wallpaper and sleek computer, overwhelmed by the weird hospital time capsule vibe of the room. I’m disoriented, and maybe it’s a physical reaction to the impossible words coming out of this doctor’s mouth.
“Surgery is our next step,” she says, her eyes kind and voice soft. I know it’s probably because she’s done this so many times that she knows how to stay composed, but I wish she would yell. Be angry at the cancer with me. “But I want to make sure you understand, Morgana. Stage 0 DCIS means the cells are pre-cancerous—it hasn’t spread. You’re incredibly lucky that we caught this so early. Treatment is relatively short, and if everything goes according to plan, your long-term risk of invasive cancer is incredibly low. This is treatable and survivable.”
Ana’s face is blank as she nods, but I can feel her sweating against my palm. It’s not like we didn’t see this coming; a fifteen-year-old doesn’t make it into this room without a horrifying number of tests and needles and scans. We’ve been overwhelmed with meetings with social services and family support liaisons and so many people who are trying to prepare me to be the twenty-seven-year-old caretaker of a kid with cancer.
Dr. Beldiah, the annoyingly pleasant oncologist, continues talking about timelines and treatments and next steps. She explains how I can schedule everything with a family assistance specialist who will call me tomorrow. I’m writing every word down because I’m currently running on auto-pilot, and I think Ana’s hand in mine is the only thing stopping me from crumbling.
“Gwen, could I possibly speak to you in the hall? A nurse is going to come in to take Morgana’s vitals and give her some information.” Dr. Beldiah picks up her phone and presumably dials whatever nurse she’s referencing.
For the first time in over twenty minutes, I turn fully toward my favorite person in the entire world. Her auburn hair is twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck, messy and frayed. Her jaw is clenched, and her nostrils flared. But she’s not afraid. I’ve seen this look on Ana before—she’s angry. And fuck, doesn’t she deserve to be?
Her hand grips mine so tightly I’ve lost feeling in it, but she doesn’t turn to me. I know that expression too, because I know all of them. She doesn’t want me to leave.
“I think I’d rather stay with her for now, if you don’t mind,” I breathe out, feeling like I’m talking through a straw. “You can say what you need to say here. She deserves to know everything.” I turn back to Dr. Beldiah. “She can handle it.”
Her eyes flicker between me and Ana, and she’s saved from answering by the click of the door opening and shutting. An older man with speckled hair and wire-rim glasses kneels beside Ana and wraps her free arm in the blood pressure cuff. A little pulse monitor goes on her finger. Dr. Beldiah leans toward me.
“Someone from the billing office will call you sometime this week to set up an appointment. There are financial aid applications, and they can answer questions about your insurance coverage. It’s a lot to handle, I know, but there’s support here.”
I wince and glance at Ana. The doc was right—she doesn’t need to hear this. I grimace as the nurse tells her they’re going to need to do her blood pressure one more time and she should take some deep breaths.
“Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind.” I say the words, but I’m not really sure what I mean. My little sister has been on my insurance since the day my first plan kicked in, about a month after high school graduation. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a dentist before then—our mother has never been particularly skilled with paperwork or appointments or parenting—but ever since, I’ve made sure she’s the absolute picture of health. Teeth cleanings and eye exams and physicals before joining the softball team. And when she took a line drive to the chest during practice, I got her to the emergency room, thinking we could handle whatever was coming. My biggest worry was that she broke a rib and she wouldn’t be able to play in the winter league championship.
And now here we are, one CT scan, two MRIs, a biopsy, and countless blood tests later, and I have no idea how much this will cost. I’ve created a comfortable life for us, but my tips keep us afloat, and the insurance isn’t this good.
Eventually, her blood pressure settles, and Dr. Beldiah sends us off with a folder stuffed with pamphlets and forms. As we leave the hospital hand in hand, Morgana doesn’t say a word. We’ve had nine years of it just being the two of us. We know each other inside and out, left and right, and I’m certain Ana needs to be the first one to break the silence. She needs to exert some small amount of control in this situation.
