Unchain My Heart: An Enemies to Lovers Rockstar Romance (Mephisto Book 2) Read online

  UNCHAIN MY HEART

  MEPHISTO BOOK 2

  NADIA BLAIR

  Copyright © 2022 by Nadia Blair

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

  First printing edition 2022

  Front cover image by James T. Egan at Bookfly Design.

  www.NadiaBair.com

  Content warnings: this story depicts elements of BDSM and a D/s relationship between fully consenting adults. There are also references to assault, substance abuse, and far too many curse words.

  This one is for C.J. Salmans. Thank you for talking me down from the (metaphorical) ledge countless times. You rock.

  Thanks, also, to all of the medical professionals, first responders, retail workers and delivery people who’ve kept our society functioning over these last two incredibly difficult years. I am more grateful for your contributions than I can ever put into words.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Also by Nadia Blair

  PROLOGUE

  Malibu, CA

  Seven Years Ago

  Lanterns and string lights twinkled in the rising dusk. Music pulsed through the air, underscored by the white noise of conversation. Richard Mac made his way through the crowd and found an open spot at the railing of the redwood deck. A headache throbbed at his temples.

  The last light of sunset bled across the horizon, reflected as a blazing smear on the water. Below, the cliffs dropped off sharply, giving Mac the feeling of being suspended over a great void, held between sky and land and sea.

  A woman halted beside him at the railing. She slanted him a coy smile and confided that she was a true submissive. He told her to get lost. Mac never broke his rules. Never picked up girls outside of his club. She gave him a dirty look and stalked off.

  Another night. Another party at Sloan’s Malibu house. Sloan Elliot was Mac’s best mate and bandmate. The man seemed determined to live up to every larger-than-life rock star cliché. Including plastic parties full of plastic people.

  He turned to find Sloan watching from a few feet away. He glanced between Mac and the retreating girl. “Not to your taste?”

  “No.”

  Another girl approached and was summarily rejected. As Sloan watched her slink off, he said, “You enjoy your dark and kinky reputation a bit too much.”

  “We can’t all be the golden boy.” Mac finished his beer.

  Sloan laughed. “Christ, I’m almost twenty-nine. No one should be calling me a ‘boy’ anymore.” He had charisma to burn, an impressive vocal range, chiseled good looks, and a killer grin that melted panties everywhere. “Golden boy” fit, whether Sloan cared to admit it or not.

  Mac was taller and leaner than his mate’s muscular six-foot frame. Usually, he wore his dark blond hair in a long tail. Tonight, he’d left it loose. Though the night was mild, he wore his battered leather jacket over his T-shirt and jeans.

  Sloan snorted as Marilyn Manson started belting out an ironic ode to the beautiful people. “Micah’s hacked my playlist again.”

  “It’s fine.” Not like any of the partygoers would get the joke. Mac surveyed the crowded deck with a frown. “You did tell Danny no shenanigans, yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Sloan scrubbed a hand across his face. “But with him, you never know.” Their bandmate Danny’s version of a “fun surprise” might be an impromptu—and illegal—fireworks spectacle down on the beach. With flame-eaters and fire dancers and a fake Viking funeral for a finale.

  A heavy bass beat joined the chorus of thumping pain in the back of Mac’s skull. “Think I’ll go down to the sand. Clear my head.”

  “Need a bit of tobacco with your fresh air?” Sloan said dryly.

  Their eyes met. Well, fuck. He’d thought his recent relapse had gone unnoticed. He waited for the inevitable lecture.

  “Don’t wander too far. There’s someone I wanna introduce you to in a bit.”

  As Mac headed for the stairs, a horde of adoring girls surrounded Sloan. Mac wandered across the beach, away from the light and music and voices, until shadows swallowed him and he could breathe. He didn’t begrudge Sloan the attention. But Christ, must they live and breathe the rock star lifestyle 24/7?

  He kicked off his boots, letting the warm sand seep between his toes, feeling the murmur of the surf and the caress of the breeze ease the clenched feeling within.

  So much for keeping his filthy secret. He dug his cigarette case and lighter out of his pocket. For a while he smoked in blessed silence.

  Movement caught his eye. A woman wandered up the beach, flirting with the waves teasing around her bare feet. In the light of the rising moon, she was all ember-bright hair and pale skin. The wind plastered her short white dress to her long legs. She waded knee-deep, laughing softly, her head tilting back as she watched a seagull gliding overhead. Something about the purity of her profile in the silver moonlight caught him. He paused for a second look, cigarette smoldering forgotten between his fingers.

  A high wave crashed over her. With a yelp, she staggered back. The sodden dress clung to her skin, the white fabric gone transparent. Mac told himself he wasn’t a crude sod and he shouldn’t look.

  But he did. He had a pulse, didn’t he? Her braless breasts were clearly visible beneath the flimsy fabric, the rosy nipples puckering into hard points. The sight was more erotic than if she’d bared it all to go skinny-dipping.

  “Oh, bollocks! Bloody fucking fuck.” Her curses, uttered in a posh English accent, made him chuckle.

  Mac strode forward as she squelched across the sand. “Here.” He offered his jacket.

  She gaped at him. “Where the devil did you come from?”

  “Melbourne.” It was an asinine response, but her husky voice, so at odds with her prissy accent, was doing strange things to him.

  “You’re laughing at me,” she muttered as she draped the jacket over her shoulders.

  Altruistic impulses were fucking overrated. Her gorgeous curves, those lovely pink-tipped breasts, were now hidden beneath black leather.

  “I am.” Somehow, a statement of the obvious seemed necessary.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. “I never imagined the Pacific wo
uld be so cold.” She swept windblown hair from her face and met his eye.

  As he finally got a good look at her, that tight, tangled knot within him came loose, and for the first time in ages, he could breathe. Mac tossed away his half-smoked cigarette. It spun, glowing, into the darkness.

  He wanted to say, Oh, it’s you.

  What he said was, “Who the fuck are you?”

  She cocked her head. “Of course, you’re Richard Mac. I should have known one of Sloan’s mates would have the looks of a Viking and the manners of a caveman.” She offered her hand. Her palm was cool against his, but her touch seared straight through him. Her breath caught, as if she felt it too. When he skimmed his thumb across the pulse fluttering at her inner wrist, she trembled.

  “I’m Natasha,” she said. “Sloan sent me to fetch you. Said you should stop chain-smoking and pretend to be sociable for a bit.” She glanced down at her hand, still clasped in his. With a gasp, she tugged free.

  Natasha. The name roused a dim memory—Sloan going on and on about his new girl, with legs up to here and long, red hair.

  Christ.

  Never in all his twenty-nine years had he begrudged Sloan anything—not his poster boy good looks, or his voice, or even his effortless charm. Mac had always known his own talents complemented his mate’s. He’d always been content to let Sloan have center stage.

  For the first time in twenty years, he contemplated taking something of his.

  She studied him. “You are Richard?”

  No one called him that. It was Rich, or Mac. Or Sir.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s nice to meet you.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I … I should get back.”

  “Stay.”

  She froze, her gaze flicking between his face and his outstretched hand. The wind buffeted them. Strands of her hair drifted across his face, his chest, engulfing him in a sweet-and-spicy fragrance. With a choked breath, she stepped back. “Sloan’s waiting. You should join us.” Natasha shrugged off his damp jacket and thrust it at him. Then she was hurrying across the beach, fleeing to the safety of Sloan and the light.

  Mac chain-smoked half a pack, but the buzz of nicotine didn’t help.

  Danny came to fetch him. Together, they returned to the party.

  A prickle of sensation along his nape had him turning just as Natasha stepped through the sliding glass door from inside. She’d changed into one of Sloan’s tatty T-shirts and a cutoff jean skirt. Sloan followed her out, grabbing her arse as she laughed and swatted him.

  In the wash of golden light, she was stunning. Tall, leggy, with copper-red hair, sea-green eyes, and the lush curves of a vintage silver screen siren. If she had any talent, she’d set Hollywood on fire.

  Mac braced himself as Sloan performed introductions. He didn’t offer his hand. Neither did she. As she gave him a flat smile, he considered hauling her close and kissing her—in front of Sloan and a horde of people. Because surely then, she couldn’t deny that moment down on the beach. Despite her calm expression, there was something wary in her eyes. As if she knew their lives had been upended.

  But he couldn’t have kissed her—couldn’t have so much as taken her hand—without striking a match to his entire life.

  And Mac never lost control. So he grabbed a beer and toasted the happy couple.

  He spent the rest of the night getting blinding drunk.

  1

  L.A.

  Present Day

  Natasha Bernard rolled down her window. On the winding canyon road, the morning breeze smelled of pines instead of car exhaust, and there was nary a paparazzo in sight.

  She tapped the gas and the black Maserati accelerated smoothly into the curve. Normally, if she were traveling incognito, she wouldn’t have taken the flashy sports car. One of the benefits of Laurel Canyon was its inaccessibility.

  Though it was barely a half-hour’s drive from L.A. proper, it felt a world apart from the congested freeways and endless urban sprawl. The road wound its way between rust-colored crags. Houses clung to juniper-dotted hillsides or nestled in small hollows.

  The drive was a pain, but she understood why the Bastard lived there. He’d made it as hard as possible to get to him.

  She remembered the ancient live oak opposite the turnoff. One skeletal branch pointed at the private road. There should be a sign. Devil’s Road, or maybe “All ye who enter here, despair.” The car rumbled up the steep, graveled drive. Finally, the road leveled out before a gate set in a high stone wall. Stomach clenching, she pulled to a halt before the guardhouse. A blond man in a black “staff” T-shirt looked up from his magazine.

  Natasha removed her sunglasses. “Good morning. They’re expecting me.”

  “It’s her royal highness herself.” His accent was Irish and the grin he shot her was dazzling. Fortunately, she was immune to pretty boys and their wicked charms.

  “Who are you?” She knew most of the band’s security team.

  “Flynn O’Donnell at your service.” He sketched her a mocking bow.

  “I thought Scott was in charge of the Bastard’s security.”

  “Scott’s been reassigned.” One pale eyebrow quirked. “I see the rumors don’t do you justice, Ms. Bernard.”

  She leaned close and let her voice fall to her signature throaty purr. “Don’t believe the rumors, dear. The truth is far worse.”

  “Indeed.” He glanced at a clipboard and chuckled. “Enjoy your meetin’.”

  Enjoy it? Un-fucking-likely. The gates parted, and she followed the private drive to the top of the hill. She parked in the driveway in front of the four-car garage. Her mobile informed her it was 7:45. A glance in the rearview confirmed she looked cool, composed. Ready to take on the Bastard himself.

  The house was about as unpretentious as a mansion could get—two stories and a side wing, all in the rambling, flat-roofed style peculiar to mid-century architecture. Morning came late in the canyon, casting tawny light across the façade, scattering tiny rainbows from the panels of stained glass flanking the door.

  Déjà vu swept over her as she trotted up the steps. She’d been here before, driving up after a day of filming to find Sloan and Richard working on a new song. So many years ago. She didn’t even remember which album it had been. All she remembered was Sloan’s distraction. She might as well have been invisible.

  She swallowed against the old, familiar ache and banished the memories. “You are a very wicked woman,” she reminded herself. And rang the doorbell. Repeatedly.

  In a moment, the door was wrenched open. “Dammit, Danny, what in the name of—” At the sight of her, the Bastard cut off his tirade.

  Natasha was five-nine in bare feet. Sometimes she towered over men. And enjoyed it. But even in her favorite killer heels, she found herself eye-to-eye with Richard Mac. He was six feet, two inches of taut, lean muscle and tightly coiled menace. He wore nothing but low-slung black jeans and two wrists full of metal and leather cuffs. Tribal tattoos snaked their way up both arms. A trail of tawny hair arrowed down the center of his hard-muscled chest.

  The high cheekbones, thin-bladed nose and narrow lips had always put her in mind of a modern-day Viking. Or maybe it was the long, wheat-gold hair, usually tied back in a tail. This morning, it spilled loose down his back. It was terribly unfair for a man to be gifted with such gorgeous hair. In a few of her more rebellious moments, she’d considered cutting it off in his sleep.

  He gave her a scowling once-over, as if he was considering barring her entry—or hoisting her over his shoulder and carrying her off to his dungeon. A jolt of heat flared low in her belly. Ridiculous thought.

  Richard was Mephisto’s guitarist, her ex-husband Sloan’s bandmate.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Somehow, she hadn’t been prepared for the loathing in his amber eyes. Or the accusation in his raspy voice.

  She managed a frosty smile. “Charming, as always, Richard. We have a meeting. Won’t you invite me in?”

  “The meetin
g’s not till nine.”

  “Seriously?” She could have slept in. Or at least taken the time for a proper cuppa instead of the insipid takeaway tea she’d had on the way. “Your assistant told me eight.”

  “What assistant?”

  “Her name was Cait.”

  “Cait’s not an assistant. Why—”

  “Mac?” A woman’s voice sounded from within the house.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Go back to bed.”

  A tall, dark-haired woman appeared beside him in the doorway. Natasha took in the thigh-skimming black satin robe, the long, tanned legs … the proprietary way she touched Mac’s shoulder as she joined him in the open doorway.

  Oh, hell.

  The woman’s brown eyes widened. “Oh. You must be Natasha.” Numbly, she shook her hand. “I’m a fan, a big fan. I’m Cait DaSilva.”

  She froze. “You’re Cait?”

  Cait gave her a lazy once-over. “If you’re really nice, I might let you call me Mistress Cait.”

  “Cait—” Richard shot her a warning glance.

  Natasha freed her hand. “I believe there’s been some sort of mix up.” She believed no such thing, but she’d rather play dumb than let them know their stupid prank had bothered her. “You told me the meeting was at eight.”

  “Did I?” Cait’s eyes widened in faux dismay. “I’m so sorry. I could have sworn I asked my people to email an update. Please, come on in. I’m sure we can scrounge up some coffee while we wait for the others to arrive.” Not waiting for a reply, she disappeared inside the house.