href="#uade32945-7e55-5d68-ba1c-2066840da292">Chapter 1
The things he wants, they are dirty—depraved even—but then so are my fantasies. The difference is he knows how to ask for what he wants, and I lost my voice long ago.
—Isabelle’s Command: Possession, Volume 1
by MJ Lane
“Don’t leave,” he says. This time, his words are not an ultimatum. “Tell me what you want. Anything. I am yours to command.”
—Isabelle’s Command: Submission, Volume 2
by MJ Lane
I found my voice. But now, my heart is exposed. And I don’t know if I’m ready to love him.
—Isabelle’s Command: Control, Volume 3
by MJ Lane (A Work In Progress)
“EVERY WOMAN IN here is staring at you.”
U.S. Army Ranger Logan Reed looked up from his burger at the petite, white-haired woman across the table. Fact was he would rather be anywhere—Iraq, Afghanistan, a remote African village—but here, sitting across the table from his aunt Lou at The Quilted Quail, an old barn that had been converted into the only respectable restaurant in Mount Pleasant, Vermont.
“Because they want to raffle me off at the Summer Festival.” He returned his attention to his food. After a week spent hiking and camping, he’d thought a decent meal would be worth venturing into town for an early dinner. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
“You can’t hide from the people who have known you since you were in diapers. Look, there’s Cindy.” Aunt Lou waved her hand at the blond-haired, blue-eyed first-grade teacher. “She was asking when you’d be back from your trip. She is in charge of this year’s raffle and she thinks ‘lunch with a hero’ will be a big-ticket item.”
“I’m not a goddamn hero.”
“Language, Logan,” his aunt scolded.
He watched as Cindy weaved through the wooden tables. He’d been approached by nearly everyone who had anything to do with the town’s Summer Festival since his commanding officer had ordered him to take some time to rest, relax and get his head on straight. After Logan’s mistake had left his teammate with a bullet in the shoulder, he couldn’t blame his CO. And now that a journalist wanted to write a book about the mission Logan had screwed up? The army had even more reason to keep him on R & R.
Active duty Special Forces soldiers did not give interviews. Press, good or bad, hindered his team’s ability to do their jobs. His team, like many of the other elite units, was designed to slip into an area unnoticed, execute their task and leave undetected. Sometimes, their missions required them to blend in with the local population without alerting the enemy. They wore their hair longer than the average military buzz cut. Some of the guys grew beards. And at times, they worked alongside the good guys in the area. If the media put their names and faces out there, along with their rank and job description, the enemy would see it and there was a chance it would handicap their future missions.
Not to mention the fact that nine times out of ten, the press focused on their mistakes, not their wins. His team had completed hundreds of successful missions, but the only one anyone wanted to write about was the one that had gone south. His CO was determined to make sure that didn’t happen.
Logan was ready and willing to do his part and lie low in rural Vermont. His job as a Ranger—it was everything to him. This time, when Logan returned to his team, he would be ready for duty—no distractions. That meant he needed to put his grief to rest.
He’d never forget. Not by a long shot. But he didn’t need to feel like he was drowning in loss every damn day. Jane had been gone for over a year now. At some point, he had to put the past behind him.
But thanks to his friends and family, he felt more bound to his memories than ever. They had good intentions. Still, everyone treated him as if he was supposed to spend the rest of his life immersed in sorrow. Unless he was on the battlefield. Out there they assumed he could do no wrong, as if putting on the uniform transformed him into some sort of idol. That’s why he’d gone hiking in the first place, to get away from the town determined to label him a freaking hero.
“I agreed to come to town for a burger,” he said. “Nothing else.”
“If we always got what we wanted out of life,” Aunt Lou said, “I’d be living in one of those fancy homes like the ladies on The Real Housewives.”
And he’d be back with his team doing the job he loved instead of sidelined indefinitely. Or better yet, Jane would still be alive and he wouldn’t have spent the past year feeling like everyone in his life was tiptoeing around him. He didn’t need an endless pity party.
The