FrankenDom's Monster, FrankenDom Book 2

By Robin L. Rotham

I’d rather die than live as your monster.

That’s what I told my brother Julian, but he ignored my wishes and performed an experimental transplant. Now the real Jordan Kilmartin is dead, leaving me in his place.

I spend my days hiding in a castle, keeping Julian’s research on a tight leash and searching for clues about my mysterious donor. I’ll never lay hands on another human being until I know I won’t descend into his madness.

Breanna McBride turns that plan on its head when she spies on me in my bath. When I lock her in my dungeon, the sexual energy between us is explosive—and potentially deadly. The only way to ensure we both make it out alive is to negotiate a BDSM scene and call in Hans Hauptman to watch over us as we play—and even that’s a risk, because he’s brutally sexy and determined to bring me back to life, whether I like it or not.

But there are darker forces at work in this cursed castle, and no matter how vigilant we are, someone will wind up dead.
I just hope it’s not one of us.

Reader Advisory: Not for the vanilla at heart! Contains a man on the edge, a nurse on a mission and a gleeful sadist with boundary issues, all of whom practice Risk-Aware Consensual Kink. Their BDSM scenes include breath play, caging, predicament bondage, ménage, m/m sexual encounters, gymnastic positions and cruelty to induce emotional catharsis. Also contains potentially triggering violence. Prepare to bite your nails, wipe your eyes and change your underwear at least once.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robin L. Rotham
• Release date: Oct 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463110881

Robin L. Rotham

When I complained of being bored the summer before 7th grade, my mother (who worked at a boookstore at the time) handed me a stripped copy of Victoria Holt's The Shivering Sands--and I was hooked. I became a voracious reader and an aspiring author, bringing home stacks of books from the library every single week. The next year, I did a school report on Ms. Holt and wrote to her asking for information. In reply, she sent me an autographed photo and a lovely two-page hand-written letter in which she encouraged me to follow my writing dreams. Sadly, both the photo and the letter were lost over many moves, but my writing dreams remained. At 14, I tried to write my first two romances. The first was about a federal agent masquerading as a bank robber, and a smart-mouthed customer who drove a custom baby blue Trans Am named Shark. The "robber" stole Shark as his getaway vehicle and the heroine, Nicki, dove in beside him. That was as far as I got--I could never see beyond their flying down the highway bickering as they were chased by bad guys. The second was a hot mess of an erotic Gothic paranormal involving an eighteen-year-old governess and the sixteen-year-old eldest son of the house, who made quite inappropriate advances toward her via astral projection while she slept. I wrote 100 pages front and back--IN PENCIL--before I hit that I HATE point in the story and shoved it under my bed. When I retrieved it two years later, the lead was so smeared I couldn't read it. The End. After that, I set my dream aside to address the more practical matters in life--matters like eating and putting a roof over my head. It took finding my own hero to reignite my passion for romance writing. More than 25 years after my last attempt, I bought a used laptop on eBay and wrote my first erotic romance. Mr Robin and I have been married for twenty-plus years; we live on a farm and have three wonderful offspring. I love to hear from readers, so don't be timid about dropping by my website or blog to say hi!

Book preview

Other Titles from Robin L. Rotham

Available Now!

Aliens Overnight Series

Alien Overnight

Enemy Overnight

Amorous Overnight

Carnal Series

Carnal Harvest

Carnal Compromise

A Carnal Christmas

Carnal Hearts

Carnal Country (Carnal Box Set Vol 1)

FrankenDom Duet

FrankenDom

FrankenDom’s Monster

Holiday Novellas

The Dominant Wish

Not So Tiny Tim

Not So Over Eli

BIG Temptation

Available Now!

Acknowledgments

The first book in this duet, FRANKENDOM, took me seven weeks to write, from inception to release. FRANKENDOM’S MONSTER took me seven years. I couldn’t have written either book without R.G. Alexander, whose outsize heart and outside-the-box imagination have saved my bacon countless times, or Eden Bradley, who showed me the way when I wanted to write kink and cheered me on every step of the way. And I never would have taken my writing to the next level if Sheryl hadn’t pushed me so hard. Every writer should be so lucky.

A Note to Readers

FRANKENDOM’S MONSTER is a fast, intense ride through a fictional world in which the characters engage in all sorts of kinky BDSM activities. But it’s not all fun and games. Jordan is a damaged hero who needs a lot of help to find himself, and there are some potential triggers here, including violent dream sequences, false imprisonment, and murder. But in the BDSM context, the characters all observe the rules of RACK, or Risk-Aware Consensual Kink. They know their safe words and aren’t afraid to use them.

If you decide to explore the lifestyle, please exercise an abundance of caution. Before you jump in with both feet, do your own research in real life, not in fiction. Get involved in the community. Observe the players and get to know them. Ask questions. Make sure someone knows where you are. And always, always, always use a safe word.

Chapter One

Jordan

"Lighten up, perv boy."

It echoes in my ears as I tighten my hands on her throat. I hope you enjoyed the taste of those words, because that was the last time they’ll ever pass your lips.

Her brown eyes bulge and her mouth strains open, but no sound escapes.

She thrashes beneath me, her bare feet drumming on my legs, her fingernails tearing at my hands, but all I care about is her fear.

So much fear…

It bleeds into my palms and courses through my veins like a drug, lighting me up, turning me on. There is no greater rush in this world than holding the life of another in the palm of your hand.

Fuck her into the ground. Make her beg for it.

Yes…

I loosen my grip on her throat and she whimpers, thighs falling open as she rises to grind against me. She licks her plush lips as arousal snakes through her. It weaves itself into her fear until the two fuse into one powerhouse aphrodisiac, and instantly I am addicted.

More!

Holding her down with one hand on her throat, I let the other slide down between her small breasts and then cup one. My heart pounds in unison with the pulse under my palm as I pinch her hard, pink nipple.

Please, she gasps.

I lower my head and torment the other with my mouth, licking, sucking and biting, stretching it out away from her body with my teeth until she writhes and sobs.

Please!

Yes!

I shove in, splitting open her hot, wet core with my cock, making her scream. Making her come. Ecstasy shudders through me as I fuck through the contractions, resting my upper body weight on the hand clutching her throat. How have I lived without this for so long?

Her eyes slide shut and she surrenders to my control.

So sweet!

Dead leaves rustle in the night breeze, filling my nostrils with the scents of dirt and mold. Her face withers in the moonlight, paling to a dull gray, and her eyes grow hollow and dark as her body begins to sink into the ground.

She gives one final gasp of release and then disappears into the earth along with my hands.

Only then do I realize I’ve killed her.

No! No, please! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! I sob as I try to dig her out, scraping at the soil until my fingers are raw.

But it keeps sliding back in, filling the hole and drawing me deeper. I’m sinking like a stone, following her down into the grave, and the harder I struggle, the faster I’m buried. I fight to keep my head up, but there’s dirt in my mouth and my nose, and I’m coughing and choking. I try to scream but I can’t find the breath…

No! I land on my ass with a gasp, gulping in air as I wrestle with the sheets.

What the fuck?

I look around wildly. Home. I’m in my bedroom at Bangenschloss. In my bed—or I was until I fell out.

It was just a dream. A fucking horrifying dream.

Those aren’t too unusual for me these days; I’ve dreamt several times I was strapped to a table, being executed by lethal injection the way my body donor was. But this is the first time I’ve dreamt of killing someone—not to mention, using this cursed new ‘gift’ of mine while I did it. I have the sickening feeling it wasn’t really a dream, and if I look down, I’ll find Breanna McBride lying beside me on a bed of dirt, like the Bride of Frankenstein in repose.

She’s not, thank God.

I take a few calming breaths and my pulse slows. But as the last trace of suffocating soil fades from my senses, I’m assaulted by the odor of fresh semen and the slimy warmth on the sheet tangled around my waist.

Fuck!

I wipe a shaking hand over my face, trying not to gag. God damn my brother for doing this to me! If he were here, I’d strangle him with the sheet and make sure he arrived in hell with the taste of Augustine Pohlson’s spunk on his tongue.

Lurching to my feet, I free myself from the sheet and wipe off with it, taking care not to get the mess on my hands. Then I go directly to the bathroom sink and scrub myself raw with a soapy cloth. Usually whenever I’m near a mirror, my gaze fixes on the surgical scar around my neck, but today I’m too focused on getting every molecule of Pohlson’s semen off me. It’s ridiculous, I know, because this entire body was once his, and I’ve known emission was bound to happen because I’ve been waking with an erection every morning for the last four months. That doesn’t make the reality any less revolting.

After I’m clean, I pull on my workout clothes, and stuff my phone and earbuds into a pocket. Then I strip the bed, bundle the linens into the overflowing hamper and carry it all down to the castle laundry on the first floor.

I scowl as I load the sheets and towels into the industrial washing machine with jerky movements. Soap and water might erase the stains and odor from the sheets, but they won’t stop Breanna McBride from rampaging around in my head. Ever since she and her sister invaded my castle in search of my brother, I can’t stop thinking about her. She obviously knew about my transplant, and her reaction to me was everything I’d expect from a beautiful woman—scorn, fright and sick fascination all at once.

By all rights, she shouldn’t even know about me. Her sister Rachel was one of a dozen surgeons who participated in my transplant, and Rachel was bound not only by doctor-patient privilege, but by a tightly drawn non-disclosure agreement as well. I could sue her on any number of grounds for discussing me with her sister, but of course that would expose me to public scrutiny.

Instead, I had my assistant offer Breanna McBride a substantial payment for her silence, but almost two weeks has passed since then and she still hasn’t replied. Is it any wonder I’m having dreams of killing her?

Leaving the washer to do its job, I head for the north door of the castle, determined to run until I’m too exhausted to dream tonight. But one look outside scuttles that plan. Damn it! The forecast called for an end to this relentless drizzle, but there it is, still draped over the forest like a blanket of moth-eaten gray wool.

Fucking Breanna McBride.

She can’t control the weather, I know, but I blame her anyway. There’s hardly been a dry day since she was here, which means the footpath through the woods has become an obstacle course of slick grass and mud puddles. And the narrow, winding road is just a hit-and-run waiting to happen. I’ve been forced to run on the treadmill for the last few weeks, instead of outdoors, where I can almost appreciate being alive. It’s as if the little witch conjured the never-ending precipitation as a final fuck-you before she left the country.

Resigned to another indoor workout, I take the elevator back up to the second floor, where the dungeon-cum-gymnasium awaits. I put in my earbuds and pound out five miles, filling my head with a running playlist of hard-driving rock music. By the time I’m done with that, sweat runs off me in rivers, but I strap on the gloves and shin guards and go after the heavy bag, trying to lose myself in a punishing attack of jabs and round kicks and overhand punches.

Suddenly the wireless earbud is plucked out of my right ear. Earth to Jordan.

When I swing around, Hans Hauptman dances back, holding the earbud over his head. Who are you trying to kill—besides yourself?

Shit, it’s Saturday, isn’t it? He’s got his long blond hair up in a man-bun and his sparring shorts on. I was supposed to meet him down in the castle’s designated fitness center, where there are mats to cushion our falls.

No one, I inform him, unstrapping my gloves and pausing the playlist.

Really? You’re sweating like a whore in church and there’s not a water bottle in sight. Have you eaten or taken your meds today?

Fuck, I didn’t even think about my meds. Not yet.

Snorting, Hans props his fists on his hips. How am I supposed to spar with you when an uppercut to the chin could send your head splattering to the floor like a rotten melon? I’m sure it would hurt, at least for a second or two, and I doubt Julian could find a replacement body in time to save you.

Everyone else tiptoes around the conversational landmine of my transplant. Hans approaches it with all the finesse of Homer Simpson driving a bulldozer.

I grab the towel hanging on the weight bench to wipe my face. You’re right, of course. Thank you for the reminder. It wasn’t deliberate—it’s just been one of those days. I’d even forgotten we were supposed to fight today.

One of what days?

Of course he won’t let it drop. I didn’t sleep well last night.

Still having nightmares?

Not as often, but yes. I take out the other earbud and pack them in their case. Join me for a bite?

Hans crosses his muscular arms and looks down his aquiline nose at me. I ate breakfast at five-thirty, like a normal person.

Five-thirty breakfast hardly qualifies as normal unless one is milking cows, but I let it pass. A snack then.

I don’t snack.

I roll my eyes as I turn to walk out. God, you’re predictable.

He trips me with his sneaker and I nearly tumble into the free weights.

Did you predict that? he asks as he walks by.

Sod off, you bloody kraut, I laugh under my breath, following him down the corridor.

Only Hans can get past my guard this way. He was my physical therapist until I recovered enough from my transplant to boot all my brother’s minions out of the castle. He ignored my dismissal and stayed on as my personal trainer, and I let him because it gives me a chance to kick the shit out of someone on a regular basis. And because he’s the only one of the minions who told Julian to go fuck himself when he demanded a weekly report on my progress, on the grounds that he’d violated my patient rights enough already.

We’re almost to my flat when I remember the state it’s in.

Sorry about the mess, mate, I mutter, grabbing up the clothes slung over the couch and tossing them into the bedroom. My housekeeper quit last weekend and I’m not exactly Suzy Homemaker.

Hans sighs. Well damn. Gilda was an excellent cook. But I suppose you yelled at her, like you do everyone else.

I might have done. She talked my bloody ear off every time she was here. But that’s not why she quit.

She was just being friendly.

She wouldn’t take a hint and I had work to do.

You could try having some patience.

Says Attila the Hans. I open the fridge and survey the meager contents. It’s a good thing he already broke his fast, because there’s only one boiled egg and a cup of yogurt on the shelf. Damn it, I forgot to pick up my grocery order this morning too. One more grievance to lay at Breanna McBride’s door.

I’m hard on you for your own good, Hans says.

And I’m hard on housekeepers for theirs. I grab the egg and shut the fridge with a bit more force than necessary. "They need to learn to do their jobs instead of snooping around in places they don’t belong. The one before Gilda even organized the foundation files for me. I still haven’t found everything."

Perhaps if you used your office instead of the dining table…

"I like having it all right here, and I don’t think it’s too much to expect my employees to follow directions. I specifically directed all of them to not even look at the dining table."

Well that was just begging them to clean it up. They probably thought you were too embarrassed to let them help you with the mess.

They were snooping, I say around a mouthful of egg.

He shrugs. Housekeepers are helpful.

They’re nosy.

They recognize a man who wouldn’t ask for a glass of water if he was on fire.

"No, I’d demand one, I say as I run my own damn glass of water and toss back my immunosuppressant meds. And they’d give it to me because I pay them to do what I tell them to, not what they think I need."

I think all of Julian’s money has gone to your head, he says with a roll of his eyes. "So why did Gilda quit?"

Well, she fell down the south stairs taking the recycling out Saturday afternoon—

What!

"Relax, she wasn’t hurt—she said the bags of paper waste stopped her fall about halfway down. I’d told her to take the elevator, but she didn’t like going so far out of her way. Now she won’t set foot in the castle again because she claims a ghost pushed her down the stairs," I conclude with a roll of my eyes.

A ghost? He frowns. That doesn’t sound like Hilda.

Castle of Fear, remember? The locals all believe Bangenschloss is cursed. I can’t even keep a gardener, and they don’t have to come inside. I’m sure she just tripped and let her imagination run away with her.

But Gilda’s not local. She’s from Tatavar.

Doesn’t mean she’s not superstitious. I offered her a room during the week to save the commute and she refused. What does that tell you?

That, unlike you, she has a life?

I’m curious, Hans… I rub my middle finger aside my nose. How many times do I have to tell you to sod off before you actually do it?

He laughs and slaps me on the back. More than you’re capable of, my friend. Now eat the yogurt too.

I’m saving it for after we spar.

He shakes his head. Since Gilda’s not here to feed you, I’m taking you for lunch in Kander after we spar. The summer music festival is here and all the vendors are lined up on the village square. It smells like heaven driving by.

It’s raining.

The sky is clearing and it’s going to be a gorgeous day.

I want to tell him to sod off again, just on principle, but he crosses his arms. Eat the yogurt, Jordan—you need the energy for the beat-down I’m about to give you.

You don’t scare me, kraut. But I nick the yogurt from the fridge anyway, because Hans doesn’t bluff.

Good boy, he says with a satisfied smile.

Oh, it’s on now. We’ll see who gets the beat-down.

Chapter Two

I got the beat-down, of course, and three hours later, I’m too sore to move. Normally I’d have spent the rest of the morning hot-tubbing in the pink marble monument to my brother’s lust—otherwise known as Rachel McBride’s former bath—but Hans was waiting, so I showered in my flat while he cleaned up downstairs in the locker room.

Now I’m stretched out in the park, listening to a string ensemble gently jam to the 19th century’s greatest hits. My stomach is full of greasy Montanevan fair food and I don’t intend to move again until it’s had plenty of time to digest. The blanket is a bit damp where I’m grinding it into the grass, but as Hans predicted, all the clouds have been chased away by the summer breeze and the sun is almost blinding. It’s making me sweat again, but the heat is a balm to my aching muscles.

I’m fairly relaxed, under the circumstances. Generally I try to avoid large gatherings because of my immunosuppressants, but I haven’t had a decent meal since Gilda left and I couldn’t resist the siren song of roasted sausages, stuffed cabbages, grilled kabobs and fried potato pancakes. Wash it all down with a couple of liters of water and a Fifth of Beethoven, and suddenly all these strangers seem less like potential health threats and more like friends. Or at least acquaintances with whom I have a love of music in common.

Something bounces off my ribs.

Sunscreen, Hans murmurs.

I’m wearing jeans and long sleeves, I say without opening my eyes.

You’re not wearing a ski mask.

Excellent point. I bite back a groan as I sit up to rub tropical-scented sunscreen all over my face. It feels especially cool on the tip of my nose, which means I’m probably burnt already.

I rub some on my large, pale hands too, though I avoid looking at them any more than I have to. I’d have worn my gloves, but they’re much more conspicuous in the summer and it’s hard to eat with one’s hands whilst wearing them. If someone offers a handshake, I’ll beg off due to a germ phobia, and they’ll buy it because I’m the eccentric toff who lives in the haunted castle up the hill.

When I’m done, I toss the tube down beside him. Thanks.

You’re welcome, he says without opening his eyes. He’s leaning back