I wake up hungover and painfully hard. My soul is hard. My resolve to find Espi, whether he wants me to or not, is even harder. My cock is steel...
It’s a defect that I struggle to ignore, gritting my teeth until I taste the damn enamel being ground away. When I lift my head, and shrug off the blankets, I don’t find Stacatto’s whore lurking within one of the corners. I vaguely remember leaving her by the door, but for all I know she could have run. Or maybe Arno’s men had gotten bored and decided to “borrow” her for the night?
It’s not the thought that drives me to my feet, wincing as blood rushes to my throbbing head—both of them. I have to piss—maybe brush the fucking taste of that woman, blood, and booze from my mouth—while I’m at it. Those are the concerns that drive me into the hallway.
I don’t notice the bathroom light is already on until I’m over the threshold, nearly running into the slim figure leaning against the sink. Her ass juts out, her pale hand clutching the sink’s basin like it’s the only thing capable of holding her up. She has my toothbrush clenched between her teeth. Apparently, she’s as eager to scrub away the taste of my cock as I am to erase her. Her eyes meet mine as she manipulates the toothbrush woodenly before removing it from her mouth and spitting. Wordlessly, she turns on the faucet, washing her mess away. Then she holds out her hand, presenting the toothbrush to me.
I take it, easily muscling her body away from the sink and against the tub. My eyes narrow as I make a show of sticking the bristles beneath the running water and grinding them beneath my thumb, chasing her essence out. But it’s as futile as picking up a dropped piece of food from the floor and pretending that unseen bacteria haven’t already tainted it. I take a leap of faith when I slather the brush in toothpaste and shove it against my tongue. One hard scrub and I know that I failed; she clings to the surface, and I’m grinding her taste between my teeth.
I don’t let on, though. I spit, rinse the bristles, and then return it to the cabinet. I use my hands to splash water onto my face, scrubbing at the crust that’s formed around my eyes. I shut off every sensation but the mechanical motions. I almost succeed in blocking her out completely, but when I turn for the shower, she’s still there. Her eyes hone in on the moisture sliding down my chin. I don’t think she notices my hand shoot past her to wrench on the shower faucet until the water switches on amid the squeal of rusty plumbing. Then she scuttles out of reach while I strip my bloodied shirt and jeans. Her eyes trace my calves as I shed my boxers, though, and I know that she’s making note of the scars on my hips.
Fuck her.
The rag I gave her lies near the drain, and I stoop to make use of it myself. Her blood is on it, but I pretend not to notice the pinkish stains and drag it over any part of me I can reach. I pay her no attention as I douse myself beneath the shower spray, taking my damn time until the water goes cold. Only then do I step out of the tub. Naked, I pad across the floor and enter the hallway, pretending that she isn’t watching my every step.
I slam the door behind me, cutting off her view. Then I take my time fishing for a fresh pair of jeans and a tee shirt. I don’t bother to towel off, and the moisture causes the clothing to cling to my damp skin, but anything is better than the inevitable question of what will happen if I use any sort of friction on a certain part of my anatomy.
It’s a pain in the ass getting the zipper up. It’s more uncomfortable to move. It’s harder to walk. My cock is a stubborn, ignorant, greedy fuck, and I almost entertain the idea of attempting to get myself off alone. I run a hand down my thigh, but my dick doesn’t react. I think of a pair of pink, broken lips parting for me and it fucking jumps.
My fingers curl, strangling the air. Fuck her. Fuck her.
Arno can take her from here.
I have myself convinced of that when I enter the hall and barrel straight toward the kitchen. I snatch the milk from the fridge and drink right from the jug. Then I fish out a carton of eggs, crack two, pour them into a glass, and knock them back raw. I wash the gruesome mixture down with chunks of bread ripped right off the loaf. It isn’t until I start to clean up the mess that I realize she’s watching me from the couch.
I stiffen, but I don’t understand what makes me shove the bread across the counter, though I never voice an invitation to her out loud. She rises anyway. She stole the shirt I left in the bathroom and wears it over the shit Arno gave her. I don’t react as she comes closer. I swallow the rest of the milk and tear off another slice of bread just as she cautiously prods the loaf with slim fingers. She observes the substance carefully, turning it over in her hands.
I imagine that she’s used to better breakfast options: omelets and shit shoved right down her fucking throat, served on a silver spoon. Just when I think she’ll refuse, she takes a delicate bite and swallows. Her expression is guarded, but she doesn’t hesitate to chew off another small piece.
“If you want eggs you can make them yourself,” I tell her, pushing past her to stand on the opposite side of the room.
“I don’t know how.”
I cock my head, eyeing her from over my shoulder. A part of me wants to sneer at her admission; of course, a pampered bitch wouldn’t know how to cook. But then I remember my own limitations—what it felt like as a kid to be too terrified to use the stove, so I’d force myself to eat the eggs raw instead and be fucking grateful for a full stomach. I don’t like relating to her, even on such a small, superficial scale.
“Then don’t eat them,” I snarl.
She nods, unconcerned by the venom in my tone, and skirts around the counter to gather up the carton and return it to the fridge. Her back is to me, but I can almost count her heartbeats by the trembling ripples that shake her back. “D-Did you send it?”
“Arno has it.” I face the wall, eyeing the nicks and dents left by only God knew how many previous owners. “I don’t know if he has yet.”
“He’ll kill you, you know,” she says, her voice cold and matter-of-fact. “You didn’t cover your face. He’ll—”
“He can get in fucking line.” Someone like Stacatto is the least of my worries. The only bastard I fear these days lived within my own skin.
“You’re not afraid.”
Well, give the woman a medal. I turn to face her, expecting to find her gaping at me wide-eyed. She stares me down instead. There’s no clue as to whether or not she’s impressed by how easily I blow off a man she seems to fear. In fact, I’d stake my life on the guess that she isn’t one damn bit.
“No,” I say, searching her gaze for any hint as to what she thinks of that. They’re guarded up tight. She’s not so brazen when she’s not in front of a camera, it seems.
“He’s killed for less,” she says simply.
“In front of you?” I don’t know what makes me ask. The princess hides bloodied hands beneath her kidskin gloves. Maybe some sick part of me gets off on making her relive it. The horror. The pain. If so, the jagged emotion that runs through my chest when she flinches doesn’t travel down to my cock.
“Yes...” I don’t expect her to elaborate, but she leans back against the fridge, crossing her arms over her chest. “He’s killed in front of me before. Sometimes, he makes me play for him while he does it.”
“Play?” I clip the word, so it comes out less of a question, but she answers me anyway. It’s almost like she can’t resist the urge to talk—or at least to do something besides sit and wait for the inevitable.
“Cello.” There’s a hoarse, aching note in her voice that I can’t miss. Cello. I picture two instruments resembling the basic shape of a violin, but I’m not exactly sure which is which. “I taught myself,” she adds, and an unmistakable hint of pride colors her tone. “Where I grew up...we used to live near a community theater, and some days they offered free lessons. My father was a janitor there, and when I went with him to work, I’d sneak into the music storage rooms and play when—” She breaks off, her lips sealing shut. Her eyes drift to the corners of the room. She said too much.
“So, this man,” I hear myself say once she’s been quiet for over a minute. “You’d rather die than go back to him.”
She nods, though we both know that it wasn’t a question.
I feel my eyebrow lurch. “So why marry him in the first place?”
When her cheeks redden, I expect the usual, superficial reasons that women like her use to excuse their own greed. He took care of me. He wasn’t always like this. I love him.
Instead, she swells up, almost seeming to rise up on the tips of her toes, and both of her hands clench the rim of the counter behind her. “I had no choice.” The words tear out of her and echo off the walls. It’s the loudest I’ve ever heard her speak. The little lamb’s braying almost holds the edge of a growl now. “If I didn’t, he would—” She stops herself again. Then she cradles her forehead in the palm of her hand, and her body deflates, leaving her about two feet tall. “I used to run away. Before. Sometimes I’d break away in public, where everyone could see. I’d try to leave. I wanted to run.” She shakes. Her voice quickly deepens to a moan, but she can’t seem to stop the flow of words that overtake her. “Then he brought me ‘gifts.’ Maids. Girls who could barely speak a word of English and were only meant to wait on me hand and foot. If I disobeyed him...he would use them to punish me.”
“How?” I know even before I see the expression that crosses her face that the bastard didn’t employ very orthodox methods.
“He’d...hurt them,” she says as if struggling to even get the words out. “The first girl, her name was Sabina. He slit her throat when I told him that I didn’t want to go out for lunch.” She chokes on a strangled sob and then swallows it back down. Her eyes gleam. The memories may torment her, but she won’t let him control her here. “I tried to avoid learning their names after that. It was easier... And I tried. I tried to obey him. I tried to keep them alive. God, I tried. I tried.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered anyway,” I tell her. A mad dog could only control its impulses for so long before the leash began to chafe—a fact that I knew better than most. The sky could have been too blue that day or the wind too chilly. If he felt the urge, a true monster would come up with any reason at all to take out his rage on someone else.
“H-He didn’t like my hair,” she stammers, proving my point. “My clothes. My face. My posture. Nothing I did kept him happy for long. And when he gave me his ring...” She bites her lip as if to trap the painful revelations inside. She lasts for about a second before they spill out regardless. “I thought he might finally do it. Rape me.” She lifts her shoulder in a casual shrug as if the thought of violence no longer even fazed her. “God...a part of me almost wanted him to. Maybe then he’d finally grow bored once I had nothing left.”
She stares back at me, a ghost of a woman with soulless, empty eyes. It’s such a stark contrast from the vixen who starred in her own sex tape less than twenty-four hours ago. There is nothing remotely comforting I can say, so I don’t say anything. We merely stare, two dark, twisted animals who refuse to shy away from the brutality revealed in the other’s gaze.
“What about you?” she asks suddenly, like a jackal demanding I let her feed off the carcass of my own suffering the way I fed off hers. “The red-haired man. You defer to him, but he doesn’t own you. Why?”
My eyes narrow at her word choice. He doesn’t own you. “I’m not someone you can own,” I tell her coldly.
“Vinny’s men are,” she counters. Her eyes dare me to prove that I don’t have the name of some master tattooed into my skin.
“If you haven’t noticed, I don’t exactly work for your fiancé.” She flinches, and I feel an echoing twinge in my chest that I write off as satisfaction.
“Who is he to you?” she tries rephrasing the question, and only the softness of her voice keeps the voice from seeming like another haughty command.
“My brother.” She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t challenge the designation—and a part of me almost bristles as that. It almost wants to see her challenge me. I’d gotten a taste of the little wolf lurking beneath her lambskin...one more peek of her couldn’t hurt.
Oh, yes it can, a part of my anatomy warns. The front of my jeans was becoming a vice grip. Death, I chant inside my head, forming a list of the most disturbing shit I can think of. Blood. Gore. Screaming. Gaping. Wounds...
Like the one on her ear. She doesn’t seem to notice that one sports a delicate diamond stud while the other is adorned by a wad of toilet paper and duct tape. It’s like she’s conditioned herself to shut the pain off. I’ve seen grown men barely cope with less of an injury. Color the predator in me impressed.
“So...” I inhale and switch to another topic of burning interest. “If Stacatto does want you alive, what if he specifies that we bring you to him first before any trade can be made?”
If I’ve poked a hole in her flawless plan, she doesn’t let on. “You promised me,” she says, refreshing my memory. “A man owned by no one should be very good at keeping his promises.”
The little bitch has a point. “I warned you,” I say, rather than admit as much out loud. “I don’t make promises.”
Something dark taints the hazel of her eyes. I don’t know what to think when she turns and opens the nearest drawer. She rummages through it, carefully searching. Opens another. Pulls out a knife.
I can’t help the laugh that bellows out of me. My fingertips itch. The buzzing starts at the back of my skull. My cock throbs.
“Then I’ll just kill myself,” she says, pressing the blade to her throat. It’s little more than a butter knife, but anything can make for a weapon if you’re determined enough. Case in point was the ball-peen hammer Van Hallen cited in my own fucking case file. “Here and now. You should have nothing left to lose if I do.”
The words aren’t a threat because she knows that she has nothing left in her arsenal to barter. The tip of the blade presses into her flesh. Her hand is steady. Her gaze doesn’t leave mine once.
“So, do it,” I tell her. I shift my weight as if I’m turning for the door. I see her fingers tighten their grip. Then I move.
Vincent’s little whore has never held a weapon before. It easily flies out of her grip when I bat her hand away and wrench her arm behind her back before she can even break her own skin. I force her face down on the counter and position myself behind her. She hisses in pain—it’s a position designed to immobilize—but the seconds pass, and I don’t let her go.
I fully intend to, but my cock seems to have other intentions. She’s too close. I can sense her heart beating frantically through her skin. The smell wafting from her is that of soap mixed with the artificial flavor of mint. She’s warm...so fucking warm, and her ass avoids brushing the front of my hips by mere inches.
I don’t want her. My fingers twitch, aiming to let her go, and she forces her body to go limp, making it easier to do so.
More seconds pass. Minutes. I know her arm must have gone numb, but she doesn’t complain. She doesn’t resist. The little lamb has overcome her inner wolf as if resigned to a life of being prey.
Or so I think until her words reach me, muffled against the counter’s surface.
“You are owned by no one,” she says. “Vinny doesn’t own me anymore, either... So, go ahead. Take what you want. Kill me. Hurt me. I won’t stop you.”
It’s a dare, though I’d be damned if I knew just what she was taunting me to claim.
“Stop me from what?” I ask. Another minute passes without an answer, and I can’t stop my free hand from fisting in her hair and using the grip for leverage to yank her head back, lifting her face from the counter. “What do you think I want?” I growl into her good ear.
She stares ahead, her mouth set in a stubborn line as if she knows a dirty little secret that she won’t tell me.
“What do you want?” I demand, tightening my grip until she winces.
“I want...” Her eyes threaten to go vacant. Then she twists her head around so that she’s staring at me directly. “I don’t want to be his.”