Wishing Well by Lily White (2)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Penny

 

The following days after witnessing Émilie and Vincent at the well were spent actively avoiding my employer as much as possible. When I wasn’t cleaning hotel rooms, I was down in the employee office asking Theresa if there were any other chores she needed done. She believed I was one hell of an employee, while I was actually looking for any excuse to stay hidden. Too afraid that Vincent had seen me watching and would corner me with questions, I also took my days off to go to the Department of Motor Vehicles to have my identification replaced, and I managed to catch a movie or two when I didn’t actually have the extra money for it.

But after four days of doing what I could to avoid him, the day came where I could no longer stay out of sight.

“Have you been enjoying your job at Wishing Well?” a deeply masculine voice whispered against my ear. Jumping in place, my back met a strong chest, my body spinning to find that Vincent was far too close for me to breath easily. I’d been so caught up in polishing the brass elevator doors on the third floor, that I hadn’t heard him approach. A ball of fear lodged in my throat, my answer coming out curt and broken. “Yes. It’s great. Pays the bills.”

Nervousness was obvious in my voice. Vincent, noticing the reaction, smiled as he stepped back to give me room. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I was passing by and realized I’ve not spoken to you in several days. I’m happy to hear the job is working out. It would be a shame to lose such a ... diligent ... employee.”

I could feel my cheeks flaring red, my thighs squeezing together just a tad too tight. Thanking God this man couldn’t read my thoughts, I tried to ignore the way my mind conjured images of what I’d seen that night at the well.

“Diligent?” I asked, swallowing.

Sensuous laughter floated across his lips, the sound deep, dark and heady. Fuck, I was in trouble. There was nothing about this man that didn’t attract me and I would have to step up my hiding game just to keep from being in trouble of one kind only to step into trouble of another.

“I spoke with Theresa. She’s very impressed with your dutiful behavior. As am I. Keep up the good work, Penelope.”

He turned to walk off, and I blurted, “Are you going downstairs?”

Not bothering to change course and turn back to me, he merely glanced over his strong, broad shoulder. “I can take the stairs.”

“But, the elevator would be easier.”

His lips quirked, amusement causing his jeweled eyes to sparkle. “You haven’t finished polishing. And it’s only three flights down. I’m sure I can manage.”

With that, he walked off silently, his powerful stride catching my eye until I found myself leaning back against the elevator doors. I’d failed to remember there was still wet polish on the brass until he disappeared into the stairwell. Spinning, I saw that I’d have to start all over again. “Shit,” I muttered, unable to catch the butterflies fluttering around in my stomach so that I could shred their tiny wings.

Three more days went by, each one passing as slow as a disabled turtle crawling through several feet of soft mud. Remaining scarce and out of sight was becoming far more difficult than I imagined. It seemed like every time I turned around, Vincent was nearby. My heart would stutter at the sight of him, then crash down into my feet when he glanced my direction without bothering to say a word in greeting. It especially bothered me when there was a beautiful woman on his arm because I never knew if she was a business associate, a guest, or a special friend that he was entertaining for the evening.

Why did I even care? He was my boss, and I had obviously read way too much into what had occurred between us in the garden.

The next several days I barely saw Vincent at all. Every so often, I found myself peeking outside the window of my room to stare down at the well, wondering if I would catch him again in some romantic liaison. It occurred to me that I missed staring at him as he walked past. I missed those split second opportunities for him to glance at me, even if he didn’t acknowledge my existence. Leaving my room to take a walk in the garden on my own, I had to admit to myself that I’d created a fantasy of a man in my head that I had no hope of coming true.

I’d never been so lust-struck while dating Blake, but then again, he had always been so easily accessible. Maybe this was what it meant to be an adult: a life lived with zero chance of having one day, one moment, of knowing how your dreams would turn out. You simply have to shuffle through it, hoping for the best while preparing for the day you eventually fell down.

The moon was holding court as I stepped outside, and it occurred to me that I hadn’t checked the time before leaving my room. It didn’t much matter how late it was, I wasn’t scheduled to work the following morning.

While strolling down the long, winding paths of cobblestone, I noticed smaller pebbled paths that led to out of the way alcoves and seating places set about to be both in view and out. A chorus of night insects was a soft lullaby on the air, and without consciously deciding on a path to follow, I found myself drawing close to the well.

It was there that Vincent and I had shared a private moment, there that I witnessed an event that had frightened me for a few days after, and as I turned to my left to gaze down a darker stretch, I spotted the alcove where Vincent had dragged me, remembered the solitary swing that hung from a tree branch that overhung the tall flowing shrubs providing the alcove privacy.

Making my way to the swing, I sat on the wooden seat, listening to the soft creak of the chains above my head. Unsure how much time passed as I thought about everything that had occurred since my father’s death, I found myself with a soft smile on my face, thankful for the direction my life had taken since Blake left my life. I still hadn’t contacted my mother or sister to let them know the changes I’d experienced, but perhaps -

Two male voices drifted my direction, one I didn’t recognize and one richly exotic and familiar. The rolling beauty of the French they spoke drew me from the swing to stand near the entrance of the alcove. Beneath a million stars and the muted lights that dabbled the gardens to illuminate the paths, Vincent and a man who looked just like him walked side by side, their voices low, their words fast.

From what I could understand by their hand gestures and clipped tones, they were arguing. Squinting my eyes as if that would bring them into better focus, I stared at the man by Vincent’s side. He wasn’t a mirror image of the man I’d been fantasizing about for over a week, but he was close enough in resemblance for me to assume there was a familial relation. Brothers maybe, or cousins. I wasn’t sure, but both were the type to conjure illicit fantasy in a woman’s head.

I had to shake myself of the thought.

Daring to step out further from the hedges that concealed me from easy view, I recognized the second man as they stepped closer to sit near the well. He was the man in the blue shirt, the one who’d had sex with Émilie in plain view. Although I couldn’t begrudge the woman for wanting either of these men, I had to wonder what type of seedy arrangement the three had between them.

Obviously, whatever happened that night was upsetting enough for Émilie to quit her job. What was it? What had these two men done?

Curiosity pushed me another step forward, my eyes locked to their bodies as they huddled close to talk. I should have paid better attention to where I was standing. As soon as a twig broke beneath my foot, the man with Vincent looked up. His eyes locked to my face, his body going rigid, his words speeding so fast that it forced Vincent’s head to snap in my direction. I stood frozen as both men grew quiet and watched me.

Aggravation was written over Vincent’s expression, the force of it a pulse in my throat. “Um,” I stammered, an unshakable need to fill the silence of the night, “sorry. I was out here on the swing when you came out. I didn’t mean to-“

Like that, the aggravation was gone, polite professionalism softening the lines of Vincent’s face. The man beside him said something I couldn’t understand. Without answering, Vincent stood from the bench seat and walked toward me, shadows from the garden cutting razored edges across his face. “Penelope, we were just surprised is all. Are you having trouble sleeping?”

“I don’t have to work tomorrow,” I responded, as if that would excuse lurking about in the shadows.

From the bench, the other man spoke harshly, even the beauty of the foreign language lost on his tone. Vincent’s head snapped to look at him, his mouth pulling into a line as sharp as a honed blade. “It seems my brother would like to meet you,” he explained, his fingers tightening over my shoulder as he pushed me back deeper into the alcove. Lowering his voice to a bare whisper, he leaned into me, the notes of his cologne wafting beneath my nose, “Do me a favor and say very little when I introduce you. After that, you should hurry back to your room.”

“Okay,” I whispered, an icy finger tracing my spine. Remembering that Vincent’s brother had been the man with Émilie before she’d ended up in the well, apprehension choked me.

I took a step, but Vincent wrapped his long fingers around my bicep, tugging me to him. A gasp of breath escaped my lungs the instant my back met his chest. Angling his head so that his lips were dangerously close to my ear, he whispered, “Do not move too quickly around him. I’ll keep hold of your arm. Once you say hello, I’ll walk you away from him. Be sure to go straight to your room after.”

The apprehension tightened into a knot of panic deep inside my chest. “Vincent, what’s going on?”

“I’ll explain later. Just follow directions, Penelope. Do exactly as I say.”

Not liking the sound of that, I clenched my teeth, my legs not quite responsive when I attempted to put one foot in front of the other. Vincent’s brother stared at me as we moved forward, his eyes shadowed, his body so still that I could imagine a snake perfectly coiled to strike. Only the heat of Vincent’s hand on my arm kept me from screaming and running away.

However, as we moved closer, I was able to see his brother’s features more clearly, was able to relax just a small amount to discover that the too-still man was just as beautiful as Vincent. The only difference I could plainly see was that the brother had an emptiness behind his eyes that wasn’t noticeable in Vincent.

“Maurice,” Vincent said as we stepped close enough to speak quietly and be heard, “this is Penelope Graham. Penelope, this is my younger brother, Maurice.”

“Bonsoir ...” Maurice said, his body rigid.

“Elle ne parle pas français ,” Vincent answered.

I merely swallowed, a lot, finding it impossible to dislodge the trepidation clogging my throat. Holding in a cry of surprise was nearly impossible when the snake finally struck. From one second to the next, he was standing feet from me and he was leaning over me, the heat of his chest colliding with mine as the tip of his nose brushed over my hair. Vincent’s hand tightened on my arm.

I trembled to realize Maurice was inhaling my scent, and lowered my eyes to see his hands clenching into fists at his sides. On an amused voice, he whispered, “Es-tu diabolique ou divine? ”

Clearing his throat, Vincent said, “Penelope was just saying hello before going up to her room. Weren’t you, Penelope?”

“Yes,” I managed to choke out. “Hello, Maurice.”

“Hello,” he greeted me in return, his accent thick, his voice penetrating.

Without waiting another second, Vincent directed me away from Maurice, lightly shoving me onto the cobblestone path that would take me to the hotel’s back entrance. “I’ll explain tomorrow,” he promised before turning around to return to his brother. I didn’t hesitate, and was practically running by the time I turned a corner to be out of sight.

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

I woke late the following morning, dreams haunting me with images of two men, both beautiful and so bizarre. Both frightened me for different reasons, both crawling beneath my skin, scratching at my nerves until my body buzzed.

It was confusing how fear tasted like desire, how desire carried the hint of pain, how pain left a woman thrashing over soft white sheets tucked over a comfortable bed.

Crawling out of bed, I took a shower and wrapped myself in one of the plush robes the hotel stocked in the rooms once my skin had turned pink and I could breathe easily again. I craved a cup of coffee from the small cafe in the lobby, but was wary to leave my room for fear of seeing Vincent before I’d had a chance to get my thoughts in order.

Maurice had been an experience, a deep shadow cast over the happiness I found in Wishing Well. I’d only seen him twice now, both times at night, both times in the garden. Where was that man during the day? A tremor coursed through me as I stepped into the living room, a note catching my eye that had been slipped beneath my door.

On heavy vellum paper, a masculine font swirled in black ink told me I wouldn’t be hiding like I’d planned.

 

My office. 11:00 a.m.

~Vincent

 

It was never a request with him, always an order. Cursing the way my breath caught, the way my heart picked up its pace, I glanced at a clock to see I had fifteen minutes to be in his office on time. I dressed quickly in a pair of jeans and a loose black shirt I’d purchased with the money Vincent had given me to use. Slipping on the Converse I’d worn the night he met me, I made my way to the elevators, my head leaned against the wall as it carried me down to the first floor. My feet dragged as I crossed the lobby, my eyes darting to Vincent’s secretary as I approached.

She simply smiled and said, “You can go ahead inside. He’s expecting you.”

I opened his door to find him standing behind his desk, his hands folded together behind his back, his legs held at shoulder width apart and his attention focused out of the floor to ceiling window. Unable to speak without croaking, I choose to clear my throat. He didn’t bother turning to face me.

“Have a seat, Penelope. We need to talk.”

“Am I in trouble?” I asked, my voice soft, mousy.

Glancing from over his shoulder, he shook his head just slightly. “There’s nothing for you to be in trouble for.”

Spinning slowly to face me, he pressed his palms against the surface of his desk, his shoulders wide as his white, pressed shirt stretched to span the breadth of his chest. “I wanted to apologize about Maurice,” he explained as I slipped into my seat. “My brother is somewhat of a thorn in my side and I never intended for you to meet him.” Pausing, he breathed out. “Now that you have, I must request that you never speak a word of his existence to anyone.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and when he finally did open his mouth, it was to ask his own question. “Did he frighten you?”

“Yes,” I confessed, the word slipping so easily from my lips that I couldn’t have kept from saying it if I’d tried.

His green eyes glittered, drawing me in. “Maurice has some issues, to put it mildly. None that you’ll have to concern yourself with. I’m only asking that you stay silent. Not many people know about him and I prefer to keep it that way. It seems, we now share a secret.”

“Okay,” I agreed, my stomach clenching as Vincent straightened his posture, rounding his large desk, and leaned against it to stand in front of me. His knee brushed mine and a spark shot through me. He was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.

“I was impressed with your behavior, Penelope. So much so, that -“ his voice trailed off before he could finish the thought. For several seconds, we stared at each other, my heart beating erratically.

Breaking the tense silence, Vincent asked, “Why do I get the feeling I frighten you as well?”

He’d caught me off guard with the question, my cheeks heating, the pink color chasing down my neck and chest. “Because you do,” I admitted. Attempting to cover up the true reason for my reaction to him, I quickly explained, “You’re my boss. You can fire me at any time and I need this job.”

“Is that all it is?” Lips pulling into a knowing grin, he watched me, saw through me, touched me without so much as lifting a finger.

If desire itself had a voice to speak, it would sound like this man.

“You should go,” he suggested softly. “Before either of us end up making a mistake.”

Except, I wasn’t sure anything we could possibly do when nobody was looking would be a mistake. I knew deep down, that even if it meant nothing, just having one moment of being with Vincent would be like dying and stepping through Heaven’s gates.

“I should go,” I breathed out, repeating his words as I pushed from my seat, careful not to touch him as I moved past. Reaching the door, I couldn’t help glancing back to see that he was still watching me. My pulse fluttered beneath my skin when our eyes met.

 

. . .

 

I wish there was a way to turn off your brain. Like a special switch, or perhaps a drug you could easily access at a corner store that would enable you not to think, not to dream, not to wonder how stupid you are.

While working the morning shift the day after meeting Vincent in his office, I found that even the physical labor wasn’t enough to distract my every thought from being homed in and focused on him. Questions lingered in hidden corners, whispering - always whispering - as I told myself that I was a silly girl for even entertaining the thought that I’d seen desire in his eyes when I’d glanced back before leaving his office.

 

Desire.

Heat.

Regret.

Dismay.

 

Was he thinking about me as often as I was thinking about him?

Returning my cart to the employee office, I said my goodbyes to Theresa for the day when she informed me there weren’t any additional jobs that needed to be done. I didn’t feel like going up to my room immediately, so I wandered the employee halls instead, eventually making my way out into the gardens. Still wearing my housekeeping uniform, I wound down the cobblestone path, continuing far past the wishing well that was a centerpiece of the gardens, and after exploring for what felt like an hour, I discovered another small alcove, one large enough to hold a bench swing.

Spring was settling into the air, the sun able to warm the breeze that softly blew past. The vines, bushes and trees were all a bright green with new leaves, and except for the muted sounds of traffic outside the walls, the garden was silent.

For the first time in two weeks, I felt peace settle over my mind, the constant whispers quieting as I approached the bench swing. Lying down, I allowed a leg to drape over the edge, the tip of my foot pushing against the ground so that the swing would rock me like a cradle. A breeze tickled up my legs, but I didn’t feel exposed with my unladylike position since the alcove provided privacy and the boy shorts I wore beneath my grey dress kept too much from being seen.

After a while, I wasn’t quite sleeping and wasn’t quite awake. Instead I was in an in-between, a place where I felt hypnotized, relaxed, drifting over a softly rolling wave that came to a sudden stop as soon as gravel crunched beside me and a heavy weight dropped down onto the seat near my legs.

“Are you enjoying the peace and quiet?” Vincent asked, his voice smooth and rich, fluid and entrancing. I opened my eyes to see him with one arm draped over the back of the bench seat, the corners of his lips tilted up just slightly, the green shirt he wore bringing out the jeweled clarity of his eyes. “Have I ruined it for you?”

Yes...but in good way.

“No,” I answered, “Not at all.” Moving to sit up, he gripped the ankle of my bent leg that I’d propped on the seat of the bench.

“Don’t move on my account. Continue relaxing. I was just out for a stroll looking for a bit of peace and quiet myself.”

Sparks chased up my leg from where his fingers wrapped over my skin. Unable to breathe, much less talk, I trembled when he gripped beneath the knee of my other leg and lifted it so that my leg would drape across his lap. The bench continued softly swinging, and I assumed it was his feet that pushed against the ground to keep the slow motion going.

“I was just getting some air after working this morning,” I finally said, searching but finding nothing more interesting to say. Vincent watched me with amusement in his eyes, his left hand still gripping the ankle of my right leg. When I realized that he had an unobstructed view down my skirt, a shiver coursed through me. Normally, I hated to be exposed, but for this man, the feeling was far different.

My heart stuttered, a pulse in my throat as his left hand released its hold on my ankle, his fingertips slowly brushing up the side of my calf.

“Does this bother you?”

“Your presence?” I asked, my voice shaky.

“My touch.” There was no waver to his voice. Fluid as water, strong as steel, as assured as any man would be, knowing he cornered his prey.

“No.” I inhaled. “Yes.” Exhaled. “Maybe.”

Dark laughter danced along the breeze. “That’s not an answer. Or perhaps it’s the most accurate answer of all.”

When I thought he would continue taunting me as the tips of his fingers stroked up and down, never reaching my knee, never going any place inappropriate, he surprised me with an unexpected question.

“Will you be attending the Masquerade Ball next week?”

“The what?” I squeaked, willing his fingers to go just a little higher, to breach the curve of my knee...to explore down. As usual, he refused to give me what I wanted. I was practically squirming when he finally answered.

“Our annual Masquerade Ball. It is one of the biggest events for the Wishing Well. Every person will be elegantly dressed, their masks concealing their faces. Everybody who is somebody will be there.”

His fingers swept up to tickle the back of my knee and I felt heat bloom between my legs. Just as I thought he’d follow the curve to the back of my thigh, he changed direction, a whisper of touch dragging back down along my calf.

I struggled to speak intelligently, my eyes shut, the bench still softly swinging as birdsong crept within the silence of a clear spring day. Opening my eyes as his fingers kept brushing the skin, a touch but not really, I watched white cotton clouds dance along azure skies, the verdant green of fresh leaves rustling across the dainty branches of tall trees. “I’m just a housekeeper. I’m not sure that qualifies me as somebody.”

“My interest in you qualifies you as somebody,” he answered.

My breath was trapped in my lungs. “Isn’t that the mistake you were trying to avoid?”

“What is life without mistakes?”

How the fuck does a question become the perfect answer?

“I don’t have a dress.”

Silence, and then: “We keep extra gowns and masks for guests who are in the hotel but may not have known about the ball and would like to attend. I’ve set aside two gowns and two masks that will fit you.”

Applying pressure to my skin as he dragged his fingertips up, he said, “You can answer my question with your choice of which gown. If you wear the red, then I will know your answer is no.” His fingers swept under the curve of my knee, continuing down along the back of my thigh, so slowly. “And if you wear the green, my favorite color, I’ll know your answer is yes.”

My mouth went dry. Swallowing was impossible. Down, down, down his fingertips traveled. “What’s the question?”

“Will you take me to your bed?”

His fingers were between my legs driving a line down the center of my boy shorts, teasing all the places from top to bottom of what skin against skin would be like.

I opened my mouth to answer, but his hand pulled away, the bench swing shifting as he stood up. A shadow fell over me and I opened my eyes to see him standing tall, looking down, blocking my face from the sunlight. “Bonne journée , Penelope. I’ll expect your answer at the ball.” He stepped away, but then stopping, twisted back to look at me. “I think it’s only fair I warn you that in the bedroom I am a man with particular tastes. You should keep that in mind while making your decision.”

Tucking his hands inside his pockets, he strolled off, and I was left a quivering mess of damp need while lying on a bench swing in the brilliant afternoon sun.

 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

 

Red or green?

Green or red?

Nope. Didn’t matter which way I asked it, the question had no clear answer. Was not showing up at all a way to avoid it?

The next week sped by fast, despite my wish for it to crawl. The monotony of my job did nothing to silence my thoughts, the glimpses of Vincent I caught here and there doing nothing to tell me which direction I was going.

Green!

Green!

Green!

No, wait. Red.

My heart, my body, my traitorous soul were warring against my logic. Vincent was my boss. Vincent was the man keeping me from being homeless. Vincent, I was sure, was a man-whore with a slick tongue and powerful swagger. Vincent was the man that had tossed Émilie to Maurice. Yet, Vincent gripped my every thought.

As the hours passed, as the minutes now ticked quickly, I stood barefoot in my bedroom, staring down at my bed wondering which beautiful gown I would be wearing. My weight shifted from one foot to the other, my heart leapt and then dove, pounded and then stopped. I was going to pass out if the rhythm didn’t steady.

My hand reached for the red gown, the silky material sliding against my fingers, before I dropped it down to the white sheets and picked up the green instead. I must have repeated the act several times before having a anxiety attack and walking away entirely.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want Vincent. It was that I wanted him too much. And I was certain that like any drug that was oh so good, but oh so lethal, just one taste would make me an addict.

Red.

No, green.

Red, definitely red. I would be crushed if he took what he wanted and walked away. I would be homeless if he kicked me to the curb after getting what he was after.

I would be an idiot not to jump at the chance to learn what that man would be like in bed.

Walking back to the foot of my bed, I closed my eyes and spun quickly in place until I was dizzy. And like I was playing a children’s game, I reached out blindly, deciding I’d let fate decide what would happen to me with whatever gown my hand landed on.

Gripping the silk, I blew out a breath, and opened my eyes to see green.

It appeared fate had chosen to throw me to the wolves. I chose to ignore the way my breath caught at the thought of it.

In a ridiculous rush, I pulled on the slinky gown, taking note of how low the neckline rode, my cleavage on full display above a bodice jeweled with crystal. Sleeveless, the gown hugged my chest and abdomen, green silk cascading down from an empire waist to brush the ground as I walked.

If not for the matching heels that gave me four more inches of height, there would have been no way for me to walk in this. Carefully twisting my hair up into an elegant design, I pinned it all in place and hurried out to the bed to grab the mask and tie it on. Green like the dress, the jeweled mask only covered my nose and eyes, the ribbons long and trailing down my back.

The room spun as I made my way out into the halls, the silence of the elevator ride down the first floor ballroom setting my nerves on edge and twisting my stomach into so many knots, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to eat again.

But for all the trepidation, for the fear and panic and uncertainty that drowned me, I was still able to stand amazed and mesmerized when I turned a corner and followed the music that filled the hotel to see the glamor and opulence of the ballroom.

They’d spared no expense in its splendor, cut no corners in its design, and now with the room filled from wall to wall with beautiful people, I felt like I’d stepped out of some ordinary life and into a fairy tale. Never had I imagined I would attend an event such as this, never had I felt like I was floating while my feet were planted firmly on the ground.

Stepping inside, I glanced up at the large, crystal chandelier, its light spilling down onto the dancers casting prisms of colored designs. The walls flickered with hundreds of fire sconces, the silver fissures in the black marble floors sparkling beneath the dance of shadow and light. A waiter moved past me dressed in a black on black suit, pausing to bow shallowly and offer one of the flutes of sparkling champagne. After plucking one from the silver tray, I inclined my head to thank him and brought the rim of the glass to my lips.

Nobody in this room knew who I was, they had no clue I was simply a housekeeper. And as they passed me in their tailed tuxedos and partial face masks, I smiled back with red glossed lips when they nodded their heads in greeting. If I knew how to dance, I would have done so, but instead, I stood off to the right of the room watching while people laughed and clapped and kissed each other, the center of the room a whirlwind of activity as masked dancers moved in coordination.

My eyes peered about the room wondering which masked man was Vincent, which tuxedo would he wear? Black on white, black on black? Would his mask be gold, or black or red? Who was he the among these glamorous people and would he make himself known to me now or later?

He would recognize me because I wore the dress he selected. He would know my answer was yes.

An hour passed and then another as I drank more champagne and ate the hor d’oeuvres that passed by on silver trays, my head spinning as the alcohol coursed through my veins, my cheeks hurting from smiling so much. Just as I’d given up hope of ever recognizing Vincent, a hush fell over the crowd, people backing away from the center of the room as dancers dressed in jaw dropping costumes took their place beneath the chandelier.

A song lightly played, the crescendo building, the increasing tempo driving my pulse until the room was spinning, the dancers hearing their cue and becoming the music that transfixed me. One man stood facing them from the front of the room, his tailored tuxedo perfectly displaying broad shoulders that tapered down to a strong chest and a trim waist, his face completely covered by a black mask that bore no embellishments except shadow.

It must be him, I thought, but then a pair of strong hands grabbed me, a warm chest pressed against my back as the cool surface of a devil’s mask brushed against my cheek. Twisting so that I could see the man that held me, brilliant green eyes stared back.

“Vincent,” I whispered, unable to see if he smiled that dangerously devilish grin that fit so perfectly with his green and silver mask. His hand found mine, and before I could utter another word, I was being led from the ballroom by a man whose black tuxedo did nothing to hide the masculine strength of his body.

I was practically running to keep up with him as we wound our way through the halls, and when we were alone together as the elevator climbed, I laughed and reached for his mask.

His grip was bruising when he snatched my wrist to keep me from pulling it off.

The elevator doors opened and he swept me up into his arms, cradling me to his chest as he ate the distance of the hall with his long, powerful stride. He didn’t set me down again until we were in the privacy of my room.

He stilled as we stood staring at each other, our masks in place and our chests heaving. It was the motion of his arm that caught my gaze, the length of his fingers slipping into his pocket to extract a long stretch of black silk.

I think it’s only fair I warn you that in the bedroom I am a man with particular tastes.

My heart was a trapped bird beating its wings desperately beneath my ribs.

Raising a black-gloved hand, he twirled his finger in the air, silently demanding I turn around. I obeyed him without uttering a complaint.

Without making a sound beyond the soft thud of his shoes against the carpet, Vincent stepped behind me, so close that the heat of his chest was a furnace against my back. His hands were gentle as he untied the ribbon holding my mask in place. It fell to the ground as silently as a feather. Soft silk stretched over my eyes, the low light in the room disappearing, and after securing the blindfold in place, his fingertip traced the shape of my mouth, his breath a whisper of sound near my cheek as his other hand gripped my hip and pulled me against him.

I could feel the hard length of his excitement against the cheeks of my bottom, a violent tremor coursing through me. His finger slipped inside my mouth and I suckled the tip without thinking. The responsive growl that rattled his chest was full of male satisfaction. His hand was a bruising pressure on my hip, his body pressing closer, his finger pulling out of my mouth so that he could rip the mask from his face. I felt the skin of his cheek against mine, felt the burn of stubble as his face fell down and his teeth locked on to the tender place where my neck met my shoulder.

All the breath that had been held in my lungs rushed out at once.

My head fell back as his hand splayed over my stomach, slowly moving up until they palmed the weight of my breast over my dress and tore at the bodice of my gown. The material ripped apart, the beauty of the silk shredded as he stripped me bare except for the panties I wore and the heels still holding my feet at four inches above the floor. While his teeth grazed over my shoulder, the tips a sharp line against sensitive skin, one of his hands held me in place by the hip, while the other dove down beneath my panties.

My knees gave out and I would have fallen had he not been holding me up. Circling a fingertip over my aching clit, he’d never bothered to take his gloves off. The cloth was a rough texture against that pulsing place, the movement of his hand tortuous and demanding. His foot moved to kick my legs farther apart and he dipped that finger down to thrust inside me.

A startled moan burst from my lips, my body like putty as his teeth sank down again, his tongue licking over the skin for a taste. It didn’t matter the pain he caused, I didn’t care if he broke the skin to lick the blood away, all that held my attention in that moment was the way his finger played me. Every muscle beneath my skin tensed as a storm sparked to life in my body, the whispers of an orgasm licking at my brain until my hips moved to beg him to drive deeper.

I was so close to coming apart when he released the hold his teeth had on my shoulder, pressed his mouth to my ear and whispered in the most haunting voice I’d ever heard, “Du sang pour le plaisir, ma chérie. Je suis à genoux mais je te possède. ”

It didn’t matter what he’d said. I would agree to anything just to feel the pulse of him inside me.

His hand pulled away as his arm swept around to lock over my abdomen and lift me from the floor. From one second to the next I was standing in my living room and being tossed down onto my stomach over the bed. I tried to turn, my his hand slammed down on my back until I gave in, the tips of his fingers dragging down to cup me between the legs until he took both my legs in his grip, pulled my body to the edge and forced my knees apart.

His hot breath was a wash between my thighs, sending a violent tremor up my body. Slowly, oh so fucking slowly, he ran his lips up the inside of my thigh, his teeth softly biting on the soaked skin when he reached the apex, his tongue flicking out to taste me. A cry of desperation tore from my lips, his palm slapping my ass to silence me. I bit my lip to keep from crying out again, the skin of my cheek blistering hot from how hard he’d struck me.

His tongue sunk inside my body, his thumb finding the entrance to my ass and as he worked me into a whimpering plaything, I came apart over the bed. Unable to stop from releasing the force of violent, implacable pleasure, a moan tore from my lips and filled the room despite pressing my face to the bed to silence it.

He stopped as suddenly as he’d began...until his teeth sank into the inside of my thigh, another cry forced from my lips to be met by the sound of his dark laughter.

A rush of cool air swept in when he pulled away, the room silent and still until the sound of rustling cloth was a whisper to my senses, another slap against my bottom splitting the air. Before I could move away, Vincent had trapped my thighs in his grip, shoving my legs up until my chest was pressed to the bed and I was presented for his pleasure.

With a long, hard thrust, he took what was his, possessing me, claiming me, marking me as his toy that could be wound up to dance for his amusement. There was no care or concern for the pain and pleasure I felt, no words spoken with love, no questions asked as to whether or not I could handle him. This was violence. This was cruelty. This was primal and raw. This was a man showing a woman who owned her.

Not one complaint fell from my lips. Not one argument or protest. And as tears leaked from my eyes to mingle with the moans from my lips, his pace sped, his hips pounding until he was deep inside, spilling his approval of my submission inside me.

Releasing me, he left me sated and spent over white sheets that covered the bed, and when I thought he’d gone to the bathroom so that he could clean up, I closed my eyes and waited for his return.

A return that never happened.

A return that had never been planned.

When I found the strength to push myself up and off the bed, I whispered Vincent’s name and crept through the rooms to find that his mask was gone and that the soft click of a door hadn’t been Vincent going into the bathroom like I thought, it had been the sound of him quietly leaving.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Faiville Prison, 4:57 pm

 

For the first time since Meadow had started the interview with Vincent Mercier - the last confession he would give before his death by lethal injection - the man who had so easily led the dance she’d entered, sat silent and remorseful.

It wasn’t that he’d said a word to her to express what he felt, it was that she could see a subtle shift in his expression, a soft bruising beneath his normally cutting stare that betrayed his exhaustion. Something she’d said when offering him Penny’s recollection of events had reached inside that cold, cruel body and touched the careless heart inside to set it beating again.

“I guess it’s my turn to tell you I’ve stopped talking and yet you’ve remained quiet. A promise is a promise, Vincent. It’s your turn to tell me what happened.”

Without lifting his gaze to meet hers, he attempted a smile, the effort lost when his eyes failed to reclaim their ever-present glimmer. “I’m wondering why you continued forward,” he admitted, his voice empty, without inflection. “The deal we’d made was for you to tell me her perspective up until that afternoon in the garden, yet you took us past the ball, to the moment -“

Voice trailing away, he shook his head, tracing his finger against the edge of the table. The silence of the room was cut through by the soft rattle of his chains. “Is that all she wrote about that night?” Eyes finally tipping up to capture hers, he asked, “Did she mention what she felt in her heart?”

No. Meadow hadn’t told him what she knew about that. She’d purposely avoided describing the adoration, the odd safety, the hopelessness of falling for a man Penny knew she could never have.

Penny’s entire being has been changed that night, an independent girl who’d accepted a master’s glass, drinking the poison offered to her in order to become a slave that would give him everything. Her heart. Her soul. Her life. So easily stolen by a man who’d been playing games. All for a bet, it seemed, which was why Meadow refrained from telling Vincent that, on the night he’d brought Penny Graham to life, he’d also destroyed her by quietly leaving.

“I think you know how she felt that night. You were there with her. You’d led her away from that ballroom in order to take the first bite...literally.” Pausing, Meadow wished she had a pen she could use to busy her hands, something she could spin or click, a distraction from the pain she was feeling. “Not to skip ahead, but you’d left your mark. The bruises you’d left behind disappeared before you felt the need to taste her again.”

It was that particular visual that changed Vincent’s expression, life bleeding back into the eyes of a sadist and murderer. Lips tipping up at the corners, he crooned, “I’ve left many marks, Meadow. Not just on Penelope, but on any woman that came to my bed. Nobody has ever complained.” When she didn’t answer, when her anger was plain on her face, Vincent leaned forward to whisper, “I’d leave them on you, too, ma belle , if my present situation didn’t prevent that from happening.”

“I would never let you touch me!”

His sly grin widened. “Wouldn’t you?”

Meadow wanted to rip the teasing note from his voice and shove it up his arrogant ass.

Smirking, he tsked his tongue and reminded her of her earlier question. “What did Penelope feel that night? Was it love?”

Irritated by his refusal to drop the subject, Meadow asked, “Why do you want to know? Won’t it just be another notch on your bedpost, another victory you so easily sweep aside along with the rest of the shattered hearts you’ve left in your wake?”

“It’s important to me,” he admitted, saying nothing more as to why Penny’s feelings that night mattered.

Giving in, only because she was curious about the reason Vincent cared, Meadow confessed, “It was the first stirring of love, at least until you left quietly without telling her, until you tortured her by keeping your distance for the weeks that followed.” Blinking away tears that threatened, ignoring the whispers of Penny’s pain, Meadow asked, “Were those weeks all part of your game?”

His jaw ticked just as the door to the interview room burst open, a male guard walking inside to announce, “It’s after five. You’ll need to conclude the interview for today.”

Irritation at the interruption felt like claws scraping down Meadow’s spine. Vincent said nothing as Meadow struggled to push to her feet, as she turned to stop the tape and gather her things. It wasn’t until she was walking to the door to be escorted from the room that Vincent spoke again.

“Tell me, Meadow, why did you go past the point of the story we agreed to? Why did you feel the need to tell me Penny’s perspective from the night of the ball?”

Standing in the doorway of the room, the guard waiting not-so-patiently in the hall, it was Meadow’s turn for a wry grin. “Because I knew that night was the first time you had her, it was the first time you conquered Penny and pierced her heart. I didn’t want to hear it from you at first. Didn’t want to listen to you brag. I plucked the moment from your hands, Vincent.” Meadow locked her stare with his. “I kept going so that I could steal your thunder.”

Vincent’s responsive smile matched hers, the guard’s hand wrapping over her bicep to lead her away.

“It’s a shame you see it that way, Meadow, because it wasn’t my thunder you stole, it was somebody else’s.”

Eyes widening, Meadow only had time to shout, “What are you talking about?” before the guard yanked on her arm and raised his voice in warning.

“It’s time to leave. Continue resisting and we won’t allow you to return for the next two days.”

Bringing his fingers to his lips, Vincent blew Meadow a kiss, the last thing she saw before she was dragged down the hall.

The last thing she heard was Vincent’s voice chasing her through the prison. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Meadow. Sleep well tonight.”

 

. . .

 

Meadow barely slept at all that night, her thoughts scattered, her body moving between the bed where she attempted to lie down and the table upon which sat the recorder she kept incessantly playing. Vincent’s voice haunted her, the secrets he had yet to reveal cutting scars into her mind, taunting.

It’s a shame you see it that way, Meadow, because it wasn’t my thunder you stole, it was somebody else’s...

His last statement was forcing her jaw to clench, punishing her teeth, as questions wouldn’t stop screaming, as puzzle pieces fell into place.

Was he toying with her as he had all the others? Or had there been more lies and secrets that blinded Penny despite her presence within the game?

Meadow didn’t know, her heart tearing open, her own secrets boiling to the surface, spilling over because they were too painful to contain.

By the time the first fingers of sunlight were scrabbling up the horizon to scratch at a midnight sky, Meadow remained seated at the table listening to a sadist weave his tangled web. She had to be at the prison in less than two hours, she had to force herself from her seat to get ready to begin the second day.

She showered and dried her long hair, putting it up per prison protocol even though she wanted to let it fall down her back in cascading, soft waves. Dressing with extraordinary care, she intended to seduce Vincent while staying within guidelines of what the prison would allow her to wear. They didn’t make it easy. No skirts, no embellishments, only shirts that weren’t revealing and pants that hid her legs. And while buttoning into place her white, long sleeved top, she knew she would loosen those closures once it was Vincent’s eyes that looked her way.

He spoke easier when beauty faced him, lost his tongue while luring a woman into his sordid games. She should have worn a sturdy bra beneath the top, but had chosen a loose, lacy camisole instead.

The drive to Faiville Prison was made in silence, the sky as dreary as it had been when she’d first arrived the prior day. Armed with the same recorder with fresh batteries and tapes, she walked the same scarred sidewalks from the parking lot to the front gates, flashing a professional smile at the guard who stood waiting to escort her in.

“Good morning,” she said, approaching the same exhausted guard she remembered.

“You came back,” he answered, somewhat surprised if his expression were any indication of his thoughts. “And here I thought Vincent would have chased you off on day one. You must be tougher than you look.”

Laughing softly, she allowed him to go through her things, to check her identification and papers although he knew her already. “Vincent’s not so bad,” she mentioned, desperate for something to say.

The guard shook his head, his lips a line of disapproval. “Yeah, tell that to his victims.” With a wave of his hand, he said, “This way. You should already know where we’re going. Vincent will be waiting in interview room three.”

After being escorted through to interview room three, Meadow discreetly unfastened a button, revealing more of her body so as to addle the mind of a man who wouldn’t be able to look away. If there was one thing she knew about Vincent, it was that a pair of shapely breasts could loosen his tongue before he realized what he was saying.

His gaze trapped hers as soon as she stepped into the room, his green eyes beaming above an white jumpsuit, his shackles rattling as he settled himself into his seat and allowed himself a few moments to survey her body with unhidden approval.

The door slammed shut behind her.

“Good morning, Meadow.” Canting his head to the side, Vincent ran the tip of his lying tongue along his lower lip. “Are you going to set up your recorder and take a seat, or are we going to spend the day simply staring at one another?”

Meadow’s heels clicked across the scuffed, concrete floors as she approached the table. After setting up her recorder, she took her seat opposite Vincent, her hands folding demurely over the surface of the table. “What did you mean it was somebody else’s thunder?”

Laughter burst from his lips, the sound rolling and expanding until it had filled every tiny nook and cranny of the room where they sat. “Did that keep you up last night?” He paused, his smile triumphant. “Meanwhile, I slept like a baby.”

“Quid pro quo, Vincent. I told you Penny’s perspective, now you owe me yours. I want to know what happened the night of the masquerade ball, whose thunder it was that I stole.”

Tsking, he rolled his shoulders. “Such a demanding voice from such a small woman. That turns me on, you know?”

She scoffed, “And here I thought it was a helpless woman that turned you on the most.”

“Not helpless,” he corrected her, “submissive. There’s a difference.”

She wouldn’t take the bait, so he explained his meaning without Meadow bothering to ask. “A helpless woman has no say in how I treat her. She can’t fight or bargain her way out of the pain. A submissive woman on the other hand...”

He flared his fingers adding emphasis to his words. “A submissive woman simply accepts the treatment she’s given. She thanks her master for every strike, every bite, every punishment and every slap. She begs for more of the rough treatment, much like Penelope did when she learned to behave.”

His words couldn’t have cut deeper, even if he’d used a hatchet instead of a scalpel.

Palm slapping down on the surface of the table, Meadow answered, “Your perspective of that night, Vincent. You owe it to me.”

“And I’ll give it to you. All good things come to those who wait.”

Leaning forward, she spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ve waited long enough and we’re running out of time.”

Smiling, he leaned toward her, closing the distance. “Actually, Meadow, our time has just started, but I’ll give in to this demand of yours because I already had my fun yesterday when you left. I knew my words would keep you up all night.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Vincent

 

Staying away from Penelope following our meeting in the garden was far more difficult than it should have been. I was a man acclimated to handling women, a seducer who had grown tired of the easy games, yet with that particular woman I couldn’t quite rid myself of a constant question of whether or not she’d accept my invitation and take me to her bed.

Seeing her in the halls of Wishing Well wasn’t easy, watching her as she pushed her housekeeping cart, and spent her time polishing and sweeping, her heart shaped ass bouncing with every step and every swipe of cloth on some soiled surface. It amused me far too much when I’d pass by and see her eyes tracking my path, the shy smiles she gave me that I never returned. It was always more fun to keep a woman guessing.

To pass those days without giving in to my need to taste her, I spent some time visiting my other hotels and properties that would never bring me as much joy as Wishing Well. Several nights, I’d taken different women to bed when I wasn’t within easy view of a young woman still making up her mind. None of those women could please me. They were too easy. Too greedy. Too experienced for what I had in mind.

Only Penelope would satisfy that craving inside me, only her wide eyes, her startled gasps, her introduction into a lifestyle that would test her every boundary and make her mine.

One day remained before the night of the ball and I was seated at my desk in my office at Wishing Well when my door popped open and John peeked his head inside. “Do you have a minute to talk?”

“Is there a problem?” I asked, my eyes focused on financial documents that were giving me a massive headache.

“It’s Maurice,” he stated calmly as he shut the door behind him. “He’s chased off another counselor.”

Sitting back in my seat, I released a heavy sigh. “Is the counselor injured in any way?”

John shook his head, “No. This one didn’t get close enough for Maurice to touch, but before leaving the hotel, she told me that Maurice was demanding to speak to you. She claimed he was complaining that he hasn’t been let out of the basement for over a week. He’s refused to work with anybody until you go down to see him.”

Pinching the skin between my eyes, I clenched my teeth. After the night in the garden when Penelope found both Maurice and I near the well, I’d been avoiding my brother. He was adamant that I give him Penelope as if she were some gift, but I refused to surrender the girl just so he could destroy her as easily as he had others. “I’ll go see him, John. Thank you for letting me know.”

Inclining his head, John left without saying another word. I spent several minutes in the silence of my office before finding the strength to leave my seat and head down to the basement to face my brother.

Stepping into the entryway that was as dark and elegant as a rich man’s tomb, I noticed the lights had been turned off for the sake of the flame sconces, the dancing shadows cutting across Maurice’s face where he sat on the brown leather sofa waiting for me.

“I want her,” he barked, taking no time to jump back to the last argument we’d had following that night in the garden.

Patiently, I responded, “I’ve already told you, she’s not that type of girl. You’ll end up killing her when she fights back. I can’t afford to lose another employee, Maurice. The bodies are stacking up.”

Rage twisted his expression. “Her,” he said simply, refusing to listen to anything I was saying.

Leaning a shoulder against the wall, I stared at him, careful not to show my frustration. He took what he considered to be rejection too close to heart and could react without thinking. “This is why I haven’t taken you up to the garden for a week. You’ll need to let her go. How can I trust you not to make a scene if you won’t even calm down while in your cage? You chased another counselor away.”

“And I’ll keep doing it until you let me have her. I won’t kill her.” His voice lowered in volume as if he were speaking to himself and not me. “I won’t.”

Lifting his green eyes to mine, he argued, “The others were an accident.”

My heart squeezed at the sorrow of his tone. Maurice never could control himself. It wasn’t his fault those accidents happened. For as intelligent as he was with formal education, he was terrible when it came to emotion or social norms. It’s why we had to keep him locked up like an animal. He didn’t know any better. “I know,” I answered. “Which is why you have to trust me that Penelope is the wrong woman for you.”

What I didn’t tell him was that a large part of my refusal was the fact that I wanted Penelope for myself. I could never reveal that particular truth. It would drive him to violence.

It broke my heart to see his expression fall, to see the shame Maurice felt. Regardless of how difficult a problem he had been in my life, I truly loved my brother.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, moving across the room to take a seat next to him. He trained his eyes on the elevator doors, refusing to meet mine. Filling the silence, I offered, “I can find someone else. You just need to give me a few days. The annual masquerade ball is tomorrow and it’s taking up most of my time, but after it’s over, I’ll find you another woman. Okay?”

“D’accord ,” he answered, switching back to our native language.

With pure truth in my heart, I said, “Je t’aime, mon frere.”

He nodded his head, still refusing to meet my gaze, and also refusing to tell me he loved me back.

 

. . .

 

The night passed uneventfully, my thoughts trapped by a certain brunette that had made herself as scarce as I had over the past few days. Like a rabbit avoiding a hungry wolf, she’d scattered each time she caught a glimpse of me inside the hotel, my desire deepening because it was the frightened ones that drew my notice, the shy women that would fully bloom beneath the direction of a skilled hand. I knew in my heart that by the time I was finished with Penelope Graham, her body would sing and she’d lose her inhibitions to become exactly what any sensual man would want in a slave.

The ball had already started on the first floor by the time I dragged myself away from my piano to dress in my tuxedo and mask to make an appearance among the wealthy crowd that could afford the cost of entrance. I had no intentions of staying at the ball for long, but looked forward to the time I could remain incognito watching a woman find her way within an event unlike anything I assumed she’d experienced before. From what I knew of Penelope, from the behavior I’d seen, she was not raised among the privileged and elite; she’d gone from humble beginnings to the streets. Observing her when she didn’t know which man was me would be a pleasure because she wouldn’t tuck tail and run away.

The only question was: Would she wear red, or would she wear green? I wasn’t worried that she’d choose the wrong color. Her behavior over the last few days had been telling.

Tugging my black jacket into place over my black shirt and black bow tie, I settled my mask over my face, tying my hair back at the nape of my neck to keep it carefully out of place. The ends brushed my collar and I considered trimming the length as I left my suite and made my way to the elevator, admiring my reflection in the polished bronze doors as I was taken to the lobby and to the ball.

Music reached out to whisper against my ears and draw me in its direction, the sound growing louder with each step I took toward the large ballroom. I didn’t see Penelope immediately once joining the party, but after circling the event a few times to make sure everything was moving along as expected, I spotted her within a small crowd to the right of the dance floor, a broad smile stretching her beautiful face.

My breath caught in my chest to see the color dress she’d chosen, my body rigid and tense to know that tonight would be my first taste. I couldn’t wait to strip the dress from her perfect body, could barely contain the urge I had to bend her over and spank her perfect ass until all the rebellion had deserted her mind. She’d calmed down some since I first brought her to Wishing Well, but there was still that streak of defiance and disobedience I knew she carried inside.

But first, I would watch her, I would study her and observe her to see if she blended well within a crowd of people who were nothing like her. I would see how often she glanced about attempting to find me. And then, after the show was done, the dancing over, the night winding down as the guests continued to drink champagne, I would lead Penelope to her room on the fifth floor and show her what to expect from a man with my tastes.

Two hours wasn’t too long a time to wait.

Taking a woman by the hand, I invited her to dance, and as I led her through each spin and dip, I kept Penelope within my peripheral vision, enjoying how she sipped from her champagne flute watching the event. I was wrong to think her humble beginnings would keep her from blending in ... it was her striking beauty that drew every man’s eye that accomplished her inability to go unnoticed. Let them look, let their eyes take their fill. Penelope would be guided by my hand tonight.

The music in the ballroom grew silent as the lights of the chandelier dimmed. Professional dancers dressed in their finest costumes took their place on the floor as the crowd parted to give them adequate space. After this show, after allowing Penelope to watch a dance that would awaken the desire inside her, I planned to lead her from the ballroom up to her room and show her how pleasure could mix with pain.

Standing back, I watched the dancers move into place, I felt my heart kick beneath my ribs, felt the music flow through me as the lighting in the room shifted to focus on the dance routine. Their bodies moved in a perfect beat, their costumes provocative and appealing, but by the time they ended their coordinated moves, Penelope was nowhere to be seen.

Glancing around, I wondered where my beautiful girl had run off to, thought that perhaps she’d gone to use the restroom or to find another drink. When she didn’t return for another half hour, suspicion gripped my thoughts. Had she gone to her room alone? Had I spent too much time enjoying watching her when she didn’t know it was me?

I needed to find her. Needed to tell her that she wasn’t a mistake at all, but a sadistic man’s dream.

Leaving the ballroom, I walked the halls to the restrooms, and not finding her, I took an elevator to the fifth floor. Rage tore through me, blinding anger, as I turned a corner.

Tuxedo in place, mask in hand, a man walked down the hallway from the direction of Penelope’s room - a man that should never have left his cage. Beneath the burning heat of my fury, ran a cold line of fear.

“Maurice,” I said, my voice soft, my mind unwilling to believe I was watching my brother walking around without me there to control him. My heart stumbled, skipped, images flashing through my head of broken women and the blood that spilled. “Is she?” I couldn’t finish the question, my terror too intense.

“I didn’t kill her,” he said, approaching me, his green eyes locking to mine, his broad shoulders rolled back, his demeanor triumphant, daring me to say something.

“How did you get out of the basement?”

I was so shocked by his appearance, I could barely formulate a logical thought. Concern trickled down my spine followed by disappointment. Had he killed Penelope and lied to me just now? Had he torn apart a beautiful girl that was showing so much potential?

“Same way you get in,” he answered, a challenge in his grin. “I also didn’t kill the man you sent with my dinner. But he has been bound for an hour by now. I had to make sure he didn’t come running to tell you I’d escaped my prison.”

“We need to get downstairs, Maurice. Before anybody sees you.”

There was no strength to my voice, my shoulders withering with the weight of my anxiety, my fear that Penelope Graham breathed no longer.

As if intuiting my thoughts, he repeated, “I didn’t kill her.”

I blinked slowly and swallowed down the knot clogging my throat. “Did she behave for you? Was she scared?”

Anger flashed behind his eyes, shame, satisfaction and something else. “She called me Vincent. I didn’t like that. But it was my cock she came on, wasn’t it? My tongue, my words, my hands, my teeth.”

Grin stretching wider with the knowledge of having beat me to her, he moved past me toward the elevator, not fighting to remain free of his cage.

I turned and watched my brother stalk off, and I realized as he moved smoothly down the long hall that this was the first time I’d ever seen him so calm.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

 

I spent two weeks avoiding Penelope after the night of the ball, two weeks avoiding Maurice, two weeks staying away from Wishing Well as much as possible so that I wouldn’t have to face what had occurred. The morning after the ball, I’d checked in with Theresa to ensure Penelope showed up to work, and after discovering she was alive and well, I’d taken off to stay at one of my other properties, avoiding everything but emails from work.

Taking my anger out on women in bed had done nothing to soothe my rage, and no matter how I busied myself, how I gorged on food, on alcohol, on sex and on entertainment, I couldn’t shake Penelope from my thoughts.

That night was supposed to be mine. The first taste of her should have been by my mouth and not my brother’s, yet Maurice had proven to me that his prison wasn’t as secure as I’d always thought it was.

Why that night? Why her? Why hadn’t Maurice broken free before that moment and alerted me to his ability to escape? It was my own arrogance that I’d locked him down sufficiently that led to a night where he gnashed his teeth and broke free of his chains.

I’d wanted to give him as much freedom as possible by having the basement of Wishing Well modified for his use, and in doing so, I’d put lives at risk. I’d put my business at risk. And I’d put my own welfare at risk.

After three weeks, however, I couldn’t stand being away any longer, and from what I’d been told by my hotel manager, Maurice hadn’t again attempted escape. I wondered about his sudden good behavior after discovering there were ways to breach his cage.

Returning to the hotel, I’d worked for most of the day before deciding to take a walk through the garden. While wandering down the path, I wasn’t surprised to find Penelope standing over the well, her hand opening to drop a penny to the bottom, the copper coin flashing in the afternoon sunlight as it fell from her palm. Unable to resist the siren’s song, I stepped up behind her silently, leaning down so I could whisper against her ear, “If you could wish for anything in the world, Penelope, what would you wish for?”

Tears slipped down her cheeks. She reached up to swipe the tears away, but I caught her wrist with one hand while using a fingertip of the other to catch the tear for myself. “Why are you crying?”

Penelope sniffled, the sound wrecking the silence. “No reason,” she answered, her voice curt, defensive. “Just had a bad day, is all. It’s nothing important.”

Attempting to step away from me, she gasped when I refused to release her wrist, snatched her close and spun her to face me. I knew why she was crying. I knew it had to do with me. But I wanted to hear the words fall from her lips. Despite everything, I was still a cruel, greedy bastard.

“Tell me why you’re crying.”

“Why do you care?” she hissed, wanting to scream but keeping her voice quiet so as not to disturb the other people who were wandering down the paths. More tears spilled over cheeks that were stained pink, and like the first time I’d given her a tour of the gardens, I dragged her away from the well and into the private alcove.

I wouldn’t lie and claim her anger didn’t turn me on, it was just another example of the rebellious nature she harbored inside her beautiful body.

“Why wouldn’t I care?” I asked, my hand still wrapped firmly over her wrist. When she scowled up at me, I had to fight not to spin her around and bend her over my knee. Three weeks hadn’t been enough to rid the obsession I had for her. If anything, it had only dug the obsession deeper.

What had she been like when Maurice deceived her? What had he taken that was mine?

After several failed attempts to yank her arm free, Penelope gave in, gave up, practically withered beneath the understanding that she was battling a far stronger opponent. I admired her for the fight, and wanted her for the ability to acquiesce and submit. “You used me,” she finally admitted, a rough edge to every word doused with sorrow, anger, and insecurity. So confused as to my behavior, she was lost, and I wouldn’t be the one to chase away the shadows that held her - not yet. Not until I knew exactly what had occurred the night of the ball.

“I never promised you anything. Only a mistake, only one night.”

Tears slipped from her face to fall to the ground, watering the grass, drenching the soil, her pain nourishing the life of the earth beneath us. Much as it nourished me. “I know, and that’s why I should go before I say or do something that gets me fired. I need this job.”

“What were you wishing for when I found you just now? What did the coin you dropped represent?”

“What does it matter?” She asked, her voice broken, defeated.

“It matters to me. Perhaps I can help you achieve whatever is you desire.”

Flinching at the words, she shook her head. “No. I won’t go through that again. I won’t.” Finally succeeding in pulling her wrist from my grasp, she crossed her arms over her chest, her walls resurrecting. And with an honesty that dragged breath from my lungs, she locked her glistening brown eyes to mine, the gold flecks brilliant in small streams of light. “You made my body sing. I won’t deny that. But then to walk away without a word? Without a thank you or a goodbye - with nothing! I can’t, I won’t, I-“

Catching her chin with my fingers, I stilled her head, moving closer as her eyes widened, her nostrils flaring just slightly from fear, from need, from uncertainty.

My voice was a bare whisper as my lips hovered a teasing inch above hers. “Did I kiss you that night? Do you remember?”

“No,” she answered, the one word drawing more anger, slicing deeper into her heart.

At least this first, this taste, will be mine. For what my brother stole from me, he didn’t take this...

Softly, I pressed my mouth to hers, stood unmoving, undemanding, as a shudder coursed through her body, the tremble easing as she relaxed into the kiss, a pitiful sigh escaping her lungs for me to swallow.

Maurice may have stolen this angel’s body, but her soul belonged to me.

Myths. Legends. Fairytales. They all betray the truth about a person’s lips, that their kiss is the means by which life can be given or taken away. It’s never in the physical act of dominance and decimation, it’s in the submission to whim, the simple caress of one mouth against another, the slide of a tongue, the passion that ignites when two people share that single moment of pure bliss.

Even a whore will spread her legs for whatever a customer offers, but she won’t give her mouth to him, only because a person’s secrets, their hopes, their dreams, their heart can be found in a kiss.

I’d taken that from Penelope as she pressed her body to mine, as her lips parted to grant me entrance, as my fist tightened within her hair and I delivered the promise of pain. She trembled again, but not from fear, and that’s when I knew she was mine.

I could forgive Maurice for what he’d stolen because, in truth, Penelope’s heart was still firmly held within my hands.

Breaking away, I left her breathless, I watched as her eyes fluttered opened, noticed the hint of pink that colored her skin, the distance she’d placed between us now gone.

“I want you to come to my suite tonight.” My voice was huskier than I liked, the truth of my feelings coming out in the rough texture, the loss of fluidity in speech.

“Okay,” was her simple answer, her eyes closing again, her lips slightly parted, inviting me to taste again. I grinned, always amused by this puzzling beauty.

“Ten o’clock. I have work to accomplish beforehand. The entire sixth floor is mine. The elevator takes you directly to my door.”

Stepping away, I stopped, turning just enough to glance at her from over my shoulder. She stood entranced, slightly drunk, bewitched. “You never told me what you wished for.”

Heat colored her cheeks, a sheepish expression changing her face. “I wished for happiness.”

Penelope was a horrible liar. My lips curled at the corners. “Is that all?”

A few seconds passed before she released a heavy breath. “I wished for love.”

Inclining my head, I flashed her one last smile before walking away. I wished I could be going somewhere peaceful, somewhere quiet where I could enjoy the moment I’d shared with a woman that had expertly trapped my thoughts. But instead, I was in route to the basement to face Maurice for the first time since the night of the ball. I already knew what he would demand from me, and after my time with Penelope in the garden, I already knew how I would answer. This meeting would not be pleasant.

Not at all.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Faiville Prison, 10:37 am

 

“You look tired.”

Meadow sat back in her chair, her intent to seduce Vincent choked out by her vehemence and anger. Losing the battle she’d intended to wage against a man used to the emotional fray, she did something he wouldn’t expect: She answered him honestly.

“I am tired. But I’m also angry with you. I’m sad for Penny. I feel lost, which I assume is how she must have felt her entire time at your hotel.” Another question nagged at her mind, but it wasn’t one she would state aloud, not yet anyway.

Vincent watched her carefully, his focused attention unsettling because Meadow knew he could see every emotion that battered her defenses. She’d wanted to win against him, to do what Penny could not, but even now she felt herself sinking beneath the surface of turbulent waves.

Vincent had created a storm, and like Penny, Meadow was caught in its violence, in its hopelessness, in its drenching rains. Despite the secrets she had yet to uncover, the weapons she planned to use against a man who was tearing her heart in two, Meadow couldn’t help but understand that, in this game, there were no winners or losers. “You never told her it was Maurice that night of the ball. She never knew.”

Eyes searching her face, his expression was blank, unreadable. “How do you know?”

Daring to lock eyes with Vincent, Meadow curled her fingers into her palm, her nails cutting half-moon circles into the skin, just barely drawing blood. She needed the physical pain to divest herself of the emotions that gripped her in a sadistic hold. How can emotions make you hurt everywhere? How can they choke the life out of you from inside? They were nothing but chemicals being dumped in your veins, but still they froze you faster than even the depraved stare of a man who knew he held you in place. Penny had blamed herself at times for the torment she’d endured, and like Penny, Meadow blamed herself now.

“She never wrote it in the diary. I have to assume it was because she didn’t know.” Bitter laughter fell from her lips. “Maybe if she had, she would have left that damn hotel. Would have realized that she’d become the sole focus of a monster you so expertly created.”

It was Vincent’s turn to flinch. Maurice was the only weakness in his armor, the only regret he carried. Meadow could see, plain as day, how true Vincent’s love was for his brother. And now that the weak spot had been exposed, Meadow reached in with greedy fingers to rip out the heart of a bastard who’d enjoyed destroying the lives of others.

Canting her head, much like Vincent would do when he knew he had you cornered, Meadow grinned. “What’s wrong, Vincent? Does it hurt to know what you did to Maurice? How you tortured him and made him worse by keeping him separate from the world? By keeping him caged?” Vincent simply smiled back, but Meadow knew she’d sunk the blade deep, and she wanted to twist it around and around and around until this son of a bitch was screaming.

“You created a monster. You took a person who could have succeeded despite his problems, and you only managed to make them worse.” Tsking, Meadow admired the razored edge to Vincent’s grin. For fucking once she had him cornered.

But it wouldn’t be the last time, and for that reason alone she would continue this fight. For Penny. For her twin sister. For every person Vincent had hurt and destroyed.

“We’re not here to talk about Maurice,” Vincent answered, his voice calm, assured, so practiced that Meadow knew he was fighting to keep it controlled. There was no humor touching his tone, no satisfaction now that it was his destruction of Maurice that came into focus.

After Penny’s death, and after receiving the diary that had been left in Vincent’s wake, Meadow had locked on to the task of finding the mysterious brother kept in a basement cage.

Refusing to drop the subject, Meadow commented, “Actually I think we are here to talk about Maurice. He was another one of your victims. You may not have been the one to kill him, but you were certainly the cause.” Pausing, she enjoyed seeing pain flash behind his green eyes. “And let’s not forget what you did to Penny. Tossing her to him like a scrap of meat.” Leaning forward, she lowered her voice, “Did you watch?”

Taking the bait, Vincent leaned forward as well, his lips only inches from her own. She would have felt frightened if not for his chains.

His voice was equally as soft. “You’re skipping ahead again. And just as we were getting to the true tests of Penelope’s strength.”

Rolling her eyes, Meadow sat back in her chair. Vincent would give her nothing, his mask back in place, his eagerness to gloat apparent. She wouldn’t give him that chance. Sure, he would enjoy knowing exactly how Penny had felt during the next week of their games, but she wouldn’t let him brag. And when she was done filling him in on this small portion of the story, this heart-wrenching perspective, she would enjoy seeing his smile falter when she drove the knife into his chest deeper with things she knew but he didn’t.

Vincent may have had his secrets, but so did Penny. So did Meadow.

“I know this is the point in the story where you finally have sex with Penny. And I know you’ve been chomping at the bit to tell me all the sordid details of what you did to her in the privacy of your suite. How she liked it. How she asked for more. How you eventually tossed her away once you’d grown tired of your games, only to drag her back for more of your intimate training . You’ve been hinting to it during this entire interview.”

Relaxing against the back of his seat, Vincent asked, “And your point is?”

“I won’t let you brag to me, Vincent. And while I know hearing about how you made Penny feel during the nights and days you trained her, used her, fucked her and, well, showed her just how well you could torment her, I’m going to take control at this point in the story to deliver Penny’s perspective. It might be eye opening.”

Laughter, dark and sultry, rolled over his lips. “Chapeau , Meadow. It’s about time you wrestle me under control. I was beginning to think you are as weak as Penelope.”

Stretching his legs out beneath the table, he rested the tip of his boot against Meadow’s shoe, except this time, Meadow refused to yank her foot away, refused to give him the slightest indication that he affected her. Vincent smiled knowingly, his shackles rattled.

“Let’s begin, shall we? Or rather, I should say it’s time for you to begin. Please, Meadow, school me on all the horrible details that will make me rethink my evil ways. I’m quite curious as to what direction this is going.”

“You know what they say about curiosity,” Meadow quipped.

“Ah,” he answered, his voice slick, “but then Penelope also found that out, didn’t she?”

Bastard. The fucking bastard. He was toying with her even now.

Vengeful for the ease with which he smeared Penny’s fate into her face, Meadow struck out with a cheap blow. “Before I start, I’d like to take stock of all the players for this part of the story.”

Vincent cocked a single brow, waiting.

“Where is Maurice right now?”

Meadow was desperate for the answer to that question. She had her suspicions, but she wanted Vincent to say it, to admit how he’d fucked up and left his brother to wither and rot, she wanted him to feel the same agony that she felt at that moment. She wanted confirmation that Maurice was dead.

His jaw ticked once, fury and annoyance written into that subtle tell she didn’t think he realized he had. “Are we back to him again? I’m not sure why Maurice matters,” his grin stretched, “unless of course you’re just trying to upset me.” Exaggerated censure was the line of his brow. “Come now, Meadow, aren’t we more mature than that? I’d expect more from a woman who’s had time to prepare for facing me down. You came here to find out about Penny, and yet you’re taking cheap shots-“

“Where is he?” She shrieked, interrupting him. “I want to know what happened to your brother.”

His shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Oh, I’m sure you do, but I won’t give you that information. Not now. Perhaps I can be convinced to tell you after you tell me Penelope’s version of events. Give me something to take to bed with me tonight, and I’ll give you what you’re after.”

She sighed, knowing he’d issued his demand and wouldn’t budge until she’d given him what he wanted. “Fine. But after I tell you this, you tell me what happened to Maurice. Deal?”

His tongue traced his bottom lip. “Deal.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Penny

 

Sick to my stomach, I paced my room on the fifth floor, my nails bitten down to the tips of my fingers, my thoughts racing, my heart beating out a frenetic rhythm of self-loathing and warning.

I knew better than to trust Vincent after what he’d done before, but despite all the questions screaming in my head, and all the haunting whispers, I still couldn’t shake the need I had to feel alive again.

I’d been crushed the night of the ball after having flown so high, had felt like I’d crash landed back to the ground when Vincent left without saying goodbye, but then to be dragged through the mud, to have my face shoved into the ugly truth that he didn’t give a damn about me, I’d sworn off every desire I had for the man, choosing to swear off my hopes there could be something .

And yet, he’d returned and he’d found me at the exact moment I’d made a wish while tossing a penny to the bottom of a well. I may as well have tossed myself for as conveniently timed his arrival had been.

It was as if fate had stepped in and shoved all my instincts away to take a seat, front and center, while flashing a sign saying ‘maybe’.

Maybe is such a fucked up word.

No matter how I tried to convince myself that I shouldn’t go up to Vincent’s suite, there was a small part of me lingering in that alcove where he’d dragged me, still melting from the way we’d kissed. It was that part that forced me to get dressed. That part that led me to carefully comb my hair and leave it loose down my back. That part that forced me out the door of my room, down the hall, inside the elevator. It was that part that hit the button marked six.

Like Vincent had said, the elevator doors slid open revealing another set of dark wood doors, intricately carved until the pattern itself was enough to hypnotize. Those doors spoke of money, they spoke of masculine taste, they spoke of the man that would be waiting on the other side for a stupid little girl who hadn’t learned the first time that his interest was mercurial at best.

My choice was to step forward or step back, choosing which side of the elevators doors to be on when they slid closed with a quiet, electronic hiss.

I stepped forward and lifted my hand to knock on the dark wood door, my heart thudding within my chest. Vincent opened the door, his suit jacket missing, his cream colored shirt unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. “I’m glad you came,” he greeted me, the rolling lilt of his voice creating small tremors in my core.

Mouth dry, heart pounding, I didn’t know what to say. Thankfully, he filled the awkward silence. “You should come in. Would you like a drink?”

“I think so,” I muttered, following him on shaky legs. Although we’d spent time together after the ball, it hadn’t felt so professional - so planned. There was no telling what I was walking into now and why Vincent felt so cold.

His suite was exactly how I’d envisioned it would be: opulent, elegant, as breathtaking as the man who owned it. A color scheme of dark red curtains and other accessories, rich brown leather and cream carpets and walls, he had fine art hung to accentuate the setting, and crystal and silver fixtures that glimmered beneath soft lighting. Bookshelves lined one wall while floor to ceiling windows lined another, and in the center of the room with lit candles glowing against its surface was a black, grand piano.

“You think so?” he repeated, not waiting for my answer before crossing the room on his powerful swagger to start mixing drinks at a sidebar.

“I don’t know what to expect,” I admitted, the honesty spilling out of me no matter how badly I wanted it to stop.

Glancing over his shoulder, he cocked a brow. “I assume you’ve had sex before. Once already with me. The mechanics are pretty much the same, although the experience can be dramatically different.”

“Maybe it’s the experience I’m worried about. Last time was...” My cheeks flushed red. “...it was memorable, but the ending left me hanging.”

Turning with two drinks in hand, he pinned me in his stare as he approached. Handing one to me, he asked, “You didn’t get off?”

“It was more about the abrupt exit,” I admitted.

My cheeks flared brighter and I brought the glass to my lips not caring what the hell he’d poured in it. Vincent grinned to see I’d polished it off. Eyeing his glass, I asked, “Are you going to drink that?”

He handed it over. “You may want to pace yourself. I can’t have you passing out during the best parts.” Correcting himself, he added, “Well, not from the alcohol anyway.”

I chugged the glass down, the alcohol seeping quickly into my veins. Feeling a touch more relaxed, I licked my lips and asked, “So, how will all this work? Are you going to blindfold me like last time?”

His green eyes flashed with some unspoken thought. Taking the glass from my hand, he was walking it back to the sidebar when he said, “Take off your clothes, Penelope.”

What? Somehow the sentiment wasn’t as romantic as him ripping the clothes from body. When I’d been with him after the ball, it had been naked, raw, stifling heat. Now? It was distant, calculated, cold.

Setting the glass on the bar, he glanced over, ice clattering within a new glass he was whipping up. “I wasn’t joking. If you’re here to learn what it’s like being my lover, I suggest you learn to follow directions. You won’t like the punishments I have to offer.”

Punishment?! My eyes rounded. “You didn’t do this last time,” I stammered, accepting the drink from his hand after he’d crossed the room on smooth steps to stand in front of me.

Taking a sip from his glass, he answered, “Last time was an introduction. Tonight is the real thing.”

His smile was lascivious. “I warned you I’m a man with particular tastes. Don’t act so surprised.” Jutting his chin, he commanded, “Finish your drink, Penelope, and strip down. If you don’t like the terms of this arrangement, you know where you can find the door.”

My first instinct was to toss the drink in his face and storm off. My second, however...

I couldn’t forget how he’d made my body sing. Memories of it had kept me up every night for the past three weeks. This? This felt more like a business deal.

Breathing out, I slammed the drink, placed the glass on a nearby table and looked over to see Vincent settling himself on the piano bench. His nimble fingers softy played over the keys while I made my decision as to what I would do.

It wasn’t like I had to do this again if I didn’t like it. Maybe the raw heat I remembered would come back once my clothing was off and my body was bare. Slowly, I peeled off the clothes I’d carefully selected earlier, insecurity roaring through me as Vincent quietly played piano. The floating notes did nothing to ease my anxiety. He didn’t bother to look up until I’d walked over to stand at his side.

Even then, it took him another minute or two to give me his attention, and when he did, his gaze slowly traveled up my body, starting from my toes and ending with my eyes. “You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice soft, husky. “I hope you know that.”

A rush of self-consciousness made me dizzy. I felt exposed. Studied. A lab rat waiting for the hot as hell scientist to poke me with one tortuous instrument or another. Ignoring the shiver coursing down my spine, I answered, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” His head tilted to the left. “Second door from the window. Enter the room, stand in front of the Saint Andrews Cross, and wait there until I come to you.”

My heart skipped, then sputtered, jolting back to life with a ragged rhythm. “The what?”

Lifting a hand, he caught my chin between his fingers and angled my face down to look at him. “The point to these exercises is to learn total submission. You must do as you’re told without question. You must accept pain. You must keep from screaming and crying unless I ask you to do so.” Pausing he let those thoughts sink in before: “You must trust me, Penelope, and know that you’ll thank me in the end.”

“I’m scared,” I whispered.

He was faced me fully and stood to his full height, his proximity reminding me just how small I was compared to him. It didn’t make me feel any better.

However, his demeanor softened as he reached to cup my cheek with his palm, his thumb sweeping across my lips with a staggering gentleness I hadn’t expected from him. Warmth returned into a dynamic that, until that moment, had been devoid of feeling. “I know you’re scared. You should be scared. And that’s not how I want you to feel. But in this, you have no idea how important it is that you trust me no matter what you’re feeling. I only have your best interests at heart. But you must submit, and you must obey.”

Leaning down, he kissed me, the warmth of his lips causing my body to melt against him, the warmth of his hands carefully sliding up my sides, never touching my breasts, but stopping just below them. A pervasive need was a tidal wave crashing through me, memories of the first time we’d been together becoming liquid heat between my thighs.

“Tu es ma seule chagrin,” he whispered pulling away from a kiss that left me breathless, the meaning of the words lost on me, but not the sad tone.

“What did you say?”

Eyes tracing down my body, he answered, “Trust me, Penelope. And do as I say. Go in the room and wait for me.”

Wavering in my decision, scared by how strange it all was, I focused on the kiss, on the way my body felt when he touched me, on the release he’d given me the last time I trusted him to show me that he could make me melt. And for those reasons, despite how ridiculous they were, despite the logic inside me screaming to get dressed, get out, keep running as far from Wishing Well as I could, I put one foot in front of the other and obeyed him.

Opening the door, I stood confused for a moment, because despite there being a bed, this was not what I’d expected of a bedroom.

The carpets were a plush, thick black, the fibers soft against my feet as I stepped forward. On the right side of the room, a large bed was dressed in blood red silk sheets, small chains hanging above it on the wall, the silver metal glinting against the dark paint. At its base were ropes attached to the two tall posts, the loops at their ends casually lying over the mattress as if they’d been left in place following their last use.

I wanted to run, but I didn’t. I don’t know why I didn’t, the leather bench on the left side of the room should have chased me off, especially the array of straps, whips and paddles that hung on the wall above it. Carefully creeping forward, I eyed the large wood and leather cross that was attached to the wall in front of me. Not really a cross as Vincent had called it, more of an X with cuffs attached at the top and bottom. Stepping up to it, I could smell the wood polish, the leather - I could imagine the helplessness one would feel when fastened to it, the absolute relinquishing of control.

I was turning to leave by the time the door opened again, Vincent stopping to lean a shoulder against the frame and watch me. “Are you reconsidering your decision now that you see the truth of what this can become?”

My voice shook as I stood naked, exposed. “Will you hurt me?”

His eyes caught mine, the low lighting of the room casting a shadow over the jewel green, cutting sharp, ominous edges over his cheekbones and jaw. “I will.”

The depth of his honesty startled me. “Will I die?”

“No,” he promised, “Not by my hand. This is about pleasure, not death. Control, not destruction. Fear, but not terror.”

Scrabbling for a way to understand it, I asked, “So more like a horror movie than a slasher film?”

His eyebrows tugged together. “What?”

“Nothing,” I breathed out, every muscle in my body tense with anxiety. “Never mind.”

Silence had a beat, a chorus, the white noise of the air conditioning punctuated by the soft fall of his steps over the carpet. “Will it be easier for you to be blindfolded...like last time?”

Strangely , I thought, it would .

I was learning rather quickly that I wasn’t the type of woman who would face down monsters, I was the type who would hide in the closet, peeking through clothes, hoping like hell they’d pass by. “Maybe.”

Vincent nodded and changed direction to pull open the doors of the large dresser that stood near the bench. I only caught site of a few odd, (what-the-fuck-are-those?) objects before he slipped a red stretch of silk from a hook, closed the doors and faced me again. “Turn around, Penelope.”

Memories of last night were a wash of flutters in my stomach, a tightening in my core, a force so utterly inescapable that I found myself obeying him without thought or question. The silk was soft over my eyes, the knot he tied at the back of my head pulling at the individual strands of my hair that it caught. His fingertips were a whisper down my spine, slowly grazing the skin and stopping just above my behind.

His breath collided with my cheek, his mouth close to my ear when he whispered, “I’m going to direct you in place. I’m going to restrain you. And then I’m going to leave you to think about the loss of control, the loss of opinion, the loss of the ability to fight.”

My teeth chattered, my fear a noxious thing.

“And then I’m going to show you how pleasure comes with pain.”

The warmth of his hand caressed my shoulder, and I was led to stand with the cross at my back, my arms lifted in locked in place, my legs parted as cuffs were locked over my ankles as well.

His mouth covered mine, his tongue sweeping in, his taste filling me as my body relaxed despite being restrained. Vincent must have felt it the second I’d given in. Trailing light kisses up my cheek until his mouth pressed against my ear, he said, “C’est à regret que je te le donne... ”

I was beginning to despise French. But I didn’t have the strength to ask what he’d said, didn’t have the ability to conjure thought when my words were lost to fear, to want, to oblivion.

The room went silent around me, the constant hush of cool air rushing through the air conditioning vents growing louder with nothing to compete against it. I would have settled for anything to pull me from the trance brought on by my inability to see, my inability to move, the fear that I’d made a huge mistake by trusting a man who’d already hurt me.

It was the door opening that drew my attention, my head turning toward the sound, my lips parting to say something - anything - but in the silence, I’d lost my voice.

Footsteps softly fell over soft carpets I knew were dark, the cuffs that bound my wrists and ankles gently rattling as I braced for what would come. I stood trembling, locked in helplessness, locked in a state of deprivation, locked in place without knowing if it was pain I’d suffer, or pleasure.

A masculine growl of satisfaction filtered through the air. Feral, primal, intimately possessive, as a hand closed over my breast. A gasp burst from my lips, every muscle locking as the hand released me to be replaced by his mouth. I cried out when the soft, wet heat of a tongue transitioned to the sting of teeth.

Tear slipping from my eye, pain spreading like a spider’s web, I cried, “Stop, it hurts.”

“Shhhhhhhh ...” was all he said before biting down again, a finger slipping between my legs. Every sensation was heightened, my body a taut string to be played as pleasure collided with pain.

I couldn’t be sure, but as my body trembled against the rush of opposite sensation, I intuited the careful struggle, the barely discernible battle, of a man trying not to lose control. It was a vibration that surrounded me, an energy that reminded me to be afraid.

The finger slipped inside me, his teeth biting down harder on the center of my breast before his tongue licked the pain away.

More tears spilled over my cheeks as his finger moved inside me.

 

My fear...

His fear...

Our fear...

It was hypnotic and intoxicating.

 

Mouth pulling away, the crushing grip of his hand took possession of my other breast, his finger still moving inside me - faster, harder, deeper - until this powerful man lost control.

Don’t be afraid...

A voice slipping through the silence. Vincent’s voice.

Obey...

I was being studied. I could feel his eyes watching me with greedy hunger. I knew that with one wrong move, the gentleness he was fighting to give me would be lost with his restraint.

Why did the thought of him losing control make my body beg for more?

His touch was gone so suddenly...until both hands locked down on my wrists over the cross, locking me in place. Unable to keep from crying out, I swallowed the fear, shaking as those punishing hands trailed along my arms, over my breasts, down my waist to grasp my hips, and then his mouth was between my legs.

Tongue, teeth, virile hunger, he owned me while he was on his knees. My head fell back, his hands releasing my hips to palm my ass, his fingers gripping down until I flinched from the pain. Like a starving man, he tasted me, gorged himself on me, driving his tongue inside to swallow my release. And when he softly, slowly, regretfully pulled away from me, I felt a distinct change in the air.

Where there had been restraint, none now existed. Where there had been care, cruelty now reigned. I wasn’t given the slightest hint of warning before he thrust himself inside me, the cuffs over my ankles cutting into my skin. His fingernails dragged down the backs of my thighs with each driving beat of body, gripping me behind the knees to spread my legs apart despite the shackles that bound me.

Lost to the predatory rhythm, the viciousness of his thrusts, I moaned out the wicked pleasure, relieving the pressure building inside. My back slammed against the padded cross, my heart hammering, my muscles gripping as he drove himself impossibly deeper, as his feral nature devoured me.

I’d been a stupid girl to give myself away so easily, but if this was the punishment I would receive, I would do it again and again.

A switch was thrown, the pleasure relentless, an orgasm surging through me so violently that I screamed out in release.

It only drove him harder. Only forced him to pull away, to rip at the shackles of my wrists and ankles, to break the hold they’d held. I fell forward, unable to keep myself standing, but I was caught over a strong shoulder, I was lifted and carried before being lowered down and positioned with my stomach over a padded bench.

With one strong hand, he pinned my wrists to the wall in front of me and he thrust inside me again. He owned me as he forced himself deeper, he tormented me as his teeth dragged down my back, and as his palm closed over the weight of my ass, he slipped his thumb between the cheeks and pushed the width within the tight opening and claimed possession of me entirely.

Another orgasm as his chest vibrated against my back, another scream as his teeth locked down at the junction of my shoulder and neck, a rush of his power crashing through me when I clenched my eyes shut and passed out.

Perhaps the alcohol had been too much, or perhaps it was simply him. But when my eyes fluttered open to find the blindfold gone, I was resting atop a soft, silky bed, the room empty, the walls silent, my exhaustion so cumbersome that I smiled and fell asleep again.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

 

You don’t know fear until you’ve traipsed through darkness. You don’t know desolation until you’ve been tossed to the wolves.

 

You don’t know pain until you’re shown just how disposable you are...

 

I never knew where those words had come from, those warnings, those whispers, during the three weeks that Vincent claimed me as his. I was learning that I should have listened to them. I was learning that I should have run.

“I’m going to need makeup for the bruises. Theresa keeps asking questions.”

Sitting in one of the leather seats that faced Vincent’s desk, I stared at the profile of his face as he read over paperwork. He didn’t bother to look up at me, instead holding up a finger to ask for another few moments of silence as he read over whatever document he was studying.

Weeks had passed, each night bringing more pain, each day bringing heartache and humiliation as he exposed me more to his tastes. I was beginning to believe he was attempting to discover just how far he could push me before I gave in and fled. Silly man, he never considered I would become addicted to his peculiar flavor.

Being owned had become a drug.

What would my mother think? My sister? In the two months I’d spent at Wishing Well, I still hadn’t contacted them. I was ashamed, but they kept writing me, kept begging for some information through an email address I’d always kept since before my mother remarried and moved away. I would have to answer eventually. I just didn’t know what I would say.

Help?

Everything’s great?

I’m enduring whips and floggers and naked tours of a garden at night while my boss and lover follows me, his body fully dressed?

Only the blindfold he loved to use with me kept me from knowing if guests had passed while the grass tickled my bare feet and I was led to benches and swings.

Somehow I didn’t think they’d approve, so I hadn’t brought myself to respond despite my sister contacting Blake to learn I was no longer with him.

Yet, here I was, knowing how they would react to this lifestyle I’d chosen, staring at a man who didn’t bother to lift his eyes to me after I’d spoken. As usual, I waited until he was ready to acknowledge my presence in the room. I waited until he deemed me important enough to greet. I wondered when the day would come where he didn’t wait for the dead of night to parade me through the garden, to display for all the guests’ approving eyes how well I’d learned to obey.

Was it wrong the thought caused my thighs to clench tighter? In the months I’d been here, being exposed had taken on an entirely new meaning.

Dragging pen across paper in a flourish of dramatic and masculine script, he signed whatever it was he’d been studying and sat back in his seat, steepling his fingers at his chin as he studied me.

“What have you told Theresa about the bruises?”

Fidgeting in my seat to be pinned by his stare of fathomless, unrelenting green, I answered, “I can cover most of them, it’s just the ones on my wrists that are a problem.”

Some unspoken decision was obvious in his gaze. “Then I’ll find you a new position in the hotel. A new job with better pay. I’ll explain to Theresa that you’ve adequately proven your worth and as a reward I’ve switched you to a new department.”

“Really?” Surprise tugged my eyebrows up my head. “More money?”

“Yes,” he said, opening a drawer at his side and extracting a small ring, attached to which was a single key. “I recently had an abrupt departure and need to fill the position. There’s no reason I shouldn’t give it to you.” Tossing the key in my direction, he grinned when I caught it.

“What’s the new job?”

“We’ll discuss that in a minute.” Pushing his seat away from his desk, he ordered, “Come here.”

Standing from my seat, I rounded his large desk knowing he wanted me to take seat on the surface in front of him. Dutifully, I did so, knowing that one complaint would lead to his palm slapping my ass. It wasn’t that I minded the pain, he had ways of soothing it away.

Voice dark, deep, rough, he commanded. “Take off your shirt, Penelope.”

Although the windows behind him had no covers, and although in the gardens beyond I could see guests walking about, I did exactly as he’d said. My breasts tightened as soon as they were exposed to his eyes, needy, throbbing, desperate for his touch. He stared at me instead. “On your knees.”

Slipping off the desk, I lowered myself to the floor.

“Take me into your mouth.”

The corner of my mouth quirked up, a wicked grin meant just for him. Unbuckling his belt and the button that fastened his pants, I freed his erection, locked my lips and took him in. The fingers of both his hands fisted in my hair as he directed me down and set the rhythm he wanted.

Only a few seconds had passed as I suckled and licked and tasted the salt of his skin before he started talking.

“I wanted your mouth occupied while I tell you this. You’re not going to like it, and I don’t want you talking back, not until you’ve had time to consider your decision.”

As fear traced up my spine, pricking tears in my eyes, I had to fight not to clench my teeth. Any scrape would anger him, and he had ways of returning that displeasure, ways of showing me that for as graciously as he can bestow his attention, he can just as easily strip it away.

“When you’re finished sucking my cock, and when you’ve swallowed down the release you give me, I want you to put your shirt back on, take the key I’ve given you, and go to the kitchens to retrieve a meal that will be waiting.”

My teeth brushed his skin, tears falling faster when his hand fisted my hair harder. “I wouldn’t do that again, Penelope. I’m trying to save your job.”

What?! Anger filtered in to mix with the pain, terror that I would be homeless again, and for what reason? Because he’d bruised me and someone noticed?

Heart hammering beneath my ribs, I pulled my lips down to guard my teeth.

Dark laughter floated above my head, his hands driving my mouth faster. “That’s better. For a second there I thought I’ regret having to fire you.”

I’d never cried before while sucking his cock, never hated him while I obeyed him. But now, I wanted to do was reach up and gouge his eyes out. He didn’t need to say another word to prove how easily he’d cornered me. I needed this job. I had nowhere else to go, and now he would give and take whatever he felt like.

His grip loosened on my hair just a touch, the blister of fire across my skull easing. “Once you’ve picked up the covered dish that will be set aside for you, you’ll need to take the elevator down to the basement using the key I’ve given you and the numerical code that’s taped to its side.”

Without warning his hips bucked and he shot his release down my throat. “Swallow, Penelope. You won’t like the results of angering me.”

Doing as he said, I could still taste him on my tongue when I asked, “What’s in the basement?”

He didn’t need to answer for me to know. Thoughts of Émilie at the well flashed through my head, the vacant eyes of a man I’d met before staring at me in my thoughts. Is this what Vincent had done to Émilie back then? What he was doing to me now?

My chest shuddered with a wrenching sob. What a stupid girl I’d been.

“My brother, Maurice. It seems his last caretaker has quit suddenly, and I need a new person to bring his meals to him.”

Terror tightened my muscles over every bone. Still kneeling on the ground, I couldn’t look up at Vincent while he fastened his pants. “Why are you doing this to me? I thought he was dangerous.”

“He is,” he answered softly, “which is why you need to follow my directions exactly.”

“And if I refuse?”

Pressing a finger beneath my chin, he tilted my head to force me to look at him. There wasn’t a hint of regret or concern on his beautiful face. “Then I regret to inform you your time at the Wishing Well is over.”

Tears slid down my cheeks, pain so pervasive in my heart that I thought it would split apart in my chest. Vincent tsked his tongue and shook his head. With a silky voice, he said, “You couldn’t have honestly believed I’d keep you forever, or that I would love you? How silly is that, Penelope? You were a dirty girl I pulled from the streets and gave a job. You have no say in what that job will continue being and if you refuse what I offer, I’ll replace you. It’s that simple.”

Why hadn’t I saved money? Why had I believed the fairy tale he’d given me? Why had I crawled into the spider’s web when he’d done nothing but crook his cruel finger to invite me?

It was as if the last several weeks had killed the girl I used to be. I become weak in the lap of luxury. And now, too afraid to return to what I’d been before he found me, I nodded my head. “What are the directions?”

Smiling, he answered, “Don’t make any sudden moves around him. Don’t scream or say anything. Don’t resist if he scares you. And if you want to walk out of the basement unscathed, just do whatever he wants.”

“Anything?” I breathed out.

He nodded his head. “I’ll triple your salary. And instead of scrubbing and polishing and running yourself ragged, you can spend your days relaxing when you’re not in my suite. You’ll be pampered for delivering three meals a day.”

The money was difficult to turn down. And in a month’s time I could save enough to get away, now that I knew my job here and my affair with Vincent weren’t reliable.

“Fine,” I answered as hatred rolled through me. But despite the ugly feeling, the betrayal, I only thought of the reward I would receive when Vincent took me to his suite again.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

Pushing to my feet, I pulled the shirt over my head and snatched the key from where I’d set it on the desk. I didn’t bother glancing back as I left his office and headed to the kitchens to find a silver domed dish as he’d said. My legs barely held me up as I made my way to the elevator, inserted the key and punched in the six digit code.

I wanted to vomit from the consuming fear, wanted to scream at the way I was letting Vincent use me.

Why hadn’t I seen this coming?

The elevator slid smoothly down to the basement floor, the polished doors opening to reveal an entry lobby with black walls, black floors, leather seating and crystal vases full of roses. Stepping through, I could barely see by the flickering light of the flame wall sconces.

My fear consumed me and I had to take a breath to keep from dropping the plate and running away.

“Hello?” I called out, not sure where to leave the meal, not sure about anything anymore.

A noise down a side hall drew my attention, the pathway lit only by flickering candlelight. I would have thought the scene to be romantic if I didn’t fear the monster lingering out of sight.

Maybe nothing would happen. The thought occurred to me that like all the games Vincent had played with me over the past few weeks, this was just another one, a test to see how truly obedient I could be. I must have been truly sick in the head when the thought of the reward that would come thrilled me.

Breathing out a heavy breath, I turned left to walk down the hall, pacing my steps as I peeked inside dark rooms waiting for something to jump out at me. Reaching the last door, I looked inside expecting to see a torture chamber or some kind of dungeon, but instead I found a brightly colored living room with yellow walls and brilliant, electric light. It was the tapping of fingers against a keyboard the drew my gaze to the right, the man sitting behind a computer staring back at me as surprised as I stared at him.

This was not what I was expecting. Maurice appeared...normal.

The relief was like a deflating balloon inside me.

I wanted to laugh at how stupid I’d been to think Vincent would actually toss me to a rabid dog. That extra salary he’d promised me looked much better now that I understood the lie he’d told.

“Lunch is here,” I announced with a smile. Where would you like me to leave it?”

Maurice blinked, his lips pulling into an unsure grin. There was something off about him, but it wasn’t scary, not like I’d imagined it would be after meeting him in the garden. It was like he wanted to express emotion, but couldn’t. “Table,” he said with a voice as deep as Vincent’s. “To your left.”

Glancing over, I spotted the small round table I hadn’t seen when first walking into the room. Maurice didn’t say another word as I made my way across the room to set the domed plate down. A scream tore from my lips when I spun again to find Maurice standing behind me. His hand flew up to cover my mouth as mine flew to my chest to keep my heart from busting out. The visceral terror had returned in a split second to see how silently Maurice had moved, to understand that, perhaps, Vincent hadn’t been lying.

My body shook as Maurice pushed me back, his fingertips digging into my cheeks as he locked his eyes to mine with lethal curiosity. It felt like being stared down by a predator deciding whether to eat you quickly or take their time. My butt scooted across the table and I couldn’t stop the tears that welled in my eyes.

Vincent’s words were a whisper in my head.

Don’t make any sudden moves around him. Don’t scream or say anything. Don’t resist if he scares you. And if you want to walk out of the basement unscathed, just do whatever he wants.

Remembering his instructions, I froze in place. Maurice leaned forward, his nose to my hair as he dragged in a breath to smell me. I trembled beneath his hand, my eyes wide, my muscles so rigid that pain blistered over my bones. Barely able to drag in a breath, I fought to keep from screaming.

Maurice’s eyes met mine, his expression unreadable. It wasn’t until he spoke again that I realized how he fought to control himself. “Thank you,” he said, as if the words were foreign on his tongue. “For the food.”

It was like watching a wild creature attempt to wear the skin of civility. He wasn’t used to behaving so cautiously.

I occurred to me just then that for as frightening as this man was, he was also beautiful. He had the same green eyes and tan skin as his brother, the same broad shoulders and dark, unruly hair, but there was also a vulnerability in him that I’d never seen in Vincent. It didn’t help ease the racing of my heart, the tightness of my body or the fear that drowned me, but it was there.

“You’re welcome,” I mumbled beneath his hand, thinking that, maybe, he would release me.

Our eyes remained locked for what felt like hours, my pulse fluttering beneath my skin, his gaze finally tracing down my face to watch the beat of it on the soft spot of my neck.

“You’re scared.”

Slowly, I nodded my head, trapping the inside of my cheek between my teeth to keep from screaming.

“Je suis désolé .”

My mouth still trapped by his hand, I mumbled. “I don’t know what you said.”

“I’m sorry,” he answered, English not as fluid on his lips as French had been. This man was struggling to behave and communicate.

I jumped when the fingers of his other hand clamped down on my knee, when his arm flexed to force my legs apart slowly.

The tears in my eyes fell down my cheeks. He watched them, his head tilting to the side in confusion. “I don’t want to force you.”

“But you will?” I mumbled from beneath his hand.

The nod of his head was jerky, as barely controlled as him. Remorse flashed in his eyes, a sorrow so deep that I felt it in my chest.

“J’aime quand tu me regardes comme ça.” He shook his head as if banishing the language. “I can’t help it. I’m not-“ his voice trailed off, ashamed.

Taking a risk I knew could potentially endanger my life, I reached up to touch the hand he had pressed over my mouth. Curling my fingers over it, I attempted to pull it away. His brows tugged together in question, but he let me.

I’d gone from frightened, to feeling foolish for that fear, to bargaining for my life. The sequence of emotions had made me dizzy.

My voice quivering, the volume barely a whisper, I asked, “Will it be less violent if I cooperate?”

No wonder his last caretaker had fled, the man was devastating and terrifying at the same time. The shame alone was a cloak he wore, as obvious to the eye as his fight to remain civilized. I feared for my life to be alone with him, yet I had this compulsive need to reach out and tell him it would be okay. And while enduring the clash of those emotions, I cursed the odd heat between my legs. Something about him was so familiar, but I didn’t understand why.

“Oui .”

In my time with Vincent, I’d learned the meaning of that simple word. Swallowing down the knot that clogged my throat, I said, “Promise not to hurt me too badly, and I’ll give you what you want.”

Surprise. Frustration. Elation. Sorrow and shame. They all could be seen clearly in the shadows behind his gorgeous eyes. My heart hurt for him, despite only meeting him for the second time.

Nodding his head, he released my knee, stepping back just far enough for me to slide down off the table and stand on my feet. My legs could barely hold me up.

I didn’t have to ask what he wanted me to do, Vincent’s training came to mind, the rules he had set in place for me to follow every time I went to his suite. I could only hope they were the same for the beast that stared at me now.

Slowly, so as not to move too suddenly, I gripped the hem of my shirt to pull it over my head. As soon as my breasts were exposed to his eyes, his hands clenched into fists, a rigidness moving across his shoulders as his eyes locked on my chest. When his jaw ticked, my heart beat like a war drum beneath my ribs.

My hands were shaking as I unbuttoned my pants and slid them over my hips. The material bunched at my ankles over the floor, and as gently as I could manage I kicked it off my feet. I hadn’t worn underwear beneath my clothes because I thought it would be Vincent I’d entertain.

Maurice’s chest beat heavy, a feral sound emanating that shook me in places I didn’t know existed. He stepped toward me and I flinched, insecurity flooding his eyes as if the tiny reaction had been a slap across his face. It was that fear of rejection inside him that made me regret my terror of him.

“Remember not to hurt me, okay?”

Surprised he could hear the words for how quietly I’d spoken them, I tried to smile and reassure him. But before he could lay a hand on me, I reached out, noticed the way he winced before forcing himself to become still and let me palm his cheek. The stubble of his skin was rough against my hand, the vulnerability in him staggering. I could have been touching a hungry tiger and would have felt less scared.

“You’re beautiful,” I confessed. “Do you know that?”

“I’m not,” he said, the truth of his belief sinking deep inside my heart. “I’m -“

Shaking his head again, he snatched my wrist in his grip to yank my hand from his face, stepping forward to force me back onto the table, the surface cold against my skin, as he released my wrist to wrap his hand over my throat and forced me to lie down. I froze in place, refusing to move, to speak, to breathe, as he held me in place while lifting my legs to place my feet on the edge of the table. Shoving my legs apart, his chest beat with excited breath to stare down at my body so exposed.

I couldn’t stop my shaking. Couldn’t help but feel like he would kill me without meaning to do it. Vincent kept this man caged for a reason and I was discovering that reason now. Maurice didn’t behave like an ordinary man. He behaved like an animal - an animal that had lost his restraint.

Releasing my throat, he dropped to his knees, grabbed my waist and pulled me to the edge of the table. And before I could process what he was doing, he grabbed my ankles and forced my feet to his shoulders, holding my legs in place as his teeth nipped at the inside of my thigh, biting down one rough time before his mouth bore down at the apex, his tongue licking inside my body.

The pleasure was instantaneous, the force of it divine. It was as if fear had left me stumbling and over-sensitized and that his mouth would drive me too high. My fear of pain was now a fear of the climax that was building so fucking quickly that I knew it would fracture me once the force of it exploded in my core. I was right to fear that release, the crashing wave of it sweeping me beneath the violence of its storm, dragging me up so high that I floated for only a moment before crashing down again.

As if knowing what he’d done to me, Maurice shook off the last bit of control he had, stood to his feet, ripped his pants open, and with my legs still locked over his shoulders, he gripped his hands on my hips and drove his cock inside me.

The rhythm was brutal, the force without apology, the claiming of me accomplished as his teeth gnashed with each violent thrust, as I looked up into a face that refused to look back at me. Moans poured from my lips as loud as the slap of his hips against the back of my legs, but despite the build of my next release I could see that he felt bad for what he was doing.

Is it wrong that if I wasn’t gripping the edge of the table to hold myself in place, I would have reached up to touch his face again and tell him he wasn’t to blame?

Someone had broken this man, had fractured him while keeping him caged, and I knew that someone was upstairs right now enjoying what he had done to me. It hadn’t been love I’d felt for Vincent before, I could see that now because of the depths of my emerging hatred.

All those thoughts were blown apart when my body quaked with the rush of an orgasm, when I opened my mouth to release a scream as feral as the one from Maurice. We both found ourselves gripped in the cruel but loving hand of a release that was a terrifying as it was natural. And as I slipped back to an earthly plane, I opened my eyes to find Maurice watching me with sweat dripping down his strong chest.

He moved away from me quickly, buttoning his pants and not even bothering to help me up before leaving the room entirely.

A feeling of regret and shame had been left in his wake as a thought occurred, a whisper in my mind. However, as shocked and as breathless as I felt in that moment, I couldn’t put my finger on what my mind was trying to tell me.

The aftershocks wore off after a minute or two, my anger surging to the surface. Not at Maurice, not at a man who was obviously so tortured and broken, but at the arrogant bastard I knew would be waiting for me just as soon as I returned upstairs.

Climbing down from the table, I took a breath and got dressed, a million thoughts racing inside me, crashing against the wave of emotions I felt.

Maurice was nowhere in sight as I made my way back to the elevator, inserted the key, typed in the code and pushed the button for the lobby floor. And just as I’d known he would be, Vincent stood waiting outside the doors.

Except, instead of a slimy smile, he looked at me with concern. “Did he hurt you?”

“No,” I spat, taking a left down the employee hall. I should have just gone to my room but I needed to go outside, to take a walk in the garden and calm down.

“So you submitted?” Vincent followed behind me. If I weren’t so afraid of being fired, I would have turned around and launched myself at him to beat his face in. Instead, I ignored his question.

“Are you quitting?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, still storming off.

“Will you come up to my suite tonight.”

Stopping suddenly, I spun on my heel to face him. “Fuck you. I’ll let you know tomorrow if I’m still working here. Until then, leave me the fuck alone.”

Surprisingly, he stopped following me, and slamming my hands against the back door, I walked out into the garden alone.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

 

I spent several hours of that late afternoon deciding what I would do with the cards I’d been dealt. An hour in the garden, and then leaving through a back, employee gate, I spent more time walking the streets of the city, eventually stopping inside a small cafe to grab some food. Choosing a quiet table by the window, I wrapped my hands around a cup of coffee, my head hung as I contemplated the sudden change in Vincent, the heartless way he’d told me that if I didn’t take on this new job he’d offered, I wouldn’t have a place to sleep.

Lifting my eyes to watch the traffic on the streets and the crowds moving down the sidewalks, I realized that during my wanderings I’d returned to the place where it all began, to a cafe facing a particular alley where I’d taken shelter from the rain. Had Vincent been sitting in this very spot when he first saw me?

A shiver of disgust rolled through me, but while staring at the small overhang that had done nothing to shelter me from the freezing rain, I realized I could never return to the streets. For a moment I was crushed beneath the hard truth that I was out of options...until I remembered one.

It would be an admission of defeat, a figurative crawling, but there was one door left that I could open, I just didn’t want to make that step, to choose to admit that I’d been wrong.

God, how we’d fought when I told my mom and Meadow that I wouldn’t move with them to Germany. In her anger, my mother had screamed that I was a stupid girl, a teenager caught up in what she foolishly believed was love. And while she’d been right to point out that Blake and I were too young to use words like ‘forever’, she hadn’t been right to call me every horrible name in the book.

Only Meadow had been strong enough to stay silent, had refused to judge me for my decision, and had wished me luck the day I hugged her before walking her to the airport gate. If I had to open that door, if I had to test the waters, it was Meadow I should contact.

Standing from my seat, I left my coffee half full on the table, dropped some money for the waitress and headed for the door. A hand gripped my bicep as I attempted to pass through, a familiar voice that said, “I owe you for the slap, you know?” His voice dropped to a whisper, “And I’ll pay you back before too long.”

Glancing up into Barron’s face, I scowled. “If you don’t take your filthy fucking hand off me, I’ll scream as I rake my fingernails down your pretty face.”

Barron laughed and shook his head as he let me go. “You haven’t changed at all. Vincent is going to owe me so much fucking money.”

He walked off as if the exchange hadn’t happened, his expensive suit perfectly tailored to his body. Glancing back, I watched him take a seat, my disgust so thorough that I didn’t pay attention to what he’d said. Storming off down the sidewalk, I resisted the urge to return to the hotel and cry into my pillow. Instead, I forced myself down another three blocks to an internet cafe where I could use their computers. After paying the cashier for a half hour, I selected an empty desk and pulled up the email I’d kept active since before Meadow and my mother had moved away.

Pulling up the last email Meadow had sent - the one that used all capitals to tell me she knew I was no longer with Blake - I clicked the button to reply and paused because I had no idea what I wanted to say. At that point I wasn’t sure I wanted to leave Wishing Well just yet. I had too many thoughts to sort out before I could make a decision as important as that.

Reminding myself I was merely opening a door through which I could escape, I typed a non-committal response apologizing for staying out of touch and informing her that I’d found a job at a wonderful hotel which also provided me a place to stay. At first, I was hesitant to name the hotel, but with a shrug I decided avoiding the name would only draw Meadow’s suspicion. It wasn’t like she was going to leave college in Germany to come rushing to investigate. At most, she would be relieved to know I was okay and we would correspond back and forth until a time I made my decision.

Sending the email, I felt slightly better about my situation and I returned to the hotel to think about what I wanted to do given the direction my job had taken.

Lying in bed, I couldn’t silence my anger toward Vincent, but even more unsettling was that I couldn’t stop thinking about how broken I’d felt to look at Maurice. There was something so deeply sad about him that it kept drawing my attention back to thoughts of him. And I wouldn’t even try to lie and claim that what we’d done together hadn’t been amazing. A nagging whisper kept filtering through my head, a familiarity that I couldn’t quite pinpoint no matter how I focused on it.

Perhaps it was that mysterious thought that helped me make the decision to stay. I needed to know why I felt what I did around Maurice. Not the fear. Not the sorrow. Not the understanding that there was something broken in him that may never be fixed.

No. I wanted to know why I felt so attached to him every time our eyes met.

I would go to Vincent in the morning and let him know I was keeping the job, and I would spend enough time with Maurice to unravel the mystery of why he was affecting me in such an indelible way.

 

. . .

 

The next morning found me standing in Vincent’s office, the new distance between us palpable.

“I’ll keep the job,” I informed him, careful to hide what I was feeling. I knew him well enough to know that he could pick apart a person’s thoughts through body language or the tone of their voice. He’d always seemed psychic to me at first, but it wasn’t that Vincent could hear what was screaming in a person’s head, it was simply that he studied the people around him and paid close attention.

The leather of his chair creaked as he relaxed back to stare at me. “It’s good to see you’ve calmed down. And here I was thinking we’d find your room empty this morning. Why the change of heart?”

“I need the money. And since you’ve made it perfectly clear where my job security stands, I’ve decided having a roof over my head is better than life on the streets.”

“You’ve grown since coming here. The girl I remember meeting on the streets would have left, despite shooting herself in the foot for doing so.” A grin stretched his full lips. “And what of our arrangement?”

“That’s off.”

The light streaming in through the window must have flared funny, because for a moment I could have sworn I saw regret flicker across his face. He didn’t answer immediately, choosing instead to let my statement linger much longer than it should. “We’ll discuss that decision later.”

Eyes darting to the screen of his computer, he tapped a few keys. “You should go, Penelope. Maurice will be expecting his breakfast. He gets moody if he’s kept waiting.”

Unable to contain my anger at his simple brush off, his arrogant response that my decision could be discussed, I crossed my arms over my chest. “I mean it, Vincent. If I take this new job, our other arrangement is off.”

He didn’t bother to look at me. “That’s funny, because just yesterday you were on your knees sucking my cock. Women are fickle creatures, but their hearts don’t change so easily.”

If I’d been in reach of him, I would have slapped his handsome face. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’ll talk to you at another time. For now, you have a job to do. I suggest you do it.”

Dismissed, I left his office, angry at him but not angry for having an excuse to leave. Vincent thought he was waving off an annoying fly without understanding that the fly wanted nothing to do with him. Any discussions he thought we might have were off limits to the fly.

For the first time since coming to Wishing Well, the fly had pulled out her pretty silver scissors and snipped herself free of his tangled web.

Damn, it felt good to be a fly.

After grabbing Maurice’s breakfast from the kitchen, I slipped the elevator key from my pocket, tapped in the code and was on my way down to the basement. The doors slid open revealing the small entry lobby I remembered from the day before, except instead of fire sconces lighting my way, the small crystal chandeliers above my head were casting brilliant light, the black on black texture of the walls coming into focus. Turning left, I returned to the room where I’d found Maurice, only to discover it empty.

Not knowing what to do, I set the covered dish on the table, a jagged pulse beneath my skin to remember what had occurred there. Shaking off the memory, I left the room calling Maurice’s name as I explored.

Except for that one room, the rest of the basement was dark: the walls, the floors, the furniture, even the flowers. Dracula’s tomb would have been considered more festive in comparison to this depressing place. But for unrelenting darkness, there was also an odd tranquility, a respite from the bright opulence of Wishing Well, a taste of truth hidden beneath the ground.

Passing the entryway and the elevators I continued down the hall, my fingertips dragging along the textured walls, my voice becoming softer to enter an area I hadn’t seen before.

“Maurice?”

“Derrière toi .”

My heart leapt into my throat as I spun toward the low voice, Maurice’s palm slamming against my chest, pinning me to the hallway wall. Remaining still, I didn’t dare breathe as he leaned down, the tip of his nose sliding up the side of my neck. While my pulse was frenetic beneath my skin, his beat slow and sure, the sound of it a whisper against my ear from where my head reached his chest. I let several seconds pass before swallowing down my surprise and fear to speak to him as calmly as possible.

“It’s me, Maurice. Penny. From yesterday.”

His voice was smooth and deep. “I know who you are.” Fingers curling, he clutched my shirt.

“I-“ Breathe, Penny...just breathe. “I brought you breakfast.”

Maurice didn’t answer, the slide of his teeth sharp against the line of my jaw. It was impossible not to tremble, not to part my lips in an attempt to breathe deeper, to calm my racing heart. “It’s in the other room,” I whispered, “on the table where you had me leave it yesterday.”

His voice a honed blade beneath the softest of satin, he said, “You didn’t bring me dinner.”

“No,” I admitted, “I didn’t. I was angry and I left the hotel.”

His fingers eased their grip on my shirt, a tremor in his body obvious against mine. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Closing my eyes, I counted in my head, gathering whatever strength I could find in an overwhelming crush of emotion. “I wasn’t angry at you.”

Letting me go entirely, he backed away, his eyes meeting mine. Confusion muddied the beautiful green, sorrow, and regret. “I hurt you,” he said simply, accusing himself of being a monster.

Unable to bear adding to the self-hatred that was so obvious inside him, I shook my head, careful for the movement not to be too fast or too sudden. “No, you didn’t. You didn’t force me.”

“I would have. I’m a -“ His jaw ticked as he cut the sentence off.

 

A monster...

A beast...

A man too dangerous for the world...

 

I could clearly see all those labels rush behind his pained gaze. It only made me angrier. I didn’t know Maurice’s problems, but I knew trapping any person in a basement by themselves wouldn’t help them. You make animals of people when keeping them caged, much like this man was. But I couldn’t show that anger, not when he’d assume it was meant toward him. The eggshells beneath my feet cracked with every thought, every decision, every step I took to discover why Vincent treated his own brother so poorly.

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

Without answering, he stormed off in the direction of the room where I’d left his food. I didn’t follow him immediately, not with my legs feeling like rubber. Sliding down the wall to sit on the floor, I held my face in my hands. We were going to have to come up with a new way of greeting one another. The sneak attack would stop my heart eventually. Once my vitals felt like they could sustain life again, I pushed to my feet and crept down the hall to the oddly cheerful room hidden within a dreary, dark basement.

I’d expected to find Maurice eating, but instead he was sitting at his computer busily typing. Not knowing whether he wanted me there or not, I stepped in, wringing my hands as I approached his desk.

“Should I leave?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

There was no reason for me to stay. I’d done my job of delivering his meal and I didn’t have to do another thing until noon when I brought him lunch.

His eyes tipped up to meet mine. “The counselor will be here in an hour. If I don’t talk to her, Vincent won’t take me outside.”

Fuck Vincent , I thought. Maurice wasn’t so bad that he had to be trapped. Remembering back to the night I first met Maurice, I realized that Vincent had spoken of him like he was out of control, but I wasn’t seeing it. To me, Maurice wasn’t definitely odd, he was unsettling, but it was more that he lacked social skills than being a monster.

“I could take you outside,” I suggested. “We wouldn’t have to tell Vincent.”

He was out of his seat and practically on top of me before I could take a breath, my heart screeching to a stop for just a second. “We need to set rules, Maurice. The first one being that you need to stop sneaking up on me or rushing toward me. I don’t like it.”

He must have taken my words as a type of rejection. Between one second and the next, he was calm and he was violent. By the time he’d broken several objects in the room, he backed me against a wall again, his chest beating with furious breath. Vincent had warned me of this this, but I hadn’t listened, and despite being terrified, I wouldn’t listen now.

“I still like you,” I whispered, his face so close to mine that I could feel the warmth of his breath against my skin. “I just don’t like being scared by you.”

Trying and failing to break through the wall around his thoughts, I flinched when he palmed my breast, a possessive hold over my shirt, his grip painful. Snatching my wrist with his other hand, he pulled me away from the wall and used my arm to force me over his desk. Bent over me, he breathed against my ear. My first instinct was to fight, to thrash, to scream, but I knew it was the wrong way to handle this man.

His excitement was a hard ridge against my ass. Ignoring the shiver that coursed over my body, I kept my voice calm. “Maurice, please. You’re hurting me.”

It surprised me again when he released me as suddenly as he’d pinned me down. Behind me a race of words - all in French - were spoken, and as I slowly straightened my body, I turned to see a very agitated, confused man.

“I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Get out!” he roared.

He didn’t have to tell me twice. Slowly, and with absolutely zero sudden movements, I crept past him, knowing his head turned so that his eyes could follow me, hearing his heavy steps behind me as I forced myself to walk calmly down the hall. And with the feeling of a stalking tiger at my back, I extracted the elevator key from my pocket, waited for the doors to open, and stepped inside.

Maurice stood staring at me as the doors closed, self-loathing and sorrow obvious in his eyes.

Like last time, Vincent stood waiting for me when I reached the lobby floor, but before he could speak, I barked, “I’m not hurt,” as I turned left and stormed down the hall.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Faiville Prison, 12:03 pm

 

“It’s noon,” a guard said as he walked through the interview room door. “We’ll need you to wait outside the room while the guards change shifts.”

Despite the guard’s words, Meadow and Vincent stared at each other, both locked in a moment where truth had been revealed, where secrets were beginning to emerge.

Before Meadow could respond to the guard, and while she sat confident that she knew more to this story than even Vincent knew, Vincent shook his head and laughed.

“You should listen to the guard, Meadow. There’s no telling what could happen if we’re left together, alone , for a shift change.”

Regardless of the idle threat, Meadow smiled, believing she’d cornered Vincent with details from Penny’s diary she was certain Vincent had no way of knowing. There had been moments when his expression shifted, surprise drawing lines across his brow. Anger drawing a line between his eyes.

Reluctant to leave, she convinced herself that it was as good a moment as any to take a break. Letting Vincent absorb his part in the destruction of several lives would weaken him, she hoped.

Or, it would give him time to strengthen his lies.

In the end, it didn’t much matter. Penny was dead. Maurice was dead. Émilie was dead, together with several other women who’d had the misfortune of meeting the monster Vincent created.

Because, what Meadow knew that even the police and prosecutors hadn’t, was that although Vincent had been responsible for all the lives lost, he hadn’t been the one to kill them. Some, perhaps. But not all. And that fact drew Meadow’s notice more than she’d yet had a chance to admit.

The question now became: Why hadn’t Vincent told the truth and thrown his brother behind bars?

“I’ll see you when I get back,” Meadow said, standing from her seat and enjoying the metallic screech of the chair legs against the floor. Vincent merely watched her stand, ignoring the jarring noise as he held his expression carefully in place.

Allowing the guard to lead her out, Meadow spent the half hour she had to wait worrying her fingernails between her teeth, gnawing at the edges while considering her next step. A day and a half remained, and there was still more to this story she hadn’t revealed.

More importantly, there was more that Vincent hadn’t yet confessed. Wanting to save the best parts for the last day of the interview, Meadow formulated questions she would ask, prepared herself for answers she wasn’t sure she could bear to hear.

Her heart shattered each time she thought about the man Penny had written about in her diary, the confused, sorrowful creature that hadn’t been given a chance. Meadow wanted to hate Maurice for killing Penny, wanted to curse his soul after discovering he’d died after Vincent went to jail. But the images in her head that Penny had painted of him, the whispers and memories that came to Meadow in dreams, made it impossible not to feel pity for the man.

Vincent was one thing entirely. A scoundrel that enjoyed the games he played. But Maurice? Wasn’t he just another victim, another pawn caught in Vincent’s tangled web?

“You ready?”

Meadow’s head snapped up to see a new guard waiting at the gates. Forcing a polite smile, she pushed herself to her feet and followed him to interview room three where Vincent sat waiting.

Patient as ever, Vincent said nothing while Meadow readied her recorder and turned to take her seat. “So, about Maurice, I think you owe me an explanation as to how he died.”

“Not just yet,” Vincent responded, the note of humor she’d always heard in his voice absent. “I want to ask you about what Penny wrote regarding her first meeting with my brother. Not that night in the garden, but when I sent her down with his lunch. No...” his voice trailed off, his eyes refusing to meet hers as he studied a scratch that ran across the table where they sat. “Not then, either. I want to talk about when she brought him breakfast the next morning.”

Gaze lifting, he asked, “Did she write anything beyond what you told me? Beyond being frightened? Beyond feeling sorry for Maurice?”

Straightening her posture, Meadow gave the question some thought. Revealing too much would betray the secret she’d been guarding, and she wanted to save the sting of that for the last day of the interview. “I’m not sure what else she would have written. Your brother was a frightening man, but Penny saw him differently. She saw a man unaccustomed to social graces, to the rules of interaction between two people.”

“So, she didn’t view him as a monster?”

“No,” Meadow answered confidently, “she never did.”

Vincent nodded his head, his throat working to swallow down the acrid flavor of Meadow’s admission. It must have burned him to know that his attempt at torturing Penny by forcing her to serve Maurice hadn’t scarred her as deeply as he’d assumed.

“How did Maurice die, Vincent?”

Trailing a fingertip across the scratch he’d studied earlier, Vincent answered, true remorse in his tone. “After I was arrested, I hired a management company to maintain my properties, including Wishing Well. I also hired an attorney I believed I could trust to look after Maurice’s continued care. The company and attorney were intended to work together to see that nothing changed for Maurice.”

“Why did that matter?”

“I was saving lives,” Vincent admitted, his voice hollow, empty. “After Penny’s death, Maurice was devastated-“

“Because he killed the woman he loved?”

Meeting her stare once again, Vincent grinned, the expression tight. Meadow believed he’d forced the stretch of his lips, that it was a poor attempt to disguise his true feelings. “Why would you say he killed her when I’m the one being put to death for it?” The corner of his mouth crooked, a challenge issued in the slight grin.

Cornered by the question, Meadow dropped the subject, “So, you had an attorney seeing to Maurice’s care. What happened? He was young. Healthy in a physical sense. Was it an illness that killed him?”

A flash of guilt, of secrets and regrets, his eyes shadowing over before he admitted, “Maurice killed himself. He was found swinging from a noose he’d fashioned and hung in the room he’d demanded be designed to look like our childhood home.”

True pain shot through Meadow’s chest, the heart-wrenching impact of it stunning her into silence. Vincent watched her reaction with curious eyes before clearing his throat and changing the subject. “We should get back to the story. Time continues to tick by.”

Shaking herself of the agony she felt to learn Maurice’s fate, fighting the tears that threatened her eyes, she could barely speak with a steady voice. “Yes, we should. I guess at this point I’d like you to explain why, even after tossing Penny to Maurice, you continued to pursue her. I’ve given it some thought since what you admitted to me yesterday and the only reason I can fathom is that it had to do with the bet.”

Canting his head from side to side, Vincent stretched the muscles of his neck. “Do you honestly believe money is my only concern? Even after what I’ve already told you?”

“What else could it be? You obviously cared very little for Penny. She was a woman you were toying with since the beginning. And although I believe you truly loved your brother, I don’t think you loved him enough to stay away from a woman he wanted to be his. Unless of course,” she surmised, tapping her fingers against the table, “you really did have feelings for Penny. Did it bother you that she cut of the sexual relationship she had with you after you demanded she have the same type of relationship with Maurice? Is that why you forced her?”

Soft laughter shook his broad shoulders. “I never told her to fuck Maurice.”

“You implied it. By sending her down there - alone - you knew he would take what he wanted.”

Vincent relaxed back into his seat. “You’ve neglected to focus on an important detail in what we’ve explored so far.”

“And that is?” Her fingers stopped their rhythm, the room growing quiet.

Giving her question time to linger, Vincent finally parted his lips to answer, “Whereas Maurice had sex with Penelope as soon as he had the opportunity, there was one part of her that was mine.”

It was Meadow’s turn to laugh. “Please tell me you don’t mean her heart.”

His snide grin returned. “No, of course not. I’m not sure that belonged to anybody but herself. Penelope was rather fickle. The part of her that belonged to me was her mouth. I’m the one who kissed her. It was my cock she wrapped those pretty lips around. In that way, I took the most intimate part of her, despite what Maurice had done. No matter how many times she spread her legs for my brother, those lips would always be mine.”

Oh, how Meadow wanted to skip ahead, wanted to strike out at him to leave a deep scar, but with a calm professionalism, she took a breath and held those secrets to herself. Reminding herself less than twenty-four hours remained for her to crush the arrogance of this evil man, she threaded her fingers together over the surface of the table.

Leaning forward, Vincent stared at Meadow as if he were holding her feet over a fire. She didn’t like the feeling that all he had to do was loosen his fingers and drop her down to burn.

“And how curious is that? Don’t you think? Penelope was a rebellious girl. She had you and your mother she could run to and avoid ending up back on the streets, but she stayed at Wishing Well even when demands were made of her that she didn’t like. Even when she was forced to participate. Perhaps the answer to that odd question was written in the diary you have? Perhaps it’s trapped inside your head? For once, you might know something that I don’t, so as usual in this game we’re playing, I’ll give you my perspective if you’ll give me hers.”

“Fine,” Meadow agreed. “We’ll continue this dance. Now, start talking.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Vincent

 

“I’m not hurt,” Penelope spat as she moved past me, her body moving quickly to escape down the employee hall. Cocking a brow, I watched her until she’d rounded a corner, and then I let myself into the elevator, typing in the code to ride down to the basement and speak with my brother.

While Penelope had been away cooling off the prior evening, I’d taken Maurice his dinner. It was a surprise to find him in a good mood, his demeanor not quite, but almost normal. We’d talked of what occurred when Penelope brought him lunch, and oddly he’d left out most of the sordid details. I’d found the exclusion of pertinent information strange for a man who normally treated women like objects used to get off.

Tits. Ass. And a cunt. That’s all he cared about, all that interested him. But with Penelope, a curious shift had occurred in his thinking.

First noticing the change on the evening of the masquerade ball, I’d neglected to pay better attention during the weeks after that I’d stayed away, but after returning, and in the weeks that followed, I’d breathed easier with how even-tempered he’d become. I’d thought that, maybe, he would improve even more if he could admire Penelope’s face during the encounters he had with her.

But what I found when taking the elevator down to his cage was a complete reversal in a man who, until now, had struggled to behave.

The sound of breaking glass drew me left down the long hall. Entering the only cheerful room that could be found in this dark maze, I stood watching as Maurice destroyed a large part of it. Interestingly, I noted, he hadn’t destroyed his breakfast or the table it was set on.

“Is there a problem?” I asked, intentionally keeping my voice calm.

He spun to look at me, a vacancy in his eyes I hadn’t seen in weeks. The regression scared me. What had Penelope done?

“She won’t come back,” he growled, the sentence a mix of French and English I was unaccustomed to hearing.

“One language, Maurice.” Although I’d tucked my hands inside my pockets, and although I’d made my request as if his choice in words hadn’t stunned me, I was frightened for my brother. Somewhere in that twisted mind of his, Penelope had managed to clutter his thoughts further.

Slamming his palms down on the surface of his desk, he ignored the wreck he’d made of the room. It wasn’t like this was the first time, and as usual, I’d clean up the mess and recreate the memory of our childhood home. When he said nothing, I asked, “What do you mean she won’t come back? Did she tell you that?”

“No.” His bark of a response was followed by the slide of his hand, knocking the keyboard away from his computer. “I hurt her.”

My brows pulled together. “I just spoke with her in the lobby. She told me she wasn’t hurt.”

“I tried,” he admitted through clenched teeth before stalking away from his desk to drop his body down onto the leather sofa.

“Did she submit?” I asked calmly.

One harsh shake of his head. “I didn’t want her to.”

My eyes rounded to hear it. For the first time I realized my brother might actually love the woman for whom he’d developed an obsession. Heart pounding, I attempted to convince myself that it was possible for him to feel such an emotion, despite what all his doctors and counselors had told me.

 

Psychopaths don’t love.

Sociopaths care only for what they can toy with as long as it amuses them.

Schizophrenics develop delusions that can, sometimes, make it impossible for them to believe that another person might love them in return.

 

He wore all of those labels, or just one - depending on the person diagnosing him.

But despite the labels, all I’d ever seen in my brother was a man with limited communication regardless of his intelligence, and a man who was so out of touch with emotion that feeling anything beyond anger and rejection were impossible. He was never compliant with medications. Never.

It wasn’t until Penelope that I’d believed in the possibility of something else. I wouldn’t let her ruin that.

“She’ll be back at lunch, Maurice, and I promise you that she’ll be in a better mood, but I need you to promise me that you’ll clean up this mess and calm down before your counselor arrives.”

Doubt lingered behind his eyes, but he nodded his head regardless. “I’ll do it, for her.”

My shoulders relaxed. “I know you will, brother. I have business to attend, so I need to go upstairs. If you behave for the rest of the day, I’ll take you out into the garden tonight. It’s been a few days since you’ve left your cage.

Another nod was all he gave me, and knowing that he was done with communicating with me for the morning, I slipped away from the basement, reached the lobby and went in search for Penelope.

Finding her at the well, I watched her silently for several minutes, noticing the way her shoulders shook with tears, the way her arms crossed over her chest protectively. In truth, I should have left her alone to her quiet moment, but I was more of a bastard than that. She’d angered me. She’d upset Maurice. She deserved what was coming to her.

Stepping up to the other side of the well, I waited for her to lift her eyes, to lock the gold-flecked brown with mine, to show me her rebellion peeking out from her sorrow.

In the weeks I’d spent toying with her, I hadn’t broken her completely. That fact pleased me.

“Have you given any consideration to what we discussed in my office this morning?”

She rolled those pretty eyes, and if she’d been any other woman I would have made her regret such an act. However, in this moment, I needed Penelope’s refusal to surrender. I needed her to fight.

“I take that as a no.”

“You take it right,” she said, her hand brushing away a tear. “You and me, we’re done. I’m not some fucking whore you can pass around in the hotel. I’m not Émilie.”

Pinning me with a stare that dared me to ask, I had to fight not to show my confusion. What did she know of Émilie, and why use that particular woman in this fight?

It didn’t matter enough to ask.

“Fine,” I relented, shoving my hands in the pockets of my slacks, “I won’t pass you around. I’ve decided I want you all to myself. What you’ve done already is enough. You gave Maurice a taste, and as I just informed him, he won’t get another. You’re mine, Penelope.”

Narrowing her eyes, she glared at me as a pink film of hatred colored her skin.

Grinning to see the color, I said, “Let’s face it, Maurice is just a pathetic mess that has no hope of a future. The man can barely communicate, much less control his emotions. I’ve been telling him that for years, but the idiot won’t listen. I apologize for using you to prove my point to him, but you did it quite well. I bet the man thinks he’s in love. How ridiculous is that? He’ll spend the rest of his life in that cage while I enjoy all that life has to offer.”

The pink transitioned to a brilliant red. Hatred was woven into that color. Pain, anger, and a loathing so deep, I would have felt the sting of it if it could reach out and slap me. Daggers were her eyes, her mouth pulled in such a tight line that holding the expression must have been painful for her.

“Why do you treat him so badly?” she hissed, her voice barely controlled. “Sure, Maurice doesn’t know how to communicate very well, and yes, he has no clue how to behave around other people, but keeping him down in that fucking basement doesn’t help him! What you’re doing to him is evil and it’s your fault he is the way he is!”

Shrugging my shoulders as if her words hadn’t cut deep, I ignored the confirmation – the perfect reflection - of a fear I’d held for many years. My feelings, my thoughts, were not for her to know.

Shoulders rigid, she tipped her chin. “Are you telling me my new job is over? What’s the next one you plan to assign to me? Making me strut around in one of those bullshit costumes in the lounge?”

Although, the idea of watching her strut around in costume aroused me, I glanced out over the garden, silently telling her that the anger she felt had no effect on me. It wasn’t even worth looking her in the eye, wasn’t worth acknowledgment. “No. I still want you to take Maurice his meals. But I expect you to treat him as all the other professionals I hire for him do. Keep your distance. Give him nothing. And make it clear that he’ll never be good enough for a woman’s love. That’s what I want. That’s what I intended. And if you won’t do it, I’ll find someone who will.” My eyes finally met hers. “It’s that simple.”

I worried she’d break apart if she didn’t let the anger out. But somehow, she remained in place, she managed to keep from exploding. A decision filtered behind her gaze. I could only hope it was the right one.

Smiling, I inclined my head. “Have a good day, Penelope. I expect to see you in my suite at ten tonight. Because, regardless of what I’ve led you to believe, you don’t have a choice as to whether you are Maurice’s lover or mine.”

It took everything I had to stroll off calmly without looking back, and I could only hope that by pushing the buttons that were so plainly obvious in her, I’d shoved her in the direction I wanted her to go.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Faiville Prison, 1:37 pm

 

“Stop.”

Vincent’s gaze shifted to brush Meadow’s, not giving her his full attention, just a tease that he was concerned with what she would have to say. Arrogance lined his face, the knowledge that he knew something she did not, that in his games, he’d led her to believe she could hurt him.

“Is it something I said?” he asked, humor having returned to his voice, victory infecting his tone. “And here I thought you would continue this discussion as we’d agreed. I gave you my portion of the story, now you owe me Penelope’s.”

Meadow was mere inches away from scraping her fingernails down his handsome face. If what he’d just told her was true...

“You intentionally shoved her to Maurice. You know goddamned well that what you said to her, that making her hate you and then stripping her of a choice, would make her rebel against you by choosing Maurice. Why would you do that?”

Tilting his head this way and that, he considered her question. “You have it half right.” Pausing, he splayed his hands over the surface of the table, his mouth puckering with thought, his eyes directed at anything but her.

Meadow knew he was intentional in the direction of his gaze. There was nothing of interest in the room, only plain white walls and two tables. He was making it clear that, she too, carried little interest.

Finally locking his eyes on hers, he commented, “People are so easy, aren’t they? It takes practice and control to be able to see through one’s anger, patience that not many people possess. So muddied by their own emotions, most people don’t stop to think - to plot - before they react. They’re like a bull charging the red cape of a matador, their hoof scraping the ground before they lunge. But it’s the matador who has the advantage, the weapons hidden that will stop the bull in its tracks.”

He blinked slowly, smiled a lazy grin. “If Penelope had taken the time to think about what I was doing, she might have seen how easily she was being led. But she was too angry, wasn’t she? And with that streak of rebellion she carried inside, it was too easy to guess what her next move would be.”

Meadow refused to respond, she was too locked in frustration that Vincent had managed to pull the rug out from beneath her on this one subject - this one secret. It wasn’t the best card she’d intended to play, the biggest card, but it was one she’d hoped to slash across his twisted heart to cut deep. Wanting to slap the amusement from his face, Meadow clenched her hands in her lap.

Vincent stared at her for several seconds before laughter burst from his lips. “Oh, come now, Meadow, you couldn’t possibly have believed I didn’t know what was going on in my own hotel, with my own brother.” His shoulders shook as the laughter faded, his eyes flicking to hers before he canted his head. “Did you think you were going to surprise me with the fact that Penny loved Maurice more than she loved me?”

Sighing, Vincent shook his head. “I’d say I’m sorry for having stolen that moment from you - that revelation - but I’m not. If anything, it’s rather funny to see the anger on your face. You can’t hurt a man who made puppets dance by pulling their strings. Of course, Penny cared for Maurice more, I’d made sure of that.”

Meadow ground her teeth, hating the satisfaction behind his glimmering, green eyes.

When she remained silent, Vincent resettled in his seat, his shackles rattling. “It’s your turn to tell me Penelope’s perspective.”

Finally, Meadow snapped, “Why do you care or want to know? It’s not like the information will be new for you.”

He grinned. “That’s not entirely true. Whereas I knew Penny continued in her relationship with Maurice, I never knew how either of them felt for each other. In a small way, you’ve already answered that question with the anger you’re showing me now, the fact you’d hoped to surprise or hurt me with the depth of feelings between the two. But, I’d like to know.”

“Why?” Meadow asked again.

Resignation smoothed the laugh lines of his face, a soft breath whispering out from between parted lips. “Because Maurice was my brother, the only person I cared about in this world-“

“He’s dead because of you,” she spat, interrupting him, doing her best to drive a knife into his rotten heart.

Holding up a finger, he said, “We’ll get to that. But first, you owe me a story, and I would like to hear that, in Maurice’s life, he found some light within the darkness, some small bit of hope that he could be a normal man for once. It would make his death less tragic to know that he’d experienced actual joy just once. He had such a difficult life, was so walled off and out of control. It would be a shame if he’d never had one day, one hour, of peace and contentment.”

“I still don’t understand why you care.”

Vincent sighed loudly, his voice soft as he confessed, “Because if you haven’t realized it by now, Meadow, then you must be blind. If ever I had a weakness, a soft spot that could have been used to strike me down, it was Maurice. I may have resented my brother for the problem he’d been in my life, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t love him.”

“And yet you treated him like garbage,” she posited.

Nodding his head, his smile turned into a frown. “I thought what I did to keep him out of trouble was best for him. Looking back, I regret those decisions. I regret the cage I’d built for him, and for having kept him alone and apart from society.”

The honesty of that statement - the admission - stunned Meadow. “Are you telling me you know that you helped create the problems Maurice had?”

Vincent swallowed down whatever guilt he was feeling. “I wouldn’t say I created the problems, that was a matter of nature and brain chemistry. But I didn’t help make the situation any better, and for that, I blame myself. In my haste to protect him, I never gave him the chance to grow.”

Meadow considered how to approach a topic she wasn’t sure Vincent would answer honestly, but she had a day and a half left to ask it, to confirm what she’d known all along. Knowing she’d made the demand that the prison not record the interview, telling them they could watch the security cameras, but not listen, she leaned forward with little worry that if Vincent admitted the truth, it would save his life.

“I want you to be honest with me for once. This information won’t be written into my article about you, Vincent. It’s only for me to know.”

He stared at her, curious.

“You didn’t kill Penny, did you? It was Maurice.”

Shifting, he leaned forward so that their faces were close together, his voice lowering to a whisper as he spoke. “Why would I give up my life for a murder I didn’t commit?”

Meadow’s brows pulled together. “That doesn’t answer my question, Vincent.”

“It’s not my turn to answer questions,” he responded calmly. “Tell me what I want to know, and perhaps we can revisit your question when you’re finished.”

Knowing she’d hit a wall, Meadow leaned back in her seat, happy for the distance it put between them. This part of the story had become more depressing for her to tell now that she knew it wouldn’t have the effect she’d hoped for.

Once Vincent, too, had sat back in his chair, Meadow breathed deeply before admitting what she knew of the love Penny and Maurice shared.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY

Penny

 

I spent the remainder of the morning furious with Vincent, so fucking outraged that I couldn’t sit still, couldn’t keep from pacing around the paths of the garden considering my next move.

It broke my heart to think of how he treated Maurice, to remember the pain I saw in that man’s eyes every time he felt rejected or lost control. What kind of life could a person lead when constantly drowning in embarrassment, in doubt, in sorrow? Not that my life was any better at the moment, but at least I’d experienced happy times I could think back on.

I’d had a family that loved me even if my father died and I hadn’t kept in contact with my mother and sister. And although Blake had eventually broken my heart and left me with nothing, I would never lose the years we’d shared together.

I’d experienced moments lying in the warmth of sunshine. I’d been allowed to laugh, to be silly, to dance and sing. I’d felt love expand my heart with both joy and sorrow, and I’d clung to friendships at times that had meant more to me than the world.

Even in the darkest moments, I could remind myself that there had once been light, and even when nightmares chased and it felt like I would break, I could escape into memories of happier times.

What did Maurice have to remember except a brother who kept him confined to a cage? When had he ever walked beneath the warmth of the sunlight? When had he ever looked a person directly in the eye and known that he was loved?

Suspecting Maurice had never experienced the best parts of life, I made a decision in my heart before it was ever an obvious thought in my mind. And when noon rolled around, the sundials hidden along the paths of the garden shaded just right, I found my way back to the hotel and retrieved Maurice’s lunch.

To say I was excited to return to the basement was a lie. In truth, I was once again terrified. Not because I thought Maurice would hurt me - although that act was always a possibility - but because I worried that I would hurt him. I’d never dealt with a person so sensitive, so distraught. I’d never had to walk on eggshells for fear that one wrong look, or a word spoken that could be taken the wrong way would break apart every bit of self-control a person fought to have.

Being a catalyst for Maurice’s rage, for his sorrow, and his lack of restraint, wasn’t what I wanted to become. But as I’d already discovered that morning, he had made me exactly that.

The elevator doors swung open to an entryway lit by candles alone, and it occurred to me that when his mind was mired in darkness, so too was his surrounding space.

Tapping drew my attention to the left hall, the sound pulling me to a room that was in perfect opposition to the rest of the basement where Maurice was trapped. And like yesterday at this time, I found him seated at his desk. Although not messy, the room was practically empty of many of the decorations and furnishings that had been here this morning. Sorry for having pushed him to a point of destroying a room it was obvious he preferred, I cleared my throat and forced a smile.

“Lunch is here. Where would you like it?”

His beautiful face tipped up to look at me, embarrassment staining his cheeks. “The table, as usual,” he answered, restraint obvious in his clipped words.

Crossing the room, my eyes caught sight of a few shards of glass he’d missed when cleaning the room. I simply stepped around them and said nothing. Setting the covered dish down on the table, I shifted my weight between my feet, not knowing what to do next. But rather than running away like my instincts were screaming for me to do, I turned and walked to stand in front of his desk.

Tap, tap tap...

His fingers over the keys moved quickly, and I wondered briefly what he did on his computer all day. Refusing to ask the question, I stood and waited for him to look at me again. When he did, I had to grip the side of my pants to keep from reaching out to wipe the lines of sorrow away.

“Did you enjoy your breakfast?” I asked, deciding that keeping our conversation contained to safe subjects was the best way to communicate with Maurice.

He nodded slowly, one small movement while his eyes watched me with suspicion.

“What did they send you? I never look beneath the cover, so-“

My voice trailed off, and suddenly I felt stupid for the ridiculously boring question.

“The usual,” he answered softly. Shaking his head, he added, “Bacon, pancakes, eggs.”

My stomach growled just hearing about food. With the anger I’d felt toward Vincent, I’d neglected to eat anything.

Maurice’s brows lifted above his eyes. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m fine,” I answered a bit too quickly. He cocked a brow and I laughed. The sound from my lips caused his mouth to crook with an unsure smile.

Realizing I liked being around him when he was calm, I scoured my thoughts for more safe subjects to discuss. “I was walking in the garden this morning after bringing breakfast to you. I like to lie on the swings and watch the birds fly overhead. It’s peaceful.”

The words were a lie. In truth I’d been storming around burning off the anger Vincent had driven deep inside me. But I wouldn’t admit that to Maurice.

“I don’t see many birds at night. I guess they’re all sleeping,” he responded, his words crushing my heart. This man deserved to explore outside while the sun was high and shining.

Turning to glance at his waiting food, I asked, “Did you want me to leave so you can eat?”

He shook his head. “No.” His expression tightened, as if he were attempting to conjure words he wasn’t used to speaking. “I’d like it if you eat with me.” A flash of embarrassment rolled across his expression, his head tilted down as his eyes tipped up, like a dog waiting to be hit. I wouldn’t be the one to slap him.

“Do you think there’s enough?”

Maurice nodded his head.

Not sure what to do now that we’d gotten this far, I made a decision to be the first to make physical contact with a man who was obviously afraid he’d hurt me. Slowly, so as not to startle him or give the wrong indication that I was leaving, I inched around the edge of his desk, stepping as close as I could to him while extending my hand. He stared at it as if not knowing what to do next.

“I’m offering to lead you to the table,” I explained, “by holding your hand. All you have to do is reach up and take it.”

His eyes remained fixed to my palm as if it would snap out and smack him. Eventually, though, he lifted those gorgeous green eyes to mine, insecurity written behind them as he lifted his hand and wrapped it with mine. His skin felt like it was on fire, the heat of him helping drive the cold anger from my bones.

Tugging softly so that he would stand from his seat, I led him across the room to where his food sat waiting. Taking a chair, I let go of his hand and patiently waited for him to sit. Neither of us reached to remove the dome from his plate immediately, we just sat staring at one another as thoughts raced through our heads. After a few seconds, he finally broke our stare to lift the dome from the plate and released a scent that sent my stomach tumbling through another loud growl.

Maurice chuckled, the sound not loud or boisterous enough to be called a true laugh, but I smiled regardless because it was a start. It was the first time I saw even the bare hint of happiness in his eyes.

The only problem we faced was that there was one plate and one silverware setting. We would have to find a way to share and Maurice appeared confused as to what to do.

Deciding to make this fun, I joked, “You can feed me if you want.”

His eyes lifted to meet mine. “What do you mean?”

Taking the fork and unwrapping it from the cloth napkin, I slid it over to him. “You take a bite, and then you can give me a bite. Back and forth, so it’s fair.”

“Fair,” he repeated, more to himself than to me. It didn’t take a genius to figure out this beautiful, lonely man had no idea how to handle himself around company. Sure, he may have been used to doctors and counselors, Vincent, and other people that studied him like an animal in a zoo, but he didn’t understand what to do when a person sat beside him with the intention of being a friend.

The realization only cemented my decision to become anything he needed. If Vincent wouldn’t let Maurice upstairs to see the sunshine, I’d bring the sunshine to him.

“Want me to show you?”

He nodded, his cheeks flaring red. It was so intriguing watching a man who had the strength and aggression to rip my head from my body fighting to behave like an ordinary person. Like watching a lion tuck a napkin into his collar while sitting at a table sharing lunch with the gazelle instead of eating them.

“Okay.” Sliding the fork back to my side of the table, I picked it up, scooped up a bit of the chopped steak and sautéed onions before carefully reaching across to offer it to Maurice. He stared at it for a few seconds, his eyes flicking to mine before he opened his mouth, and used his teeth to slide the food off the tines.

Smiling, I scooped up another bite and ate it myself. After moaning softly from how amazing the food tasted, I chewed, swallowed, and then slid to the fork back over to him. “Now you try.”

Maurice picked up the fork, carefully loading it with food while I tried not to think that this could go very wrong. What if the food fell off before he could get it to me? What if I didn’t take the bite fast enough to reassure him that I was still his friend? What if he stabbed the fork in my eye to teach me a painful lesson that he was more of a wild animal than a civilized man?

It could go either way, I realized, but still I sat and waited for him to reach to me and offer me a bite of food.

Locking my gaze with his, I smiled shyly before opening my mouth to take the bite. The way his eyes dipped down to study my mouth, the way his nostrils flared slightly, the heat I saw beaming from his face, it did funny things to my body while I slid the food from the fork.

After chewing, I had to fight to swallow, the food colliding with the frantic storm of butterfly wings in my stomach.

The remainder of the meal was spent much in the same way, Maurice’s shoulders relaxing with each minute that passed, with each shy smile shared between us. Once the plate was clean, Maurice looked at me, unsure what to do next. Fighting not to sigh when I realized how long a distance he had to walk to act normal around another person, I stepped up my game by making another suggestion.

“Would you like to sit on the couch with me?”

His brows pulled together in confusion. “Why?”

Shrugging, I answered, “To talk?”

“Talk?”

I nodded.

“About what?”

“I don’t know. About anything.”

He considered it for a second and shook his head. “I’d rather fuck.”

Opening my mouth to immediately dismiss that idea - or at least the way he’d suggested it - I closed it and remembered that Maurice was unaccustomed to how that particular part of a relationship was handled.

How the hell was I going to wiggle my way out of this one without setting him off?

“We should go to the couch first and then figure out what to do.”

“D’accord .”

I blinked, smiling when I reminded him, “I don’t speak French.”

His eyes rolled. “It means okay.”

Before I could push out of my seat he stood from his and rounded the table. I won’t lie and claim I didn’t brace myself for a sudden attack. But instead of forcing himself on me, or lifting me from my seat to sit me on the table to fuck me silly, Maurice simply offered me his hand. My eyes widened at the gesture.

Taking it, I let him help me from my seat and lead me to the couch where he sat on one end and I took the other.

This is going well , I thought.

Famous last words.

Before I could come up with a subject for us to talk about, Maurice grabbed me by the ankles and tugged me across the couch. Wrapping my legs around his waist, he deftly maneuvered his body on top of mine, his hands pinning my shoulders to the cushions as his mouth came down to bite the tip of my breast from over my shirt and bra.

“Maurice!” I cried out, but softened my voice to remember how he’d reacted this morning when I’d yelled at him. “I thought we were going to talk.”

The tip of his nose was tracing the line of my neck. “Then talk, if that’s what you want to do. But it’s not what I want to do.”

Teeth sank down on the lobe of my ear and my body arched against his. There was no mistaking how excited he was, the ridge of his erection was pressing between my legs. Despite the shudder of my body and the racing beat of my heart, I managed to respond, “That’s not how talking works.”

His chest vibrated with a deep growl, dark laughter filtering past his lips. Hot breath slid down my neck to brush my shoulder when he answered, “Then don’t talk and I’ll fuck you instead.”

Before I could utter a word in protest, his left hand moved to cover my mouth, while his right slid between our bodies to unbutton my pants. He’d managed to unfasten them, shove them to my knees and thrust a finger inside me before I could take my next breath.

Apparently, learning the cues of when a woman was interested in sex would have to happen on another day. At that point, there was no stopping him. Remembering the last time we’d been together, I also knew there was no possibility of this being soft and sweet. And as if spurred on by that thought, Maurice pulled away just enough to flip me so that my stomach was on the couch, lifting my hips so that I was on my knees, my legs still trapped by the pants bunched around them and my face pressed against the cushions when he planted a hand on my upper back to keep me from moving away.

I knew better than to fight, but I couldn’t help the squeal when he leaned over to bite down on my ass. More deep laughter as the sound of a zipper opening was a distinct note on the silence of the room.

The bite brought a memory to mind, but it was gone again as his cock thrust in my body, my mouth opening on a sensual moan the instant his width filled me. One of these days I was going to convince him to fuck me sweetly, but for now, I would submit to his whim and enjoy the ride.

As his hips thrust and he pushed himself deeper, his hands crept up the front of my shirt to push my bra up my breasts so that he could grip them possessively. Much taller than me he was able to bend over me, to press his mouth to my ear. His voice was a rough whisper when he said, “I think it’s funny that you were already wet. You didn’t actually want to talk, did you?”

I couldn’t find the strength to answer him, I was too busy trying not to explode from the rush of pleasure he was forcing through my body. Maurice may have not been skilled in regular communication, but the man had a gold medal in the area of sensual torture.

With every powerful thrust of his hips, his breath pulsed against my neck, and as my muscles tightened to grip him and pull his cock deeper, the sounds coming from his mouth became feral. He wasn’t simply fucking me, he was claiming me as his.

It was slightly embarrassing how quickly he made me come. And as soon as my body tightened with my release, Maurice thrust harder to find his own. It wasn’t long until our bodies were coming down from the moment, his erection still inside me as it softened.

I closed my eyes and listened to his rhythmic breathing, thinking that when I brought him dinner, I’d show him what it meant to be sweet.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

 

After leaving Maurice at his desk and refraining from sneaking behind him to see what he did on the computer all day, I took a shower in my room and left the hotel to walk the streets of the city and think about everything that had occurred over the past few days.

Remembering the email I’d sent to my sister, I stopped in at the Internet cafe, paid the clerk for a half hour and pulled up my messages to see she’d answered me almost immediately. If I hadn’t been in such a bad mood when I sent the email, and if I hadn’t shut down the computer almost as soon as hitting send, I would have heard the tell tale ping of her response.

Opening the email, I laughed to see the first several lines written in all caps. Leave it to Meadow to find a way to yell at me from across an ocean.

 

“FINALLY! I WAS ABOUT TO HIRE AN INVESTIGATOR TO FIND OUT IF YOU ARE DEAD!!”

 

Reading through the long winded message, I discovered that Meadow was doing well in school even though she was only taking two classes at a time. Between the two of us, I’d been the more academically gifted, but not exactly the smartest when it came to common sense.

Apparently, Meadow was working towards a journalism degree but hadn’t yet made it past the basic courses. Luckily, she’d managed to find a program that taught in both English and German, since she was as frustrated with the language barrier over there as I was with two particular men at the hotel.

According to her, mom was doing well in her new marriage and the man she’d married was halfway decent, but had no sense of humor to speak of. It was a far cry to who our father had been, but dad had been one in a million.

Hitting reply, I sent Meadow a response promising her I’d stay in touch on a more frequent basis. My hands must have hovered over the keys as I made my decision whether I’d be staying at Wishing Well or not. If it had been about Vincent alone, I would have begged my sister to buy me the next plane ticket to Germany, but I had Maurice to consider.

I couldn’t leave him to waste away beneath the abuse of his older brother. Not after the moment we shared today while eating lunch. Not after I’d seen for a few minutes at least that he had the potential to lead a normal life.

So instead of begging to be rescued, I told my sister how happy I was in my new job and that I’d write to her again in a week.

The day moved quickly after that, the sun setting on the horizon as I let myself into the garden of the hotel through the back employee gate. Seeing that it was six, I made my way to the kitchen to fetch Maurice’s dinner. Except when I arrived, I had two trays given to me on a metal courier cart and I glanced up at the kitchen manager in confusion. He glared back, too busy to politely explain.

“Vincent said two meals should be ready.” Having barked out the simple sentence, he stormed off to reprimand one of the cooks who was prepping food behind the line.

It didn’t take long for me to reach Maurice’s basement suite, or for me to find him in the same room as usual. “Dinnertime,” I announced.

The typical tapping of his fingers over a keyboard stopped immediately, his eyes flicking up, a forced smile stretching his lips. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at the odd expression. Pushing the cart to the table, I asked, “Were you the one who ordered two meals?”

Nodding his head once, he answered, “I didn’t want you to be hungry.”

Praising him, I said, “That was very considerate of you, Maurice. Thank you.”

He responded in such a way that the words sounded foreign on his tongue. “You’re welcome.”

“Would you like to eat now?” I asked.

Cutting his head sharply to the left, he kept his eyes pinned on me. “Not yet.”

“Okay,” I said, dragging the word out, “what would you like to do instead?”

Already knowing the answer to my question, I waited for him to tell me he wanted to fuck. Except, he didn’t...

“Would you like to take a tour of my home?”

If I hadn’t been holding on to the handle of the push cart, I would have fallen over. “Um, sure,” I answered meekly, surprise weakening my voice.

Maurice must have noticed the odd reaction because his nostrils flared with anger, his shoulders hunching together as his eyes flicked to the computer screen. “Forget it,” he barked.

Shit...

“I’m sorry for looking like I didn’t want to walk around, it’s just that you surprised me with the suggestion.”

Shrugging a broad shoulder as if to dismiss what I said, anger rolled behind his startling green eyes. I refused to give up. “What made you think to give me a tour?”

His jaw ticked, uncertainty a shadow beneath his eyes. “The internet,” he practically whispered. “I looked it up and it said that friends show friends around their house.”

My heart shattered into a million fucking pieces. He was actually researching how to be normal. Gathering myself back together, I focused on a word that he’d said as I approached him. He refused to look up at me, but I stood next to him regardless. With a soft voice, I asked, “Am I your friend, Maurice?”

His gaze darted up to my face and back to his screen, pink darkening his cheeks. “Yes.”

I couldn’t help my smile. “Then give me the tour.”

Reluctantly, he stood from his seat and offered me his hand. I took it, squeezing his fingers between mine as he led me from the room. I should have known the tour wouldn’t be normal. Waking down the halls, he pushed open every door we passed saying, “Room. Another room. Another room. Bathroom. Another room. Room with weights. Therapy room. Room.”

We reached the last door, “Room with bed.” He tugged me inside.

I should have known we’d end up here. It occurred to me that Maurice wasn’t quite accurate on his definition of ‘friend.’

Glancing around the dark room, I could only see by the flickering light of candle sconces on the wall. There wasn’t much furniture to be found, just a giant bed positioned in the center of a wall, the mattress covered in black sheets. Unlike the hallway floors of dark marble, his bedroom floor was a thick, dark carpet. No wonder he spent so much time in the yellow room, the rest of this place felt like a large coffin.

Before I could return my attention to him, he was dragging me deeper inside to shove me down on the mattress. He started to crawl over me, but I stopped him by placing my hands on his strong shoulders. Almost immediately, his expression twisted with rejection, but I spoke before he could react. “Can we try a new way of ...”

“Fucking?” he asked.

I took a breath. “Of being together,” I corrected him. It was a struggle not to laugh when his head tilted like a confused puppy.

“There’s only one way, unless,” his hand found my ass, “you want to try my cock in that hole.”

Yeah, no. I wasn’t ready for that. “Just trust me, okay. I’m your friend, so I’d like to do something different. You’ll like it, I promise.”

It took him a minute of staring at me to finally nod his head and roll off me. Pushing to my knees, I climbed off the bed, his hand striking out to grab my wrist and stop me from leaving. Turning, I crooked a corner of my mouth. “I’m not going anywhere. I just need to move out of the way so you can sit down.”

Cocking one brow, he pushed himself into a seated position on the edge of the bed. Placing my hands on his shoulders - noticing how big he was compared to me - I climbed up to straddle him. His hands immediately moved to cup my ass and I smiled realizing the need to do so was just a natural part of him.

Cupping his cheeks in my hands, I didn’t miss the way his brows tugged together. He was completely still, a snake ready to strike, a man afraid of what the small woman in his lap would do to him.

“I want to go slow this time.”

Maurice shook his head, his fingers gripping me tighter.

“Please?”

Another shake of his head.

Lowering my voice, I pressed my forehead to his. He winced, jerking his head away before I could ask, “Have you ever gone slow before?”

Frustration was a tick in his jaw. “No.”

Remaining patient, I asked, “Have you ever let a woman fuck you before?”

“No.”

“Would you like to try it with me?”

Uncertainty was obvious in his voice. “Okay.”

Realizing he didn’t like his face touched, I assumed kissing him was out of the question. Baby steps , I told myself as I gently pushed on his shoulders to make him lie back. “Can I take off your shirt?”

Several seconds passed, but he nodded his head. My fingertips dragged from his shoulders down to his waist, ripples of hard muscle like deep ridges as I touched his stomach.

Good God, what kind of body does this man have hidden beneath his shirt?

I lost my ability to breath when I lifted the hem, tugging it off him as he moved his arms and showed me. But as my stomach twisted in knots to see an almost perfect physique, anger clouded my eyes to notice the maze of scars that were small white lines across his torso. Knowing better than to focus on those scars or ask questions, I lifted my eyes to his face. “You’re a work of art, Maurice. I’ve never seen someone so beautiful.”

Heat blazed behind his eyes, a primal edge to his gaze that made the butterflies in my stomach beat their wings harder. Without unlocking our gaze, I unbuttoned his jeans and freed his erection from his pants. My fingers wrapped the girth, a growl emanating from his chest, letting me know his patience to let me take the lead was running out.

Leaning down, I placed a kiss in the center of his chest and released his cock to unbutton my own pants. Moving so that I could drag them off my legs and kick them from my feet, I stood on the floor at the edge of the bed, and stripped off my shirt. There was no doubt on my mind this man was hungry, not with the way he stared at my breasts.

Slowly, I climbed back on top of him, my body ready, my breath held as I straddled his lap, positioned him so that he could sink inside my body, and lowered myself down. His hands immediately went to my waist, his lips parting as I began to move over him.

Dragging his hands up my body, he palmed my breasts, taking possession of them as he watched me move. I was driving myself to a climax when his patience finally snapped. But instead of shoving me over so that he could climb on top, he simply grabbed my hips, his grip firm, as he set a faster pace.

I came apart almost instantly, my palms on his shoulders, my head falling back as I let him use my body to find his own release, and when his hips bucked up, his cock sinking deeper inside me, I closed my eyes and realized that I was becoming addicted to the savage beast of man who had trusted me enough to call me his friend.