Diamonds in the Dust

by Charmaine Pauls

  I don’t finish the cigarette.

  I put it out on my chest.

  Chapter 7

  Zoe

  * * *

  When I doze off, the rats soon discover I’m a harmless target and nip at the exposed flesh of my wrists and even at my legs through my tights. I swat and kick at them, but they’re becoming fearless, even taking their chances when I’m awake. The broken skin burns at first, but after a while the cold numbs everything, so much so I don’t feel the bite of pain as their sharp teeth gnaw at my flesh. The best way of warding them off is moving, but they follow and try to climb up my legs when they can’t bite through my boots.

  By the time the sun comes up, I’m exhausted and cold to my core. It’s as if the damp has infiltrated my bones. I can’t stand on my feet anymore. I think the rats may kill me before I starve. I’m not sure which is the most merciful. My stockings are torn and the expensive clothes ruined, dirty from the damp and black mold on the walls. It stinks worse than my apartment building down here.

  Leaning against the wall, I kick at a rat that climbs onto the toe of my boot. The slosh of the water is quieter. It’s low tide. There’s something else, too, like the fall of a hammer. It comes closer. No, it’s the fall of footsteps. My heart starts thundering in my chest when they descend down the steps. I brace myself, praying for rescue, but the door swings open on Maxime’s face.

  He’s wearing a pale suit with a pink tie, and his face is clean-shaven. When he opens the gate and enters my prison, a whiff of winter reaches my nostrils. It’s clean and fresh, a stark contrast to my dirt and exhaustion, like a magnifying glass on his cruelty. He’s cold and monstrous.

  He’s not my savior.

  I back away, but he grips my hair with one hand, and carefully pulls off the tape with the other. It hurts. The skin on my lips stretches and cracks. I drag my tongue over them and taste blood.

  Something inside me snaps. My vision turns blurry.

  He turns me around to undo the cuffs. The moment my hands are free, I jump at him. I claw and hit, screaming like a mad person. I must be mad, because what I should be doing is escaping. I kick. I punch him in the gut. He only stands there and takes it, my blows doing no damage. After the next fist I jam into his stomach, I shove him and run.

  I’m not even on the first step before he grabs hold of my ankle. I go down, stopping my fall with my hands. The heels of my palms burn as the skin comes off, but I kick with all my might. I dig my fingers into the stone, my nails breaking as he drags me back into my cell.

  “No!”

  He flips me onto my back and covers my mouth with his hand. My lips are pulled back, my jaw wide. I bite down until the pressure of his hand becomes so severe, I think my skull may crack.

  “Are you done?” he asks through thin lips.

  I shake my head, but we both know I am. The fight goes out of me, my energy spent.

  “If you scream,” he says, “I’ll leave. I can do this for days until you’re ready to listen.”

  When I go still, he removes his hand. “That’s better.”

  I lie on my back on the damp stones, the wetness seeping through my coat and dress, through my very skin and into my heart. He’s crouching next to me, studying me with one arm braced on his knee. His frame is big and powerful. The shadow he casts over me swallows me whole. Somehow, it seems darker and colder than the winter night I spent in my cell.

  “I want you to listen to me, Zoe.”

  My gaze homes in on his face, on the non-symmetrical lines of his features and the bump on the bridge of his nose.

  “When I take you home,” he continues in his musical accent, “you have a choice.”

  My hope lifts a fraction. “To South Africa?”

  “To France.”

  The words are a punch. I don’t know how many more punches I can take. I force the question from numb lips. “What choice?”

  “It can be like yesterday, like the day we spent, or it can be like this.” He motions around the space. “What you decide is entirely up to you, but you should know that each choice comes with a price.”

  I hold my breath, waiting for him to carry on.

  “If I take you to my family in France, this is what awaits you. You’ll be locked up, a prisoner. The men will take turns with you, starting with my brother, and he’s not a kind man. He’ll keep you alive, but you’ll wish you were dead. The only way I can protect you is to lay claim to you.” His gaze pierces mine. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  My body is shaking uncontrollably, my mind refusing to give meaning to the words.

  “Do you understand, Zoe?” he asks in his musical accent.

  I shake my head.

  “You’re going to have to become my mistress.” The flames in his eyes burn glacially. “You’re going to have to let me fuck you, convincingly and often.”

  Chapter 8

  Maxime

  * * *

  Zoe’s pretty, blue eyes flare, as always giving away her heart. She finds the idea of me fucking her disgusting. I didn’t expect otherwise. Nonetheless, it stabs into my chest.

  I bet she’ll find Alexis handsome. All the women do, until they discover his fetishes.

  She licks her cracked lips. “Are you asking me to sell my body in exchange for your protection?”

  “I don’t need to buy sex, little flower.” Despite my physique, I have enough eager bed partners.

  “You mean your mistress as for real?”

  I nod, a sadistic part of me enjoying her discomfort for making her distaste so obvious. “For real.”

  I can almost see her brain kicking back into action. “Why can’t we pretend? Why do I have to sleep with you?”

  “Because my family will know.” More accurately, my father and brother.

  “How?”

  “Believe me, there are signs that will be obvious.” I fuck hard. My family knows me. My lovers don’t walk straight in the morning, not that they’re complaining. There will be medical checkups, birth control, and our doctor is a family friend. He’ll report back to my father. Changing to a different practitioner will be suspicious, a dead giveaway. No, there’s only one way of playing this.

  For real.

  She swallows. “Why would you help me?”

  Yes, why indeed? “Because I’d hate to see your life wasted.”

  She blinks, her lashes wet with unshed tears. “Isn’t it already wasted?”

  “Choice, Zoe. It all depends on how you choose to look at it.”

  Sniffing, she turns her face to the light that falls in a wedge from the hole in the wall. Between the two options, I know, and she knows what her choice is going to be. I let her have the moment, let her bask in denial for a little while longer.

  When she finally looks back at me, her tears are spilling over. It both pains and pleases me how little she wants me and that she’s already admitting her defeat, because when she opens her pretty, little mouth, she’s going to give me her consent.

  She nods, a small movement that barely tilts her head.

  I wipe a strand of hair from her dirty face. “Say it.” The quicker she consents, the quicker I can carry her out of here, clean her, and give her sunlight and water so she’ll flourish again.

  “Yes,” she says in a faint voice.

  “Yes, what?”

  “I’ll be your mistress.”

  “That’s a good choice, Zoe.” I drag my palm over her cheek. “You made it wisely.”

  I don’t waste time. I scoop her up from the cold floor, cradling her against my chest. The demonstration was a hard one, but it was necessary. It hurt me as much as it hurt her. The fresh cigarette burns on my stomach and chest are proof of that.

  She weighs nothing in my arms as I mount the stairs. I hold her tighter, sheltering her against the cold as much as I can. She’s mine now. I’ll take care of her every need.

  Gautier waits at the street level with a blanket. He drapes it over her, careful not to touch her, and I tuck it
around her body. She’s shivering like a petal caught in a storm. We don’t go down the alley but take the steps to the jetty where the motorboat is tied. Benoit is aboard. At our approach, he unties the boat. I lower Zoe to her feet and help her inside. When we’re all in, I sit, drawing her into my lap and making sure she’s covered with the blanket.

  Benoit starts the engine and turns the boat into the canal. The wind nips at my face and ears. In the fight, Zoe lost her hat. She draws deeper under the blanket, huddling close to me. It feeds a hungry part of me. I open my jacket and pull it around her under the blanket so the heat from my body can warm her better.

  After a short ride, we moor the boat in front of our hotel. It’s early. Few people are about. I lift Zoe out and carry her inside while my men scout the area ahead of us. We don’t run into anyone in the lobby or on the stairs, and a few minutes later we’re back in the suite.

  Carrying her straight to the bathroom, I lower her onto the bench next to the bath before crouching in front of her. When I reach for the blanket, she clutches it tighter to her chest.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “You need a shower.” When the pleat on her brow doesn’t smooth out, I explain my intention. “I’m not going to hurt you. I need to take care of you.”

  “Then get out.”

  I stand. The rejection stings, but I welcome the hurt. Feeling something after nothing, after thinking I’d never feel again, is a miracle and joyful in itself.

  She agreed. I want to remind her, but I have to be patient. In fact, it’s better I don’t see her naked before tonight. The drawn-out expectation will only heighten the pleasure.

  Still, I’m not comfortable leaving her in this state. She’s tired and weak. She can slip in the shower and crack open her head.

  “Please?” she says.

  The word pulls at my heart, another foreign sensation, because I do want to please her.

  “Call if you need me.” I turn and leave but stop in the door. “Maybe it’s better if you have a bath.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she says, her eyes sparking with annoyance.

  I smile in return. “I’m right outside.”

  Her rosebud mouth turns down. “Isn’t that good to know?”

  I let it slide. I’m so happy to have her consent.

  Closing the door to give her privacy, I settle down at the bureau in the bedroom so I can hear her in case she changes her mind about needing my help. I summon Benoit and give him the letter to mail with an instruction to bring back a tetanus shot. We have contacts everywhere. I can get anything I want, no matter where I am.

  The water in the shower comes on. By the time it turns off, I’ve ordered brunch and made arrangements for tonight. When Zoe steps out dressed in a bathrobe, I point at the loveseat.

  She trots over, but falters before she reaches the seat. “Are you going to do it now?”

  My grin is diabolic. I know what she means, but I want her to say it. “Do what?”

  “You know.” She waves at the bed.

  “You mean fuck you?”

  Her cheeks turn a deep pink, pretty like a fuchsia rose.

  I watch her with my hands folded behind my back, enjoying her shyness. “We don’t need a bed to fuck. We can do it on other furniture, in many different places, and in a variety of positions.” But for our first time, it will be in the bed.

  She swallows. “I’m not ready.”

  What does she need to be ready? Definitely not clothes. I enjoy playing this game of cat and mouse with her, but I want her relaxed, not stressed. I want her to enjoy it. It’s in both our interest that I put her mind at ease.

  “Don’t worry.” I walk closer. “You have time.”

  Her shoulders sag. Does she know how openly she shows her relief? “Until when?”

  “Tonight.”

  Nighttime is when lovers do it, at least the first time. Or so I presume. I’ve never been the romantic type. I’ve never been anyone’s lover. I’ve fucked enough times to have refined the technique of giving a woman pleasure to an art, but I’ve never been with the same woman more than a couple of times. I’m actually looking forward to exploring long-term sex with Zoe, which is why the first time is important. The first time of everything determines how the rest of it will go.

  Taking her hand, I pull her down onto the seat. Then I crouch in front of her and brush the robe away to expose her legs. She sits quietly, albeit tensely, as I inspect the bite marks on her legs. I push back the sleeves and turn her wrists this way and that to do the same. Finally, I straighten to drag my fingers through her hair and over her scalp, feeling for bumps. There’s a small one at the back of her head.

  “Do you have pain?” I ask.

  She shakes her head.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Thirsty,” she says.

  “I’ll feed you soon.”

  I leave her on the loveseat to take the medicine kit from my bag. I never travel without one. It’s a must in our business. Meticulously, I disinfect every mark and scratch on her skin, including the heels of her palms.

  The brunch arrives just as I’ve finished. I don’t make her sit at the table but order her to bed and fluff out the pillows behind her back. I serve a savory muffin, bacon, and scrambled eggs onto a plate and let her eat in bed while I pour rose petal tea into a cup to cool.

  Benoit returns with the tetanus vaccine as I carry her empty plate away. I first give her an anti-inflammatory pill to drink with her tea, and then I take a hypodermic syringe from the kit.

  Her eyes widen when I insert the needle into the vial. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s a tetanus shot,” I explain, “for the bites.”

  She says nothing as I push the sleeve of the robe up and lock my fingers around her arm. She flinches when I insert the needle into her skin and empty the syringe, but she’s a brave girl. She doesn’t complain.

  With my charge taken care of, I’m a lot happier, certainly less miserable than last night. The only thing left is for her to get some rest.

  Stroking her soft hair that’s still damp after her shower, I say, “Close your eyes. Sleep. You must be tired.”

  She doesn’t argue. Her long lashes flutter over her eyes, and her face muscles go slack as she eases down onto the mattress. With an unusually docile acceptance, she allows me to pet her hair.

  Someday, she’ll long for me to touch her like this. There will come a day she won’t have to simply tolerate my touch.

  When I’m done with her, she’s going to need it like a drug.

  Chapter 9

  Zoe

  * * *

  It’s dusk when I wake up. The room is basked in a soft, rose-gold glow. I feel a lot better than this morning. My belly is full, my aches are gone, I’m warm, and I’m fully rested. Then a ball of trepidation tightens my stomach, spoiling my good physical state.

  In an hour, it will be dark. Sinful things happen in the dark. Prey is hunted and monsters thrive, but vows must be honored, no matter if dreams are destroyed.

  I swing my legs over the bed and look around. Thankfully, I’m alone in the room. Not knowing how much I’ll be granted in the future, I make the most of the privacy by going to the bathroom to use the facilities, but when I open the door, I’m met with shimmering candlelight and the sensual smell of roses. The tub is filled with steaming water, rose petals drifting on top. Candles burn on the vanity, floor, and edge of the bath. Petals are scattered around them. The scene is so pretty I forget to be angry and even to be anxious for a moment, but then I remember who’s set it all up, and my shoulders snap tight with tension again.

  I glance back at the room, expecting him to be standing there, gauging my reaction, but I’m still alone. The fragrance and the warm water are too enticing to waste. I lock the door and let the robe slip from my shoulders. Tying my hair in a bun on top of my head, I climb into the tub and lower myself into the water.

  It’s heaven. The warmth seeps into my skin, melting the t
ightness in my muscles. A flute with bubbly, golden liquid stands within my hand’s reach on the windowsill. It’s a beautiful glass with intricate engraving. I bring it to my lips and take a sip. The champagne is dry and yeasty. I’ve had a couple of glasses in my lifetime, at year-end work parties on both occasions, and instantly loved the taste. It’s a luxury I could never afford on my grocery budget.

  It takes a bit of playing with the settings before I figure out how to make the bubbles work. A stream of water massages my lower back and another my feet. I lay back—there’s even a bath pillow for my head—and admire the view of the canal and the bridge below. Lights are twinkling on the bridge, and the streetlamps illuminating the cobblestone street look antique, like something straight from a fairytale. Except, this isn’t a fairytale, and I shouldn’t forget it.

  As reality wiggles back into my consciousness, wiping away the beauty of the moment, I down the champagne in one go. I no longer want to sip it for enjoyment. I only want to use it to dull my senses.

  I do have a little buzz when I get out a long while later and dry myself. My thoughts run ahead to what will follow, but they’re interrupted by what I find when I walk back into the room. The bed has been freshly made with clean linen. A pink dress is arranged at the foot end. It’s the most beautiful creation I’ve seen. Unable to help myself, I step closer.

  It’s a long, off-shoulder evening dress. The cut is simple. What makes it extraordinary is the diamante tulle. It’s shimmery, delicate, and so faintly pink the color is a mere blush. I love it. It’s completely me. The thought makes me go rigid. Of course, Maxime knows. He probably went through my books and sketches when he went back to see Bruce and wipe away the evidence of my existence.

  Pink silk underwear and thigh-high stockings with a lace trimming are set out next to the dress. A velvet box catches my eyes. My curiosity piqued, I reach for the box and flip back the lid. A pair of solitaire diamonds sits on a black velvet cushion, their light brighter than sunrays or a rainbow. They’re enormous, at least a couple carats. I’ve never owned a diamond, but I know a lot about them from the clippings I collected of my dream ring, the one the man who loved me was going to offer me.