by SR Jones
I don’t understand myself. Andrius is stunningly handsome. The sort of man who most women would do anything to have notice them. Allyov is not. He’s a horrible old man who likes young flesh. This should be easier for me. Seduce Andrius into trusting me then get to a party where Allyov is at and somehow put a dab of peanut butter in his drink. Run away. End of story.
Except. Andrius is a killer. A stone-cold killer. He notices things other men don’t. He noticed me when I was at my dowdiest. I felt his eyes on me at times. Watching. Learning. He’s utterly terrifying.
I tell myself I am being irrational. Allyov might look like a kindly grandfather, but he’s the one who pulls the trigger. Andrius is merely the gun.
Andrius has a code too. I don’t understand much about him, but I do know that. No women, no children. It’s what his fangirls at the restaurant whisper about him. It makes me laugh; they twist themselves in knots to justify having a crush on a murderer. They say he’s a hero because he doesn’t harm women and children. As if. The reason they like him is because he’s gorgeous. If Andrius looked rough and ugly, like the thugs Allyov has by his side every day, those women wouldn’t yearn for him.
It’s amazing the power of beauty. The things it makes people do, the things it makes them overlook.
Even me. I would find my eyes drawn to him at work, running my greedy gaze over his sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, full but firm mouth, and those eyes. Those ghostly, beautiful eyes.
I don’t want him though, because I know underneath he’s rotten.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that, sister.
I touch a finger to my lips. I’m a liar.
And there it is. The second reason I’m terrified to put my plan into action is because there’s a small part of me that’s terrified if I do, I’ll end up like those women at the restaurant who coo and sigh over Andrius as if he’s a rock star. He’s not only devastatingly handsome, but he has a charisma that is off the charts. A sense of power that in a room full of deadly and powerful men stands out.
There’s something undeniably sexy about a man who seems to feel no fear. Who is so cool and collected he can be given a human being as a gift and barely show a frown. A man so in control of himself and his surroundings, he seems as impervious as rock itself.
He’s not, though; he’s flesh and blood, and despite his seeming displeasure when I was first offered to him, he responded to me. I felt it. It scared me. It thrilled me.
I can’t deal with the contradictory feelings roaring through me. They’re so loud and demanding they’re drowning out any rational thoughts I try to have.
And still the kiss taunts me. It was mind-blowing. He kissed me like he starved for me, as if he was claiming me. I’d made a noise, a small sound in the back of my throat, and it burned afterward with shame.
Why did I respond to a kiss from my captor? My owner! I should hate him with every part of my being, but I don’t.
I fear him and partly find myself agonizingly drawn to him.
A knock on the door pulls me out of my introspective meltdown. My heart lurches and terror grips me, until the handle turns and the pretty woman who let me in at the start of the evening enters the room.
She smiles at me. “Violet isn’t it?”
I nod, scared of her. She works for him, so she can’t be a good person. Like him, she’s stunningly beautiful, and I wonder if they are in a relationship of sorts?
“I have some food for you.” She comes into the room and places a tray by the bed. It’s plastic, I notice, with a paper plate piled high with various appetizing morsels. There’s also a bottle of water and a plastic cup of something. She shoots me a sympathetic look.
“There’s wine in the cup. I thought you could use a drink. I know I would if I were in your shoes.”
“Help me.” I turn to her, not above begging. She’s another woman; she must surely understand my fear.
“Please,” I plead. “Let me go. I’ll slip away, I won’t ever say you did it. Or … you could pretend I overpowered you. Pushed you out of the room.” Tears slide down my cheeks, and her face crumples.
She swears in Russian, and I understand her perfectly. She’s saying, shit, shit, shit, repeatedly.
“Violet, you must listen to me. This is the safest place for you right now. You are safe here.”
“Safe?” I squeak. “I’ve been given to your boss. As a present. It means he can do what the hell he wants with me. I am not safe.”
“Andrius won’t hurt you,” she says. “He has rules.”
I roll my eyes then experience a wave of fear at my rude gesture. “He’s going to have sex with me against my will; that’s hurting me.”
She sighs and goes to the wall, staring out the window. I notice she’s messing about on her phone. Is she calling for help? Oh, no, is she calling Andrius? About to tell him what I’ve said.
Instead, she comes to sit by me and angles her phone so I can see the screen, but it’s sheltered by our bodies. She’s typed a message on there.
“The room might be bugged. I can’t talk to you now. Andrius won’t hurt you, in any way. You are safe here for now. I can’t say more. You mustn’t utter a word of what I’ve said, not even to Andrius. I’m risking a lot telling you this.”
It should be reassuring, and it is, in a way. But then my mind starts again. What if she’s lying? What if she’s trying to keep me calm and compliant so I don’t ruin the party? I’ve heard of women who do terrible things to their fellow females. She might be worse than Andrius.
I can’t trust her, but I also know she isn’t going to help me, so asking her to is futile.
I nod at her glumly and try to force a dose of gratefulness into my expression.
“I have to go back to the party, but eat something. Drink the wine. Calm down. Okay?” She stares at me as if trying to communicate with me subliminally or something. Then she’s gone. Slipping out of the room, she locks the door behind her.
I stare at what she’s left for me, take the wine, and down half the cup. It’s a large plastic cup, one that can hold almost a pint of liquid. It wasn’t full, but I’ve still knocked back a rather large amount of wine in one gulp.
It warms me, taking away some of the terror and the tremors. I stare at the plate, paper, so no good as a weapon. She brought me no knife, nothing but a plastic fork.
I stare at the fork and remember something I saw on a TV show about prison once. Didn’t people use things like toothbrushes to make shanks? Surely, this would work.
Taking hold of the fork, I jab it into my arm and one of the stupid prongs simply breaks off. Not strong enough to withstand my gentle thrusts, it’s hardly going to be helpful in stabbing Andrius. What if I break it along the main shaft?
Testing the power of it, I start to bend it one way and another. Sure enough, it doesn’t take long before it snaps. I grin at the pointed end of the fork. Surely this would hurt. I stab it at my skin and wince because it does. If I could shove this with enough force into someone, I could hurt them. Enough to buy me a few precious seconds.
Then what? They’ll catch me and most likely hurt me. Maybe badly. If I make them angry, they will harm me; I’m sure of it.
What if I stab myself? I don’t think Andrius would be happy with me if I did. He called me a wrench in the works, which at the time I didn’t understand. I realized it’s an American version of the Brit saying; spanner in the works. It’s not good for me. It means he sees me as a nuisance. An issue. He wouldn’t have said it though, if he simply thought he could kill me and get rid of me. Killing me would be going against his code. He might rape me, perhaps hit me, beat me. But if all I’ve heard about his code is correct, he won’t want to kill me or be in any way responsible for my death.
If I cut myself enough to bleed badly, then he or his glamorous housekeeper, or whatever the hell she is, will have to get me help. Maybe take me to a hospital or some such. Can I do it?
I head into the bathroom, the food forgotten. I look around and sigh at the lack o
f anything to use. It seems odd the bottles are plastic. I’m starting to realize Andrius is a paranoid man. He had no clue I was coming. This is clearly the guest bedroom, and yet it has a door he can lock from the outside. It has nothing in the room or the adjoining bathroom that could be easily used as a weapon.
While I’m sure he doesn’t regularly lock his guests in, I’m convinced the cheap plastic bottles in the luxury room are not a mere coincidence. As the bath runs, I head into the bedroom and open the closet door. Yep, no hangers. I then go through all the drawers. The room is utterly bare. There is a TV and some system below it for playing things like satellite shows and Netflix. One drawer holds the remote, and the others are all empty.
The bed, the furniture, it’s all stunning. The room is painted in a pale café au lait color, and the furniture is dark brown wood with a pale, expensive-looking chair in one corner. Teal blue accents are dotted around the room. A throw on the bed, a pillow on the chair, the headboard. It’s gorgeous and classy, the sort of room I’d love to call my own.
It’s also bereft of anything a person might use to do any harm to themselves … or others.
The bath is still running, and I snap out of my perusal and head into the bathroom. It’s nice and high, and when I swirl my hands in the water, it’s piping hot, but not enough to scald.
Taking my clothes off, I climb in. My broken plastic fork with the sharp end is on the edge of the bath, and I leave it there for a while enjoying the feel of the hot water swirling around me. Then I take the fork and hold it in my hand, running it over the sensitive skin on the underside of my wrist. It leaves a white scratch mark where I press in. Holding my breath, unsure of what the hell I’m doing, I push harder against my skin.
It hurts, and I almost pull away, but then blood blooms in the track of the implement, red and dangerous and satisfying.
My brain is foggy, nothing feels real. The heat of the bath, the wine, the drugs, no food other than some of the popcorn I nibbled while at the cinema earlier; it all adds up to making me woozy.
I could kill myself, and it wouldn’t seem real. Hack at my skin until I hit a vein or an artery and bleed out in this beautiful bathroom. That would show them all.
More blood appears as I dig in harder. It’s sore and painful, but I want to see the blood. It means an escape from this.
Not just this moment either, but this life.
I’ve been so alone, focused on nothing but revenge for my family. I have no one. No family left. No friends, other than Aliya, my bestie, who is out of the country, busy saving orangutans. Nobody will miss me. All those cruel words about me Allyov said, about no one caring I was gone, they were true. No one will.
I’m a ghost. Drifting through life totally unnoticed.
Everyone who ever meant something to me has let me down. Betrayed me or left me. Either purposefully or simply by dying and leaving me behind to deal with it all.
Grinding my teeth together in impotent despair and rage at the mess of my life, I press harder and muffle a cry as a sharp pain hits me, and the blood begins to flow fast.
For a horrible moment, I wonder if I’ve hit something vital, but then I gather my wits about me and think the blood would surely be spurting out if it were the case.
Still, it proves something to me. The fear I felt when I thought I might have pushed over the edge tells me I want to live.
I might be alone, scared, and probably depressed—or worse—in order to have made such a series of shitty decisions leading me to where I am now. But, despite it all, I want to live.
I hear the key in the door outside and panic. Jumping out of the bath as quickly as I can, I wrap the robe hung on the back of the door around myself. I don’t want Andrius seeing me naked.
Hopefully, it’s Justina coming back to take the plate from me, but in case, I pull the robe tight. Heavy footsteps tell me it’s not Justina. God, what if it’s one of the men from the party coming to hurt me? What if Andrius has changed his mind about sharing me?
“Violet?”
I almost sag in relief at hearing the familiar deep voice. Those harsh consonants that at times sound like breaking rocks smashing together.
Not some of the men then, but Andrius. Hesitantly, I step out of the bathroom.
Andrius appears … worn. Tired. Nothing like I’ve seen him look before.
“I was taking a bath,” I say.
He nods, runs a hand through his hair and then stops, frowning. His expression darkens to become one of anger.
“What the fuck did you do to your arm?”
I glance down and only then see the blood still seeping out of my pathetic little attempt at self-harm. Oh, crap.
“It’s nothing.” I try to hide my hand behind me, but he’s moving across the room in quick, impatient strides.
He grabs my arm and pulls my hand out from behind my back. “You thought you’d kill yourself in my house?”
What an utter bastard. He’s angry at me for being so scared I’d contemplate such a thing, instead of caring that I’m scared enough to consider it.
“It was a moment of madness,” I say. “Please, don’t be angry at me.”
“We need to get this cleaned. Come.”
He drags me out of the bedroom, and his grip hurts. I daren’t say anything more though, and I follow him on tired legs as he pulls me along in his wake.
He turns left at the end of the corridor, past the top of the spiral staircase, and heads to the end where there are more double doors, a bit like the ones into his living room.
With impatient movements, he pushes one of the doors open and storms inside.
I ignore the tightening grip around my wrist and am captivated by the amazing room before me. There’s a polished bamboo floor with a huge grey bed dominating the space. The sheets, pillows, and headboard are all varying shades of grey. The bed is placed on a thick rug, this such a pale grey it could almost be silver. Behind the bed is a large backlit panel, and to the side of it a long, rectangular modern fireplace. I expect it looks amazing lit in the winter.
Above the fireplace are shelves matching the bamboo floor, lined with books, so many different books. It’s a room made for a dark and dangerous king. An opulent, grey den of iniquity.
On one wall is a massive photograph of a nude woman, but it’s only her back you can truly see. It’s black and white, and she’s bent to one side with her arms above her head in a dancer’s pose. Her face is shielded and the picture ends just above her bottom.
It’s sensual but not sexual or pornographic in any way. The only splash of color in the room is a blood red photograph of a rose. Close up the picture captures the droplets of condensation on the petals, this picture is weirdly sexual compared to the naked woman. The whole room speaks of a man with taste, but more than that—with depth. With appetites too.
I swallow and look away from the art, only to find Andrius watching me. His eerie grey eyes match his room. They’re stunning, and for a moment I get lost in them, staring right back at him. The next second the mood is broken as he clears his throat and drags me into the bathroom, his grip never loosening.
“Sit,” he orders, pointing to the side of the bath.
Chapter 3
ANDRIUS
I stare at the unwanted gift as she sits on the side of the bath.
Messing up my bathroom.
Messing up my damned life.
She’s pissed me the fuck off with her stupid actions.
What if she’d killed herself? In some ways, it would be easier. Problem solved, but then I’d have crossed the line. Broken a promise made because in some ways her death would have been my fault. What would become of me then? Would any last vestiges of humanity simply disappear? Would I no longer feel bound by the vow I made and simply become the monster I know I am deep down?
I’m angry at her. Angry at her for being here. For putting herself in a position where this could happen. Whether she’s working for Allyov as a hooker, or not, her distress at be
ing here is real. She’s under duress one way or another. I’m tempted to believe the crazy old bastard really did notice her at work and simply pluck her off the street to give to me.
“Tomorrow, we go to my place in the country,” I tell her.
I’ve already called the one person I trust to do a sweep. My friend Alessandro. He’s like me. A hired gun for the mob, only he works for the Greek mob, and right now, he’s more of a guard dog than a killer for hire. Looking after a spoiled princess. He’s promised me tomorrow he will give guard duty to his friend Damen, and he’ll go to my country home and sweep it for bugs and cameras. He has the entrance codes and keys he needs.
I doubt anyone could get in there to place monitoring equipment. The place is like Fort Knox with cameras and alarms all set up to alert me if anyone tries. I need to be one hundred percent sure though, with this turn of events. Once we arrive there, I’ll tell Violet she has to stay with me, but I won’t hurt her so long as she doesn’t do anymore bullshit moves like this one.
“Your country house.” She looks around the bathroom as if not believing what I’m saying. “You have another house?”
“Yes. It’s nice. We can … get to know one another.” She flinches at my words. I run a tap and lean in close, moving a strand of hair away from her ear. I whisper, “We can talk. Here it is not possible.”
She nods, and I see the fight is gone out of her. She doesn’t appear all that scared anymore. The adrenaline rush she experienced is wearing off, and with the remains of the drug in her system, she’ll be crashing soon.
“I need your address,” I tell her. “To fetch your things.”
“Can I come?” she asks.
“No, little one.” I shake my head. “You cannot.”
“Why?” Her voice is plaintive, a child upset at a parent not letting them do what they want. It stirs something in me in a place far above my groin. If I had a heart, I’d think she pulled on its strings. I don’t, though, so it can’t be that.
“You cannot come. You must stay here with Justina, but don’t worry; I will bring all your things back. Everything.”