Nightingale
‡
My ears popped on descent.
I instantly recognised the hum of aircraft engines and gentle thrum of metal. I’d been on a plane only a week before. Had it been a week since I’d been a prisoner? It felt much, much longer. I’d changed so much. My life no longer evolved around exams and when I could get Brax naked. Now, all I focused on was survival.
The black hood rested over my head, and I tried to remain calm. Freaking out wouldn’t help.
My ears kept popping as the airplane left the clouds, returning to earth. Where was I? They’d given me a passport for a reason, so I must be overseas somewhere.
Time ceased to have meaning as we landed, then taxied a fair distance. Finally, the engines ceased and abrupt silence hurt my ears.
As I sat there, with hands bound and head aching from being drugged, I mentally prepared for the worst. The next stage of my new life. I had to protect myself. Be ready to fight and run.
I couldn’t think about regrets and my past. I couldn’t think about Brax.
And I definitely couldn’t think about what was in store for me.
A sad smile graced my lips. If someone asked a week ago what I was most afraid of, I’d have said crickets. Those damn flying grasshopper creatures scared the bejesus out of me.
Now, if someone asked me, I’d say three little words.
Three little words that terrified, stole my breath, and made my life flicker before my eyes.
Three little words:
I was sold.
Noise.
The cargo door of the airplane opened and footsteps thudded. My senses were dulled, muted by the black hood, and my mind ran amok with terror-filled images.
Male voices argued and my arms were wrenched painfully as someone pulled me to my feet. I flinched and cried out, earning a fist to my belly. The blow landed on a particularly tender part, and suddenly, everything was too much. I’d been so strong and it hadn’t changed my future. Tears streamed down my face. The first tears I shed, but definitely not the last.
The wetness on my cheeks wasn’t cleansing; it made me feel worse.
A cold wind whipped, disappearing up the baggy, brown sweater I wore. Icy fingers of winter said I was no longer in Mexico.
I kept moving until one set of hands released and another set secured me tight, dragging me against a hard torso. “This is for Mr. Mercer?”
“Sí. Our boss hopes he enjoys this one. She’s got spirit. He should have fun breaking her.”
My stomach twisted, threatening to evict empty contents. Oh, God.
“Pas de problème. I’m sure he will.”
The French words pricked my ears.
With a harsh pull, my new captor marched me forward. I had no choice but to do as he requested. After a while, he jerked me to a wobbling stop. My rib twinged, but I stood straight and tall. Hunching would show cowardice and uncertainty. I was none of those things. The moment the hood was off, I would run.
A rope looped over my head, catching my ears through the black cloth. I tossed my head, feeling like a prized pony; a thoroughbred ready for the glue factory.
Manly voices murmured, warbling with deep tones and gruffness. I strained to hear, but the wind snatched the vowels before I could comprehend.
The screech of aircraft engines grew louder as another plane landed. We had to be at a commercial airport, but I must’ve been smuggled in via cargo. I couldn’t see anything, but I knew we hadn’t been in a cabin with soft seats and air-hostesses. It had been icy cold and dreadfully uncomfortable.
I stood, shivering, while men talked. The tears I shed froze on my cheeks, reminding me to keep my frosty exterior to survive. I had to become an icicle—cool and impenetrable, sharp and deadly.
A hand looped around my bound arm, guiding me forward. I tottered with them, blind and disorientated. The twine around my wrists burned with every jostle.
Why couldn’t they invest in handcuffs, or something not as rudimentary? After all, selling women must be a profitable business. What did I fetch? How much for a non-virgin Australian woman with an unfinished bachelor degree in property development?
I’ll buy back my freedom. Bubbles of manic laughter tickled. I’ll walk into a bank and ask for a loan to buy myself. Because I’m such a good investment. I snorted. Oh, God, I was losing it.
We didn’t walk far. We stopped and I stood with my heart thumping, waiting, waiting, waiting.
A sharp tug on my wrists, then I was free. My shoulders ached as I brought my arms forward, rolling, working out the kinks.
I was free.
In a wide-open space.
I could run.
Someone behind removed the rope around my neck, along with the hood. I looked left and right, investigating the new surroundings.
Three muscle men stood in a triangle around me. All in black suits, looking very Men in Black, dark haired, and rugged. The night sky glittered with a pepper-spray of silver stars. A crescent moon sliced the black velvet. I wanted to stare in wonder.
“Get on board,” a man ordered, eyes hidden by shades, even in the dark. His accent was thick, wrapped in masculine authority. Placing hands on my shoulders, he pushed me toward a private plane.
The white fuselage glowed, looking sleek, modern, dripping with wealth. Initials Q.M. scrawled in fancy calligraphy on the tail and wing tips.
Was this the man who bought me? A wealthy owner of a jet who bought women like a pair of new socks? If he was so wealthy, he didn’t need to buy willing partners… unless… I swallowed hard. Perhaps he had sick fetishes. Liked to hurt and indulge in sadistic pleasures.
How long would I survive?
I wasn’t about to find out.
“Go on. Climb the steps.”
It’s now or never, Tess.
I bounced on the balls of my feet, pretending to obey. My body revved with energy and I pivoted in thigh-high socks. I’d always been a runner. I used to run track for school, and jogged every day on the treadmill to get in shape for the holiday with Brax.
My body knew how to flee.
I shut my mind off and instinct took over.
I flew.
The cold tarmac bit my feet as I pushed harder. Men burst into action. They’ll probably shoot. I don’t care. A bullet to the head might be a better choice.
“Arrêtez!” a man shouted, followed by, “Merde!”
I sucked air—it whistled in my lungs. I had no clue where I headed. Hangars loomed like gaping mouths. Sparkling lights of the main terminal looked like the gates of heaven, too far in the distance.
The words Charles De Gaulle were bright and gaudy, taunting with hope and safety. Too far. I could never run that distance. Not with the suited hounds on my tail, quickly gaining traction.
Men closed the distance and I added another burst of speed. If only I could truly fly. Perhaps I could get free.
A cannonball of a body came from nowhere, cutting off my trajectory.
We toppled to the ground. The tarmac grated my thigh and I cried out in agony.
My tackler sat up, straddling me. He looked like the other guards—eyes hidden behind dark glasses, his black suit crisp and all business.
My chest heaved with air and regret, stabbing me with pain from my rib. I tried. I failed. The second lot of tears burned, streaking down my flushed cheeks as the man hauled me upright.
I limped, wincing on a sprained ankle. I wanted to wail and shout. My body shackled me with yet another injury; I couldn’t outrun anyone.
Head down and hope gone, I hobbled back to the plane under the stern grip of Guard Number Four.
I didn’t make eye contact with any of the men, and meekly climbed the steps into the private plane. The men muttered and laughed while I plonked into a white leather chair in defeat.
I tried. I failed. I tried. I failed. It repeated, over and over.
Don’t give up. Next time, you could win. Next time, it might work. My hands curled—I would never stop looking for a way o
ut.
Never.
*
“Get up. We’re here.” A foot prodded my swollen ankle.
I flinched and opened my eyes. Faking sleep hadn’t worked. Every moment we flew in the height of luxury, I seethed with thoughts of how to maim the guards and take the plane hostage.
But I didn’t do anything. I sat in the chair, like a blow up doll.
It seemed so long ago I’d hounded Brax for more kinkiness in our love life. I’d do anything to have my old life back, my old love returned. I’d give anything for sweet and pure instead of the dark, sinister, and sadistic ownership that awaited.
If I could press a rewind button, I would, beginning with never going to Mexico.
I stood, and Guard Number Four helped me down the plush, carpeted aisle. Coarse fingers wrapped around my burning wrists, passing me to a colleague at the bottom of the small flight of stairs. The bandage over the tattoo provided very little protection. The pain flared and itched. I hated it.
The moment I was on the ground, I froze. We stood in the middle of a manicured, grassy airstrip, frosty with ice, dark as the depths of hell, apart from the most gorgeous manor house I’d ever seen in the distance. Subtle outdoor lighting illuminated the soft pastel creams, blues, and pinks; French architecture at its finest.
The guard pulled my elbow and we trudged across the grass. I stumbled, stunned by incomprehensible wealth. Who could afford their own plane and mansion to house it?
My toes were numb by the time we climbed the front steps. Four story high pillars and intricate plasterwork with cherubs and rosettes welcomed. The three-horse water fountain gurgled and trickled, looking far too perfect to belong to a man that purchased women.
Our breath steamed in the cold as my guard rapped on the huge, silver door, before turning the knob and pushing me through.
Once inside the warm embrace of the house, he took off the shades, propping them on his head. His irises were green and vivid. I searched for evilness—the same vileness from the men who’d stolen me in Mexico, but surprise radiated down my spine. His eyes were compassionate, human.
He bowed his head, looking in front and above.
This was it. My new beginning. My new ending.
“Bonsoir, esclave.”
My eyes soared up to the first landing of the giant blue, velvet staircase. Massive works of art hung like armament on gilded walls.
A man in a grey chequered suit, complete with black shirt, silver tie and short, dark hair, watched from the landing.
My entire body ignited as his jaw clenched. His gaze unclothed and terrified me. Everything about him screamed ruthlessness and power. He held himself proud and regal as if this was his castle and I was the latest subject.
Our eyes locked, and something tingled across my flesh. Fear? Terror? Something inside knew he was dangerous.
His lips twitched as I sucked in a breath. He removed hands from his pockets and placed them on the banister, his fingers long and strong, even from this distance. The way he stared became too much. I felt undone, stripped to my soul.
I stepped back, bumping against the guard behind. He bent his head, whispering in my ear, “Say hello to your new master.”
Chapter Eight
Sparrow
‡
The word master echoed like a bad tuning fork.
Master. Master.
No, he wasn’t my master. Not with his short, sleek hair and sharp widow’s peak. Not with his clenched, stubble-smooth jaw and trim physique. He was not my master. No one was.
Tears pricked as I thought about Brax. He seemed a world away compared to this reality. Brax was rough and boyish, a hard worker through and through. The man, staring with pale jade eyes and an unreadable, chiselled face, lived in total contrast. Power radiated like visible waves, unsettling me more than anything.
He wasn’t the fat, repulsive bastard who used wealth to buy sex slaves. He wasn’t gross or any other monstrous things. Who is this man?
My eyes widened, drinking him in—the owner of this house. The owner of… me. No, never.
I didn’t care who he was, because my life belonged to me. I stuck out my chin, glaring. I wouldn’t be intimidated by wealth or stature. I didn’t care he was tall and moved like he expected the world to lick his shoes. I would never lick anything of his.
The man never broke eye contact, ensnaring me in his gaze. Slowly, he pushed off the banister and moved toward the stairs.
I gulped.
He was smooth water—effortless in refinement but just like still water, dangerous if you couldn’t swim. Deadly rips and currents lurked deep below the surface. I eyed him, trying to figure out what sick pleasures he indulged in that normal, willing women were hard to come by.
My heart raced with every step he took, descending toward me.
The guard pushed me forward. “Bow to your new master.”
I tripped, but regained my footing instantly. My fists shook, I clenched them so hard. My injuries reminded me all of this was wrong. In some warped sense, it seemed innocent like the owner of the house merely welcoming a guest.
“I have no master,” I said, putting every ounce of rebellion into the words. “Let me go.”
The man stopped mid-step, head cocked. His fingers curled around the banister, showing manicured nails, no calluses in sight. Once again, pale eyes connected with mine, sucking my thoughts into a vacuum.
Up till now, his face had been unreadable, but as we stared, flashes of emotion buffeted me. Anger. Interest. Annoyance. Resignation. And finally, in a blaze of jade… lust.
My breath quickened and I tried to step back again, only to collide with the wall of the guard’s chest.
The guard placed a hot, heavy hand between my shoulder blades and pushed, forcing me into a struggling, painful bow. “Do as you’re told.”
So many thoughts collided. I wanted to spin and steal the gun in the holster under his arm. I wanted to shoot everyone. I wanted to slash at the gorgeous artwork and priceless artefacts around the room. Such things of beauty did not deserve to belong to a man whose goons forced a sex slave to bow.
“Bastard,” I muttered, hating I couldn’t do any of it. All I could do was obey—for now.
“Stop. If she doesn’t want to bow, then don’t force her.” The masculine voice reminded me of glinting steel, shaped with precision and strength. It was the sound of authority, and despite my best attempts to rebel, I bowed on my own. The sheer weight of his voice compelled obedience.
The guard’s hand left my back. He chuckled. “If she doesn’t want to bow, perhaps she wants to crawl.”
My back snapped upright, and I jumped a mile. My new owner stood directly in front of me. Hands in his slack pockets, head cocked slightly to the side, as if inspecting a piece of art.
“She may crawl if she wishes,” he murmured.
“I do not wish,” I snapped.
Once again, our eyes connected and I searched for the evil like the men in Mexico, but he guarded himself too well. Nothing gave away what he thought, even the emotions I’d seen before were gone.
We stood staring for moments, before the guard behind me cleared his throat. Shattering the fragile silence and condemning me to whatever would happen next.
“Laissez-nous.” The man waved a hand toward the exit. Instantly, the guard left along with a few others I hadn’t seen lurking. The rustle of their suits sounded like a death sentence as they siphoned out the door.
Oh, God.
My eyes flicked to the left, where a massive library beckoned. Sultry mahogany, rich maroons, and gold bookcases. A roaring fire beckoned to read a book and slouch in the wingback chairs huddled around the flames.
To the right, a ginormous lounge full of comfortable designer sofas and chairs. Animal hides of zebra and tiger littered the floor, and huge glass doors reflected me standing under the bright lights of the foyer.
The man stood an arm’s length away. Tears thickened my throat.
I dropped m
y gaze, unable to look anymore. Tiredness descended, and all I wanted to do was sleep—to escape this nightmare.
“You won’t be able to run,” he said, watching closely.
I sucked in a breath. “Who says I’m going to run?”
His lips, smooth and well defined against his five o’clock shadow, twitched. “I smell it on you—the scent of prey. You’re looking for a bolthole, somewhere no one can find you.” He leaned in, sending a cloud of expensive cologne around me. “You’re different, I’ll give you that. They didn’t break you, but don’t think you can fight me. You won’t win.”
My heart seized. His tone bordered on angry. He was angry at me? I was the victim here. My chest swelled with indignation. “What do you expect? I was smuggled here. You bought me. I didn’t come freely. Of course, I want to run.”
His body flinched and mouth pursed. “I’ll allow that one indiscretion. Push me again and you’ll wish you hadn’t.” His unusual pale green eyes dropped, intimately following my contours. He stepped forward, so close his body heat tingled. “There are things you need to understand.”
I wanted to step back, to keep distance between us, but it would look weak. Instead, I stepped forward, practically pushing my chest against his. “The only thing I need to understand is you’re a monster who bought me. You stole my life. My loved ones.” My voice cracked, but I plundered on, “You took everything. That’s all I need to understand.”
His hand reached to touch my cheek. I sucked in a breath as he ran the pad of a thumb along my jaw, then his eyes flashed with amazement as if shocked he’d touched me. Dropping his hand, he wrapped long fingers around my elbow. “Come with me.”
My skin flared beneath his touch, heart raced. I twisted, trying to remove him. “Let me go.”
Eyes seared into mine. “You are not in a position to order, slave.”
Was it his French accent, or the word slave, making my stomach roll and toil? Nerve endings sparked with rage. Bastard. “I. Am. Not. A. Slave.”
He slapped me, not hard, but the punishment put me in my place.
I bit my lip, staunching the flow of unwelcome tears as he carted me into the library. With a heavy sigh, he shoved me into a wingback and sat opposite.
Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire Page 256