by W Winters
I knew her mother was murdered by a now-associate of the Romanos years before our family existed in this reality. At the time, he was the right-hand man to Talvery. Betrayal is thick in this business. Her mother’s murder is what started the feud years ago, but it’s been quiet for over a decade. No one’s made a move since the unsuccessful retaliation on Talvery’s part. Each side was simply maneuvering pieces and has been waiting for the other to strike since then.
My blunt fingernails dig into my palm as I resist touching Aria. Her back is pressed against the wall and she gathers the covers closer to her chest as if she has hope that they could save her.
But there’s nothing that can save you from your past.
When she finally speaks, it’s anger that threatens to come out in her voice. “Don’t give me to him, please.”
Anger sparks through me. This girl has a way of igniting it within me like no one else.
“You belong to me.” The simple words gritted between my clenched teeth make her stiffen, but her eyes show a different response. Hope, maybe.
“Any man who thinks they can lay a hand on you will die at mine. Is that clear?”
Her eyes search mine for sincerity, even as she nods her head. “I told you, you belong to me.”
The shift in her demeanor is slight. The heavier breaths, the gentle relaxation in her shoulders, and the defiance that begs to come out in the gorgeous blend of greens in her stare.
“Who is he to you?” I ask her again and watch as the cords in her slender neck tighten when she swallows.
“He killed my mother.” She doesn’t show much emotion; she tries to hide it, to appear devoid of it. But sadness and fear emanate from her voice.
I consider what to ask her next, but I don’t want her to know what I know. If she doesn’t already, she wouldn’t believe me.
“Tell me more,” I decide to command her, rather than asking for specifics.
She brushes the hair from her face and as she does, the blanket falls from her chest. It’s only then I notice she’s finally changed clothes. The thin, pale blush cotton shirt complements her complexion. Her fingers wrap around the cuffs of her sleeves as she pulls her knees to her chest.
“It’s not something I like to talk about,” she says simply, and then rests her cheek on her knees and looks up at me. The air is different between us. The tension of the game we’ve been playing isn’t here and so I scoot closer to her, wondering how she’ll react.
And she does. My little songbird.
She keeps the space between us, shifting to the other side of the bed and straightening her shoulders to keep her eyes on me.
The corners of my lips kick up into a half grin.
“Even now?” I ask her and the defensiveness fades, but she doesn’t answer.
A moment passes, and then another. Finally, she looks toward the open door. It’s the first time she’s done it this morning; usually her gaze flickers to it constantly.
“You screamed his name last night,” I tell her and when she looks back at me, I know she’s not breathing.
“I’d like to know why,” I say to finish my thought.
She swallows visibly and again pulls her knees to her chest. As she does, I inch closer. Only one. Although she stares at my hand, lying flat on the mattress and closer to her, she doesn’t move away.
“I was there when he did it.”
“You saw her die?”
She nods. “I was hiding. I was only playing.” She shakes her head and I inch forward again, beckoning her for more. But nothing comes.
“What aren’t you telling me?” My question comes out as a demand and that’s when the defiance returns and the girl I’m used to seeing returns.
Her dry lips part but after several moments, she never says a word. I stand up, pushing off the thin bed and making her sway with the dip in the mattress.
“I don’t like hearing you scream,” I confide in her and I’m met with silence.
I turn to look over my shoulder and see her soft eyes staring at me, brimming with unshed tears.
“I’m sorry,” she apologizes to me and I find it hard to swallow as she turns her gaze from me to the blanket.
This is moving too slowly. Far too slowly. She’s close to breaking and for both our sakes, I have to push her. I will not let her move backward. We’re so close, and time never stops its ticking.
With that in mind, I reach down and take her blanket from her. She stares up at me like a scared child and I have to push out my words, although they come out with the control and power I always have. “You need to bathe. I don’t trust you. So you’ll have to trust me.”
Chapter 18
Aria
I’ve never wondered what a prisoner would feel like when led from chains to a feigned freedom. Like a courtyard or elsewhere. I wonder if they feel the same initial instinct to stay close to their warden, the way I do with Carter.
Or, maybe it’s because I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired. Of fighting, of starving myself, of not sleeping. I’m not broken, but I am so fucking tired.
The rich mahogany furniture, high ceilings and carved molding accents move around me in a blur. Without shoes, my bare feet pad softly on the polished floors, and it’s all I can hear.
I’m not sure if I should peek up and take in my surroundings, but every time I do, Carter gently brushes my shoulder and I instinctively pick up my pace, focused on what’s to come. Still, I try to track everything, to pay attention to every doorway and window, every possible chance of escape.
My heart beats fiercely as he leads me to the right and I see a thin stream of light in the darkened hall from a room in the distance. The sounds of chatter and even laughter echo around me, although Carter pulls me in the opposite direction.
Adrenaline courses in my veins and my throat tightens.
There are other people here.
“Don’t be stupid, Aria,” Carter whispers in the shell of my ear, making my heart lurch and forcing me to jump back. I hadn’t realized my thoughts were so obvious.
“Come,” he orders me, offering me his hand. My own is small in his as he wraps his strong fingers around mine and leads me deeper down the darkened hall. All I can think about as he takes me closer to where he wants me, is that there were people here, all this time, and I have no idea if they heard my screams or what they would have done had I screamed just moments ago.
Carter unlocks a door, the clinking of metal keys accompanied by his rough voice as he says, “My brothers stay up late. They always have.”
His brothers. Jase. Who else? There isn’t enough curiosity in the world that could lead me to ask him. But deep in my soul, I’m crying for answers although I can already hear the hiss of the truth in the back of my skull.
There is no mercy here. Not from anyone.
The door opens with a muted creak and I only nod as he gestures for me to head inside. The small bit of hope fluttering in my chest is strangled. I can barely swallow, barely do anything but place one foot in front of the other through a large bedroom, until I hear the flick of a light switch.
The dim light flows across the black and white marble tile. Carter doesn’t wait for me to enter before turning on the bath at the far side of the room. I’m struck by the sheer size of the bathroom. Even coming from wealth myself, I’m taken aback.
“It’s beautiful,” I speak softly. Although how I’m able to speak, I don’t know.
The feel of the cold tile under my feet has never been so welcome.
The sight of the plush towel folded neatly on the counter makes me itch to touch like nothing else ever has.
The sound of a running bath has never felt so soothing. And yet, I’m so aware that I’m only a prisoner in a gilded cage, and this moment outside of the cell may be my only chance of escape.
My body is tired from not eating much and having terrors wake me every time I sleep. But I still feel the need to fight.
Carter doesn’t respond to a thing I say, or to the nex
t step I take into the bathroom, letting my fingers trail along the pale paisley pattern on the silver wallpaper. My gaze flows through the room easily but stops when I see the tub.
I can’t take my eyes away from the steam that billows around the edge of the clawfoot tub.
Leaning over the spotless porcelain, Carter’s back is to me with his muscular shoulders pulling his shirt tight, and I imagine how I could push him and run. I could shove him with every ounce of strength I have and run out of the room. I doubt I’d get far though, and I don’t know where I’d go.
Now I know his brothers stay here. They’re here somewhere.
No, I’m sure I wouldn’t get far.
“I want to feed you before I bathe you.” Carter’s statement cuts through the visions of me running until he adds, “Strip down and get into the tub while I get your dinner.”
The dead hope is resurrected; he’s leaving me. The thought makes me more anxious than anything.
As he leaves, Carter grips the door and adds, “I won’t be long.”
Left with only the heat and comfort of the running water, my heart beats once, then twice.
My eyes close and I whisper, “Don’t be stupid.” The aching inside, the desperate need to run, it’s all outweighed by the knowledge of what would come if I disobeyed.
Would I really deny myself a reckless chance of freedom for a warm bath? For food and his touch? Have I been so deprived that such small comforts would rate so highly?
My nails dig into my palms as I war with myself, and when my eyes open, all I see is myself in the mirror. My hair is tangled, although I’ve run my fingers through it daily. It’s oily and dirty, which is to be expected.
My face is thin. Much thinner than I remember. Lifting the thin cotton shirt above my head, I inspect my body, running my fingers over my sides and down to my waist. The cell is so dim; I didn’t see the bruises from when I was taken. The cuts around my wrists have left thin white scars, and the bruise on my ribs is an ugly shade of dark brown that’s faded to nearly nothing.
I hadn’t felt defeat until I was led from my cell, giving up the possibility to run only to see how damaged I’ve become.
The sound of the water striking against the surface harder brings my attention to the tub.
It’s nearly full. The steaming hot water and relaxing fragrance of lavender bath oils Carter poured in it, beg me to cave. To let go and stop fighting. To be good and do as I’m told. If only so I can rid myself of the sense of failure and remember who I am again.
And I still remember those words he spoke days ago. He made a deal and I’m to help him. There is more to this than I know. “Be smart,” I whisper to myself. I’m playing a game without knowing the rules. Without knowing the next phase. The little bit of hope and wonder push me forward toward temptation.
Turning the iron faucet, I realize it’s the first thing I’ve touched in weeks beyond the few items in the cell. Something as simple as turning a knob feels both foreign and nostalgic. I never want to go back to the cell. My chest feels hollow as I think, never, but I know that the choice isn’t mine.
It is, a small voice murmurs in the back of my head. The voice that takes advantage of my pain and promises so much hope in whispers of deceit.
Jasmine and lavender fill my lungs as I inhale the calming scents and quickly remove my shirt and shove my cotton pants down my legs. Although the clothes are new, they’re still dirty. Everything in that cell is dirty.
The fabric clings to my toes and I have to kick it off and toward the puddle of clothes. Just as I do, I hear the heavy footsteps of Carter coming back.
Fear keeps me from moving for only a moment, but then I quickly place a foot into the steaming water, hissing at the onslaught of heat and causing the water to splash around the tub. Water hits the floor as I move to step with my other foot into the hot bath, the heat becoming more and more welcoming as my body adjusts to it. With my back to the door, I hear Carter enter, but I ignore him, lowering myself into the tub filled with a warmth I so desperately needed. And hide myself from him.
“How does it feel?” Carter’s voice carries through the room with a powerful resonance.
Like heaven, I think as I turn slowly, careful not to splash the water, but also careful to stay under and somewhat hidden beyond the white bubbles on the surface.
I try to tell him that it feels wonderful and thank him when I finally meet his gaze, but I’m silenced by the intensity within. His eyes swirl with the danger of a man close to getting what he wants. An animalistic heat passes between us and I can only nod for fear of what my voice would sound like if I dared utter a word to him.
Thankfully, he tears his gaze from me and picks up a ceramic plate from the counter.
“You need to eat.” Carter’s command sounds more like a reminder to himself. And again, I merely nod.
I’ve had delicious food before. I’ve gorged myself on delicacies without thinking twice. It’s one of the only benefits of my upbringing. But the food Carter brought me makes my mouth water and my grip tighten on the tub to keep me from ripping the plate from his hands.
He must see my eagerness; he always smiles that devilish grin when he knows I’m eager. Bastard.
“Open,” he commands me and like a good girl, my lips part and I nearly moan when he slips me the small chunk of filet dipped in au jus with a dab of herbed butter smeared across the top. The meat melts in my mouth, the tastes singing on my lips. My eyes are still closed as I relish the food, thinking it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten when Carter brushes another piece against my lips.
Instantly I open my lips for him, and his finger brushes against my tongue as he gives me a second piece and then another. My teeth scrape against his fingers and my eyes widen with worry that he thinks I did it on purpose, but he only feeds me more.
The fear and worry slip away, just as the time does with each slice of tender meat.
Blistered tomatoes and peppers along with roasted potatoes find themselves in the mix as Carter feeds me until my stomach is full and I can’t take another bite. It’s been so long since I haven’t felt hunger pains. It feels like forever since I’ve sunk into a deep tub, covered in hot water. I rest my head against the side of the tub and pretend like everything is alright. It’s only a small moment until the clinking of the ceramic plate on the tile floor disturbs me and brings me back to the present.
My body stiffens slightly, sloshing the water toward the edge of the tub away from Carter as he dips a washcloth into the tub.
His fingers brush against my skin and sinfully, I welcome the touch. It’s been so long, and I’ve been so lonely. I want more. I need more. I find myself wishing for him to take me like I know he wants to.
Has he really broken me so easily? Or is this something I should want the way I do? The questions bring a haze to my mind and a thrumming in my blood. The washcloth travels over my body, starting at my feet and working its way upward. My calves, my thighs and so close to between them.
I know he can hear my heavy breathing; he can see how I grip the edge of the tub. But he doesn’t touch me there. Instead, he tells me to wet my hair and takes his time massaging my scalp and lathering my hair. The scent of the chamomile shampoo overwhelms me, and I hum ever so slightly until I hear it and stop myself.
Everything feels so good.
“Back under, songbird,” he tells me in that velvety voice. The voice I don’t want to disobey, and so I don’t. I do as he says. With every command he gives me, I do exactly what he says.
He massages the washcloth over my shoulders and I whimper as he kneads the pain away. I hadn’t realized how much my body ached until he showed me so. A low groan of approval forces me to open my eyes and stare into his. But he’s not looking at my gaze. His eyes are focused on my hardened nipples, peeking up from the water.
The washcloth makes a splash as it hits the water and slowly sinks to the depths of the tub. Carter lets his fingers trail down my chest, plucking one of
my nipples and then the other. It happens slowly, his fingers determined but also giving me a warning. His rough thumb circles them first before tugging on them and causing my head to fall back and my thighs to clench. Each tweak sends a sharp spike of need between my legs, and I nearly spread them for him. My clit pulses with need. I feel it so strongly I don’t think it would take much at all for me to cum for him. And I can’t find it in me at all to find any shame at that fact.
The dull desire that hasn’t faded, shoots through me and I welcome it.
Carter’s dark eyes find mine, but instead of reaching lower, his arm dips into the water next to me and he gathers the washcloth once again.
I’m reminded of his patience. How slowly he does everything. I don’t know if he finds pleasure in teasing me or if it’s simply that he doesn’t want this moment to end, but either way, I lean my head back as he continues bathing me, and I don’t object until his hand is right where I’ve secretly been wishing for it to be.
He brushes the washcloth against my throbbing clit and I gasp, moving away from the intense pleasure and making waves in the tub that splash over the edge. Fear and desire mix into a confusing potion that I drank long ago. And at this moment, I’d drink the bottle again, I’d suck it dry and lick the edge of the neck where the last beads of liquid would gather. That’s how badly I wish for him to do it again.
“Don’t let go, Aria. If you do, I’ll stop,” he warns me and my lungs still. My body’s on fire with need. I slowly lower myself back under the warm water, until my breasts are hidden again, and I hold Carter’s eyes as I slowly reach back up and grip on to the edge. My body’s still, so still as Carter’s gaze flickers between my pussy and my stare. I bite down on my bottom lip as he reaches between my legs again.
His movements have been steady and slow. Careful and considerate even. But as the washcloth falls into the water, brushing against my thigh and ass, and his fingers replace the cloth, his movements are nothing but savage.