by Box Set
Rolling my eyes, I collapsed back against the couch.
“You will indeed be the death of me, love.”
16
BEAUTY
St. Petersburg was beautiful, the buildings uniquely foreign and steeped in history. According to the pamphlet in my lap, like me, it had gone through name changes over the years. It had gone from Saint Petersburg to Petrograd, then Leningrad, then St. Petersburg once again. Pressing a finger to the window I was perched in front of, I whispered, “Are you as confused as me?”
I wanted to go out and explore, but had pinky promised Hart I would stay put while he slept. Sprawled on the giant bed behind me, his leanly muscled frame was completely relaxed as he slept, the sheet at his waist barely covering the large bulge that rested beneath it. The thought of how I’d rocked myself to orgasm against his flesh there made my pussy clench. I wanted more, more pleasure. I’d been starved of it for too long, and I was furious Algis had stolen this from me. Just the thought of the rapist bastard had my temper growing. My monster. I knew what it was now, I knew where it came from, and I knew how to feed it. It was by no means satiated with how things ended with Algis. I needed longer with him, I needed his last breath, and instead, some entitled crime lord was taking it. That made me angry, too.
The gun Hart had pushed into my hand back in Algis’ home lay in my palm, the cold weight welcomed. It helped me relax. Hart allowed me to keep it with another pinky promise that I wouldn’t shoot him or any of his men. I guess that meant Charlie Decena, too, even though a part of me wanted to shoot him. Anger at the justice that had slipped through my fingers because of his own wants and agenda ate away at my sanity, or what little of it I had left. Leaning my head against the glass window, I thumped my forehead.
“Stupid crime lord boss taking my vengeance,” I murmured.
“Are you talking to yourself?”
Hart’s gravelly voice sent a shiver of goose pimples over my flesh. Sighing, I leaned to one side so I could see him from my chair that sat in front of a large window overlooking the city.
“Talking to ones’ self is the first sign of madness, you know.”
Hart laughed, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, uncaring of his nakedness now proudly on display. His hair was mused up, his face soft with sleep . . . well, as soft as a killer could get.
“Where did you hear that?”
“My mom,” I answered without hesitation.
We both froze. A memory. Mine? Or Lucy’s? But I’d said ‘my’ mom, not Lucy’s.
“Relax, Beauty, you’ll pull a muscle thinking so hard.”
“I remembered something.”
Hart stood, his hard, angry cock bouncing as he walked towards me. His whiskey colored eyes were sharp, his body ready to pounce. His jaw held a dark shadow, his chest smooth and hair free. He looked like an angel. A dark angel.
“Keep looking at me like that, and we’ll have to do something about the ache in my balls.”
Without realizing what I was doing, I licked my lips. Blow jobs had become something to fear, and something I loathed doing. But the thought of Hart’s cock in my mouth made me feel different. Powerful even.
“Oh, my sweet Beauty, you are just asking for trouble.” Hart knelt before me, his eyes level with mine. “Your memories will come when they are ready. Don’t force them. As you remember things, we can begin to piece together your past.”
“A past I can’t return to,” I reminded him.
Shrugging, he pushed a strand of hair away from my face. “Not yet, anyway.”
“Maybe not ever.”
“Maybe that won’t be so bad.”
“You want to keep me?”
His wicked grin turned him into a sexual rogue in a heartbeat.
“Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, hmmm?” he echoed his previous statement.
“When do we go looking for Ruby?”
The thought of the young teenager frightened and possibly being abused made me sick to my stomach. I was impatient to get out there and look for her, to find her, to free her. When we’d arrived in St. Petersburg, we’d met with a man named Viktor. Tall and lean, with perfectly arched brows over pale blue eyes, his handsome looks had struck me stupid for a moment. That stupidity was slapped aside the moment the man looked at me. I’d seen that look plenty of times over the past few years, condescending and superior, and I was not prepared to simply stand back meekly and take the silent hypocrisy. When I tried to steal Raul’s gun to shoot the Russian bastard, Hart had Henry deposit me in the car where I was forced to wait while the men-folk talked men-folk stuff. It pissed me off and put me in a foul mood. Giving Hart my silence all the way to the hotel had been somewhat invigorating. Such displays of disobedience and power hadn’t been tolerated by Algis, and I found it easier to give Hart a little lip knowing I wouldn’t be punished for it. Or in this case, no lip at all. As soon as we arrived at our room, Hart showered, then promptly fell asleep. My pouting silence had bitten me on the ass, because now I had no clue what was happening. I should have spent my silent moments better by asking questions.
“Viktor and Raul are making inquiries. We will meet them for dinner and figure out our next course of action.”
“Somebody might be hurting her.”
“Her sale has been compromised. She’s young, a virgin. Her seller won’t just hock her off to the nearest available buyer. He’ll want big money, which means a big buyer, which means patience. They will want her virginity intact, and they will want her unmarked, which means she’ll be scared but untouched.”
It gave me a little comfort to think she would be safe, for now. It didn’t alleviate the need to do something, though. This sitting around was going to send me loopy or loopier.
“I don’t much like waiting around,” I confessed.
“Then we should do something about that.”
A strong hand wrapped around my wrist, pulling me none to gently from the chair I was sitting on. Taking my place in it, Hart wrapped a hand around the thick girth of his cock. With a deviant smirk in place, he reached for his cell phone and within seconds had classical music playing.
“Dance for me, Beauty.”
A combination of his playful attitude, the sexual tension, and the music made me giddy with delight. The worrying thoughts of Ruby slipped away, and the music bled deep into my soul, filling my heart with happiness. Wearing a pretty, matching baby-blue bra and panty set, I took a few steps away from Hart and began to move. The music was slow to start, and I swayed and spun as I warmed up. Then I crept into that room in my mind, the one where the memories of dance were stored and protected. Grand jetés, arabesques, retire devants, pirouettes, those memories of learning to dance were all there. Ballet, dreaming on your feet. When I danced, I could pretend I was somewhere else. I could be someone else. But as I danced before Hart whose hand stilled as he watched with utter fascination, I was here. I was Beauty, and I danced for him.
THE END
for now…
For BEAUTY Part 2, please visit www.graypublishing.org
ABOUT KIRSTY DALLAS
www.kirstydallasauthor.com
Kirsty Dallas is an internal bestselling and award winning author from the south east corner of Queensland, Australia. Her comedy romance, Decker's Wood, was an Amazon, iBooks and Nook bestseller, and was also a Goodreads Top 10 Comedy for 2014. Novels to date also include the highly acclaimed Mercy's Angels Series which tackles the subject of violence against women, and standalone novels Breeze of Life, Violet Addiction, Stupid Love, the award winning dark romance, When Nothing Is All You've Got, and Liberty.
Kirsty Dallas' stories are renowned for their raw honesty and engaging characters. Plots that delve into the frightening subjects of abuse, rape, drugs and violence are twisted into the pages of her books, bringing heart stopping action and a roller coaster of emotion.
Working with Australian Director and screen writer, Chris Sun, Kirsty worked as script editor on the horror feature film, Boar. Boar
was signed to Universal Pictures Australia, and went to number 3 on the charts following it's 2018 release.
Thanks for reading. I hope you’ve enjoyed BEAUTY. If you could leave an honest review on Amazon and/or Goodreads, I’ll be forever grateful.
Keep turning the pages to read the rest of BLAIRE’S WORLD and the bonus extra: B L A I R E.
LUNA &
ANDRES
by
NIKITA SLATER
International Bestselling Author
PROLOGUE
Andres
Warmth hits my veins like sex after a long, agonizing dry spell. I take a breath, feeling the air rush through my lungs. Is it my imagination or is the air newer, fresher than the dank shit that was in here only moments ago? I sip at it like a man starving and lean back in the lounge chair, draping my arms over the side. I look at my left arm, at the needle sticking straight out from the vein. I think about reaching over to flick the used needle away, but my eyes catch on the tattoos surrounding the metal prick.
Luna.
Her name is a swirl of colour in the bleak wasteland of cartel tats that proclaim my place, my superiority within the organization run by family. Los Zetas. The most feared cartel in Mexico and beyond. And I am among the elite within this vast army of underworld thugs. These marks upon my body are trophies of war, my right of passage. Lost innocence. Except for Luna. The one mark I had written over and over; on my arms, my legs, my neck and over my heart. My salvation.
She gives me the strength to reach out and take the needle between my fingers, now shaky from the drug flowing freely, blissfully through my system. I pull the metal from my arm and toss it away, uncaring where it lands. I settle back into the chair with a sigh and close my eyes, picturing her behind my lids. Her soft skin, that long, flowing mane, that luscious, curvy, utterly fuckable body.
I wanted her from the first moment I saw her, standing over some stupid, mouthy cunt in a bar, her fist pulled back, a broken bottle held high, about to disfigure the other woman for life, if not kill her. I couldn’t look away. She was a warrior, a witch, the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen in that hell hole Mexican town. Now she belongs to me. My Luna, my pretty baby. The thing that keeps me sane.
Guilt starts to eat away at my high, tearing an ugly hole in the euphoria I’ve worked so hard to achieve. I know I need to push her away, shove my Luna to another place where she’s safe from all this evil bullshit. So fucking hard though. She’s been my everything for three years. I dragged her out of that poverty-stricken shithole and set her up on a pedestal where she can shine like the queen she is meant to be. My Luna, my love.
Unbidden, her beautiful face floats through my drug hazed mind. I smile and reach for her, but she disappears. She disapproves. She hates the shit I pump into my veins, pretends she doesn’t know where I go for weeks on end, showing up eventually like a lost wolf, sick, starved and shivering, half the man I used to be. Shame eating at my insides, withdrawal eating away everything else.
I blink and look up, see her in front of me. I frown; this isn’t her. She’s at home, safe in our bed, probably worried. She knows, but she doesn’t want to know. So she goes on without me when I disappear. We call it business, even though she’s wise enough to know when I’m actually away on Los Zetas work. She’s not stupid. She’ll protect me and my reputation with her life.
“You can’t be here,” I whisper to her ghost, stumbling to my feet.
She looks at me, looks through me. As though I don’t exist. Anger courses through my veins, speeding the drug. I shake my head bringing a hand up to center myself. I know I’m stumbling, swaying, should probably sit back down. But I need to send my pregnant wife back home, where she’ll be safe.
“Get the fuck out of here,” I snarl, swiping at her.
I immediately regret the action. I don’t want to hurt her. Fuck, I never wanted to hurt my Luna. Yet every time I leave her, leave to destroy these demons, immerse myself in the darkness so I won’t take it home, I know I’m stabbing her in the heart all over again. Those dark, bottomless eyes tell me of her love and pain each time I walk out the door with no intention of coming back until I’ve purged. Why the fuck did she have to come into my life? My greatest comfort, my worst shame.
I collapse to my knees at her feet, unable to remain standing in a room that won’t stop spinning. I laugh wildly and reach for her, missing. “Stand still, esposa,” I demand, shouting at the mirage as it shimmers and dances out of reach.
I continue to kneel at her feet, completely in awe of my glorious wife. Her body is full and round, pregnant with our second child. Tears rush to my eyes as I realize what I’ve done. Once more I have left my Luna, my wife, as she is so close to giving birth. I’ve been in this shack, shooting heroin into my veins for six days. It’ll take weeks of agonizing pain, and nightmarish withdrawals before I’m fit to go home again. She could give birth before I’m once more able to be with her. And she may not want me. Not that it matters. She’ll take me, regardless of her feelings, regardless of the state I’m in.
For better or worse.
It was for Luna that I came here. To purge the black from my soul. That last job was a sick fucking piece of work. The death of our enemy and his family had not been smooth or easy; like art, the passing of their regime had painted the walls in abstract. I had been placed in charge of the takeover and subsequent cleanup. A big job. One that had made my family proud.
It also called to the beast in me. A bleak, dark creature that constantly tries to claw its way out. A thing that can’t be calmed by anything, not even my Luna. The only thing that suppresses the beast, the darkness, is heroin. My escape.
I pull my gun from my holster, surprised it’s still there after so many hours, so many days, lurching in and out of my own mind. I hadn’t even bothered changing my clothes after the takeover. Simply picked up and left, instructing my men to finish the cleanup. I knew if I didn’t leave I would do something truly regrettable.
I look up at the devastating lovely vision before me and slowly raise the gun, pointing it at her head. Even drugged out of my mind, I know my aim is good. “Be a good girl and go home, Luna,” I whisper. I pull the trigger. The shot echoes through the room, deafening me. I drop the gun and hunch over the floor, knowing I’m about to take my last trip. I can’t do this again. Can’t do it to my wife, my children, my sanity. I need to find a new way to release my demons.
I sink my nails into the dusty wooden floor and scrape them toward me, hoping to feel something, at the same time wanting the numbness I came for.
I look up, desperate for one last glimpse of my salvation, but she’s gone, banished. I sit back on my haunches and contemplate the next few weeks. Pain. I’ve been shot, stabbed, kicked in the balls. Nothing compares to heroin withdrawal. The horrific, sickening pain will let me know that I’m still alive. Still a man, a husband, a father.
“Wait for me, Luna,” I whisper, collapsing until I’m sitting on the floor with my back against the chair behind me. “I’m coming home, cariño.”
1
Two years later
Luna
“Mama, when are we going home?”
I stop, my hand on the light switch. I take a breath and look over my shoulder at my four-year-old son, such a miniature replica of his father that my heart aches. Except this time, instead of a happy ache I feel an agonizing wrench. I blink back the tears, not wanting him to see my distress, and try to find my voice.
“We might stay here for a while, cariño,” I tell him, keeping my voice steady. “I’m not sure yet.” It depends on whether or not your papá can find us.
I go back to the bed and give him an extra kiss, pressing his small body against mine, absorbing his warmth and taking in his unique babyish scent, grateful he hasn’t lost it yet. Soon he’ll be bigger, will not want his mama to hold him so close and embarrass him with affection. Then I will have to settle for showering his younger sister with my love. I press my lips against his forehead and h
elp him snuggle back under the blankets.
“I miss papá,” he says sleepily, smothering a yawn against his pillow.
“I know, baby,” I whisper, smoothing the hair back on his head.
“Why couldn’t he come to Cuba with us?” His sooty black lashes blink up at me and for a moment I think I see accusation in those too-serious crystal blue eyes. He’s so much like his father I don’t know what I’ll do with him in a few years. Cristo is the main reason I made the decision to leave. I couldn’t abide the thought of this beautiful child becoming the dark, twisted anger-fueled man his father has become.
The tears rush to the surface again as I contemplate a life without my Andres. It’s too bleak for words, yet it has become my chosen existence. I stand up and turn away. “He’s too busy working,” I say shortly. “Go to sleep.”
I leave the room and go next door to check on Sola. My baby daughter is sound asleep in her crib, her fine black curls fuzzed out around her small head in a halo. She’s wearing a tiny purple jumper with the feet attached. I run my finger down her cheek, marvelling, as I always do, at the incredible softness. This little beauty stole my heart the moment she left my womb two years ago. She’s been a demanding little diva ever since, wrapping the men in her life around that tiny little finger. I pull her blanket up and kiss my fingertips pressing them against her tiny lips. I wish I could press my lips against her, inhale her scent, but I’m too short to bend that far over her crib.
I leave the bedroom with a sigh of regret and wander down the hall toward the kitchen area. The house is modest but comfortable. I chose it because I was able to pay cash without raising suspicion. No one will question a Latina woman with children, settling into a small home on the outskirts of Havana; a bustling city with plenty of action but no one to mind my business. At least that’s what I’m hoping.