by E. S. Carter
“Come.”
He doesn’t wait for me, confident in my obedience.
I take a longing look at the double entrance doors, then back to the broad shoulders of my husband who is now almost at the end of the far corridor.
I lift my foot; my decision made, and take a step towards the front doors.
“Do not give me a reason to come and get you, Faye. When I say come, you come. Besides, those doors are locked, try them if you wish, you won’t get very far.”
My eyes dart back down the corridor to see Cole waiting, still with his back towards me.
Taking one last look at the doors, I step in the other direction and obey my husband’s command with small, quiet steps.
He must sense my compliance because he resumes walking and I follow him like the good pet I am.
I round the corner into a vast, industrially equipped kitchen and watch as Cole orders the two female staff members to leave.
“Sit.”
That command is, of course, meant for me as we are the only people left in the room.
I look around at the impressive space and walk over to a large breakfast bar, stepping up to sit on a high-backed stool. Cole hasn’t bothered to check if I’ve obeyed; his head is deep in a huge, triple-door fridge, his body bent over as he searches through the cold foods. At the thought of food, my stomach lets out a loud rumble that echoes like a roar in the silent room.
“I’d ask if you’re hungry,” he places a selection of cold breakfast foods in front of me, then reaches back into the fridge and removes juice and a carton of milk. “But I can hear you must be starving.”
I watch as he pours himself a glass of each, then pushes the drink bottles towards me but never offers me a glass. Does he expect me to drink from the cartons?
My arm reaches out, my hunger overriding my good sense.
“I haven’t told you that you can eat yet, Princess.”
My hand hovers over the plate of wrapped pastries, a croissant mocking my grumbling belly with the promise of flaky deliciousness, but like the good girl I’ve been trained to be, I wait patiently.
I watch as he takes a sip of the milk before placing it in front of me, then, using one finger he drags the plate of pastries in front of him before he pulling back the Clingfilm and proceeding to take a large bite out of the croissant I’d been about to eat.
His eyes watch my face, his lips smirking when he hears my stomach protest once more. Crumbs cling to his full mouth, his tongue sneaking out to retrieve them; all the while his eyes remain on mine. He opens his mouth to take another bite and hesitates, looking from the food, back to me. Without care, he tosses the remainder of the croissant on the counter in front of me.
“Now, you can eat.”
His thumb pushes a stray flake of pastry towards his lips, and I watch completely hypnotised as his wet tongue aids the crumb into his mouth. I should be repulsed by this belittling show of power. I should be embarrassed that I am forced to wait for scraps like a dog, but all I am is need disguised as a vessel made of blood, bone, and sinew.
This man slays me with desire.
Sick, twisted, dirty desire.
He raises a brow and motions to his discarded food.
“Eat, Princess. We leave in ten minutes.”
Then he’s gone.
Leaving me hungry.
So hungry I ache.
What the fuck am I doing?
Feeding her, caring for her, and then putting on that display in some pathetic attempt at regaining control.
She’s messing with my head, and fucking with my brain, those eyes of hers cutting me to my black and rotten core.
When I watched Luke touching her, his mouth practically on hers, I almost lost it. I almost spilled my brother’s blood. And for what? A Craven whore?
I refuse to fall prey to her wiles.
Unlike my father.
His thirst for Craven blood turned him into a monster and his desire for Craven pussy killed the only person, besides Luke, I ever loved.
Yes, I have loved.
My foolish, young heart loved deeply, and I watched that love get decimated by a Craven whore.
History will not repeat itself.
She will die before she ensnares me.
I will not become my father.
I am once again in the back of Cole’s town car. No words are shared; no plans divulged, and I sit and watch the blur of blue skies transform into grey buildings as we approach the outskirts of London. The entire journey Cole has tapped away on his tablet, occasionally hitting the intercom to bark orders to the driver. Not once has he looked my way. I should be grateful for the reprieve, for the chance to absorb everything that has happened in the last twenty-four hours and the opportunity to formulate a plan.
With Grant dead, I now have to look for another escape route.
Luke.
Luke is the key.
He wants me. I just have to find a way to make him want me enough to betray his brother.
I may have a plan, but it isn’t going to be easy.
The car pulls to a stop outside of a well-known gentlemen’s club in Mayfair. A club owned by The Red Order, and a venue ruled by my father.
“My father doesn’t come here on Mondays,” I say absentmindedly, more to myself than expecting a response, the hour long drive lulling me into a false sense of calm.
Cole’s face slowly turns to mine, his hand about to reach for the door, “We’re not here to see your father, Princess. We’re here to rally the troops; we’re here to start a coup.” He studies my face, possibly expecting my reaction to be one of shock or horror, but he will not get that from me. My body screams at me to celebrate, my mind warning me to stay calm.
“Hmm,” his face doesn’t bother to mask his amusement at my non-reaction. “Maybe Daddy’s little girl is hiding some secrets of her own.” His free hand lifts and slowly moves towards my face, his fingertips skimming my neck before he gently hooks some stray hairs behind my ear. “Don’t worry, Princess. You can share all your secrets with me later. A husband and wife should never keep things from one another; that’s why you’re here. To witness first-hand the plans I have for the Craven line. By the end of today, The Red Order will have a new King.”
His touch turns from gentle to bruising between one blink of his long lashes to the next, his hand brutally squeezing my nape, pulling my head closer to his face.
“The question is; will you still be at my side as Queen?” He once again searches my face for an answer, his eyes ruthless in their attempt to bore their way into my soul. I let him look his fill, never once blinking, allowing him to see whatever he needs in my unequal gaze. His stare changes and focusses a little longer on my blue eye, his brows creasing as he leans forward a fraction more.
“Your iris bleeds; up close you’d swear it was the shape of a heart.”
His tone isn’t disgusted or mocking at my imperfection; he’s just stating what he sees.
Maybe that’s why I answer honestly, “It mourns for my mother, it wasn’t always that way.”
His head snaps back as if my words are a physical blow. His curious gaze is now hard and unyielding. It’s the truth; my eyes changed after the accident that took my mother away from me. Before that day I was a typical blue-eyed child. My dark hair from my father, my eyes a gift from my beloved mother and after her death, as a souvenir of the accident, my new mismatched eyes bestowed their unique boon or curse, however you may see it.
“Whores should not be mourned.” He spits the words at me as though they burn his mouth, and he wishes to inflict their potency on me.
“My mother was not a whore.”
I should not have spoken back; I know this as soon as the angry declaration leaves my lips. I feel his immediate reaction when he violently backhands my face, and I careen backward, slipping from the smooth leather seat of the car onto the floor.
Placing a soothing hand to my throbbing cheek, I glare from my sprawled position, not willing t
o back down, no matter the physical cost. His livid gaze matches mine, “All Craven women are whores, Wife.”
I want to respond and honour my mother, but his furious eyes warn me to stay silent.
Happy with my submission, he opens the car door and steps out into the harsh sunlight. His back remains to me as he commands, “Come, Wife. Let me show my men my new prize.”
My disobedience would gain me nothing, so I scramble from the floor and all but tumble out of the open car door on unsteady feet. I know of this place, I know of the men who come here; aristocracy, billionaires, leaders of finance, members of parliament, even the rich and famous. They all come under the umbrella of The Red Order, an all powerful and secret society that has ruled over Britain for hundreds of years. More powerful than any monarch or Prime Minister, The Red Order has instigated wars, terrorist attacks, even famines. Its reach is worldwide; its tentacles entwined in all of the western world’s hierarchy. And, at the head of this establishment have always been the Cravens, and the Hunters. Two omnipotent families that decide fates, ruin lives and consume those weaker than themselves.
I look up at the majestic façade before me and see what the rest of the world sees; wealth, prestige, and exclusivity. The beautiful front of this architecturally stunning building exuding a noble air and cleverly masking the evil that lurks within.
Women, unless here as pets, are not allowed within the walls. I know I fall in this category for my husband; I am sure parading me as his pet will further secure his image as a man not to be fucked with, under any circumstances. The man who dares to parade Alec Craven’s daughter as a toy. Only, what most people will fail to realise is that I am my father’s daughter in name only. I am a commodity that was a worthy trade for his benefit alone. There is no love between us, no parental protection afforded to me. The only reason I stayed relatively untouched was because he was saving me as a treat. A reward for whoever he saw fit, and he deemed the man in front of me to be that person. How ironic then that that very same man is plotting Alec Craven’s demise.
“Come.”
Cole’s hand extends towards me, but he doesn’t bother looking back. He knows I will obey; he knows I have nowhere to run.
I place my clammy hand in his, and he grips it tightly, pulling me behind him. His long strides eat up the pavement and we are soon standing before the exquisitely carved door of Impero.
No guards man this door or protect the entrance, the security inside of the building high enough for the members not to worry about anyone attempting entry. All that is required to gain access is your thumbprint. A simple press of Cole’s thumb on the discreetly hidden scanner and the door clicks open with a quiet buzz.
Once again I am pulled behind my husband, the door opening wide and allowing us entry to the vestibule. A dark dimly lit area with no windows and no obvious doorway.
The sunlight dies with the close of the door behind me, and red lighting illuminates the small space.
“Cole Hunter, tessera.” My husband’s voice is clear and concise as he speaks his name and password into the air. A brief pause before another low hum alerts me to the wall opening up before us.
A dark corridor with inset lighting that casts an ominous glow across the polished wood floors leads to yet another door. This time, I watch as Cole places his index finger to a panel and just as the door clicks open I see him suck the digit between his lips.
Blood.
Of course, blood would be the final key to this place.
The Red Order thrives on it.
He pushes the last doorway open, and we emerge into an opulent reception area. The concierge is a heavily armed man who sits behind a high, ornate oak desk while monitoring the security feeds. He nods at Cole, and then resumes his duties. My eyes drink in the details, roving over every inch they land on, hungry for the knowledge that these walls hide. Too soon, Cole tugs me deeper into Impero, into the bowels of a society born of greed.
Imposing, frosted glass and dark wood doors lead us into a large, luxurious room filled with tapestries, wood panelling and the heavy smell of cigar smoke and liquor. Low, antique Chesterfields in shades of emerald green and burgundy leather are grouped around Chippendale tables. Men of all shapes and sizes lounge on the seats, many simply reading a newspaper or engaging in conversation, many more laughing and guffawing while thin, naked girls kneel at their feet, collars digging into their necks, their skin paper thin and many with bruises and adornments of torture.
All eyes turn to look at us, Cole indicating with a simple nod towards the very back of the room that he expects an audience.
About a dozen men rise from their seats. Those with slaves leave them with their heads bowed, no instruction to follow.
I walk briskly behind Cole but turn my head to watch the discarded girls, wondering if they find moments of peace in their brief time of freedom from their masters or did they now feel nothing at all? Their wills broken, their minds long since fractured.
A sharp tug on my hand, one that jars my joints and forces me to snap my head forward demands my compliance, and I try to push the image of those girls out of my head. I wonder how many mothers are mourning the loss of their daughters, and how many of those daughters will ever make it back home.
Cole pulls me through another door, down a short corridor, and into a large, airy meeting room. He strides down the far end, drops my hand and proceeds to pull out the chair at the head of the large conference table. I look from him to the other seats and rest my hand lightly on top of the one to his left, my fingers flexing ready to pull it away from the table.
His hand lands on my forearm and squeezes, my head turning to face him.
“You don’t sit, Princess. You kneel.”
He motions to the floor at his feet while stretching out his long legs in front of him.
I can hear the men filtering into the room behind me, the soft scrape of chairs over the polished wood floors and the knowledge that we are not alone makes me hesitate.
That hesitation costs me.
The long legs previously stretched out before me, straighten abruptly and Cole pounces from his chair, muscles taut and straining against his suit jacket. Before my eyes can meet his, before the shock of his violent movements shake me from my thoughts, my long hair is gripped by his fist, and I am forced to my knees.
With a sharp pain tugging at my scalp and the bruising thud of my knees hitting the floor, I am dragged into the position he wishes for me to adopt; at his side, on the floor, my eyes downcast with my chin touching my chest.
“Stay, Princess. Let these fine men watch you worship at my feet.” He leans in close, his mouth by my ear, his lips caressing the shell, “Obey me or I will force you to suck my cock while you listen to the details of your father’s demise.”
A violent shiver runs over me, and I cannot be sure if it is one of pleasure or humiliation.
I have wished for my father’s death.
I have seen and experienced first-hand the levels of his depravity. Alongside that, my twisted need for my husband and for any kind of touch, only serves to heighten my senses. A sick part of me begs for the chance to take him in my mouth, to watch my tongue and lips steal away some of his control, to drink down his seed and let it darken my soul further.
“You like the sound of that, Princess? You want to choke on my cock and let these men watch as your spit mixes with my cum and runs down your chin?”
Yes.
I want that. The acceptance of my desire for this man washes over me like a bucket of cold water.
I am just as depraved as my father.
Just as sick in mind and soul.
My mother would weep if she could see me now.
I don’t bother to answer him. He can sense my arousal, and I feel him feeding off my perverted need.
He straightens and laughs smugly for all to hear.
“Gentlemen, let’s make this quick. My new wife hungers and I am eager to feed her.”
Muted chuckles break
out all around us, but I refrain from looking up at their faces. The sane part of my mind is ruling my actions for once.
He continues, “Has the deal been made, the agreement given?”
A cultured voice replies from further down the table, “Yes, it is all set. Each Pyramid member has given his full approval. Alec has changed The Red Order beyond recognition, and he no longer serves the good of the society. For the first time in our history, we agree it is time to sever our head. All Pyramid leaders fully support your leadership bid.”
The table falls silent. I’ve heard mention of The Pyramid before. They are the heads of The Red Order, the men that rule this society alongside my father, his supposedly most loyal subjects.
“Good. It is done then. And he is mine?”
Another voice answers my husband, this one closer but on the other side of the room.
“Yes. You will find him as promised, in the place he is most vulnerable. By the way,” the voice continues, “Sheer genius to set up Grant like that, he may have presented you with a problem if you hadn’t carved him up. Nice touch.”
The table shakes as Cole abruptly sits upright and pounds his fists on the top.
“I carved that fucker up because he deserved to die. His loyalty never lay with Alec; it was only ever for himself.”
The room falls silent once more, and I crouch down further as my husband rises to his feet.
“Let it be a lesson to you all. You may keep your pets, you can do as you see fit, it has been part of The Red Order from its conception, but,” his voice goes deathly cold, “I will not tolerate anyone who fucks children. Men do not fuck children. So you twisted bastards need to shut that shit down and punish those that do, or the Hunters will do it for you.”
No one else speaks. The silence is thick and I lift my eyes slightly to look at the various feet of the men at the table. Auras swirl around their lower limbs like fog. Varying shades present, but I only see one that is scared, and it belongs to the body of the man directly to my left. His aura screams of fear and a strong dose of indignation. This man likes children. This man wants to destroy Cole for ever threatening his paedophilic desires.