Double Dealing: A Menage Romance

by Landish, Lauren

  Time lost all meaning as we pounded our way through, the sort of place that inspired the old tales of werewolves and vampires. Those too tickled at the back of my mind but were less important than the Russian in front of me.

  Suddenly, we broke out of the woods, into a large open field that looked like it had once been some sort of airport or something. Sacha went on another fifty meters, then stopped. The other remaining recruit and I came to a halt, the breath searing our lungs with every inhalation and exhalation. I wanted to drop face first to the ground, to vomit what I had left of my second meal onto the dirt between my feet. Instead, I put my hands on my hips and forced my shoulders back, both to show strength and to let my lungs gulp more of the precious air.

  Sacha looked, if not impressed, at least less disgusted by us than he had when we took off on the run. “You maggots can at least keep up,” he said. “But can you fight?”

  He turned his back, sweeping his arm to indicate the space behind us. “This area, it used to be a Soviet army base,” he said, indicating the older buildings that were about a hundred meters distant. “Three generations of Red Army soldiers trained and lived here, ready to defend Mother Russia in case NATO or someone equally stupid decided to try what Napoleon and Hitler couldn't. Here, boys became men, and men became supermen. The process was simple, not complex, in the way that the Russians have done for millennia. You learn by doing, and let Darwin's laws weed out the weak. That Englishman may have put the rules to paper first, but Mother Russia knew them before paper was even invented.”

  “What do you ask of us?” I asked, happy to be able to form words again. I knew that his speech was mostly for our benefit, to give us a chance to recover some, but there was a meaning in it, words to it that I wanted to get to the heart of.

  “It is simple,” he said, reaching into the right front pocket of his trousers and pulling out a silver plated whistle. “Drop your bags, you won’t need them. Then, the only rule is to survive.”

  Sacha put the whistle in his mouth and blew it three times, the sharp tone piercing the frigid air and carrying for a long distance. The door to one of the abandoned buildings opened and nearly two dozen men poured out, some of them armed, some of them not. Sacha looked at us with an evil smirk on his thick lips and pointed to them with his open hand, as if inviting us to a feast.

  I dropped my bag and assumed a fighting stance, my body falling into patterns that it had known for far longer than I could recall. The first man who approached me I kicked in the side of the knee, buckling the joint and sending him stumbling, grunting at the injury. I stepped back and stomped on his chest, crushing his ribs and driving the wind out of his lungs. He slumped to the turf, and I quickly looked for the next person to fight.

  As I fought, I decided that honorable maneuvers were not to be worried about. Instead, I picked up any dropped weapon I could, used every dirty tactic that I could devise, and offered no quarter. When I saw the other candidate get kicked in the balls before being knocked out by an attacker wearing what looked like lead enhanced gloves, I knew I was making the right choice. At least the chump had taken out four men himself before he went down.

  I'd like to say that I was able to fight like a demon, battering all of my opponents into unconsciousness without taking a scratch. However, I staggered around, and I struggled to keep my hands up to defend my bleeding and scratched face. My left leg felt like a frozen block of clay after taking a staff blow to the large muscles of my thigh. I thought I looked more like a victim in a zombie movie than a valiant warrior.

  The last opponent reached behind his back and pulled out a short sword and brandished it at me, a cocky grin on his face. For my part, all I had was the shivered end of a staff in my right hand and a leather belt in my left that I had wrapped around my forearm to provide some type of shield.

  He charged, a loud screaming warcry ripping from his throat as I stepped back, knowing even as I did that my circling escape attempt had been anticipated and before I could recover my balance, the sword plunged into my ribs, piercing me like a kebab.

  In a last ditch attempt at preserving my life, I intentionally let my right knee collapse, sending me tumbling to the frozen tundra of the field and rolling me over my right shoulder. My weapon, now uselessly pinned beneath my body, was released as I rolled, praying that my opponent's footing was as firm and balanced as he had at first appeared.

  I came around just inside the arc of his swing, my left arm rising in a terse uppercut that caught him between his legs, lifting him up into the air while I regained my feet. My right arm grabbed him as he doubled over, tucking him into my body and completing the half twist, snapping my enemy over. He crashed head first into the turf, his neck taking our combined weights for an instant before buckling, and his spinal column shattered like dropped crystal. In less than a second, what had been a hard, tense bundle of muscle and bone became a seemingly limp sack of meat, and I climbed to my feet slowly, staring down at him. His eyes widened, and his mouth worked for a second before he spasmed once, then collapsed to the turf, dead.

  I heard slow clapping, and I turned to see Sacha, his scowl again slightly lessened, spreading his arms and crashing his palms together over and over. It took me a minute before I realized he was applauding me. “Well done. Few have even survived to this point, let alone been victorious. Why did you kill your last opponent?”

  I felt sweat mingling with blood as it dripped down my body from my wound, and wiped at my eyes, clearing the sweat. “His sword would have run me through, he was trying to kill me.”

  “Do you regret killing him?”

  I nodded, then shook my head. “I do, but if the Mistress had been here and he was threatening her, I would have no regrets.”

  Sacha nodded. Going over to one of our dropped packs, he opened it up and reached inside, taking out a small towel. He tossed it toward me, where I caught it in the air. “Wipe your face and clean as best you can. The Mistress will be here in five minutes to see the results of your test.”

  Exhaustion dropped away with each wipe of my sweat, dirt and blood onto the towel, which had started a soft tan but ended a filthy, nondescript blackened mess. I tossed it into the pack, looking around for the Mistress.

  In seconds, I could see a car approaching, a black Mercedes sports car that I had seen around the grounds of the house before. I could see two people inside, and could barely contain my excitement as the car stopped and she got out of the passenger side, her driver staying inside. She was wearing the outfit that I thought looked sexiest on her, a simple pair of pants and a sweater that hugged each generous curve. I held my position, my hands behind my back and my feet rock steady on the ground.

  She saw the results of the testing, clucking sadly over the crumpled body of my last opponent while medics came from the army building to assess the injuries of the others. Some were already sitting up while others were still sleeping their lumps off. “Sacha, you always create such a mess when you insist on these tests,” she said, giving him a raised eyebrow. “And how expensive will this one be?”

  “Your uncle won’t find it excessive, Mistress Svetlana,” Sacha said. “Only one death, maybe two if that idiot who broke his leg can’t find his way back to the house.”

  “That idiot was a graduate of the University of Leipzig, and a European champion in taekwondo,” she corrected him.

  I bristled when Sacha laughed. “Then maybe his teacher should have taught him to look where the fuck he was going. It would be a mercy if I were to go back into the woods and shoot him in the head, so he can’t continue to pollute the gene pool.”

  She shook her head and rolled her eyes before turning her attention to me. “And my new pet? How did he do?”

  “Brave one there,” Sacha said. “He’s not bad.”

  She smiled and reached up, touching my face. I shivered, blood rushing down below even from the slight caress. “Considering I've never heard you compliment a test taker at all before, I’m impressed,” she said
, before lowering her voice to speak directly to me. “You have pleased me.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered. “I’m honored.”

  “Then when you return to the compound, you will be rewarded,” she said, patting my face. “Maybe I'll let you do something about that bulge growing in your pants.”

  She turned to walk away, my eyes fixed on her beautiful figure when I heard a metallic snicking sound behind me, and the ching of a metal tab popping. The grenade arced from out of the left side of my vision, where it bounced once on the ground before rolling to a stop a mere meter from her. “No!”

  Without thinking, I jumped, pushing her out of the way even as my body stretched out, flattening itself to land on top of the grenade. I turned my back to her, hoping that if I kept more of my body between her and the grenade, she would be uninjured. I closed my eyes, waiting for the explosion.

  It never came. Instead, the next feeling I had was Mistress touching my shoulder, and I opened my eyes to see her genuinely smiling down at me. “It was a dummy grenade. You have passed the last of Sacha's tests.”

  I looked down at the ball in my hands, realizing that it was, in fact, just a snap top dummy grenade instead of the real thing. I looked at Sacha, who still held the pin in his hand, and who was now not scowling, but looking at me with a modicum of respect. He came over and helped me to my feet, brushing off my shoulders as he did. “Good, Spartak. There’s hope for you yet.”

  Mistress watched us, then touched my shoulder, gaining my attention. “Come to my room at eight, after the dinner meal,” she said, whispering in my ear. “And make sure you are fully bathed and cleaned up.”

  * * *

  Now, hours later and my stomach satiated, I still had the trembles as I checked my clothing. It had been laid out for me when I returned, Sacha letting me ride in the back of a pickup truck from the training area. I'd taken over an hour to bathe and clean each of my wounds, noting with displeasure that I’d have bruises on my face that I couldn’t hide. I was filled with shame, with nervousness, and with tightly controlled arousal. Even as unworthy as I was, I couldn’t help but see what was in her eyes when she told me eight o'clock.

  Just before the clock in the wall started chiming the hour, I tapped on the door lightly with the heel of my right hand, my knuckles being too bruised and abraded to be useful for knocking. “Come in.”

  I opened the door to see that she had left her lights off, nothing but seemingly dozens of candles illuminating the scene before me. “Mistress?”

  “Come in, Spartak,” she said. I couldn't see her, but recognized her voice was coming from behind a changing screen on the right side of her bedroom, and I could just see a wisp of golden hair fly up as she put something on. “Please, make yourself comfortable in one of the chairs.”

  I looked and saw that she had two chairs arranged on the other side of the room, facing each other. I took the smaller of the chairs, even though it had a back because it was lower in a position to the other, which looked almost like a Roman couch than a normal chair. Sitting straight and tall, I waited for her to come out from behind her screen.

  “Did you enjoy today's test?”

  “No, but it was necessary.”

  “Necessary in what way?” she asked, her voice coming closer. “Don’t turn around, but look at the chair in front of you.”

  I kept my eyes glued in front of me, even though I could hear her coming closer, wearing her high heels and sending jolts of electricity racing through me. Her fingers trailed over my shoulders and neck, and I struggled to find enough focus to answer. “Necessary because Sacha was trying to find men worthy enough to protect you . . .”

  “I see. Eyes forward.” A black cloth appeared in front of me, dropping into my vision before wrapping around my head and being tied securely behind me. “And is my Uncle Vladimir overly concerned with my safety?”

  “No, Mistress. Your safety and happiness are of primary importance.”

  “To who?” she asked, coming around in front of me and sitting down. In the darkness of the blindfold, all I could do was listen as she settled down, the couch whispering as she settled in. “To Vladimir? To Sacha?”

  “I don’t know them well enough to answer,” I said.

  “Then to who is my safety and happiness of utmost importance?” She asked again. I could hear her arranging herself on the couch, and my nose tickled at the mysterious scent that she was wearing, arousing and airy, angelic.

  “To me. I would give anything to serve you.”

  “Anything at all?” she asked. “So if I told you that to be my companion you must become a eunuch, and have your balls cut off only to have them fed to the pigs, you would do it?”

  I nodded without hesitation. “If that is what you ask.”

  There was a slight pause, then a chuckle that sent shivers down my spine. “I think I like your balls exactly where they are. Tell me, if I were to make you my companion, and not just my pet, how would you serve me?”

  “In whatever way you need,” I said. “My every thought is of you, and ensuring you’re happy.”

  “And if I said that I’m not happy?” she asked. My heart broke at the pain in her question, and I knew that she wasn’t asking as a test, but because she truly wasn't pleased with her life. I was getting a rare glimpse that few other people got to see, behind the persona and at the woman herself.

  “If I had to move heaven and earth itself, I would do whatever it takes to make you happy,” I said.

  “So you love me, then?”

  I nodded, unable to say more. I heard her chuckle, and her voice came closer to whisper in my ear. “I need you to say it, Spartak. Say that you will love me, serve me and be mine forever.”

  “I . . . I love you, Mistress,” I said, warmth and pain tearing at my chest in equal amounts and for unknown reasons. Even though my heart said I loved her, there was something else that was breaking, as if I was enacting a betrayal. But to what? To whom? “I will serve you and be yours forever.”

  Her hand stroked my cheek again, and I moaned when her lips caressed mine. Her kiss lingered, and it took every ounce of my willpower to not pull her to me, I was so hungry for her touch and her caress. Instead, our kiss continued, her tongue tracing my lips before we tasted each other. “I ask because I’m not happy, Spartak.”

  I felt her reach behind my head, and the knot on my blindfold loosened. The black cloth tumbled from my eyes, and I could see again. The first thing I saw was my Mistress, her blue eyes swimming in tears, but a smile on her perfect face. She sat back, and I could see what she was wearing, a white teddy with silk stockings and matching high heels. She was beauty personified, as precious as the finest diamond, and her tears pierced my heart. “What can I do to help you find happiness?”

  She reached out and took my hand, placing it on her left breast, where I could feel her heart pounding under my fingertips. “Am I beautiful?”

  “Of course. Even if I didn’t love you, even a blind man could see that.”

  “If I wanted men to be my slave, I have only to snap my fingers. Uncle Vladimir has ensured that. But I need more than that.”

  “What do you need?”

  “I need a companion that not only loves me, but I can love as well. But to love him, I must respect him. Your efforts over the past weeks have shown me that you are a man of remarkable strength, intelligence and ability. But you still have a ways to go to earn my respect. You won’t be sleeping with me tonight, Spartak, but you’ve moved one step closer.”

  Chapter 37

  Francois

  I had just finished a workout and felt wonderful. All of my strength was back after my coronation, and in the past week I had come to terms not only with Jordan's concerns but also with what had to be done with Syeira. Even my planning for how to break into the museum in Marrakesh seemed to be falling into place.

  Leaving the gymnasium, I decided to run back to the barge instead of taking the bus. Charani had been using the car almost exclusive
ly, and I still didn't feel like getting my Porsche out of storage — it just wasn't time. Maybe after Syeira was taken care of, and Jordan was ready to let her hair down again, I thought as I jogged along the Seine. The weather was starting to show signs of the end of winter, which in Paris usually meant that things were more miserable than the winter itself. In winter, you tended to have either gray clouds that promised snow, or bright blue days that seemed to sear their way into your mind with unrelenting electric hues.

  Rounding the final curve in the river bank, I looked across the river to where the barge was, surprised when I saw three vehicles parked along the street in front of our Renault. I didn't recognize them, and I doubted that Charani would have let strangers just park their vehicles near our barge without giving me a call first. I picked up my pace, crossing the bridge that let me get on the right side of the river and over to the barge. “Hello? Maman? Où es-tu?"

  There was no answer from the barge, and I sprinted up the gangplank, worry flooding my body. Thundering my way down the steps and inside, I threw open the door, already preparing to find something that would shatter my life.

  What I found instead made me come to a complete halt, as Syeira and Jordan sat casually around the dining table, Charani in between to them. With them were three men I didn't know, but who looked Romani to me. “What is this?”

  “Come, have a seat my son,” Charani said, indicating the empty chair across from her. “We have visitors.”

  “I can see that,” I said, trying to regain my calm. “I’m surprised, though, I would have thought that I'd be informed.”

  “Unfortunately, this was very short notice meeting,” one of the men said in heavily accented English that smacked of his Spanish roots. “Forgive me. I am Francisco Cordoba de la Rosa.”

  I repressed my inner shiver, knowing the name. The De la Rosas were the heads of the largest tribe of Romani in the entire Iberian and Italian peninsulas, and in fact laid claim to most of southern France, with the defined borderlands being the small area that surrounded my family's property on the Rhone and in Paris. That had belonged to Guillaume Hardy before he married my mother, and as such was considered neutral territory. When grandfather died, the De la Rosa chief visited with Felix, to confirm the arrangement. They'd integrated themselves more into Spanish culture than a lot of the Romani, having even given up their Romani names and many not even speaking Rom. “Of course, Señor De la Rosa. It’s a pleasure to have you in my home. What brings you to Paris?”