Unholy Promises

by Roxy Harte

What game is this? I wanted to scream, my head reeling as I reached and took the collar from his hand.

  I swallowed hard, lifting the collar to his throat, pausing only long enough to gaze in his eyes, seeking the secret to what was going to happen next and finding no clues whatsoever. Feeling like I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t, deciding hell with it all, I closed the collar around his neck and fastened it as tightly as I felt he’d tightened mine, so that it was a heavy nuisance, a constant thought.

  He nodded at me when the job was done, the three of us standing there with identical collars on. I admit I was curious as to what would come next and wouldn’t have been surprised if some fourth person had leapt out from behind the sofa in that moment. But no surprise Dom made an appearance, it was just the three of us and, even though he wore a collar, Master was definitely the one in charge. “Undress me.”

  Having learned my lesson with Lord Fyre, I started with Master’s shoes, slipping the woven leather shoes he’d imported from India from his bare feet and setting them to the side before standing to unbutton the deep-red short-sleeved silk shirt and slide it over his shoulders. Standing near Lord Fyre, he seemed so pale, even though it was only the night before that I had remarked on his tan lines, and he was thinner, just as lean, muscled, but not as bulked. It always seemed they stood toe to toe and eye to eye, but seeing them so close together, it became obvious Lord Fyre was the larger man by several inches in height and girth.

  Folding his shirt and laying it neatly on a nearby chair, I told myself I would stop the comparison there, but my brain kept clicking and pacing, smaller feet, smaller hands and, as I unzipped his expensive, tailored slacks and slid down both pants and silk boxers, I hoped he wouldn’t notice my embarrassment as obvious comparisons tripped through my brain as he was exposed.

  Garrett was circumcised at birth, as are I think most American babies. Lord Fyre was as he was the moment before he was born, uncut and, seeing his erection straining at the foreskin covering his head, I longed to push it back, exposing all of him. Garrett too was sporting a hard-on and it made it hard not to notice how well-endowed he was…and then compare that Lord Fyre’s was not only equal but obviously thicker and a bit longer. I couldn’t understand why their differences were so obvious this time. I had seen them both naked before, even naked in the same bed, but nothing had compared to what was going on between the three of us in that moment.

  I helped him step out of his slacks, then folded them and placed them with his shirt before turning toward both men again, willing my mind to stop. It wasn’t one was more handsome than the other, or even one was better at sex than the other, it was just they were both so different and yet, they held my heart, body and soul in equal measure.

  From there, everything happened at once. Lord Fyre grabbed my upper arm and moved me not only to face him but pulled me tight into his chest, hugging me, restraining me, not that I planned on going anywhere but it was obvious his intent was for me not to move. I heard the click as a short chain linked our collars together, holding our faces so close we had to either graze cheeks or kiss and I’m not even certain who made the decision we should kiss, but we did and it was hungry and savage, nothing like the kiss of only a few moments before. I wasn’t sure what had shifted the mood from soft and hazy to unbearably intense, but I knew I couldn’t get enough of his mouth and tongue and he seemed of a same mind.

  I barely registered a second click, then Lord Fyre’s lips had left mine and he and Garrett were kissing, but I was trapped between them, or rather our three necks, attached, made it impossible to do more than turn my head enough to kiss them both on their rough cheeks. It was enough to regain their attention and then the three of us were kissing and tongues became merely tongues and I wasn’t completely sure whose was in my mouth, not that it mattered as we kissed and licked and sucked for what seemed like dear life.

  Pressed between them, Lord Fyre to my chest and Master to my back, I had no time to wonder or question where we were going from here when it became obvious Lord Fyre was fingering my clit and Master was sliding his finger into my pussy from behind. In only moments I was wet, crying out for more and, as Garrett slid his fingers, wet with my moisture, to my anus, I knew my wish for more would soon be met.

  Lord Fyre lifted me up so he held me with my legs wrapped around his waist, and then I was sliding down and he was filling me. I closed my eyes, his mouth locked on mine, his tongue and his penis filling me as deeply as they could. Our tongues began sparring, sucking, biting as he softly thrust.

  Master, from behind me, pinched a nipple. Hard. Harder.

  I cried out, breaking the bond I had with Lord Fyre’s mouth, but he wouldn’t be denied. He reclaimed my lips as Master continued pinching and pulling my nipple, as Master slid first one finger, then two into my ass, still pinching.

  I convulsed against Lord Fyre’s chest, the combined sensations overwhelming. “Don’t you dare come, Sophia.”

  Oh God.

  I felt Master’s dick pressing against the rim as he used his fingers to spread my moisture, and then he was pushing, the pressure building as he forced his way in, not because I was tight, but because with Lord Fyre already filling my vagina, it was a tight fit. Then he was in. He was all the way in, grabbing my shoulders to arch me back against him.

  Because of the chains connecting our necks, Lord Fyre was pulled forward. “Are you ready for this?”

  He pulled out slightly to thrust hard, pushing deeper, and the sensation of the two dicks filling me, separated by only a thin wall of muscle, pushed me over the top. “Please, please, please! I’m going to come.”

  “Not yet,” Master whispered against my cheek, then he bit my jaw, not drawing blood but holding on to me with his teeth. One more sensation added to the others.

  Oh God, oh God.

  “Master!”

  “Not yet,” Lord Fyre growled, and I realized he too was holding back.

  Their rhythm matched and I started screaming, a vortex of pleasure lifting me. From behind me I heard Master panting and his thrusts became stronger as I loosened more. Their breathing grew heavier, their pants matching, building to a crescendo, and all I could do between them was moan and scream and beg for release. My vortex peaked and I was falling, my orgasm shattering in its intensity—no permission granted.

  I bring myself back to the now, facing the truth of something I’ve denied for several weeks. Of something I didn’t want to remember. We hadn’t used condoms that day and by the end of the scene, there had been semen everywhere…

  I hadn’t even considered pregnancy.

  I’m on the Pill.

  The flu I’ve had off and on for weeks could be more than the flu…

  And if I am pregnant, this child could be Garrett’s or it could be Thomas’.

  I lapse back into sleep, back into dream, thinking, I cannot be pregnant.

  I dream and my dream is filled with images of a baby—ten fingers, ten toes, dark eyes and pouty lips. I see myself bound, tight leather cuffs hold my wrists and my ankles. My belly is swollen. Huge. I am grotesque in my pregnancy…but not grotesque…not really. I look radiant and beautiful.

  “If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride and hug it in mine arms.”

  William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure

  Chapter Three

  Eva

  Paris, France

  Special Ops Christmas Party

  December 24, 10:52:38 p.m.

  “Hey, Eva, glad you’re back! Awesome save today!”

  “Good job, Eva!”

  I dance, I drink, I drink and dance more, trying to forget the events of this day, this week, this year or last, for God’s sake! Just a second from the nightmare my life has become would be enough…just one second! But no, they don’t want me to forget. Not even a second’s reprieve from all the congratulations. Idiots! If I could kill them all, I would. I swear I would.

  I smile the fake smile I learned my very first day of training,
the smile that keeps us alive. The smile that promises I am a team player. I do as I’m told. I don’t question authority. Yes, you can trust me. Really.

  I smile to live another day. Maybe tomorrow I’ll just stop smiling.

  If only I could be so brave.

  “Way to go, Ee-vaaah!”

  My head is going to explode. Turn down the fucking music. Stop fucking congratulating me. My God! Congratulations for killing a man. Congratulations for killing three men, or a dozen or a hundred. It’s insane.

  What does it matter? He died. Who cares, right? He deserved to die, that’s why they sent me…he deserved to die. My mistake, I shouldn’t have looked into his eyes, shouldn’t have witnessed the pleading there. Yes, I know, he would have killed me first if he’d had the opportunity, if I’d moved slower. I was faster and he died instead of me. Should it have been me?

  He was evil, guilty of heinous atrocities in his mother country.

  He went home. They always do. They want to spend the holidays with the ones they love. It makes them easy prey. Am I just as evil for taking advantage of the situation?

  I watched his beloved, the one he would die for if it meant sharing one last Christmas Eve dinner, one last Midnight Mass together.

  God, she was so young, so beautiful, holding her small daughter on her hip, the outline of another baby in her womb, obvious even through the window. I stopped them from killing her and her babies. Do I get karma points for that?

  She will forever see the bullet that pierced her husband’s heart, as will her daughter, a shared nightmare that will either bring them closer together or destroy them as time goes on. I will forever see their faces, twisted by horror and anguish, in my nightmares. Should it have been me? If the rules of democracy changed tomorrow, would I be the one running from my crimes?

  “Eva! Great job out there today! More champagne? There’s plenty!” one of the newer female agents calls out.

  Don’t congratulate me. I back away, her voice becoming a drone. Should I be worried I see her mouth moving but don’t understand the words? Liam offers me another flute of champagne but I put up both hands in refusal. I think I excused myself, muttering about having to piss. He gives me a queer look and his moving lips tell me he’s saying something, but I don’t hear the words.

  Ladies’ room in sight, I duck in, not quite believing the woman who just congratulated me follows me, holds the door. She is one of the new operatives…young, too young. She probably doesn’t know the unspoken rules yet. We are definitely class divided here and in the eyes of those who do know the rules, I am the queen bee. Only my inner circle speaks to me or has contact with me, unless I am leading a mission, and then the rules of war dictate. Certainly to her, I appear obnoxiously rude, a truth reflected in her frown.

  I remember being new, wanting to make friends. I smile my keeping-myself-alive smile and make excuses, laughing, faking a stumble, pointing to my sloshing half-empty flute of champagne. “Too much champagne! I’ve really gotta piss!”

  My smile sticks, not even wavering when I recognize her, knowing already the day after tomorrow she will be dead. It is inevitable. The day after Christmas, she will leave for Istanbul with three others. She will die because I choreographed the mission and selected the team just moments before joining the party. A team put together based on the perimeter forecast—a one-in-ten survival rate for the operatives. I selected the most expendable units from a computer-fed printout—ID numbers, photographs and experience profiles. Face-to-face, I remember her from the photos. Her picture ID doesn’t do her justice, being grainy and dark. The woman standing before me is beautiful, glowing with the radiance of hope. I turn away quickly, ducking into the nearest stall before my keep-myself-alive smile fails me.

  She is living, breathing. Expendable.

  Hiding in the stall, I bury my face on top of the soft roll of paper hanging from the door, wishing just this once tears would come. But they won’t, I stopped crying a long time ago. Today deserves tears. Get away from the insanity before you die, kid, because either way this job kills you. Whether the body dies or the soul—either way you’re dead. God, I have to get out of here. I’m going to be sick.

  “Eva, wait! Please,” she shouts, rushing to follow as I race from the stall and through the exit.

  I duck into the stairwell reserved for upper-level operatives and management, knowing she’s not going to follow here.

  “Eva! I just wanted to invite you to lunch sometime,” she shouts into the stairwell, not stupid enough to follow but brazen. “I’m new. I have so many questions for you. I know I’m being too forward, but I really admire you!”

  I have to get away from her voice. Her innocence.

  “My name’s Carrie! Call me!”

  God, no! She did not just tell me her name. I don’t want to know! But it’s too late. I already heard. Carrie. Carrie will die in Istanbul. Not agent XDJ275, but Carrie.

  I rush headfirst into the brisk night air, exiting through a side door of the popular L’Auberge Café, the upper-level cover for our below-level bunker. Deep breath, just breathe. Don’t think, breathe. I gulp in great lungfuls of air before I can acknowledge I am free, at least for the moment, from the claustrophobic bunker with its stale machine-ionized air. Fresh, icy air fills my lungs. Night has descended on Old Paris, and my non-thinking mind grasps the vision of the dark city rising above the thick fog blanketing the sidewalks and streets while I was deep below ground.

  I am not dressed for the weather, the day turning frigidly cold since morning, but I refuse to go back inside, preferring the curb and the sting of painfully gulped icy air.

  It must be almost midnight, judging by the height of the thumbnail moon. It is a relaxing moment, just me and the moon. The day’s events and Carrie’s comments temporarily blocked from my conscious thoughts. I concentrate on my breaths, remembering who taught me to relax so long ago…Luka.

  Because of him, I can smell the intoxicating perfume of the Paris night air and appreciate the beauty of exhaled white puffs. Midnight has always been my favorite time of day, the magical three hours, midnight to three a.m. They are the hours for dreaming and hoping and remembering. It is the time of day I can walk about town without fear of being seen, recognized or photographed, the time of day when empty streets allow me the delusion that the majestic city lights, glittering as priceless gems against the ebony sky, sparkle just for my pleasure. The smog and mud of the day hide in the shadows of misty mauves and plums.

  “When you see the lights, think of me and know they represent how many times I’ve thought of you this day.” It’s what he promised me the night before he died. Luka. Master.

  “You would think of me so often, Master?”

  “Evaevaeva, do you doubt your Master? Then know this, I promise to think of you as often as each blink of light against this night sky and more each and every day. I promise, I always will.”

  Tears sting my eyes with the memory of his promise, my walk turning into a blurry run as reality settles into my heart. Carrie will die. Christmas is tomorrow.

  I am alone. Alone.

  “There is no remedy for love but to love more.”

  Henry David Thoreau

  Chapter Four

  Thomas

  December 24, 10:52:38 p.m.

  Special Operations Department, WODC

  Paris, France

  I watch her from within the shadows of an air duct. It wasn’t an easy task and one sorely irresponsible. Here I am, back in France, dangerous even without the assignment because, at one time, I was the most wanted man in France. My being here at all is due to the fact I am a protected man. Powers greater than my enemies are willing to keep me hidden. But the key to my protection has been me not returning to France—those who wanted me dead believe me dead, and to show up now, quite alive, will ruin everything. I risk so much for one peek at a woman who believes me dead.

  She is beautiful still, older but beautiful. She must be thirty-two or thirty-three by no
w and the years have been good to her. There is something new to her countenance, something that wasn’t there the first time I spied her so long ago. Confidence? Experience?

  She is still as dangerous as she ever was. I can feel her fearless energy even at this great distance and her coiffed elegance does little to soften her feral intensity. Her long blonde hair pulled up into a loose knot and secured with chopsticks is a trademark look for her—sophisticated, commanding, aloof. She definitely had the look, even then. I long to see her hair loose and rumpled around her shoulders as when she first awakens in the morning with her eyelids still heavy, her mouth soft. Waking was one of the rare moments I ever saw her appear vulnerable, because even in her submission, vulnerable wasn’t a word I would have used to describe the woman I once knew.

  Like an addict, I crave her perilous intensity. In my absence, she has become well aware of the power she wields, wearing it as an essence that wafts around her like a rare, exotic perfume, lulling those within her proximity into a sense of security.

  It is a potent aphrodisiac.

  A man with short-cropped copper hair joins her, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, whispering in her ear. She smiles, they both laugh and I see red. I had thought it was just a saying until my vision filled, a red misty veil obscuring the scene before me.

  I am not jealous, I’m not that kind of man, however I admit my clenching and unclenching fists make a strong argument. It becomes even harder to deny as I watch the scene unfolding below me. My fists I can control. Breathe in, breathe out. I focus on my intent to be calm, fighting my baser impulse to kick through the air duct and strangle the man.

  I’ve gone insane.

  He’s merely a coworker, one of many milling around the large office loft who only stopped to congratulate her. Still, I’m elated when he walks away.

  Her smile lingers on her soft lips. What did he say to make her smile so brightly?

  God, she is gorgeous.