Unholy Promises

by Roxy Harte

  “And this,” he commanded.

  I reached behind my back to unfasten the snap, my arms brushing over his arm. I felt his skin, the soft hair covering his forearm, and knew he too had removed his shirt. Was he nude as well?

  I longed to brush my thigh against his—just to discover.

  Dropping my bra to the ground, I did just that, lifting my foot just enough to touch the heat I knew was so close. Bare skin touched bare skin and my every muscle clenched with the knowledge he was nude; the muscles low in my groin, already needy, clenched tighter, my buttocks, aching, pressed back to find him.

  “I didn’t say to move,” he snarled, a low deep growl from the back of his throat.

  I jumped, just a little, nervous, not knowing what to expect.

  Afraid? Maybe, a little, but only of the voice, not the man. The man I trusted—for no specific reason other than I did—from the moment my eyes first met his at Whips, an underground Paris BDSM dance club.

  “Sh-h.” He gentled me, resting a hand over each pelvic bone. He stood behind me, his heat searing me even though our skin didn’t touch.

  Two fingers lifted the edge of my satin panties, turning my insides to mush. The elastic snapped back into place. “Now these.”

  Bending, I complied, heart racing.

  It had never been so gentle between us before.

  As Lord Fyre, he had been brutal the six months we’d been together. At least then I knew what to expect. This new gentleness was worse than any pain he’d inflicted on me in the days past, solely because I didn’t have a clue as to what to expect next.

  “Kneel,” he commanded and I did, assuming he wanted a blowjob and reaching out, seeking his penis. He brushed my hand away with a hiss. “No! Tonight is for you.”

  Hmmm? My brain imploded. Me?

  His lips closed over mine in the most tender kiss I’d ever known. He was killing me with this strange new softness, his hands moving around me, untying the blindfold, letting it fall between us. Sitting back on his haunches, he watched my face as I took in the surprise he’d prepared for me. I am certain surprised wonder met his questioning gaze.

  A hundred pristine white candles surrounded us in a perfect circle at least three rows deep. Candles reflected back from strategically placed gilded antique mirrors.

  My whispered, “Wow,” didn’t do justice to the scene he’d created.

  His eyes told me he was glad I liked it and his silent, mischievous smile told me the scene had yet to begin.

  “Trust me,” he said, moving to kneel behind me.

  He pulled me back into him so his warm chest hugged my back. Within what seemed like seconds, my hands were tied behind me, as were my ankles. Without the blindfold, the bondage was pure agony. Something about seeing myself in all those mirrors, tied and helpless. It occurred to me he could feel my fear, that subtle something in the air as distinct as the perfume of Persian roses. He gave me time to relax into my bonds. Without saying a word, he made me unafraid, solely by stroking my shoulders and arms.

  Lifting a candle, he held out his arm and dribbled melted wax over his forearm as I watched. His sigh of pleasure washed over my neck the moment before I felt the fall of wax over my skin. First my left nipple, then my right. I gasped in surprise, not fear or pain, just surprise, because the wax was hot but not hot enough to scald. Fleeing fear pushed a relieved laugh from my throat. I regretted the sound immediately, looking across the room to a gold gilt mirror for his reaction.

  Catching his smile in the mirror, my heart exploded with emotion as his soft chuckle reverberated through me in perfect accompaniment.

  Relaxing was easier then, and I rested tense shoulder muscles against the firmness of him, finally relaxing with complete abandon into my bonds. It was a new experience, not fighting the ropes.

  My reward for trusting was melted wax splattered in controlled chaos over my breasts, stomach, thighs, and finally easing over my freshly depilated sex, leaving me suddenly glad for his foresight in making me remove the pubic hair, though it had been embarrassing at the time.

  I’d felt indecent, naked like a child, and that seemed unbearable—at the time—but now I was sorry for the unnecessary tears.

  “I’m sorry about earlier,” I whispered, ashamed.

  “Your Master has reasons for all he does, never forget that, never question.”

  I nodded, fighting back tears as layer upon layer of melted wax fell over my clit. Heat then weight, as more wax dripped. Unable to control myself, my hips began to move with the rhythm of the wax dripping over my most vulnerable flesh. Knowing I wasn’t to move without permission, especially seeking my own pleasure, my eyes flew to his, waiting for his reprimand, climbing, climbing, unable to stop the mounting waves of pleasure. However, no reprimand came. Instead, he smiled and leaned close to my face, butterfly kisses over my jaw, and so much tenderness from the man I’d come to fear, love, hate, need, that I felt I’d die with the pleasure of his gentleness. And then more wax meeting the rhythm of my frantic hips.

  “It’s okay, Eva. Come for me. I want you to enjoy this.”

  Butterfly kisses and the scruff of his beard on the base of my neck made it impossible to focus as the heat and weight of even more falling wax combined. Too much pleasure, too much. The first wave of orgasm wasn’t a gentle wave at all, but rather lightning shooting through me, and then I was coming…coming from the heat and the weight of the wax…coming from the tenderness of the man.

  I fell apart, and yet pieces of the puzzle that had been missing all of my life came together.

  “Merry Christmas, Eva.”

  “Merry Christmas, Master,” I whispered in return, hearing the midnight tolling of church bells. It would be a Christmas I’d never forget.

  Later, after he flicked off the wax with a dangerous-looking knife, we made love, so slowly and tenderly that the sweetness of it ached deep within my soul, causing tears to course down my cheeks through the duration of the scene. Tears he kissed away. He moved over me in sweet, decadent slowness most of the night and I lost count of the number of times I climaxed in his arms. It was too sweet, too painful. I felt so loved, but even more, so cherished in his arms. I slept, finally, beneath him, waking to find him gone. A small package lay on his pillow, wrapped in red foil. I didn’t open it then, waiting instead to open it in front of him when he returned. To this day, it rests on my mantle, unopened.

  “An errand,” he’d said, leaving just after dawn. I fell back to sleep, waking just after noon.

  I heard his return, the crunch of his tires on gravel, a welcome sound after hours of being alone, and rushed out into the alley to greet him. I had just thrown my arms around his neck, bubbling with laughter, when the sounds of automatic weapon fire reached my ears.

  Bullets meant for me, bullets that killed him.

  * * * * *

  December 25, 1:12:38 a.m.

  Ile St. Louis, Courtyard Apartment

  I arrive home to find a crowded apartment and obnoxiously happy Christmas carols emanating merrily from the stereo. A spread of cheese and crackers, various dips and bowls of dippable fruit and veggies beckon from my tabletop. It seems the office party followed me home.

  “Liam?” I call into the living room, slipping my leather jacket onto a wall peg.

  “Hey, love! Where’ve you been?” he asks, dropping a kiss on my cheek as he slides my holster and 9mm off my shoulders. “Sweet Jesus, you’re frozen solid! Go stand by the fire. You went running, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I needed…air,” I lie, not willing to divulge any information about my whereabouts tonight. We’re used to each other’s half-truths and outright lies by now. Six months of living together cured both of us of any misguided notions we could actually be honest with each other.

  I smile, taking my weapon from him and sliding it into the top drawer of a small Queen Anne trestle table that stands beneath the coat hooks. Here, I smile. Here, especially, my smile keeps me alive.

  I have no doubts
his concern is genuine as he pushes me toward the fire, reprimanding me every step of the way for being out so long. Liam is The Agency’s mother hen, and his accent, all rolling R’s and so pointedly Welsh, lends well to his mothering.

  Entering the living room, I am relieved to find the apartment isn’t nearly as crowded as I’d first thought. Matilda, Eric, Ben, James and Suzuki, all close friends, mingled in front of the stereo, arguing companionably over the music selection. None of them true couples, though they come in pairs more often than not. They tend to pair up as mood, base need or circumstances warrant. I envy them.

  They assume Liam and I are a couple and, for all intents and purposes, they’d be correct.

  I’m not certain if he is in love. He proposed, it must be love. I don’t know, it’s an emotion I gave up long ago, but that part hardly matters, even the marriage isn’t the part that matters. It is the trust part, and to be honest, that has been the harder part earned. We are both agents, we lie to keep ourselves alive. It’s kind of hard to turn off and on. Most days, I’m not even sure what is truth and what is lie.

  I don’t love Liam. That I know is truth. I also know I need Liam to trust me, because only in his trust will I get my heart’s desire—Daniel free. That was the deal I made with Henri. Henri will help me extricate Daniel and rehabilitate him and I will make Liam believe I am in love with him, make him believe he is in love with me, even go as far as to marry him. Henri’s grand scheme that “will kill so many birds with one round of buckshot”. I’m not so certain about his reasoning on this one, though normally I would never question Henri.

  I shouldn’t feel responsible for Daniel but I do. He’s Luka’s brother and, as far as I know, Luka was the only family he had. And now, because of me, he has no one. I know if Luka were alive, Daniel would not have made the unwise choices he’s made. I also know what it’s like to be stuck, to be controlled, to no longer be able to make decisions based on self. Yes, Daniel is the right hand of international crime lord King Cobra, the direct opposite of my current political trappings, top agent at WODC. A cage is a cage, regardless of which side of the law. As far as I’m concerned, we are the same person. I can’t get myself free, but I can and will get Daniel free.

  I will never forget the first time I saw him, or the last.

  The first time was right after Luka died. God, they were identical. I saw him going into a restaurant; I actually followed him inside, grabbing him from behind and spinning him around and into my arms. I kissed him. That’s when I knew it wasn’t Luka. His kiss. So not like Luka. Amazing that two men could look so identical—walking, talking, appearance—but kiss so differently. Not bad, just different.

  The last time I saw him was at Whips. Last week. He is a regular.

  Sometimes I sneak away between assignments to see him. We’ve become friends, the kind who can talk to each other about anything, not the kind of friends who kiss. There has been no repeat kissing. He doesn’t know I knew his brother…or that I was responsible for his death. I like Daniel, he’s easy to talk to. It makes me wonder, if Luka and I hadn’t developed a strictly D/s relationship, if we could have been friends. Would we have talked?

  “Hey, Eva! Have you seen the front page of today’s paper?” Matilda asked, waving it before me.

  I know Matilda too well, she is discreetly warning me…the mix of excitement and anxiety in her wavering smile is unmistakable. If I weren’t already on edge, this would have put me there. As it is, it pushes me over the top. Accepting her warning, I play along with the moment, faking a teased grab, she pulling back just in time to make it even more believable she wants to draw out my agony. We both resort to big, company-issued smiles. Shit, this is bad.

  Light as a breeze, I offer, “You know I don’t read newspapers. They’re too damn depressing.”

  “Well, you might want to read today’s.”

  Suzuki snatches it away from Matilda before I can take it, snapping, “No, Matilda, not tonight.”

  I don’t miss the exchanged glances—Suzuki’s evil how-dare-you or Matilda’s volley back, all wide-eyed innocence. A screaming, prickly heat pinches my forehead, third eye on fire, a sure sign someone is lying, plans on lying or has already lied. Not exactly rocket science, but I go with my gut on this one. Thank you once again, Luka, for putting me in touch with my chakras.

  “It’s nothing we need to worry about tonight,” Liam pipes in, handing me a cup of hot tea. “Warm up with this.”

  Liam’s trying to keep this from me too?

  “You know I hate tea.” I accept the cup without fight. Liam snatches the newspaper away from Suzuki and gives it a solid toss into the garbage. Okay, now my curiosity is piqued.

  “Never mind the news, I say,” Suzuki adds too quickly. Again, passing that shut-up-or-you’re-dead look to Matilda. “It’s…nothing.”

  Okay, I don’t know who’s trying to kid whom, I know Suzuki lives for the Special Reports on CNN. Without even bothering to sip the tea, which I know will be too weak and too sweet, I set the cup on a nearby table and look pointedly at Matilda. “Well, you’re going to have to tell me now.”

  Matilda backs away, looking from Liam to Suzuki. She has stopped smiling.

  A quick movement in my periphery jerks my hand to my underarm. Shit, holster and gun are in the drawer. I really am on edge, realizing it is only James bending meekly to retrieve the newspaper from the wastebasket. He hands it to me, lead story facing up.

  The headline is bad enough—Reclusive Scandinavian Heiress Secret Wedding Plans Revealed.

  Ohmygod, my face on the cover of a major US tabloid. It’s every agent’s worst nightmare—public recognition. This can’t be happening—I’ve been so careful. My picture has never been seen, until now. My parents protected their daughter, and then once I was old enough to be recruited, The Agency made sure my likeness was never printed. My God, how has this happened?

  “It’s all right. I promise.” Liam pulls me into his chest, patting my back, smothering my protests, hoping, I am certain, to stem the explosion he knows is coming. “It’s okay, it’s going to be okay.”

  “No, it’s not okay. My picture has never been seen! Ever! My fucking life isn’t ever going to be normal again!”

  “Normal? Eva, darling, we left normal a very long time ago,” Liam whispers, harsh and nasty into my ear. “Might have been nice to know my fiancée is one of the most sought-after personalities in Europe though.”

  “Eva, love, we love you no matter what dirty secrets you are hiding in your past. Including being the wealthiest woman in this hemisphere.” James holds my shoulders and, looking into my eyes, kisses each cheek.

  “Ohmygod, Eva, you have to see the dress your mother sent over!” Eric reenters the conversation, and I don’t miss the look passed between him and James. They didn’t arrive as a couple, did I miss something? Catching Ben’s blush, I deduce I definitely missed seeing this coming. I focus on the undercurrent of energy riding hard between the newest set of lovebirds, Eric and James, to keep from screaming.

  Liam’s voice becomes white noise as I try to focus on tasks from most important to least.

  “What? You said my mother?”

  First, kill the messenger.

  Second, burn the dress.

  I’d forgotten Henri’s part of the plan included dividing my brothers and taking control of the Kingdom… How is my face on the cover of a tabloid going to facilitate this? Oh God. My parents.

  “I’ve already managed to book a different church than the one reported, so no worries about crowd control…”

  Screw the dress, burn the church, it will make a bigger statement.

  “And absolutely everyone has been notified—caterers, florists, the limousine service, the guests. All you have to concern yourself with is arriving on time, quoting your vows and consummating.”

  The last of the white noise is supposed to be a joke. I’m not laughing.

  “You know I love you.” Very practiced white noise. If I’m the on
e supposedly fooling him to make this happen, why do I suddenly hear lies in his voice?

  I want everyone out—now. If I am going to have a mental breakdown I’d like to do it in private. I tilt my head, scanning the article. “New Year’s Fucking Eve? That’s five days! Is this true?”

  “You knew this. We discussed this.”

  “I said no. You changed our wedding date to five days from now without telling me? How dare you do this, Liam? How dare you do this to me—now!” I finally manage to snarl, my mental task list disintegrating, my verbal tirade being reduced to a string of unintelligible curse words in at least three languages as I realize, a bit belatedly, that Liam has been the one coordinating this wedding from the start.

  I slap his face mid-tirade. God, how I hate delayed reactions. Someday I assume it will get me killed, but not today. Liam backs away, hands raised in surrender, my bad luck.

  Matilda passes me a very tall brandy, with that look. I really need to get her alone to find out exactly what that look means today.

  “I hardly think you need this tonight.” Liam steps back into the moment, taking the glass of brandy from my hand.

  “You’re quite right, Liam,” I answer, walking over to the wet bar to retrieve the half-full bottle. “I need this.” I chug straight from the bottle.

  “Good Lord, Eva! Bloody hell!”

  My boldness results in exactly what I hoped, guests shuffled to the door, an early end to the evening, if two a.m. is early. God, it was hard enough when there were only two people in the equation with agendas. Henri’s and mine. It’s time to get my head together so I can figure out Liam’s ulterior motive in all of this.

  I don’t remember going to the couch, however that is where I awake, covered with a cashmere afghan, a gift from Liam’s grandmother arrived by post just before I left on my last assignment.

  Soft laughter calms my mind… Matilda, she has my back. Matilda always has my back, I don’t know why I doubted for a moment. I take a moment to thank the God I no longer believe in for making her stay to watch over me.