by Roxy Harte
His eyes widen but imperceptibly. If I had not really been looking for a reaction, I would have missed it. His lips twist, smirking before he breaks into laughter. “You are a minx!”
I manage a smile, though I am so close to tears. I wanted to tell him about the baby, but now, knowing that Eva could arrive here any moment—I can’t.
Garrett holds out his hand and I give him the mold. “Wow. This is amazing work. Do I even want to know what this is about?”
“It’s a branding mold,” I tell him. “I want all three of us marked, a sacred commitment by each of us to the others. Now. Before any of us can change our minds.”
“Whoa, crazy girl, do you really think that I am going to scar my forearm with a brand?” Master demands.
I look at him hard. He doesn’t realize how tightly I am squeezing Thomas’ hand beneath the covers or that my hand is shaking with excitement and terror. “Yes, I do, because I trust you, and having given you that trust, I have allowed you to do anything you want with my body. This is the first thing that I’ve ever asked of you.”
“I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing.”
Anaïs Nin
Chapter Twenty-One
Eva
January 14
Restrained to my bed, I am no longer floating on clouds. I will kill the person who brings the next flower delivery into my room—once I escape the restraints.
Restrained for my own protection; I snort at the absurdity.
Restrained because I will kill the next nurse who comes in with a thermometer, needle or other device of torture. They tell me to rest, and then insist on taking my vitals every hour on the hour. They force me to swallow pills to help me sleep, and then write in my chart that I am a danger to myself and others because they keep waking me the fuck up.
Yes, I am dangerous. Especially on meds that make me want to sleep.
Restrained because my last attempt to escape found me clinging to the sides of the elevator shaft because I was too exhausted to climb any farther. It was humiliating to be rescued by the same agents I have fought beside on numerous occasions. What is wrong with me?
I close my eyes and count to ten, and then ten again.
I will not cry because I want to go home. I will not cry.
I am going to kill whoever informed the doctor that I am able to escape most bondage situations. This isn’t funny. Whoever heard of a wrist cuff with a thumb collar? I am still stuck in this fucking bed because of thumb bondage? Please, someone, kill me now!
* * * * *
The words finally came. I was discharged but not free to do my own will. I left the hospital nine full days after my arrival in Henri’s custody though I am not a criminal, just an agent, one suddenly deemed rogue and, to The Agency, that is only one step above treason and death. Granted, Henri’s townhouse is not the Bastille Saint Antoine. I could probably walk away if I chose to, but where would I go? I manage to contemplate this as I soak in Henri’s antique iron tub on gold-plated clawed feet. I turn the white ceramic knobs, labeled COLD and HOT in royal blue, with my toes, adjusting the water temperature. Steaming hot water numbs my toes and feet as they are covered. The old iron tub was icy against my back when I first climbed in, and as I sat shivering, waiting for the tub to fill with deliberate slowness, I had way too much time to think.
“It’s going to take time to heal,” Henri said as he pushed me into his bathroom. “Consider this a vacation.”
The part of me that always bounces back screams silently that I’m not broken, but even as I deny it, I wonder how long it is going to take to stop hurting. I don’t ever remember bringing this kind of hurt home from an assignment. I close my eyes against the memories of Liam. He used to love to climb into the bathtub with me. He loved bubble baths especially.
God, Liam. I close my eyes against the thought of him, the terror of my last hours with him too recent in my mind, too terrifyingly painful. I inwardly cringe as the memories come against my wishes. Laughing with him, playing with him, loving him—even though I deny it with my whole heart, I did like him. I considered him a friend and feel so stupid for that.
He was a traitor in our midst. I would have never believed that he was King Cobra. None of us would have. Everyone has stopped in, all of my friends, our friends, though I shouldn’t think of any of them that way.
Liam has taught me that.
I’ve broken the cardinal rule—don’t make friends. It’s an easy rule, you never know which friend you will be assigned to kill, so you just don’t break the rule. I have to face the fact that no one is a friend…no one.
Determined to get lost in the water, to escape Liam’s voice, I dunk myself, holding my breath, knowing well the silkiness of the water’s caress. Water that teases at my buttocks with its steaming bite, being more tender than a new lover, more subtle than an old friend, heat teasing around the folds of my labia. Flaming silk, tickling, teasing, arousing. I push against the end of the tub, creating a wave that fans around my thighs on its race to touch every inch of me, rushing along the line of my back and circling my shoulders before descending the opposite way. Aching, throbbing, all-consuming need descends on my clitoris.
I never knew true need before; Master changed that.
I look through my watery self-made prison, blind to the room, seeking him, holding my breath until my lungs long to explode. It hurts too much knowing he waits for me. I have a life different than I had before…with him. It isn’t a perfect life, that would be the life I left behind in Sweden, where I was the spoiled rich girl. God, I hated that girl. I am different now. I like my job, as insane as that sounds, as horrific as it is, as much as my conscience detests me…I am performing a necessary service. And I may not quite like myself yet, but I’m okay. Someone has to do the dirty jobs. Suddenly I remember the little girl held in her mother’s arm as they both watched her father die.
It is more than I can bear, and so I hide, submerged, crashing water flooding my mind as the tap continues to fill the tub, sounding more like Niagara Falls in my head, shutting out all sound from the room. If only the drumming noise could offer my mind peace.
Surfacing, I gulp only enough air to see myself underwater once more. Numbing, thundering silence clears my thoughts as, finally, I find what I seek in the recesses of my brain. Sanctuary. No thought, no emotion, only feeling, as it once was with Master.
Emerging, floating on top of the water, I hold on to the fragile peace I have found and breathe. Inhale, exhale, inhale. Just as Master once directed. The water tickles, framing around my face, petting my cheekbones with feathery strokes. The caress of a million fingertips slide up the ladder of my rib cage and, for a moment, I can pretend Master is here with me. Water rising, swirling around the gentle curve of my belly as Master’s tongue once did, until at last it slides into the dip of my bellybutton. Molten heat, lava.
I submerge once more, trying to escape the molten, burning need ripping through my insides. At war with myself. A searing blanket of water cradles over my eyes, sealing them closed, trapping the tears, just before the heat tugs at the corners of my lips. A gasp, a sob. It would be only seconds before my nose fills, being the worst of the experience I was sure. However, the battle of wills that began in that moment within my psyche was the biggest struggle of all.
Rising water covers my chest, my face, holding me down as a pyre of bricks. I brace myself and pray that this time I will be brave enough to let go. Brave enough to escape the hell Liam left me to survive. Fighting the urge to sit up, I expel the remaining air from my lungs, bubbles rising to the surface, minutes, seconds, searing pain, thundering waterfall, pounding heart. It becomes an incredible symphony in my head as I wait for the darkness to claim me. Lungs screaming, I wait. Pinpricks of white light dance behind my eyelids, my breath explodes.
Surfacing, gasping, crying, screaming, cursing…what am I going to do?
I want so desperately to answer Master’s summons, but as I fight
back the images of Liam, his face hidden behind a leather hood, only his brilliant blue eyes visible, making me orgasm in the most horrific ways, not once but over and over again, and all the world spectator…I am ashamed, embarrassed…and afraid. I can’t remember the last time I was afraid.
The worst of it is knowing that he watched the live satellite feed. He saw me break.
I no longer wear Liam’s marks, but I remember studying each of them—once I could stand unassisted—I memorized each one, the thin blue-green lines across the back of my thighs left by a cane, a large swath of green from my spine to the front side of my ribs, though I don’t remember what made the mark, and the granddaddy of them all—the puffy red healing skin on my chest where not Liam but his executioner opened me.
I trace the scar, still an angry red line, and close my eyes. The others faded, this one too will soften with time, gradually lightening to pink, then white, but in my mind it never will.
Before that night I planned to go to Luka, to be his again, but Luka was just a dream, the reality is I do not know this man. Agent. I was used just as I’ve used so many, never feeling, just doing my job. I am a fool.
* * * * *
I don’t know what his game is. Luka. Thomas. Whatever the fuck name he is using this week. The ringing buzzer alerts me to another flower delivery. I do not answer. It is late and I don’t have the energy to get out of Henri’s big comfy recliner, though the door is only a few feet away. He was kind enough to light a fire in the fireplace and cover me with a blanket before he left for parts deeper in his townhouse than I have been willing to explore. Coming home from the hospital and soaking in a tub has been more exhausting than a 20K run.
Another buzz, followed by knocking, insistent pounding, but I find it just isn’t worth getting up to accept more calla lilies. I close my eyes against them, the room already so filled with calla lilies that there is not another surface to place even one more vase. From deeper in the house, a phone rings, and I hear Henri’s muffled, “Bonjour?” then more muffled words he does not want me to hear. I listen closer, but hear only the soft pad of his house slippers returning from the kitchen.
Henri at home is as Henri is at the office…though at home his concession to comfort is to trade his jacket for a more practical sweater and his dress shoes for house slippers. The first morning I was here, I wondered if he even slept in his tie.
He returns with a vase of twelve calla lilies tucked into the crook of his left arm, his left hand supporting a tray topped with a proper china tea set and scones for two and a telephone in his right hand.
Scooting the tray on top of a side table, he offers me the telephone. I shake my head, mouthing, Who?
He just lifts his eyebrow in a silent “Who else?”
I shake my head.
Narrowing his eyes and shaking his head, he explains that I must have fallen asleep while he was making tea. He assures Thomas—as he calls him—that I will call him when I awaken. I must constantly remember that his name was never Luka.
“How much longer will you make him wait, ma chère?” he asks after disconnecting. He rearranges the flowers in their vase until he is satisfied that they are perfect before stepping away from the table already overflowing with flower arrangements.
“I’ll make sure it’s less than a decade,” I reply tartly and close my eyes, planning to sleep, hoping to sleep, praying I will sleep.
“Eva?”
Great, Henri wants to talk. I knew it was coming, I had just hoped it wasn’t. Opening my eyes, I focus on his face and see by his expression that he expects more from me. I fidget, straightening enough to almost be sitting instead of still lying down but not quite. It seems to be satisfactory, because Henri hands me a newspaper and answers the quizzical expression on my face with a cryptic statement. “You have a choice to make.”
The paper is dated several days earlier; however, it is the headline that catches my attention. Swedish Heiress Eva Lindquist Dead.
“What does this mean?” I ask dumbly.
“It means, dear girl, that your parents and brothers attended your funeral. It was a state affair, very lavish, very touching. I think they’ve already spent every dime you left them.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I state stoically, wondering where my emotions are hiding. I should be sad that there will be no more holidays spent with my family. I draw in a shaky breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’ve actually been expecting it, an assignment. I couldn’t imagine them giving me any more time off than they already have and I’ve returned to duty with injuries in the past that should have kept me away. “I’m not an invalid, just tell me the assignment. We both know what this conversation is about. So The Agency finally agreed that I would be of more use if my true identity was no more…so, I’m ready.”
“Are you?” Henry looks at me, I look at him. He holds out his arms to me, I think that perhaps he is saying goodbye to me. That this really is it then, a car must be waiting outside for me. Nothing new. I walk into his arms and he hugs me, holding me as tight as a man can, holding me as a man would his daughter if he feared he might never see her again. I swallow hard, suddenly realizing that I might be the assignment. Am I the liability? “Be safe, mon amie.”
As predicted, the front door to Henri’s townhouse opens and three operatives enter. My ride is here. Henri holds me even tighter, not letting me step from his grip.
“Where?” I ask, afraid of hearing the answer.
“San Francisco.”
Holy shit. No, no, no, no, no…do not ask this of me!
“You can get close to him,” he whispers, still holding me close. I feel his hand leave my back and know that he waves at the operatives to leave us a moment. Without a word, they back from the room, closing the door. I know they wait, not for me to make a decision…because whether I will take this job or won’t, I realize this assignment is not a choice, at least not if I want to live. He steps away from me, gesturing at the tea service, pulling out a chair for me. “Tea?”
Again, it is not a choice and so I sit at the small table set for two.
“Excellent.” He pecks my cheek, ending the discussion, placing a cup and saucer in my hand. “Drink your tea. Strong. No sugar. Just as you like it.”
“I’ll teach you to jump on the wind’s back, and away we go.”
James M. Barrie, Peter Pan
Chapter Twenty-Two
Thomas
January 15
Garrett’s Penthouse
Celia’s eyes are wide and she is already covered with a fine sheen of sweat. I know how terrified she is after having witnessed Garrett’s branding. I’d played with him hard, raising his endorphin levels, and still he screamed, though it wasn’t like a little girl, more like a warrior’s growl, deep and primal. I hope that I can have such dignity when it is my turn. The lights are dimmed in the library and a fire glows in the fireplace, sending interesting shapes of shadow and light to dance across the walls. Outside a spring thunderstorm breaks and, this high up, the sound is intense, so I am surprised that Celia seems oblivious to the racket, so afraid is she of storms.
“I love you.” She holds him, kissing his forehead, voicing her gratitude as I heat the metal mold a second time. I will be next and Celia will administer the brand.
“It’s ready.”
Her entire body is shaking as she takes the handle from me, holding the red-hot brand away from her body. I know she feels the heat though. It is an impressive thing. “I’m not so certain I’m ready though.”
“It’s fine. You can do this.”
“I’m going to be sick.”
I laugh. “This was your idea!”
“It was a stupid idea.”
“Kitten.” Garrett’s voice holds an edge of warning. He insisted on going first, getting it over with, because he knew he wouldn’t do it if he watched it being done first. “I swear I will hogtie you both—”
“I’m doing it!” she interrupts, knowing he was going to say he wou
ld do the job himself.
I hold out my bared forearm and she aims for the marked area. Her hand shakes as I take a final deep breath and hold it in as the heated metal makes contact with my skin. I exhale, thinking, this isn’t so bad, the heat not registering as pain for a second, not until the smell of searing flesh hits my nose. But by then she has pulled the mold away and I am left looking at an angry, red, very fresh brand. I grit my teeth to keep from cursing. Losing badly. “Jesus!”
Celia lays the mold down and drops to her knees, sobbing.
I kneel beside her, holding my burned arm away from both of us to keep from accidentally touching it.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry,” she cries against me.
I kiss her forehead. “You will remember this day for the rest of your life, as will we all. We belong to each other now.”
Garrett stands, white gauze covering the damage done to his own arm. “Come here, Kitten.”
She backs behind my legs. “I don’t want to play.”
We’d agreed that both she and Garrett would do better if the branding was part of an intense scene. I help her stand, leading her to a chair. “You don’t want your endorphins up?”
“I don’t want to do it at all.”
I kneel in front of her, showing her my arm. “See? I’m okay. You did a wonderful job. I didn’t even scream.”
She pouts. “You screamed a little…when you were taking the Lord’s name in vain.”
“I screamed a little, but it’s okay now.”
I watch her looking down at the fresh wound, the outline of the brand a painful dark shade of red surrounded by a wide band of dark pink where the skin is reacting to the damage. She reaches out to touch it, but doesn’t. “It hurts?”
“You’ve been burned before. Remember when you tried to make cookies for Thanksgiving?”
“That hurt a lot!”