by T. L. Martin
“You poor girl,” Katerina murmurs. “Such beautiful tears you cry. Thank you for trusting me with your story, sweet Jane. I promise to share it in its purest form.”
Closing my eyes, I try to block out the bright lights above my head and the thumping in my chest as I lean against the wall. I wish I didn’t have to listen to this shit day after day. I cringe with every sob; they ring in my mind as pleas that will never be answered. My fingers dig into the floor below me, my raw skin grating on the rough cement a welcome distraction.
A faint ting, ting drags my gaze to the large cage across the room.
The little girl, Sofia, gently taps a colorful bone on the iron bars as she paces slowly from one end of the cage to the other. It’s the same bone her mom had her color with oil crayons two months ago.
It’s become some kinda routine for her.
The first day she showed up and witnessed her mom skinning a new arrival, she’d sat in a ball, covered her eyes, and rocked back and forth. She still hasn’t made a peep. The second day, during an interview, she did the same. And the third. But the fourth day, she’d started this tapping thing with the bone. And she’s done it ever since.
I don’t get it.
I stare at her for a few moments, letting the ting, ting drown out the ‘interview’ happening beside us. Soon, she stares back. Her eyes are wide, but they’re not afraid.
After a while, the only sound in the room is that bone clicking against the iron. There’s no more whimpering, no more questions, no more responses. I glance at Katerina.
The interview is over.
Slowly, I turn my head back to Sofia. She’s still watching me, but she’s set down the bone. And, finally, I understand. That’s why she does it—she’s drowning out her mom’s voice, the crying, all of it.
She’s what, five? And she figured this place out a helluva lot quicker than I did.
The clank of a tray being set on metal draws my attention back to the workspace. The subject’s, Jane’s, long limbs droop lifelessly over the edge of the narrow table. My breaths quicken as Katerina lifts a scalpel from the tray. My lungs are tight, and I don’t realize I’m inching closer until the cold wall is no longer against my back.
No one makes a sound as Katerina makes her first cut.
It’s slow. Precise. Drawing the tiniest amount of blood.
She picks another spot, higher up on the arm, and takes her time sliding the blade across skin once more.
It’s not until I see it, the deep crimson dripping from the arm to the table, then eventually to the floor, that my lungs open and I can breathe again. I inhale sharply, taking the fresh scent of blood with me, and retreat back to the wall with a snarl.
Over the past 424 days of me being trapped in this cage—forced to listen to one person after the next suffer, then to Katerina’s sick murmurs in their ear—I’ve learned there’s only one thing that actually makes it stop. That shuts off the relentless pounding in my head, the guilt, the helplessness, the goddamn lights piercing my eyes.
It might be the needle that initially takes their lives, but the sight of crimson is the only thing that shuts Katerina up and keeps her occupied long enough to leave the others alone. Sometimes it buys us a week or more while she plays with her new project.
In this place, there is nothing more final than the spill of blood on that table.
At least until the room gets wiped clean and a new day begins, starting the process over again.
But for now, my head has a few blissful seconds to clear. My pulse goes quiet, and I don’t have to pretend. For just a moment, I don’t have to pretend it doesn’t get to me. Because in the silence, as long as drops of crimson flow, nothing can reach me.
“Come to me in pieces and exist inside me whole.”
—Christopher Poindexter
I wipe a hand over the fogged up mirror and stare blankly at my reflection. A shiver runs through me as water pools on the tile below my feet. I let the steam soak into my pores and watch as droplets drip from my hair to my waist, sticking for a second before running along the curve of my hips, looping around my thigh.
I close my eyes and slowly chase the water with my fingertips.
Beneath the cold tingles on the surface of my skin, a layer of heat pulses through my veins. I still feel Adam Matthews on me. His strong hand pressed between my thighs, his firm grip on my hair and warm breath on my neck. But it’s more than that.
He’s everywhere.
Danger sings to me within the depths of his eyes like a long-lost friend. His shadow reaches beyond my skin and summons something deep inside me, something I’m not allowed to feel. Not allowed to be.
I grip the edge of the counter as my eyelashes flutter open.
He gets into my head without even trying.
How did you do it, Frankie? Were you strong enough to keep these brothers skirting around the outside of your mind, where they belong? Were you pure enough?
Or did they find your secrets? Did they break you?
Don’t worry, silly, Frankie once told me on a quiet laugh. Only fragile things can be broken.
Releasing a shaky breath, I hope to God neither of us are made of glass and grab a towel from the door hook. It’s still early, and I have secrets to discover. After drying off, I tie the gold scarf around my neck and slip on an ebony silk nighty—the only functional nightwear provided—letting my damp hair hang down my back. Finding no shoes in my closet except four-inch heels, I pad barefoot toward the bedroom door.
Icy nerves claw at my chest, but I reach forward and turn the knob. Then I pause, pushing my shoulders back.
I’m going to get caught. With cameras in every corner, there’s no escaping that. For all I know, someone is watching me right now. I swallow back the urge to double-check my room for cameras and step into the hall, forcing my expression to be casual. Innocent.
There are no rules about leaving my room. And I’m the new girl, after all, which is my only hope that whoever catches me will listen to my made-up excuse and let this slide. In the meantime, I’ll just have to cover as much ground as possible.
No pressure.
I suppress the shudder trying to work down my spine when I slip by the first camera at the end of the hall. Making a right at the corner, I exit the ladies’ quarters.
Instead of a square, the mansion is a really long shoebox. An impeccable, shiny shoebox that keeps its lid secure and snug at all times. The ladies’ quarters—holding our bedrooms, dining room, and spa—is on the main floor of two, tucked away at the far right end. Hallways are everywhere, leading from one closed door to the next, until you reach the expanse of the lobby, which I just did.
My nerves squeeze when the clicking of heels echoes to my right. With a thick swallow, I remind myself that I’m an innocent newbie and continue padding across the white marble. There’s only one window. It’s large, eating up most of the front wall, but heavy curtains cover every corner of the glass.
I don’t miss it—the sunlight. The sky. I can’t ignore the surge of comfort that soothes me at the bleakness. Even so, I have to wonder why the Matthews work so hard to keep the curtains drawn and the lights dim.
Peeking through the curtain, I stare past the moonlit, manicured lawn and at the wall of shrubbery dividing this building from the front house. It’s quiet out, not even a breeze to stir the leaves. Seems odd to have two mansions so close together, especially with one hidden so carefully behind the other.
“Are you waiting for someone?”
I jump at the unfamiliar voice and release the curtain, whirling around. My gaze lands on two blondes in black dresses. I recognize one of them from when I was chained to the chandelier. The other woman I haven’t met yet, but both of their scarves are dark red.
Griff certainly keeps busy.
One of them quirks their brow, and I shake my head. “No. I was looking for Aubrey, actually.”
“She’s tied up at the moment.”
I find myself wondering if they
’re speaking literally or figuratively, but decide not to ask. “Okay. I’ll just . . .” I start to step around them, but they both frown, so I stop and point to the bandage on my left foot. “Needed a new bandage. It’s not a big deal. I can find one myself.”
The girl I’d never seen until now leans down for a closer look. “Is it a cut?”
“A burn.”
Her eyes brighten. “Oh, yes.” She lifts the hem of her dress and points proudly to a scar on the back of her thigh. “Easy to get carried away, isn’t it?” She winks, and I smile and nod because I don’t know what else to do. She lets out an easy laugh and gestures behind her. “Go back through the ladies’ quarters, to the spa. You’ll find some extras stored in the supply cabinets.”
“Thanks.”
Leaving them in the lobby, I make my way back to the endless halls, but I have no intention of returning to the ladies’ quarters until I see what’s on the second floor, besides Raife’s office. I reach the staircase and lift my foot when a cracked door a few rooms down catches my eye. Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I contemplate. It’s possible someone is in that room, which is why the door was left slightly ajar. If that’s the case, I could be sent back to my bedroom before I find out what else is upstairs.
Then again, there’s a chance no one’s there. It’s not often a room is left open in this house, and with my luck, all I’ll find upstairs are locked doors.
Decision made, I turn and head toward it. When I reach the room and hear only silence, I nudge the door open with my elbow and the pitch-black entrance envelopes me.
A scream catches in my throat when my next footstep swipes through the empty air, and I go tumbling forward. My full weight crashes into something solid. Large hands lock around my waist, and I’m lifted off the ground. Finally I can see again when I’m back in the hallway and released so I’m standing on my own two feet. A burst of air rushes from my lungs, and I look up to see who caught me.
“Lost?” Adam’s voice is low, calm, as usual, but his eyes are a full blown midnight storm when I meet his gaze. My attention wanders on its own when I take in the tension coiled in his stiff shoulders, his tousled hair reminding me of when I ran my hands through it.
A tremor rolls between my thighs, and I swallow. Hard.
“Sorry. I was looking for the, um”—I point awkwardly at my foot—“for a bandage.”
His gaze flicks down. Then he drags it up my bare legs, past the edge of my skimpy nighty, and lets it drift up my curves before landing on my lips. “In the basement,” he says dryly.
The basement? My eyes narrow on the now-closed door behind Adam. Of course. That isn’t a room; it’s a staircase. I return my attention to his and almost shrink back at his dark expression. “I was trying to find the spa.”
A muscle ticks beneath his stubble. “Of course you were.”
Warm fingers grip my scarf, and I gasp as I’m tugged forward. I trot behind Adam’s long footsteps, my heart thumping against my ribcage as I trip over my own feet, up the stairs and down another hallway.
“Wh—where are you taki—”
He storms inside another room with me at his heels. Stopping once we reach the desk, he pushes a button on the phone but doesn’t release my scarf. The heat of his skin sears my neck, and I inhale a sharp breath.
“Yes, Mr. Matthews?” Stella’s voice rings through the speaker.
“Bring me a black scarf. Then have Emmy’s things moved to my room.”
All the air is sucked from my lungs. What did he just say?
“But, sir, our guidelines state that all secretaries are to room in the ladies’ quar—”
“The guidelines just changed. Now bring me her scarf.”
There’s a pause, then, “Right away.”
The line goes dead, and Adam finally releases me, but he doesn’t look at me. He turns away and swipes his palm over his mouth, then yanks the collar around his neck until it opens up. I watch as he takes a breath, the muscles in his back and shoulders tensing, then he slowly exhales and faces me.
He dips his hands in his pockets and sits back against the desk, watching me closely. “From now on, you’ll go where I tell you to go. You’ll report to me and only me. You’ll address me however you want, I don’t fucking care, but you do not, under any circumstance, call me Master.” Something flashes in his eyes, and my breath shortens with the beat of my heart. “Do you understand?”
My throat goes dry. I wet my lips with my tongue and nod. “I understand.”
I wish my voice was strong, but it’s just as weak as the rest of me.
If there ever was a time not to be fragile, this is it.
“I can resist everything except temptation.”
—Oscar Wilde, Lady Windermere’s Fan
Silence settles between us. It’s so quiet the rapid beating of my heart thrums in my ears. A heavy current of tension wafts in the air, his gaze unflinching as I reach up and slowly untie the golden scarf. The knot comes undone, and I let the silk slip down my arm to the floor.
He tracks every move I make.
Stella’s heels click from behind as she enters the room then appears right in front of me. With a warm smile, she starts to wrap a black scarf around my neck.
Adam pushes off the desk and takes a step toward me. She glances at him, her hands going still.
“I’ll take it from here.”
“Of course.” Without another word, she hands him the scarf, gives us both a small nod, and exits the office.
He studies me for a moment, my heart skipping a beat at the way his eyes trail, lazy and hot, over my face. He takes a step closer, then another. I hold my breath when the heat radiating off his body touches me. He stops, his chest inches from my face, and I feel myself shrink as the full scope of our height difference sinks in. Tonight’s the first time I’ve stood before him without my heels on, and his tall, broad frame threatens to crush all 5’ 2” of me with a single move.
My gaze crawls up, up, until I meet his eyes. They’re narrowed on me, darkening with every second that ticks by.
Slowly, he brings the scarf to my neck. My skin prickles with awareness as warm fingers and smooth silk graze my throat, leaving a trail of addictive heat everywhere his hands touch. A shiver rolls through me, my eyes threatening to flutter shut. His jaw ticks as he watches my expression. With a rough pull against my skin, he ties the scarf into a knot on my left side.
He doesn’t let go.
“I’m going to ask you this once, Emmy Highland.” My heart stills as the dangerous hum in his deep voice travels down my body. His stare burns into me, his hold tightening and the material biting into my neck. “Why are you here?”
My eyes go wide, my lips part. He’s caught me off guard, and I have no idea how to respond. There’s no way I can tell the truth. A spark gleams in his eyes, like he sees everything I’m thinking, and my insides seize.
My scratchy throat rasps the first response that comes to mind. “To serve you.”
He tilts his head and takes one final step toward me, his shoes touching my toes. “And why are you here to serve me?” His voice is quiet, even patient. Such a contrast to the fiery look in his eyes.
I run my tongue along my bottom lip, my lungs tightening as though his body is stealing my breath. “Because I want to,” I whisper. “I want to serve you.”
Butterflies whirl inside my stomach as my response fills the quiet office. Right now, with his lips so close I can almost taste them, my words ring with too much honesty.
Adam’s gaze darts to my lips, lingering for a beat before he intently scans every inch of my face—searching. Heat floods my skin with each second spent under his scrutiny. I wonder what he thinks he’ll find. More than that, I wonder what he already has.
He breaks away, and I almost stumble forward at the sudden absence in the air. His eyes never once leave mine while he leans against the corner of the desk.
I rub my palms against my nighty as I watch him slowly, meticulously, scrub
the side of his jaw, his thumb tracing the curve of his lips.
“Leave.” The growl makes my toes curl.
“But—”
“Aubrey should be back in the spa now. She’ll get you a new”—his gaze flicks to my foot, burning straight through the wound and putting my lie on display—“bandage . . . and show you to my room.” A swallow sticks in my throat. “Stay there until you’re told otherwise.”
When my feet remain frozen against the marble, his brow quirks, and he adds, “Unless you’d rather spend the night with Griff?”
Just like that, my muscles thaw and I’m walking backwards. “Yes, Mast—”
A warning glare and twitch in his jaw stops me short.
“Sir.” Spinning around, I release an unsteady breath and wonder how the hell I got myself into this.
“People don’t like it when the flame becomes a wildfire.
Fuck them. Burn anyway.”
—Erin Van Vuren
“Hang up the phone.”
Raife’s eyes brighten when he glances at me. The shithead. He grins and waves me over, cell phone still pressed to his ear and feet kicked up on his desk. I stroll toward him, snatch the phone, end the call, then toss it back.
“Okay, that was a little rude.” He lowers his feet to the ground and sits up to slip the phone into his pocket. “That could have been a client.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It could have been.”
I sit across from him and relax into the seat, contemplating.
Raife runs our business front. The first dime the four of us ever claimed as a group was from Misha, the underground name that now motivates everything we do. It took years, a shitload of trial and error, and hard-as-fuck work for us to become the well-oiled machine we are now. But early on following Katerina’s death, Felix worked out how to infiltrate some of her offshore accounts and make her profits ours—under our new names once we’d reinvented ourselves.