Debase

by Rachel Van Dyken

  I gulped, suddenly insecure and worried he was going to hit me or raise his voice.

  My gaze locked on his gloved hands.

  I didn’t realize I was shaking until he took a step toward me, and I tried to grab onto the countertop and missed because my hands wouldn’t stay still.

  And yet he kept walking.

  Every muscle in perfect view.

  Every muscle growing before my very eyes.

  How had I thought this guy was lean?

  Lethal. Yes.

  Lean? Hard no.

  His blue eyes flickered with something as his lips parted like he was going to speak and then he whispered with barely controlled rage. “Are those my clothes?”

  Shit.

  I gulped. “I figured you would want me to throw away my clothes, and I didn’t exactly have any other choices, and you hate it when I ask stupid questions.”

  “Know me so well already, do you six thirty-two?” He tilted his head.

  I could see a few splatters of blood still on his neck.

  Whose blood?

  My brother’s?

  Another De Lange family member?

  How many of us had to die for them to be happy?

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife I recognized. It was covered in blood. He slammed it onto the counter, the sound slicing through the silence between us. “For you.”

  “That’s Rome’s knife,” I whispered in disbelief. “Where did you get it?”

  “Oh, he handed it to me, and then I cut out this.” He reached into his other pocket and placed a piece of what looked like tongue next to the knife. “You can thank me now.”

  I couldn’t move.

  Couldn’t breathe or think.

  “Y-you cut out his tongue?”

  “It was either that or chopping off his dick, and I figured you’d want to do the honors. I wasn’t wrong, was I?” He crossed his arms across his perfect chest and waited.

  “No.” I cleared my throat. “No, you weren’t wrong.”

  “Excellent.” He swept past me, leaving the tokens of whatever he’d just done sitting on the counter I’d just cleaned. I couldn’t look away. “You need clothes that are clean.”

  “That’s why I grabbed—”

  He held up his hand without turning around, silencing me immediately. “I said, you need clothes that are clean. What you don’t understand is that I may have a ridiculous amount of clothing, but all of that clothing has been touched by me. Nothing is clean, you need clothes that are clean.”

  “You make it sound like you don’t shower.” I tried teasing.

  It was a very bad idea.

  He looked over his shoulder and scowled. “The proper response is ‘yes, great idea, by the way thank you for torturing my rapist and saving my life.’”

  “Yes.” Searing tears filled my eyes. “Great idea.”

  He tapped his foot impatiently.

  “And thank you for torturing my rapist and saving my life.”

  “Better, six thirty-two, better.” He nodded and then pulled out a cell phone. “Yeah, I’ll need everything. For a female.” He walked back to me and without blinking, cupped a breast. “D cup,” His hand slid around my side, I was too stunned, too angry to move. He had no right to touch me! I hated my response to it almost as much as I hated the fact that he had no physical or emotional reaction other than a blank stare. “Thirty-six,” That same hand slid down my ass. “Medium, some small,” I squeezed my eyes shut, praying his clinical inspection would be over soon. He looked down. “Seven and a half.”

  He dropped his hand and slid his cell back into his pocket like nothing had happened when I was shaking like a leaf.

  “I’m not a rapist, six thirty-two, I was just trying to get you clothes, so if you’d stop standing there looking like I wronged you, I’d appreciate it. I’ve been surrounded by beautiful women my entire life. Believe me when I say, nothing about you tempts me to finally act on it.”

  He jerked away.

  Something crashed in the other room.

  Loud cursing ensued for a few minutes.

  And that’s when I realized he’d said finally.

  As if he’d never once acted on it in his entire life.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Andrei

  I SLAMMED THE bedroom door closed and leaned against it, my body still shaking from the touch.

  I stared down at my gloved hands. My fingers were trembling, I watched in fascination as they refused to still.

  So that’s what it felt like.

  To feel human.

  To touch someone and have no choice but to respond.

  I willed them to stop shaking.

  I pulled the glove from my right hand then slipped the other from my left. Every time I stared at my bare hands, I saw blood on them.

  A therapist would have a fucking field day with me. Rationally, I knew blood wasn’t there, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to wash my hands a dozen times a day.

  Or from wearing gloves so people didn’t see the stains.

  So they didn’t see the death.

  Hands were tools.

  Mine were covered in blood.

  And I’d been tempted.

  To take off one glove, to see if her skin was really as warm as it felt beneath the leather, if she would respond. If she would take that lip between her teeth and bite, would her eyes dilate the way grown women’s did when I walked past them?

  I’d had my fair share of encounters.

  But when a man feels nothing.

  He stops trying.

  Did it even matter?

  I laughed to myself. It sounded wrong coming from my lips. Men like me didn’t laugh, and if we did it was usually out of cruelty.

  I stood in front of the mirror, blood splattered all over my chest, my neck, what possible reason did I have to think that this girl, born in the wrong family, at the wrong time, would be the one person capable of breaking the curse?

  The one person able to touch me.

  To make me feel anything other than the slippery tendrils of death as it choked me on a daily basis.

  I was an idiot to think that she would be different.

  Just like she was an idiot to think that this was anything other than me keeping her safe from those who wanted her blood for no other reason than it was De Lange.

  I shoved my hands back into the gloves and stared at my reflection in disgust as I reared back and punched the mirror with my right hand sending glass crashing to the floor.

  Glass crunched beneath my boots as I did a slow semi-circle. I ripped off my gloves again and hurled them against the bed, kicked off my boots hitting the wall and then jerked off my pants and threw them against the ground, leaning over the dresser completely nude, wondering what the hell I was going to do with six thirty-two.

  Alice.

  No.

  She had no name.

  No names.

  No names.

  I felt the name in my head, though, like a drum beat, Alice, Alice, Alice De Lange.

  Chase wouldn’t understand. He would kill her.

  Tex already wanted her blood.

  I would need to find a replacement.

  And in the meantime, I would figure out a way to keep her safe and keep myself sane.

  This was probably one of the most suicidal things I’d done in my entire life, keeping an enemy under my own roof, feeding her, clothing her… like a fucking pet.

  Yeah, a therapist would just love to get in my head, wouldn’t he?

  A knock sounded on my bedroom door. “I heard a crash, are you okay?”

  I jerked my head toward the door. Was she serious?

  I stomped over to the door and jerked it open. “Unless you hear gunshots, I’m fine, and you really only need to worry about that on August third.”

  She frowned her cheeks heating. “It’s August third.”

  “August third at one a.m. You’ll be happy to know the reason I’m not dead is because the
gun didn’t go off, so save your worry for next year when I try again. Now go be useful somewhere else. And six thirty-two, knock on my door again and I’m going to take one of your hands as a souvenir.”

  I slammed the door in her face.

  Why did she have to be so provoking?

  And beautiful?

  And why the hell would me being naked cause her to blush? It made no sense; so much so that I wanted to ask her what sort of girl was still able to blush after what she’d been put through.

  I stomped into the bathroom and flipped on the shower. Then I grabbed a brand-new piece of wrapped soap, discarded the paper, and hopped into the shower.

  Fresh soap every time.

  And no matter how many times I ran that soap over my body, I saw red. All I ever saw…

  Was red.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Alice

  HE’D BEEN COMPLETELY naked.

  Still covered in blood splatters.

  And if I heard him correctly, he was talking about killing himself. What sort of guy attempted — according to him — suicide once a year?

  My heart constricted.

  I tried not to think about how selfish I was being by wanting to see a window, by wanting to be useful.

  A knock sounded on the door. I put the remote down and went over to open it, but it opened on its own.

  “Hey there.” A woman who looked old enough to be my grandma held out her hand. “I’m Georgie, I have clothes for you.”

  “Oh.” I shook her hand firmly, as she sized me up and then winked. “He was right about your sizes. Astonishing, the man’s never been wrong. It’s in his hands. He just feels a woman body and knows what would look good on her. Well, we don’t want to keep him waiting. You know how Andrei gets, impatient little shit—”

  Like some kind of ninja phantom, he appeared in the doorway.

  “Andrei, we were just talking about you.” She beamed.

  He actually smiled at that. “What was it you said? Impatient little shit? Is that my nickname today, Georgie?”

  “Someone needs to humble you.” She beamed like she was proud of him, and he seemed intent on ignoring her positive attention. She turned and reached for something in the hallway then pulled in a giant rack with dozens of bags hanging on it along with enough clothes for ten women. “All right, I’ll just leave this here, keep what you like, let me know if you need more, and I’ll bring it back tomorrow.” She leveled him with a sly smile. “If you’re hoping to get a good price on this one, I’d suggest the white dress.”

  I felt my body sway.

  Price? As in sell me?

  To who?

  For what?

  I tried to keep my expression closed when my heart was squeezing painfully in my chest, he said I was safe.

  And I believed him.

  “Not selling her, not yet,” he said in a bored voice. “That will be all, Georgie.”

  “Bye, handsome.” She winked and closed the door behind her leaving us blanketed in silence.

  Andrei was wearing a pair of designer jeans and a long sleeve black shirt that molded to his body like a second skin.

  He went to the rack and started looking through it. At that point, I noticed he still wore his leather gloves, these ones were clean.

  It was on the tip of my tongue to ask why when he tossed a bag to me. “Keep the heels. I don’t like the Nikes — color’s too loud, and you won’t be needing them. The Prada are nice if you don’t fall flat on your face in them…” He sighed and then pulled down a beautiful black cocktail dress. “This will be perfect for dinner.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Dinner.”

  “With you?”

  “No, with a ghost,” he deadpanned. “Do you see anyone else in the room?”

  “No.”

  “Logic. Try using it,” he snapped then shoved the dress in my hands. “We leave in an hour.”

  “We’re leaving?” Why the heck was I repeating everything he said like I was mentally handicapped?

  His eyebrows shot up. “I imagined you would learn quicker than this. I don’t owe you explanations, six thirty-two, only my protection, right? Ergo, turn your ass around march into the bathroom, put on the clothes, try not to break your leg in those shoes and do something with that mop of hair on your head—” He frowned and then he went over to the kitchen and grabbed a pair of scissors.

  I backed away.

  He took another step toward me.

  I put a bar stool between us.

  “Scissors are the worst weapon to use. The handles get caught on your knuckles. If I was going to hurt you, I’d use a serrated knife. Stop backing away and hold still.”

  Shaking, I didn’t move as he walked behind me. His body heat radiated against my back, and it was playing with my head, with my emotions, with everything because I had this weird reaction to his nearness. Like I wanted to lean back against him even though he had scissors in his hands.

  Like I wanted him to hold me and tell me it was going to be okay.

  But I knew I was nothing more than a prisoner to him.

  A new toy he could dress up until he was bored.

  That’s probably why Georgie didn’t seem surprised to see me in there.

  He’d been surrounded by beautiful women all his life, and he was right. I had nothing special that he wanted.

  Hadn’t my brother said the same thing?

  I hung my head just as Andrei whispered behind me. “I’m adding a layer.”

  “So you cut tongues and hair?”

  He tugged harder than he needed to, making me wince. “Are you actually teasing the man with the weapon?”

  “Are you actually cutting a whore’s hair?” It was out before I could stop it. I meant it as a way to deflect what I knew in my heart was true.

  My brother had made me a whore.

  My dad had allowed it.

  And this man was going to sell me for it, wasn’t he?

  Big fat tears collected in my eyes.

  I refused to let them fall.

  A gloved hand touched my shoulder, I was being slowly turned around to face him. I didn’t want to look at his cold ruthless eyes. I knew what I would see there.

  Indifference.

  I hated it more than the rage I saw in my brother’s eyes, because at least I could react and plan.

  With Andrei I just hoped and waited.

  “Look at me,” he snapped.

  I lifted my head, and when I wasn’t lifting it fast enough he shoved two gloved fingers below my chin and gripped it tight. “Call yourself a whore again, and you won’t like the consequences.”

  “Isn’t that what this is? Georgie said something about being sold.”

  “Do you have chains around your ankles, six thirty-two?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have a tattoo on your ankle with a lock on it?”

  “No,” I rasped.

  “Then you aren’t one of the women being sold. And in order to stay that way, in my good graces and in God’s, I’d suggest you stand still so I don’t accidently give you bangs. You would look shitty with bangs.”

  I frowned. “What sort of—”

  “Shhh…” He smirked, then, like he was enjoying himself. “It’s been a while since I’ve cut hair.”

  “Alarming,” I muttered, earning another small smile that was gone too soon as the sound of snipping filled the air.

  He was gentle.

  It was strange.

  The man with the leather gloves who cut out tongues had a gentle touch.

  I would have preferred rough.

  I had no idea what to expect when he pulled away with pieces of my hair clutched in his hand.

  He held my hair up to his nose and sniffed and then he tucked the cut pieces into his jean pocket and crossed his arms. “Not bad.”

  “Not bad but not good either?” I asked in a small voice.

  “Asking for compliments?” He was so close I could almost taste the cologne he wore
— it was warm, spicy.

  “N-no.” I ducked my head.

  “Pity, because I would have given you one.” He jerked his head toward the bathroom. “Go dress, you’re about to be thrown into a den of hungry lions, only worse, they’re Italian and they hate vodka. Mention your name and you won’t make it out of their cave alive, understand?”

  “Yes.” I straightened my shoulders and locked eyes with him. “I’m six thirty-two… I don’t have a name.”

  “Good girl,” he whispered. “Very, very, good.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Andrei

  SHE HAD TWO minutes before we were supposed to be leaving.

  When she had one minute left, the bathroom door swung open. She had her hair in a high ponytail, and the black cocktail dress did wonders for her already curvy body.

  It was a simple little black dress that had a high neck in front and a scooped back. It was form fitting and it looked perfect with the nude spiked Valentino heels.

  I grabbed a long fake fur coat from the rack and held it out to her. “Time to go.”

  Her eyes widened as she slipped into it and then held it close like the fur was comforting to her skin.

  Hmm.

  I held out my hand to her.

  She stared at the gloves.

  New gloves.

  Ones that didn’t that have blood on them, not that it mattered since blood followed me wherever I went.

  After a brief hesitation, she placed her hand in mine. I held it tight, mainly because I wanted to show ownership when we walked down the halls and through the bar.

  People needed to know they couldn’t touch her.

  Not without my consent.

  “Don’t make eye contact with anyone. They’ll think it’s an invitation, and I’ve already hit my quota on murders today.”

  “Okay.” Her voice was weak; her skin was pale.

  Shit.

  She looked like she was walking to her death.

  They needed her to look… alive.

  Content.

  Not scared for her life.

  Those men, they smelled fear. They lived for it. They wanted the ones that were scared because they fucking got off on it.

  Shit.

  “You need to look more excited than that,” I said once I pulled the door open. “More confident. I need you to play a part, do you understand me?”