by Sable Jordan
She felt so good. Weightless. Like she was floating. That was the problem with being an agent—feet always planted firmly on the ground. Dealing with the harsh reality that the world was an utterly miserable place filled with people doing their damndest to keep it that way. You can’t afford to dream when you’re fighting. Have to be awake in your sleep. Can’t even for a moment close your eyes and let your guard down, feel pain, feel anything.
Kizzie was taking this moment.
Another crack, sharp on her right leg and she uuuhhhnned, lifted on her toes again. This pain was different. This pain she wanted to feel, to hold on to and ride hard.
Then the oddest thing happened. Her mouth flooded with a taste of…of… She couldn’t pinpoint it. Somewhere on the scale between chocolate and chili—a memory of something she’d had long ago. She could smell it. Dark and spicy and sweet; deliciously indescribable. A perfect circle with a rich texture coarse like raw silk, the edges frayed. She wanted more.
The next lash landed with intent between her thighs, kissing her clit. It hit again, and again and again, each accurate strike sending currents of electricity streaking from that tiny spot throughout her body. His hand… “Oh, god!”
Yes. More. She needed more. The hurt was too good.
“Color?”
She didn’t even think about it, the response a greedy beg. “Green! Green-green, Sir!”
Knees locked and shoulders strained, her whole body jerked with the force of her climax. She jumped at the next smack on her leg sending another dose of ‘Oooooo, yeah’ slithering through her, creeping up her spine and exploding in her skull.
The hits came harder, moans got louder and every answer was “Green!”
That’s what it was—the taste. It was green. And if it wasn’t it would always be associated that way. Green was beautiful music and chocolate and spice; was Xander’s seductive tone and heavy hand, the rough pain of the whip and the delicious orgasms chasing each other, one after another.
It was the shade of the brink—lighter on the top, darker at the bottom, and every color green in between.
Was the ribbon in the black hair the day she’d found her: “Doesn’t hurt anymore, Kizzie...”. All that red and all she could see was that teeny tiny strip of emerald green.
Her heart sped up, tapping out a beat much too fast.
The lash fell. She didn’t feel it.
The crowd clapped. She didn’t hear it.
Green was the metallic slide rearing back to swallow a cartridge, the subdued nanosecond between the cock of the hammer and the burn of cordite. It was hitting your target while hanging upside down; the peaceful rush of danger when staring down a muzzle and thinking about your next meal.
Green was midnight in Columbia and autumn in Da Nang; Christmas in Oslo and sun-up in Jo’berg.
Wednesday in Finland.
Green was the tint of the car. Dad’s pajamas. Mom’s favorite purse. The robes the choir wore—“Goin’ up yonnnddeerrrr…”—and the new preacher spouting about joy coming in the morning.
It was the stain of the grass, dark green—so fucking green she couldn’t see the red, white, and blue triangle the man in the hat reverently pressed to her lap after the bassline exploded 13 times—Blam! Blam!
The whip connected—she gasped for breath.
BLAM!
“Gigi, your color?” Xander urged.
That was the second time he’d asked and she hadn’t answered. She didn’t hear him—didn’t know he’d stopped. Her mind was nowhere near Helsinki—wasn’t even in the present. It was cleaved between a multitude of pasts and lost futures she’d been steadily moving away from; that had given her shape and texture.
Purpose.
Shame she’d walled up and forgotten. Helplessness she’d buried. Deeds she couldn’t undo.
Her life had never been yellow. Even as a kid, never slow or cautious.
Red? Pssht! What. The. Fuck. Is. Red?
Nope, it’d always been green—just different saturations of the same hue. Every experience, every moment dipped in the decadent, addictive flavor of go. She’d gorged on go—breakfast, lunch, and dinner was go. Sex was go. Pain was go. Life was go. Go. GO!
The faster green moved the better.
No time for waiting; no room for patience.
Air rushed from her lungs, burned on the way back in; vision blurred by tears; the stench of people in the room.
Couldn’t hear the chocolate.
Couldn’t smell the downbeat.
Couldn’t feel his voice.
Pain in Kizzie’s shoulders; her feet were on the ground.
Green had never tasted so sad.
* * * *
It took Xander all of three seconds to realize she was in subspace, and he was so surprised, so proud, that wanted to keep going. His cock stiffened at the way she’d begged—“Green-green.” She sounded so beautiful when she came. He wanted to find a room and slip inside her, follow her back to that state of absolute mindlessness. They’d be good together; he just knew it.
He hadn’t used a whip in a long time, almost gave in to the temptation to continue in order to ride out the sensations her responses evoked in him. But then he would have missed the shift. Something changed. Not with the way he threw the whip, but in her. She struggled, no longer responding to his checks or to the lash.
The euphoria of getting her there was immediately replaced with regret for having pushed her. Unfastening Kizzie from the bindings, she fought in his grip. “Stop,” he commanded. “Let me help.”
Once free, he lifted her and carried her to a couch, sinking into the leather with her on his lap. He was vaguely aware of the crowd departing, focused on holding her, giving her what she didn’t know she needed. She tried to push away.
“What are…?”
“Aftercare. What you just went through….” Xander thumbed the water from her eyes, and she jerked away. “Just...just relax. Let me hold you.”
She stiffened further, if possible, and she seemed to come out of her daze in a flash. “Don’t need it.” With efficient swipes she passed the back of her hand over her lids.
She’s new to this, X. Be patient. She doesn’t understand.
Xander couldn’t be upset with her. He’d put her in a dangerous situation—an untrained non-sub and a whip was already a horrible combination. Then he’d pressed forward without preparing her for how intense subspace could be. He had no idea he would get her there. And as a result, he’d broken a dam on emotions he was sure she’d worked hard to shore up.
He felt like an ass. What had Phil called it—A life within a life? They were constantly at odds with each other, the man and the Dom, and tonight they’d had a full-on fistfight with Kizzie in the middle. She had a right to be mad at him. He was mad at himself.
Sumi appeared with a bottle of water. Gaze turned away from his, she offered it saying, “If you wish it, for your Gigi, Master Duquesne.” She draped his discarded coat over the arm of the couch.
Thanking her, he took the drink and unscrewed the cap, holding it to Kizzie’s lips. She swallowed a mouthful, another—shivered in spite of her skin being hot.
He never should have played with her, and especially not with a whip. But after seeing her all tied up he’d be damned if Sacha went and ruined her. Still, a good Dominant knew his submissive’s mind first, learned what triggers to be aware of. Then he worked his way up to intense play. He didn’t know Kizzie at all; should have backed off, but that initial response stirred things in him he hadn’t felt since—
God, he felt bad. What he wouldn’t give to hear her smart mouth right about now.
The puppet departed, leaving Xander and Kizzie alone. The bottle was almost empty, and he pulled it away, set it aside so he could hold her again. He rocked back against the cushions and hugged her closer, one hand stroking over her head, the other caressing her leg.
“Stop.” He resigned to only passing over her hair and she said, “All of it. I told you, I don’t
need this. Sir.” It was whispered, but the tone was harsh and she didn’t relax against him as he’d hoped.
“Maybe it’s not for you,” he said softly.
“Honestly, Xander, I couldn’t give a damn about what you need at the moment. I’m here for Harvey. So get the hell off me, and let me go find it.”
Anger engulfed him in the span of a blink. Why couldn’t she just accept the comfort he was giving? He ground his teeth, said evenly, “Sacha would have beaten you till you bled.”
“Red would’ve been a blessing…” she murmured. “I don’t get you. Your protective streak is confusing the hell out’a me. This was your game plan—Trojan horse? Using each other? I know I’m expendable, Duquesne. Knew it when I signed on; live with it every day of my life. And I can take a lot more than you or Sacha or anybody else can dole out. Go back to being a bad guy, and get your head in the game.”
Kizzie pushed off his lap and he let her go. “Where are you going?” When she whirled on him, there was no mistaking the haunted look in her eyes, regardless of how hard she tried to mask it.
“To the bathroom, Sir. Then I’m going to take another look around—Maybe keep Sacha occupied for you.” She motioned to his watch. “I know what that really is. Clearly you have a secondary agenda I’m not privy to. Ya’ might want to go make that happen, slick.”
That angered him further, but he reached out to help when she stood on wobbly legs. “You—”
“I’m fine.”
Xander watched until she left the room. She was right. He needed to take himself out of Master mode and get back to focusing on the goal. She wanted to be left alone, he’d leave her stubborn ass alone. She wasn’t his sub—wasn’t his anything.
And she damn sure wasn’t her.
Kizzie Baldwin was a trained agent who could take care of herself. Didn’t need anybody, especially not him. She’d probably been through worse. Beneath the sexy façade was a ruthless killer, and ruthless killers didn’t need equally ruthless criminals to feel bad for putting them in dangerous situations.
“Fuck it.”
He’d follow through with Plan B. Wouldn’t think any more on Plan A. He’d gotten her in, now he’d let her get to work on enticing Sacha into keeping her around. Xander wouldn’t think about Sokoviev being so coked out of his brain that he beat the shit out of her. Miss Billy Badass could take it. Even if that meant she had to screw the guy. Kizzie wasn’t worried about it, why should he?
Yeah…Fuck it. Xander shrugged into his coat, shifted his shoulders.
He wanted to hit something.
He stood and left the room, hoping they found Harvey so he didn’t have to leave her in this madhouse.
* * * *
Standing a short distance down the hall, Sumi’s eyes tracked Gigi to the bathroom. Whipping scenes had always been thrilling for her, and she knew what it was like to have an emotional release the way Gigi had. She could only imagine what that would be like with everyone watching. That thrill she didn’t know. The Kukol´nik didn’t use Sumi to play at the parties, relegating her to hostess. Still, she admired Master Duquesne’s skill with the tail, and for a brief moment wondered what it would feel like to be under his command of it.
The Kukol´nik had never been good with a whip. But then he’d never taken the time to learn how to wield it properly. Not that she’d ever mention it to him. He was not the type of Master who fostered open dialogue. His way or no way—and it had taken some getting used to, but she’d done it.
She knew from his blank stare that the Kukol´nik had not been pleased when Master Duquesne took over Gigi’s punishment. He would be even more demanding of the puppet he took to the Dungeon later.
The guests had migrated to another room where mummification was taking place. It was always interesting to watch, especially when the person being cocooned was a first-timer. Some panicked; some enjoyed it; some had emotional breaks. There was something very powerful about being completely bound with your arms and legs secured tightly to your side, dependant on someone else to release you. She enjoyed seeing it, but a good hostess knew where she was needed. Sumi had a feeling she was needed here.
Nearly ten minutes had passed and Gigi had not emerged. Her Master Duquesne had gone, and only a few people roamed the hallways, looking for a place for private play. Even Master Vadim had disappeared.
On silent feet, Sumi padded to the restroom, gently knocked on the door.
“Gigi?”
No response, and she turned the handle to peek in.
“Gigi. Are you all right?”
Hands gripping the sink, the other woman stared into the mirror. She appeared to be lost, her gaze not fixed on anything in particular. “Gigi?”
Sumi took a quick glance around before stepping inside. “Here, let me help.” She wet a towel and wiped the woman’s face. Then she slung a long brown arm over her own delicate shoulders and eased into the hallway.
Gigi stumbled along beside her. “Just so…ti—”
Sceneing took a lot out of a submissive, the physical and mental and emotional strain often too much to handle. “I know,” Sumi assured. “It happens to me sometimes after too. Don’t worry. I’m here. We’ll just let you rest a minute.”
A dozen slow paces later, she opened the door to a bedroom and helped Gigi inside.
* * * *
Lying on her side when she heard the twin footsteps, the puppet hurried to correct the error. In her penitent pose before his office, Zlata’s heart thundered in her chest as Sacha approached. She didn’t have to see his expressionless face to know he was in a mood. His earlier rage was bad enough, but now, even his gait seemed heavier, angrier than usual. She tensed just as he passed, expecting him to strike her again, but he kept walking.
A guard flanked him, the two talking in conspiratorial tones. She caught the last string of the conversation. “…a while and kill him. Meet me in the dungeon. Bring his bitch.”
Quick footfalls going back the way they’d come let her know the protector had departed to carry out his order. Zlata rocked her head a bit to the left to see Sacha continuing down the hall. A glance to the right showed the henchman had already disappeared around a corner.
Now’s your chance. She was glad Sumi wasn’t around. Sumi was a puppet—had been conditioned for the life. But Zlata…Zlata wasn’t a puppet at all. She was something else entirely.
She hadn’t been able to get to Gigi, but it was only a slight alteration; she could still make this scheme happen. Her breathing increased, coming out in harsh rasps that shook her frail body. Another look to the left—Sacha was still there, his back to her, proceeding slowly down the long corridor. His inebriated state would make it even easier. But could she really do this?
Courage.
He was going to the Dungeon—she’d be going the same way.
A fortifying breath and she pushed herself from the ground. Didn’t even let the numbness in her legs subside before she padded down the hall after him, ready to carry out the plan.
11
The mechanical sound of a lift brought Kizzie’s awareness back to the present, and she felt herself being hefted from the ground. A rope tugged at each wrist until they were above her head; another raised her left leg so the toes pointed toward the ceiling, the right hanging free so it dangled just above the floor. The harsh scent of glue assaulted her nostrils and she tried to get a breath through her mouth. It was taped shut.
Her eyes opened, vision blurry, mind fuzzy, and she fought to recall what had happened—Xander whipping her, Xander confusing her, Xander giving her water. Xander, Xander, Xander. Like hitting the slots in Bizarro-world’s perverse version of Vegas. That triple X meant she’d lost.
In the dim light Kizzie blinked several times, trying to focus on the other person in the room. All she could see was black hair and rope.
“Hello, Gigi.” A wicked grin replaced Sumi’s bright smile, and her eyes didn’t hold the same animated innocence they had before. Even her voice was di
fferent, rougher. She slapped Kizzie’s face. “Wake up now. There’s not a lot of time left and the Kukol´nik will want his new puppet alert.”
Taking in her surroundings, Kizzie noticed she was in some sort of underground chamber. Air warmish and damp; walls and ceiling were roughened bedrock, and at intervals around the space sconces provided the weak light source. A dizzying array of torture devices were stationed about the large room and in the three directions she could see were entrances to the cavern. She assumed there was a fourth at her back. Where they led specifically, she didn’t know. All she understood for sure was that they went out, and that was where she needed to get.
She looked down to find the corset and thong gone, her body completely exposed. Lovely.
Kizzie wriggled her lips to loosen the duct tape. The deranged doll assisted by ripping it away roughly.
“That better?”
She coughed, ignoring the pain in her joints from her limbs being restrained. Again. With only the three points bearing the full load of her weight, it felt as though one side was being slowly ripped in half.
Sumi grabbed hold of the bound leg and walked in a tight circle, the three lengths of cord in the rings above twisting about themselves. She continued to turn, winding Kizzie tighter and tighter, until she finally came to a stop, holding her suspended in place.
“The last puppet I bound this way,” Sumi shook her head sadly, “didn’t last long.” Angled a bit, she motioned to the tools on a stone slab not far from the platform they were on. “The Master likes his knives, and the puppet just couldn’t keep still.”
She let Kizzie go, the ropes untwisting and sending her spinning, slowly at first, then faster and faster until they had unwound, caught, and started twining in the other direction. Kizzie thought she’d be sick, her system begging her to toss whatever it had ingested.
“Master will be so pleased with his new toy. He liked the way you danced up there. I could tell. Until your Master stepped in. The Kukol´nik did not like that.” She shook her head firmly. “But now he can play with you as long as he likes. Nope, won’t miss me one bit….”