by Jade Lee
“No. Yes.” She threw up her arms in disgust. “I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter anyway.”
But it did matter to him. He wasn’t even sure why. She was a confessed opium smuggler. He had the moral right and obligation to kill her for her crimes. The drug traffic had to end. Lenience had never been an option. Certainly not for the man called the Emperor’s Enforcer. And yet, he didn’t want to kill her. He wanted to understand.
“Where were you going?”
She didn’t answer, but he saw her reach toward her neckline. She once wore a tiny Christian cross there, he remembered. Apparently the memory still lingered because she kept her fingers right above her heart, twisting and rubbing though she wore no ornament.
“Where?” he abruptly shouted, and he saw her start in surprise, her hand dropping away from her throat.
She whipped around to face him. “England! Or Australia!” There was conviction in her whole body. She truly had meant to leave. But then she looked away. “It doesn’t matter. I was leaving. I want to leave.”
“With your drug?”
She threw up her hands in disgust. “I could not sell it anymore! It would only be sold to farmers, to mothers, to people who could not afford such a thing. Don’t you understand? We sell ourselves, our heirlooms, even our children just for more of the damn stuff! I couldn’t do that anymore. I couldn’t.” Her voice broke on a strangled sob as she turned her back to him.
He pushed to his feet, his instincts urging him forward, telling him to wrap her in his arms. She was in pain. He could see it in her tight body, hear it in her stuttered breath, even feel it in the air between them. But he was the Enforcer. He had to know the full truth. He had to know exactly who she was and what she did. Only then could he find a way to save her.
“What did you do?” he asked softly. “What did you sell?”
She shook her head, refusing to answer. And so this time he did go to her. He wrapped her in his arms and drew her close to his chest. Despite his intentions, he stroked her arms, surrounding her with his strength as he comforted her. And yet, he still had to know.
“What did you sell?” he pressed.
She trembled beneath his hands. Her entire body shook with the power of her emotions. He need only wait and she would tell him. He knew this, and yet part of him didn’t want to know. Part of him wanted to help her hide from what she had done. “Marie—” he began.
“Anna,” she whispered. “My name is Anna. And I don’t know.”
He blinked, confused by her words. “You don’t know what?”
Her body stilled beneath his, her shoulders dropping in defeat. “I don’t know what I sold. I was drugged already. And when I woke…” She swallowed, unable to go on.
He tightened his hold, willing his strength into her. And in time, she stumbled into speech again.
“I woke naked. There was blood where there shouldn’t be. And I was sore, so sore.” She shook her head. “I remember fighting him. Them. But I was too weak.” She took a breath, her tears flowing freely. With a gentle touch, he urged her to turn around. She went easily, burying her face and her tears into his chest. “That was the first time I took opium. The other times… “ She shook her head. “It was to forget the first.”
“Who?” he demanded. “Who did this to you?”
She sighed. “Another runner. The one who taught me the trade.” Then she abruptly straightened in his arms. In her eyes, he saw a haunting desperation. “Kill me, please. Do it soon… and quick. But first let me smoke a little more. Just a tiny bit. The First Wife has some, I am sure of it. Let her give me a little, then you can… you can do what you will, as you will. Take turns with Jing-Li. Whatever you want. Just give me a little to smoke first. Just a tiny bit and I won’t fight… “
And that was when he knew what had happened to her. He did not know when or how she had become addicted. It probably took years, but sellers often took a smoke in front of the buyers. It proved the opium wasn’t poisoned.
And if the runner was a beautiful woman, she could be encouraged to smoke a little more. And a little more. And once addicted, how would she stop? And once lost to opium dreams, how would she stop them? How many times had she been raped? How many men—runners and buyers alike—had used her before she came to this, begging him for her own death?
It would be a mercy to kill her. Indeed, Imperial law demanded that he do so immediately. Runners were given no mercy. With a fluid shift of his wrists, he drew one of his knives. He raised it before her face and even pressed it to her neck.
The blade bobbed as she swallowed convulsively, but his hand did not waver. “What?” he mocked. “You do not curse my ancestry? Doom my balls and my descendants with your last breath? Where is the woman who knelt before me three days ago, terrifying all? Grown men cupped their organs and ran from you. Where is she?”
“Quickly. Please,” she whispered.
He couldn’t do it. He could not slice open a woman’s throat, no matter who she was or what she had done. That is what he told himself, though he knew it was a lie. He had killed women before. Opium smugglers. Whorehouse madames. Cunning women all, surviving off the misery of others. He had killed them without a second thought.
But not this woman. He could not kill this woman, though she deserved and even begged for it. He had no wish to examine his own reasons why.
He would not kill her. But he would not stop her. He abruptly stepped back, spinning the blade in his hand as he grabbed her arm. Then he pressed the handle into her palm and raised it back to her throat. “A single pull backward,” he instructed. “Draw your elbow back hard and you will slit your own throat. It will be quick and relatively painless.”
Then he released her hand and stepped backward. He waited while she watched him with startled eyes. He had not thought a white woman’s eyes could be so dark, but they were. The tiny black pupils seemed to swallow the soft brown that surrounded them, and he imagined he could see into her very core.
Deep inside her, he saw pain and longing, a hunger for more and a fear that life would give so much less. What he saw was himself: his own desperation, his own fears. And yes, his own hopes.
He watched her tense her shoulders. Her eyes grew shuttered and her grip on the hilt became firm. She was going to do it. She was going to kill herself before his very eyes. Without thinking, he dove forward, intending to wrest the blade from her hand.
Too late. With an agonized scream, she twisted her elbow… and threw the blade across the room. But he was already diving toward her, unable to stop his forward movement. He tackled her, and they fell, him on top, her contorted awkwardly beneath. She was screaming still, her voice echoing in his head. A woman screaming. A girl. A woman. A girl. Screaming and screaming and screaming until someone had dragged her away.
No; that was not now. That was in his nightmares. This time he could do something about it. He cradled the woman against his chest. He held her tight while sobs wracked her body. He held her until her screams finally faded into stuttered hiccups.
“So,” he whispered into her hair. “You do not really wish to die. And you have begun to understand that there will be no more opium.”
Her body shuddered, but she made no comment.
“Do you wish to live then? Do you wish to help end the nightmare?”
She could not understand the question, of course. He had not told her enough to comprehend. But that didn’t truly matter. What he needed right then from her was a single statement. And he prayed that, once stated out loud, she would not recant later.
But she was not speaking. She buried her head in his chest and remained there, her breath hot against his skin.
“Say it!” he commanded. “Say you want to live.”
Another shudder convulsed her body, but he did not release her. He tightened his grip on her shoulders even as he drew back enough to stare into her eyes. “Do you wish to live? Say it!”
“Yes!” she snapped. “Yes, I wish to live!”
Her expression grew wary. The lamplight had dimmed in the time that they had been together, so her face lay half in shadow. But he stayed close enough to track every nuance of her expression. She was afraid, terrified even, but he did not release her.
“I want to follow this trail of opium and sold peasant girls,” he said. “I want to trace it from slaver to governor then back to the source.”
“Where?”
“Shanghai. That is what the governor said before I killed him. That the girls were sold in Shanghai.”
He felt her stiffen, and he tightened his grip. “Was your supplier also in Shanghai?”
She nodded, though slowly.
“Do not think to lie to me.”
“I’m not,” she whispered. “My… he lives in Shanghai.”
“Your pretend father?” He had heard enough of the story she had told to the wives.
She nodded.
“Then we will follow this trail back to Shanghai. We will find the girls and maybe even your pretend father. Will you help me with this?”
She nodded, and this time the motion was smoother and more determined.
“If you do this with me, if you help me follow the trail until the very end, then this I swear to you: I will put you on your boat to England or Australia or wherever. I will send you from my accursed shores and think no more of you again.”
Hope lit her eyes. “You swear? On your ancestors? And… and your balls?”
He grinned. “On both of my young and very healthy balls, I swear.” Without truly meaning to, he felt his hips shift forward. When had his dragon hardened? When had her hips cradled him so that he could feel the heat that pulsed between her thighs? He gazed down into her eyes and saw interest flare. Her body was still beneath him, her breath suspended, and then… A slight pressure in return? “Anna… ?”
“I will tell you all you need to know about my pretend father.” She was rushing her speech, but the words still had the resonance of a vow. “I will tell you everything about Samuel Fitzpatrick.”
“Excellent,” Zhi-Gang said. A slow smile spread across his face. He remained where he was, cradled by her hips, their gazes locked. Heat began to build in the scant space between them. “Do you want opium?” he asked, his voice low and seductive.
She blinked, obviously startled. “Yes,” she whispered. “Oh yes.”
He rolled to his feet, easily lifting her up with him. “Then come with me.”
She hung back, her steps reluctant. “What? Why?”
He smiled at her, seeing her flushed and tear-strained skin, noting the way her breasts still lifted and lowered in unsteady and provocative gasps. She looked a mess, and yet he could not help but think of spreading her thighs while he rested his head upon her ample bosom. It was a depraved thought, but then he had often been labeled a depraved man.
“I am the Emperor’s Enforcer. I cannot give you opium. Indeed, if I were to ever find you with even a pipe in your hands, I would be forced to kill you immediately. Do you understand this?”
She nodded, her expression frozen in anxiety.
“You are never, ever to touch a pipe again. Do you understand?”
She swallowed, and her voice came out hard and bitter. “Yes. I understand. Opium equals death. I learned the equation long ago.”
His fierceness eased. She did understand. Few addicts ever did. “Excellent. Now that we understand each other, we must now proceed to the next step: how to deal with your cravings.”
She blinked, completely lost.
“I will not force you,” he continued. “But you are the one who created the fiction.”
“What fiction? What are you talking about?”
He lifted his chin. “We are desperately in love. That is what you told the governor’s wives. We are desperately in love.”
“Yes, but—”
“Don’t worry,” he said, cutting off her objections. “I know just what to do.” He leaned forward, intending to make his kiss swift and sure. But he failed in his intentions. Instead of a quick press of his lips against hers, he lingered, stroking her startled mouth with his tongue. He teased her skin, touching and probing until she widened the tiniest bit. Then he pulled back.
“With me, sweet Anna, you will never ever crave opium again.”
She frowned at him, releasing a snort of disbelief. “That is not possible.”
He grinned. “I accept your challenge. Now come, my beloved wife. It is time we showed the world our devotion.”
Anna felt her shoulders—her whole body—tighten in fear. “That was fiction,” she said softly. “We are not in love.” Her heart tightened at the words, but she pushed on. “The wives will be wailing all night long. There is no need for—”
“Don’t you crave opium right now?”
Yes. The answer echoed in her body and soul, but she refused to admit it aloud.
“Why?” he pressed.
“What?”
“Why do you want opium? You were not in a drugged stupor when we saw you on the Grand Canal. You have carried opium halfway across China. Did you smoke any of it?”
“No.” She had thought about it, dreamed about it, even fondled the drug, but she had not smoked. There had been opportunity, but… “It was to be my payment aboard a ship.”
He nodded, as if he had expected such a thing. “So why now? Why are you so desperate to smoke now?”
Anger shot through her, and she grabbed it with both hands. “Because you meant to kill me. Because you intend to… “
“To what?” he challenged.
She swallowed but stiffened her spine. “To rape me,” she accused.
His smile came slowly, but not with the veneer of evil she expected. Instead, his eyes were gentle, his touch even more so. He stroked a fingertip across her cheek. “I will do nothing you do not wish. This I swear.”
She did not believe him, but she dared not call him a liar to his face. Nor did she wish to admit another thought, another desire: Perhaps she wanted him to touch her. Perhaps she wondered what it would be like to be touched when she was awake, aware, and… intrigued?
His hand dropped away from her cheek and he stood quietly facing her. “My friends… “ He sighed. “Jing-Li turns to opium when he does not wish to think. Without a governorship, he has too much time on his hands, too much wasted talent. Some—the eunuchs most especially—just want relief from the tedium of their days. You understand?”
She nodded. “Forgetfulness,” she whispered. “We wish to forget.”
He stepped closer and she would have shied backward if it were not for the mischievous light in his eyes. “I know of better ways to forget. Indeed, I have made quite a study of it.”
She grimaced. “Men forget during sex. Women do not.”
“Are you sure?” he challenged.
No. She kept her mouth pressed firmly shut.
“What if I made a bargain with you? A few minutes, nothing more. Enough to convince the women that what you told them was true. That we are indeed in love.”
“This is ridiculous! We do not have to prove anything to them! Besides, they believe you angry with me because my father is coming to blackmail me for opium.”
He nodded. “Exactly! And how would a good wife distract me?”
“But it is all a lie!” she screeched. Her hands tightened into fists and she would have beat him if she could. But he grabbed her arms and held her close enough that she could smell his scent: spiced wine. That is what he smelled like to her—a seductive, exotically spiced wine.
They were less than a foot apart, but he had hold of her forearms. He slowly drew her to him. She turned her face away, not wanting to offer him her lips again, and yet her heart beat triple-time at his nearness and her mouth tingled in anticipation.
Was she attracted to this man? She couldn’t be! And yet, she knew deep down that she was. From that first moment on the Grand Canal, he had figured prominently in her t
houghts. When she had touched herself in the bath, she had thought of him. When she ran from him, her mind had been consumed with questions about what he was doing: Was he looking for her? How could she avoid him? And when he saved her from… It had seemed inevitable, somehow, that he would be the one to rescue her.
Was that love? Certainly not. But perhaps it was attraction. Perhaps it was… lust?
“I will teach you how to forget without opium. I will show you that there are ways to know nothing but the caress of a tongue on your nipples, the hot curl of a womb on fire, and the press and pulse of two bodies in ecstasy.”
“So, you would replace one sin with another—promiscuity rather than addiction? Is it better to live as a wanton or an addict?”
He shrugged, not offering her an answer. At least not with words. Instead, he leaned down—he was already so close. She thought he meant to whisper to her, but instead she felt his tongue slip around the edge of her ear. It was wet and cool. It should have been repulsive, but it was not. She felt the heat of his breath curl across her skin and every time she inhaled, she relished his scent.
Would it be so awful? Or worse, what if it were wonderful? What if a night with the mandarin was as blissful, as amazing as a night spent in an opium haze? What if she ended up craving the man as much as she hungered for the drug? What then?
“I do not even know your name.”
“Zhi-Gang,” he answered. “Tau Zhi-Gang.”
“The Emperor’s Enforcer,” she said.
He stilled for a moment against her cheek. She knew anxiety coiled in his belly, though how she could feel such a thing was beyond her.
“Yes,” he finally said. “I am a man of violence, a man who kills. You know this.”
“And you are a scholar,” she said. “A man who studies Confucius and Lao Tzu. The two must be very hard to reconcile—being both scholar and warrior.”
He pulled back, a bare inch, so that he could look her in the eye. “Yes,” he whispered.
“Yes,” she repeated, knowing she was yielding to whatever he wanted. In truth, her surrender was inevitable. Without opium, she was lost. And without direction of her own, his would do. She was that weak and wretched. And yet, when he feathered his lips across her neck to press just beneath the edge of her collar, she did not feel awful or lost or alone. She felt cherished.