Agent of Darkness

by Gail Starbright

  Agent of Darkness

  By Gail Starbright

  Agent of Darkness

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Agent of Darkness Copyright © 2017 Cynthia Cody

  Edited by Cynthia Cody

  Cover design by Cynthia Cody

  Copyright for cover photo: Sablin

  Photo purchased from iStock.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.

  The author does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party Web sites or their content.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter One

  Darvlicht Hans-Kimmler awoke early. He always woke up early. He’d trained himself to do it years ago. He hated sleeping away the morning, though his war prize certainly made it tempting to spend the entire day in bed. Asleep in his arms, his captured American spy was precisely where she fucking belonged.

  Her breath hit his chest in slow, hot puffs, indicating a deep and peaceful slumber. He ran his hand down the side of her torso slowly, possessively. This lovely creature belonged to him. Legally. She cooed and stirred ever so softly as he stroked her.

  He murmured something reassuring, trying to keep her from waking.

  She sighed and nuzzled against his chest, apparently seeking the warmth of his body. He held her tighter and pulled the covers over her, wanting her to be comfortable. As he tended to his prisoner, he once again found his own behavior perplexing. It wasn’t in his nature to be kind or gentle. Ever. He even had a reputation in the empire for being ruthless and brutal with prisoners.

  During the early part of his career, before the empire had perfected truth serums, torture was heavily used to extract information from captured American spies. And he had never once shown mercy. He had never once shown any kindness or warmth. His tactics hadn’t escaped the notice of his superiors, either. He alone had been hand-picked to handle the holdouts and the most stubborn subjects. The very idea of him gently petting an American prisoner went against everything he thought he believed.

  But even excluding his current behavior, he couldn’t ignore everything he had done since that first night when he arrested Isabel. He wasn’t just kind. He often found himself taking care of her…and it bugged him. Deep down, he feared she was making him weak. Logically, he knew claiming her as his war prize was a mistake. He should have released her when he completed his interrogation and let the embassies work out a trade. But the very idea of letting her go made him sick.

  The coldest, most logical part of his brain told him he was only keeping her for sex. Period. That’s exactly what most of his colleagues and superiors thought. He’d even heard whispers of some who pitied the poor girl locked in his house. But hell, he couldn’t even bring himself to flog her that hard.

  And that was another thing that bothered him about his relationship with Isabel. His ruthless and cold nature hadn’t been limited to his profession. He’d always been cruel in the bedroom. Always. To say he was demanding was an understatement. Only his paycheck and high-ranking position made his women tolerate his sadistic and often disturbing urges. But with Isabel, it took so little to get him off.

  Christ, just tying her slender wrists to the headboard nearly made him come. And he was once a man who had done all kinds of depraved things—he had paid whores to fuck his wife in front of him, he had whipped and caned women until they bled. The list of things he’d done was almost endless. It seemed odd a little light bondage would so easily sate him. But, of course, he had never legally owned any of them. Not really. Not ever, although his wife claimed she would be his slave. His wife said she would be his sex toy. Lying bitch. Even to her, it was always just a game and games weren’t enough to placate the darkness that lived in him, the part of him that seemed to feed off the suffering of others.

  His prisoner shuddered in his arms as if suddenly cold. He gently petted her hair and back. Looking at her, he felt a slow smile spread across his face. This wasn’t a game. He owned her. Legally. Completely. His to do with as he pleased. And yet, he felt no desire to do the elaborate and often exhausting scenes he’d done with other partners. He didn’t want to truly harm or humiliate her. He didn’t want her sleeping in a cage or a dog crate. He wanted her here, in his bed, in his arms. Strange, he knew, and so out of sync with what he’d needed from his lovers in the past.

  He inhaled deeply, pondering this arrangement, as he had so often lately. The sweet smell of vanilla still hung in the air. He glanced at the candles by the bed. They were now nothing but pools of hardened wax. An empty bottle of expensive wine, along with two crystal glasses, rested next to the spent candles. Another oddity. So often, he’d wake to find bloody tools to clean or even puddles of urine or vomit but never wine glasses and spent candles. Again, the questions came. Why? Why did she so easily satisfy him? How could she so effortlessly placate the darkness that dwelled in him, the despair that had so long ago turned to rage? And again, he concluded that it must be the ownership. Yes, that must be the answer. He owned her. That had to be it. Yes. Well, no. He liked legally owning her, but was that what really pleased the sadist in him? Fuck, if the price was right he could have purchased a whore from some flesh-peddler.

  Maybe it was her status as a war prize that satisfied him. He rolled that idea around in his head. Maybe it was her country of origin that thrilled him, her position as a captured American spy. But that idea made no sense to him. During the course of his career, he’d interrogated hundreds of American spies. And yet, he’d never once been tempted to take one to his bed. Not once. American agents were all so cold and passionless, almost to the point of not being human anymore. They were smart, yes, and they could memorize almost anything at a glance. But deep down, there was something almost soulless about them, as if they had died a long time ago and all that remained was a mind and a body.

  With her face still pressed against his chest, his woman made small, tortured sounds. Pulled out of his meditation, he studied her, trying to determine the problem, before realizing it was merely a nightmare. Strange. The Americans altered their spies through surgery and drugs. They weren’t supposed to feel fear anymore. They weren’t supposed to have nightmares. But then, she wasn’t like the others. She was never like the others. Maybe it was her uniqueness that placated the rage in him. She was different. For lack of a better description, she still had a soul.

  He mulled that explanation over, wondering if that’s why she so intrigued him, why she so easily satisfied him. Because she was different? Because she still felt fear? Because she still had nightmares? He held his breath for a moment before blowing out a heavy exhale. He did find her uniqueness intriguing. He had even highlighted it in his interrogation notes as, an unusual presence of broad affect, which in layman’s terms meant she displayed normal and appropriate emotions. A presence of broad affect. Could that be what he found so intriguing about her? Is that what pleased the darkness in him?

  Again, his woman shuddered in his arms. He held her tighter, genuinely not liking the sounds of distress he heard from her, which was bizarre to say the least. During the course of his career, no scream or plea of mercy had e
ver moved him before.

  He whispered something sweet and completely out-of-character, something along the lines of, “No one is going to hurt you,” which he had said precisely never in his life. Fucking never! Until her! Hell, he’d never even said such kind words to his lovers in the past. He usually said things like, “Suck my cock harder or I’ll cane you, bitch.” But he was certain he had never once told anyone, “No one is going to hurt you,” until this woman came into his house.

  In fact, he couldn’t think of anything further from what he might say to someone other than the phrase, “No one is going to hurt you.” Yet, he’d just whispered it to her and looking back, he was fairly certain he’d told her those words before. And deep down, he knew it was true. He could never hurt her. Ever. His most terrible weapons that he’d used on his past lovers would grow dusty in his collection. But again, the questions came back to him. Why? Why did this woman affect him the way she did? Why?

  “No one is going to hurt you,” he whispered again, willing the nightmare to pass.

  His words clearly calmed her, and she sighed blissfully against his chest. Although the dream had apparently passed, it left its mark on her body. A subtle sheen of perspiration coated her. He tenderly pushed several strands of silky hair off her sweat-dampened forehead, but he scowled at the action. What had become of him? Why did he care what nightmares she had?

  Irritated with his behavior, he studied his prisoner, all the while trying to tell himself to get rid of her. He was, after all, an SS officer, an interrogator for the Third Reich. Compassion and mercy weren’t exactly assets in his profession.

  The quiet beeping of his cell phone drew his attention. Unfortunately, his phone was on a table just outside his bedroom along with the key to his prisoner’s chain leash. He groaned. That was really the only bad thing about keeping his war prize in the house. He had to keep his phone out of reach. He didn’t want her getting a hold of it while he was asleep. It wasn’t unheard of for him to have sensitive information somewhere on his phone and passwords could always be broken. Having a pipeline of information from his house to some American contact in the empire would be embarrassing at best and criminal at worst.

  As gently as he could, he eased her over a bit, shifting her weight from him to the mattress. At one point, she started to stir, as if awakened, but he only whispered, “Go back to sleep.” At his words, she stilled again. He knew she was tired. They’d stayed out late the previous night. He’d taken her to the opera to see Madama Butterfly. Her crimson gown was draped over a chair in his bedroom.

  Of course, it wasn’t exactly the opera that had worn her out. He’d worked her hard after the opera and had thoroughly explored every passage of her luscious body. Just the memory of last night made him eager for more but…at this second, he had business to attend to. He’d recognized that beep he heard. He reserved it only for his superiors. It had been a little while since they had contacted him.

  When he first arrested Isabel and positively identified her as an American spy, he essentially became occupied in the office log books. When he completed his interrogation and delivered the recordings of those sessions, he could have signed in as available again, but instead, he took some of his stock-piled vacation to spend time with his officially claimed war prize. No one had complained or argued with him over it. But even before he’d found Isabel, he’d been assigned to a special task force. The point was…he hadn’t been assigned to The Recital in a while. The problem, really, was that he was good. Whenever there was a problem somewhere, he was usually assigned to assist in some failing department but when he neglected another department, it usually needed his help again soon. The empire more than compensated him financially for his contributions, but he often found the failings of others frustrating.

  Even before Darvlicht looked at the phone, he knew what the text message was going to say, The Recital, Friday, 7pm. No other duties required.

  He sent a brief reply that he would be there before scrolling through his other messages. Standing in the hallway outside his bedroom, he studied his prisoner. Her delicate chain leash, which tethered her to his bed, was pooled on the floor. Even before Isabel, he’d like chaining his women to the bed. To his wife, it had been a game. To the whores, it was an excuse to charge more. But to his war prize, well, it kept her from escaping.

  Morning light filtered in through the windows. It was Thursday morning. He had quite a bit of time before his assignment. From what he’d been told, some officers needed time to “mentally prepare” for The Recital. Whatever. He needed no such preparation. As far as he was concerned, he had two entire days off before his assignment, with no other duties required from him.

  Ordinarily, he’d be calling his favorite brothel for a few masochistic whores by now. But he felt no desire to call them. Instead, he stood motionless in the hallway and studied his war prize. Before returning to the bed, though, he tapped an app on his phone, ensuring that the GPS locator that was locked around her ankle was still working properly. He tested it every day. To a casual observer, the locator would look like a silver anklet, but in actuality, it was a sophisticated tagging device.

  The tracking program accurately located her at his address. Satisfied, he set his phone back down. He returned to the warmth of his bed, not wanting sleep but something else instead.

  He took his woman in a firm embrace, rolling her slightly, and nuzzled her neck. She awoke with a quick jerk and instantly pushed up against him, trying to sit up. He kept her trapped in place, disallowing her escape.

  “Be still, American.” He spoke the words quietly but coldly, using his most authoritative tone. She instantly responded to his veiled threat and lay very still beneath him. Her quick exhales fluttered delicately against his shoulder, but he easily detected the slight hitches in her breathing. Trying to calm her, he brushed his lips against her neck. Without penetrating her, he settled over her, forcing their nude bodies together. She shivered as his tongue traced an invisible line from behind her ear to the top of her shoulder. Focusing on her neck, he alternated between licking and kissing, paying close attention to the small noises she involuntarily made.

  Each soft sigh and ragged exhale told him exactly where she liked to be touched. He was already harder than steel and all he wanted to do was plunge his painful erection in her tight pussy. But he restrained himself. Although he legally owned her and had a right to do whatever he wanted to do with his war prize, he wasn’t interested in just fucking her. Hell, that was only part of the pleasure. He liked breaking her down like this first. He liked making her want him. And the weapons he used for this assault were simple but elegant—his lips, his tongue, his hot breath on her neck.

  Her soft sighs turned to low moans. Despite the small noises she made, he still sensed her hesitation, her uncertainty. She didn’t want to like the things he did to her. She didn’t want to find pleasure in his arms. He smiled darkly to himself, liking her reaction. Moving lower, he planted soft kisses on her shoulder before moving to her breasts. He glanced at her, assessing her current stress levels. Her eyes were closed and her hands were balled into fists on either side of her head. He should have tied her wrists to the headboard first—it would have helped her accept this. He realized he might have to before penetrating her.

  With a sigh, he slowly stood. He retrieved two cut sections of rope he kept in his nightstand drawer.

  “You don’t have to tie me up,” she whispered. “I won’t—”

  “Don’t talk, American.” He made quick work of tying her down.

  Again, without penetrating her, he lowered himself down. Her body quivered beneath him. He sensed only uncertainty and unwillingness from her, as he had so many times before. He took a moment to gently caress her arms, which were now pinned above her head. Her flesh was soft and warm, and it felt good against his hands, but as usual, it was her reaction to him that truly pleased him. As his hands trailed down her arms, she shivered. He also noted the tiny bumps of raised flesh, as if she
were suddenly cold. Everything about her body language said no, as it almost always did. She tried so hard to push him away, to keep him at a distance, to simply accept her captivity as opposed to enjoying it. But he didn’t want her to just accept her captivity or endure it with a brave face. He liked making her enjoy it, he liked forcing her to feel pleasure—that’s what pleased the darkness in him.

  In the beginning, he used to wonder if she would ever change. That maybe someday, she might lose her unwillingness, that she would simply see him as a man or God forbid, as a spouse. But he knew her too well. He understood her, probably better than she understood herself. Yes, she still had a soul. She wasn’t like the other agents. But what she lacked in blind, surgically obtained obedience, she made up for in spades in something far more precious. Loyalty. Patriotism. And he understood her well enough to know that she would never see him as just a man. He was the enemy. That’s all he ever would be to her. The enemy. She would always be his captive. She would always be his prisoner. He would never come home and find her willing and ready to be fucked. There would always be resistance. There would always be unwillingness. His cock twitched at that thought.

  He nuzzled her neck again. The moment his lips touched her sweet flesh, she jumped.

  “Don’t,” she barely whispered.

  “Easy,” he murmured, holding her tighter, wanting her to feel safe and protected but also powerless to stop him. “You know I won’t hurt you.”

  Experience with her told him where she liked to be licked, where she liked to be touched, where she liked his hands. Her soft sighs told him what he was doing right. She even turned her head, offering her neck to him. An involuntary giggle escaped her when the tip of his tongue toyed with her ear lobe. Yes, he knew where she was ticklish, too. He knew how to break down her defenses. He sensed her body relaxing beneath him.

  His tongue traced the shell of her ear as his hand drifted to her pussy. The moment his fingers invaded her most intimate place, she squeezed her thighs together. The action didn’t anger him. In fact, it pleased him. He didn’t pull his fingers away because he found her wet and hot and more than ready for him. He groaned. Finding her so wet and ready made his all-ready rock-hard cock ache even more. Even though her body was ready, her mind continued to resist.