Three and a Half Weeks

by Lulu Astor

  Did he think I would get sexually aroused from a whipping? The answer was apparently yes. Some women—and men—like to be taken to heights so lofty that their bodies can’t distinguish between pain and pleasure. Rafe explained it to me by using hot and cold as an example: two extreme temperatures that the body sometimes has trouble differentiating.

  I explained to Rafe that he could go fuck himself—not me—and fled the dungeon as soon as I was untethered from the cross. I ran into one of the many bedrooms of his palatial home, knowing it was my last visit. I counted 190 seconds before he came after and found me.

  “Don’t push me away,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, as he lay down beside me. I attempted to ignore him but he was persistent. I could feel the heat radiating off his chest as he pulled me close but I was in pain. I had read sexy stories that included whippings and now I understood firsthand what the descriptions meant by prickly pain. The skin on the back of my body felt tight and hot, with pinpricks of an itchy burn barraging the skin, up and down.

  He rolled me onto my stomach and massaged the stripes he inflicted, coating them with some kind of ointment. When he was done, his strong hands kept massaging, areas that weren’t whipped, areas that responded to him readily despite my intentions. My body continually betrayed my mind: they were almost mortal enemies at this point.

  What happened to mind over matter? My body refused to care about the bridges it was burning. It flipped over and spread its legs, inviting Rafe to come aboard: he did so quickly, before my mind could regain control. We… well, what’s the vernacular? Made love? Fucked? Did the nasty? Whatever you call it, we did it for the next hour or two. Sated, I lay in wait for him to fall asleep before slipping out of bed, searching out my clothes, and leaving his ass cold. Oh, I did write him a note. Time has erased my exact words from my memory but it went something like this: “Drop dead, asshole.” Yeah. I think that was it.

  It took Rafe exactly 17 days, eight hours, and twenty-three minutes to change my mind. That was last year. I’m writing these words on the eve of my wedding day. Rafe, the most gorgeous man who walks the earth, will be my husband by this time tomorrow. He’s promised the next whipping will be something more to my liking. I’m holding him to it.

  New York in January can be as bleak as the Siberian Peninsula. The magic of all the Christmas lights and greenery, coupled with the joy on strangers’ faces, are now firmly part of history. If there’s any snow, it’s dirty gray and slushy, piled high at the edges of streets and mixed in with all kinds of urban detritus. Usually, though, the air and streets are dry and the cold seeps into the bone, coming off the rivers on all sides of the island of Manhattan. The best part of January arrives with nightfall, when the multitudes of lights illuminate the city: in shadow, the architecture stands tall, stone monuments that are testaments to the hubris of humankind, while the asphalt shimmers in reflected electric glory. At least then one can get the mind off the winter drab and focus on the emerging nightlife.

  Location, however, means nothing to Natasha Yenin right now, other than a means to an end. She sits in Lucien’s loft, speaking with him. Natasha understands a few things that the pathetic Lucien does not: specifically that first, they cannot be a couple… ever. Second, that Natasha needs Lucien’s looks, charm, and money to be utilized to win over Ian’s ladylove, something he’s been yet unable to accomplish. What will it take? Everyone has a weakness and Natasha knows that well. Ian Blackmon is her own but she will put family first and destroy him. Pity because if not for her critical need to avenge the heinous wrong done to her family, she and Ian would have made an excellent team—at least they would have in the past. Since she began her crusade to destroy him, he’s gone soft, weak, and almost unappealing. Almost, she thinks as she remembers his beautiful body and the response he had to seeing her. She would dearly love to fuck him one last time.

  Lucien slides closer to Natasha. His left hand begins to caress her long hair as he inches his body ever closer. She can feel the heat he is throwing off and knows it’s time to clue him in.

  “When did you get to New York, Lady Natasha?”

  She chuckles, watching him closely. He certainly looks like a man in love but then she hasn’t seen him in months—she almost but not quite forgot how pretty he is.

  “Only just got here today and came right over to see you, love.”

  “Natasha,” he breathes, “why can’t we be together? You know I care for you so very much. I want to be with you.”

  “I want you and my uncles to grab Ariel again. This time we’re going to make it count.”

  Standing abruptly, Lucien turns his back to her. “I don’t want to hurt Ella. It’s not her fault, not any of it, and she does not deserve to pay for Blackmon’s sins.”

  “It’s not that she’s paying for his sins, per se. It’s just a way to hurt him through her. He actually loves the girl.”

  “So? She’s very lovable. I won’t hurt her. Now explain to me why, after everything I’ve done for you, you continue to spurn me. Why? I want to know.”

  “You really are an idiot, Lucien. Why do you think my uncles are so faithful to you? Hmm? Can you tell me?”

  “They’ve been with me for a long time, since I was a little boy. They’re loyal…”

  “Pfft.” She waves her hand in the air. “Those men are coldhearted opportunists. The only ones they care about are themselves and their sister—my mother. And… their son.”

  “Son?”

  “Yes, Lucien. Their son. You, to be exact.”

  Unadulterated shock floods his patrician features. “What in fuck are you talking about?” Lucien only uses profanity when he’s furious, like right now. Natasha is scheming, thinking nothing about using him as a pawn in her plans.

  “I’m answering your question as to why we can’t be lovers, my darling. We’re first cousins. We cannot legally marry, and having children would be egregiously stupid. It’s best we find other partners.”

  Barely able to move a single part of his body, Lucien flops back down on the couch, leans his head back and his eyelids drift shut. Is nothing what it seems? “How can that be?” His voice is just audible in the quiet room.

  She smirks and shakes her head in disgust. “How do you think, dearheart? My uncles both fucked your mother silly; she got pregnant and told the Frenchman it was his child. My uncles decided to consider you a son of both rather than be tested for paternity. That’s why they love you so very much: blood of their blood, fruit of their loins, whatever the hell people say. So now that that’s out of the way, will you do what I need you to do?”

  Lucien somehow summons the energy to stand and begins to walk away and then turns with a newly acquired thought to share. “No, Natasha, I will not. As I said, Ella is a really nice person and I am not going to be party to hurting her. You have a problem with Blackmon? You handle it yourself. Leave me out of it. In fact, get out of my loft and my life. I’m done with you, you heartless bitch.”

  Daniel Butler’s office is located in Soho, in Lower Manhattan. The cab ride from the small airport in Westchester takes a little under an hour and drops him off at the corner of Broadway and Prince: the address he seeks is not far away. Ian appreciates the look of the building housing White Elephant Design, one of Daniel’s companies. It’s an old industrial brick, built during a time when craftsmanship was expected and artisans took pride in their work. Of course, it was renovated and retrofitted to suit modern tastes. WED’s executive offices are on the third floor and epitomize a high-end NYC loft.

  A pretty assistant sporting purple spiky hair and a suit that looks like Brooks Brothers as interpreted by a punk-rock designer, directs him to the office and Daniel is waiting just inside.

  “Ian. Good to see you. Come in.”

  They shake hands and Daniel invites him to sit. He does so, feeling a little nervous about having to tell his friend how damn dangerous is his situation. He waggles his tie back and forth to loosen it a titch, and then launches into the details
of his visit to New York. Daniel listens to every word carefully, scratching his brow with this thumb.

  “Any thoughts?”

  Daniel smirks, exhaling a deep breath with a laugh. “Lots.”

  “What do you recommend?”

  Daniel shrugs. “The way I see it you have two options, one more permanent than the other.”

  “I’d prefer to keep within the law. How safe is it?”

  Another shrug. “Your safety is only as good as the weakest link in the chain. If you want to put your life and the lives of your loved ones into the hands and expertise of every man and woman in ICE security and border patrol, then there’s your answer. Me, I’d opt for a more permanent solution but then I’ve been forced into this kind of thing before. I’d certainly understand it if you’re squeamish about such a thing.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “Honestly, Ian? I’m not at liberty to divulge certain information about myself and I mean that sincerely—it’s not an excuse. But I’ll tell you this much: Five years ago I had a snowboarding accident, a bad one. I sustained a severe traumatic brain injury. It was so serious that my doctors were talking up my parents for organ harvest. Obviously, I ultimately recovered. Instead of having lost abilities, I gained additional ones. With those abilities came certain dangers.” He looks Ian right in the eye, his expression sober, and says, “I’ve been forced to defend my life since then, on more than one occasion. Sometimes it requires a fight to the death. I’m prepared to do it if necessary.”

  The two men stand outside the building. Ian pulls out his phone and punches some buttons. The phone picks up on the third ring. “Lucien? This is your old friend, Ian Blackmon.” Without waiting for a response, Ian keeps going. “Listen, I’m downstairs and I’d like for us to have a discussion. Will you come down?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Before you disconnect, please consider that if you don’t come down, I’m coming up. My way, we can go have a cup of coffee and keep our chat… if not pleasant, at least civil.”

  Daniel holds up his hand and Ian asks Lucien to wait, muting the phone. Ian raises a brow in query.

  “I’m thinking perhaps we should go in and engage the Lithuanians. Now.”

  “They appear to be extremely unsavory characters, Daniel. I’m quite sure they fight dirty. They can have us knifed and gutted before we have a chance to raise our fists.”

  Daniel shrugs, smiling. “I fight dirtier.”

  Ian takes a moment to stare into the man’s green eyes. They gleam with evil anticipation. “You think we could engage them, as you put it, and give our wonderful men and women of ICE sufficient reason to deport our friends?”

  “I was thinking self-defense.” Daniel whispers the words so softly but they send an icy chill streaking up Ian’s spine as he comprehends Daniel’s meaning.

  He wants to kill them. In a split second he makes a decision and unmutes the phone. “Lucien? We’re coming up.”

  Chapter 42

  As soon as Ian’s plane lands, he’ll get my text message. I’m not counting on it, though. I’ll call him the minute I calculate he’ll touch down on terra firma, allowing for fifteen minutes of delays. I won’t stop until I reach him.

  Ever since I spoke with Eliza, I’ve been nauseous and stressed. What if Ian is walking into a well-set trap? I’m terrified for him.

  Less than ten minutes after I calculate his plane should have touched down, my phone chimes with a text and I almost fall flat on my face in my clumsy haste to grab the damn thing. It’s from Ian so I read it hurriedly: A. Understood but don’t worry. Might not even be me they’re referring to. I’ll explain more when I see you. Don’t worry: that’s an order. Love you. C.

  Yeah, right, I’m not going to worry: is he insane? I should have gone to New York with him. I could still head there but I promised Ian I would stay put so I’ll honor that promise. However, I can put my research skills to good use and get some information on Lucien’s henchmen. I remember Lucien calling them the Sobel brothers but I don’t know their first names so I’ll have to phone Eliza once more. I hate to bother her but I need the names. She answers on the first ring.

  “Yes, Ella?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you again, Eliza, but I forgot to ask you for the names of the Lithuanian brothers. Can you help me out?”

  “Sure. They’re Leo—I think it’s short for Leopold—and Lukas Sobel. That’s Lukas with a K by the way. Sobel is S-O-B-E-L. Is that all you need?”

  “Right now, yes. I need to get more information on these men. I’m afraid for my fiancé’s safety.”

  “I understand. Well, if there’s anything else you need, give a holler. I’m in the middle of something right now so I have to go.”

  “Oh, sure. Thanks again, Eliza. Hopefully someday we can meet and have a coffee or something.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Look at me: I’m an anxious wreck. I’m twisting my long hair in my fingers and my leg is bouncing up and down almost of its own volition—both nervous tics I’ve had since girlhood. Still, if I’m not careful, I’ll end up ripping out my hair and have bald spots. I knew a girl in middle school, Ming Lee Chen, who twisted her hair right out of her scalp. She ended up sporting two huge bald circles and was diagnosed with alopecia areata when all along she was doing it to herself due to stress over her grades. Her parents wanted to kill her, whether for her bald spots or inferior grades, no one was certain. Okay, focus, Ella, focus on the task at hand. My pep talk is nearly useless for my mind is pulling me in all different directions. I take out my laptop and begin typing key words into search engines. When the entries start popping up, I can’t tear my eyes away and don’t move for the next two hours and forty-six minutes. By the time I get out of the chair, my back is stiff in protest of my inertia. I make a beeline for the medicine cabinet to swallow some ibuprofen.

  The pain is worth it for my research bore fruit: I found arrest records in other countries for the Sobel brothers, as well as various aliases they used. There was even some information about their respective romantic lives: restraining orders against both men for stalking offenses. Reams of data about their connection with Lucien’s father followed.

  Apparently Lucien’s father, French investment banker Jean-Luc Phillips, was very dependent on both men and trusted them with his wife and son. But why? Lucien said his father was grateful that they saved him. But why would they? They don’t seem like the compassionate type at all. My instincts tell me there’s more to this story than meets the eye but the only one who might have more information and be willing to impart it to me is Maya St. Sauveur. I put in a call to her, pronto.

  Maya doesn’t answer her phone so I leave a voice mail for her and take the phone into the bathroom with me so I can hear it sing while I shower. Once I’m finished rinsing off, I rub some eucalyptus oil into my back and neck, throwing on my favorite ripped tee shirt and cut-off denims. Hot water, ibuprofen, and topical ointment join forces to make me a new woman—the favorite clothes are the cherry on the cake of my day. I quickly dry my hair and just as I’m putting the hair dryer away, Aretha starts singing: perfect timing.

  It’s Maya. “Hello?”

  “Ella? I just received your message. You need to talk to me?”

  “Yes, Maya. That woman you told me about? Natasha? It turns out she’s my fiancé’s ex-business partner and she’s making all kinds of trouble for us. We learned the brothers who work for Lucien are her uncles. I just wondered if you had any other information about those two… or Natasha, for that matter.”

  “Well, I think I mentioned that my mother was always positive they were involved in Lucien’s kidnapping but my father didn’t believe it, not for a minute. For whatever reason, he trusted those thugs and kept them around.”

  “How did he meet them? Was it through the kidnapping episode?”

  “Supposedly, yes, although my mother suspected he knew them beforehand. The whole thing was all very mysterious. All my father cared about was ge
tting his only son back in one piece. The Sobels produced Lucien unharmed and earned a friend for life in my father.”

  “Do you know anything else about their background?”

  There was a long pause but I waited to give her room to think. “I should speak to my mother and then get back to you. Are you in New York?”

  “No, but my fiancé is there now. Would it be more helpful for you to meet with him in person?”

  “Only if I get more information that he might find helpful. Why don’t you give me his number and I’ll get in touch directly if I learn anything?”

  I consider her request; will Ian get angry if I give her his number? I have to make a decision on the fly so I go for it. “Okay, his name is Ian Blackmon and here’s his number…”

  Once I disconnect from Maya, I try Ian again and once more it goes to voice mail. I hope he’s okay and though I received his text, I’d feel a hell of a lot better to actually speak to him. My research has served to only make me worry more: the Sobels are scary, Natasha is scary, and they’re both after Ian now. How can I help?

  I’m engrossed in what I’m reading on my laptop when Mason raps his knuckles softly on the frame of the open door.

  “Ms. Strong? Mariah is here to see you.”

  “Oh, thanks Mason. Send her right in.”

  Before the words finish leaving my lips, my friend comes striding energetically through the doorway. “My God, Ella, you look positively ghoulish, sitting in the reflected glow of that damn computer. Come on. We’re going outside for fresh air.”

  “Mariah, I can’t,” I nearly whine—I’d really love to go out. “I promised Ian I wouldn’t leave the apartment. If I do, Mason has to shadow me.”

  “Why in God’s name?” A look of horror washes over Mariah’s heavily made-up features.

  “I’ve been threatened by one of Ian’s foes.” I deliberately chose the word foe over enemy because it doesn’t sound as ominous: I don’t want her to worry over me, too.