by Shandi Boyes
I hate forcing someone to speak with words instead of violence, but considering we’re doing seventy down a freeway, I have no choice. “Get in what first?”
My fists clench when he replies, “Zariah.” Her name alone gets my blood pumping, much less what he says next. “It’s not often you get virgins around these parts, let alone ones as pretty as her. I guess that’s why her father protected it so fiercely. He knew one day it would pay dividends.”
I stare at him. I don’t mean a little stare; I stare stare.
“Zariah is a virgin?” I ask my question as if I am one too. I hate my high tone, but it is understandable. What Kostya said is right. The chances of finding a virgin in our industry over the age of consent is rare, much less one as primed and as ready to be ravaged as Zariah.
A semi roaring past our SUV rattles the window next to my head, but I keep my eyes locked on Kostya’s. For some fucking reason, I don’t want to miss his verbalized reply. I can see the truth in his eyes, heard it during his earlier confession, but I need additional confirmation. I like forbidden, and you can’t get more forbidden than untouched fruit.
What the fuck?
No. This is not happening. Zariah is enemy number one. She lured Dominique into her home knowing there were men there waiting to kill her. This isn’t about claiming a victory every red-blooded man wants to claim. I’m interested in his reply purely from a business standpoint.
I gave Zariah a pardon—a pardon that required her to pick between being a chambermaid or a whore. If she picked the latter, I need to ensure Velika requests top dollar for her first exchange. Virgins are a pot of gold under a rainbow. We’ll make more from Zariah’s first sale than we will the hundred that follow. This is just business. Nothing more.
Yeah, right.
If my hardening cock doesn’t reveal I’m a liar, me requesting for Kostya to take me home within a second of his confirmation is a sure-fire sign. I had intended for Zariah to pay her penalty with her life. Now I have other intentions. These are less noble than my first.
Chapter Seven
Zariah
I stare at my reflection in a large vanity mirror as I struggle to gather my thoughts from the past four hours. It’s so surreal—all of it. The room I’ve been placed in is nicely decorated with antique furniture, a large four-poster bed, and an attached bathroom decked out with the latest and greatest accessories, but everything about this place feels cold and heartless.
I guess a prison isn’t supposed to be homey.
A frown wrinkles my forehead when I notice the bruise on my neck. It’s purple and angry, filling me with even more confusion. My body’s response to Asher’s clutch... ugh! I’ve never been more ashamed. I understand that I’m ‘untouched,’ but that doesn’t mean I’m a naïve virgin whose cheeks bloom with heat at the thought of being kissed. I’m stronger than the imbecile I portrayed earlier tonight. The spirit Velika held shows there is a place for women in our industry, I’ve just got to fight for it.
Starting now.
With my eyes locked on the mirror, I remove the frumpy dress Lenin requested I wear to maintain my modesty while he guided me from the torture chamber Asher planned to kill me in to my room. I’m not worried about the bathroom door hanging wide open. I heard the lock slide into place when Lenin shut the main door behind him. I’m trapped in here. A prisoner in my own room.
The shards of drywall sprinkling my black bra fall to my feet when I undo the clasp at the back. My panties are the next to go. They’re soiled and dirty, a stark reminder of how I embarrassed myself earlier tonight.
After switching on the shower faucet, I dump my ruined clothing into the bin next to the toilet. The brimming drawers I took in upon entering assures me they won’t be needed. I also refuse for anyone else to bear witness to my tragedy. I’m panicked enough wondering if Asher read my body’s controversy without worrying about others.
Air hisses through my teeth when I step under the spray of water. I left it on cold, hopeful the punishing temperature would remind me that I’m not here on a holiday. Even though I didn’t commit the crime, I still have a penalty to pay—only it’s for years earlier.
Fighting through the shivers wreaking havoc with my body, I unbraid my hair. The springy locks that drop halfway down my back give me three seconds of relief before the bitterly cold water takes my hair hostage.
I stay under the spray until my toes are as blue as Asher’s eyes. It’s a liberating time that reminds me of everything I’ve already survived. I no longer need to feel fear because I faced my worst nightmare head on. Besides, fear is only temporary. Regret lives forever.
Turning off the tap, I step out of the shower and reach for a towel—a towel I didn’t bring in with me.
Shit.
Water slips off my body to puddle on the floor when I pad into the main section of my room, eager to fetch one of the towels I saw on the bed. My hurried steps freeze when I detect that I am being watched. Asher is in the far corner of the room. He has his shoulder propped against the wall and his eyes fixated on my painfully erect nipples. He has removed the jacket I felt grazing my chest when he pinned me to the wall, and the laces of his black boots are undone. He is wearing a shirt, but its fitted design favorably showcases the ridges of his body.
When his tongue darts out to moisten his top lip, reality hits me like a freight train. I’m ogling his clothed form while I’m butt-ass naked. Can I be any more stupid?
With a half-squeal/half-groan, one of my arms darts up to cover my chest while the other drops between my legs. Asher’s response to my nakedness is nowhere near as mortified as mine. He smiles a devilishly wicked smirk as lust fires through his hooded gaze.
You’d think his arrogance would alleviate the hardness of my nipples. It doesn’t. Not in the slightest. It makes them capable of cutting glass, and don’t get me started on the wetness I can’t blame on a shower. Even with him having the sneer of a murderer, Asher is an extremely handsome man, so clothed or not, my body can’t help but respond to him.
Pathetic. I am pathetic.
“W-why are you in my room?” I want to blame my stuttering on my unnaturally low body temperature, but unfortunately, that isn’t the case. I’m scared, slightly turned on, but mostly confused.
Why is he here—now? At one in the morning?
Asher dangles his head to the side so his eyes can rake down my body. He takes in every inch of my five-foot-six height before returning his eyes to mine. “Your room? Who said this was your room?”
Not giving me a chance to respond, he pushes off his feet to bridge the gap between us. Although the heat bouncing off him has dried my skin, I lean over to snag one of the towels off the bed.
It freezes halfway to my body when he tsks. “Why cover up now? It’s only an additional article of clothing I’ll force you to remove.”
Force?
Hands shaking, I circle the towel around my quivering body and take a step back.
Asher finds my defense amusing. He saunters closer to me, his haughtiness at an all-time high. “Why act scared? Velika said you seemed wary about becoming a chambermaid, yet here you are, in my room, waiting for me. What a great way to announce you’ve changed your mind.”
My eyes bounce between his as panic attacks my sense. This is his room?
A flush creeps across my cheeks when he takes his time assessing the face I see in the large mirror behind his left shoulder. My lips have returned to their normal color; my eyes are no longer sunken from the hours I spent in the dark, and the frantic flare of my nostrils makes my nose not as slim as I despise. I look remarkably put-together for how hard my heart is raging.
My throat works hard to swallow when Asher stops to stand in front of me. “Why did he keep you hidden for so long? You always drew a crowd when you were a child, but you reached womanhood a long time ago, so why keep you segregated for as long as he did?”
Although he is asking questions, he doesn’t give me time to answer. He just circles
me, the liquor I smell on his breath not affecting his long, purposeful strides.
“Your face alone will make me a fortune, but I’m torn. Should I sell your virginity to the highest bidder? Or take it for myself?”
I step back, crashing into the set of drawers filled with clothing. I don’t know what I’m scared about the most: his knowledge that I’m a virgin, or the fact he wants to profit from it. I’d say it is a combination of them both.
My lips quiver when I begin to speak, “Who said I’m a virgin? Insecurities don’t equate to saintliness.”
He tsks again before lifting his hand to my right cheek. “This face doesn’t belong to a whore.” He runs the back of his finger down my blooming cheek. It flames even more—more in frustration than embarrassment. “Neither do these.” His hand drops to the bud even a thick, fluffy towel can’t conceal. His tweak of my nipple sends a zap straight to my pussy, but I fight with all my might not to squeeze my knees together. “And that—” The pigheaded way he sucks in air through his nostrils adds to the scent teeming between us. “You can’t get more pure than that.”
Not willing to back down without a fight for the second time tonight, I slip past him and head for the door. I’m scared of what his response to me denying him will be, but I’m also aware of how things work in our industry. He gave me a pardon, so he can’t back down from his decision now. There’s barely a grain of integrity in the underworld, but some rules can never be dishonored; pardons being one of the frontrunners.
“You need to get your senses checked. I doubt a man as debauched as you could ever tell the difference between purity and impurity, but there is a difference. A big one.”
Some of my sass is squashed when the door handle fails to open. It’s locked—again. This time from the inside. I’m trapped in a room with a man who annihilates my smarts as much as he spikes my agitation. I should be scared; I should be fearful that he wants to claim more than just my life, but for some reason unbeknownst to me, I’m not. His arrogance frightens me, but this is about more than just superiority. It’s not even about his grief. It’s more than that; I just can’t fully comprehend it.
A whimper escapes my lips when Asher pins me to the door not even a second later. He snuck up on me so agilely, I didn’t hear his approach. He is hot and heavy against my back, his shallow breaths tickling my ear. I attempt to pull back from the door, but his strong, fit body keeps me flush with it. His hand gripping my hip is dangerously close to an area thrumming out a hearty tune, and my painfully erect nipples are dragging against the wooden panels of his door. Just as I was earlier tonight, I’m panicked by his hold, but also turned on by it.
“Do you want me to prove how I know you’re a virgin?”
Too frozen with fear and excitement to answer him with words, I shake my head.
Well, I was supposed to shake my head, but for some stupid reason, I nodded instead. I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. I never had the ability to say no to him when we were younger, so I don’t see why it would be any different today.
I can’t see Asher’s face, but I know he is smiling. Its heat adds to the messy situation between my legs, and I’m not going to mention my heart.
After releasing my hip from his powerful grip, he strokes his thumb over the bruise mottling my neck. Panic ignites deep inside me when he lines it up so it sits in the exact spot it was earlier tonight. When his fingers curl around my throat to clutch it in a firm, yet dominant hold, my pulse goes crazy. It’s a similar hold to the one he used in the dungeon-like room, only missing the fury of a man seconds away from killing me.
His voice echoes the one I hear in my dreams when he growls, “This would be a lot more fun if you trusted me.”
I do. I trust him. Stupidly.
He could have killed me earlier. He didn’t. Shouldn’t that award him some level of trust?
When he feels me slacken against him, he tightens his grip on my throat. My rational thinking brain demands I put up a fight, to show I’m not the naïve girl my virginity implies I am, but the other half of me, the one that has yet to experience life, keeps my feet planted, confident this exchange needs to happen. Not just for me, but Asher as well.
As quickly as he steals the air from my lungs, dampness pools between my legs. It’s a terrifying hold that should make me panic that I’m moments from asphyxiation, but for some inane reason, the last thing I’m feeling is fear.
When Asher’s other hand slides underneath the only thing attempting to maintain my dignity, his lips tickle my ear. “Will it take one stroke or two?”
Before I can decipher his question, he strums my aching clit at the same time he releases my throat from his clutch. My legs buckle from beneath me when a sensation I’ve never experienced before tears through me. It is intense, like a fire igniting low in my gut before roaring through my veins. My entire body trembles from the force of it. It heats up every inch of my skin, making my subzero shower a thing of the past.
Just as quickly as euphoria pumps through me, shame takes its place. It’s not remembering I’m pinned to the door of a man determined to break me; it’s his smug chuckle. He’s laughing at how quickly he has me coming undone, like my inability to say no to him is all the proof he needs of my purity.
It fills me with anger and has me lashing out like a child. “I thought you wanted to prove my purity, not give reason as to why I helped free Dominique from you.”
Chapter Eight
Asher
Rage fills me. It’s hot, quick, and violent. Nearly as brutal as the climax that just shredded through Zariah. That’s why she is lashing out. She’s ashamed I proved her wrong, embarrassed I made her quiver my name with nothing but the flick of my thumb. I had wondered during my trip home if her scent seconds from death was fear, or if the innocent aren’t as innocent as they seem. I was certain I had sampled a scent like hers before, but since I’ve never killed a woman, I couldn’t pass it off solely as fear. Now I know better.
Sweet, innocent Zariah isn’t as saintly as her virgin title.
I should finish what I started, claim her so hard and rough, she’ll feel me for days, but her scorn pisses me off more than I care to admit. My blood is still thick with the adrenaline I amassed during bloodshed, my skin slicked with more than my sweat, and I’m hard enough Zariah’s virginal blood would be spilled from just the first inch of my cock, but I step back, unpinning her from the door, not doing any of the wicked thoughts streaming through my head.
I don’t take anything unwillingly.
I also don’t fuck the help.
Zariah chose to be a chambermaid, so that’s what she’ll be.
Her towel rips from the top half of her body when I grip her arm and spin her around. With fury guiding me, my eyes don’t lower to take in the visual it eagerly absorbed only minutes ago. They liked what they saw, but now all they’re seeing is a woman determined to play my weaknesses. I don’t play games—especially when my opponent is my enemy. We may have been friendly when we were children, but we’ve been rivals for over a decade.
She should be counting her lucky stars that I’m a man of my word, or more than her virginal blood would have been spilled tonight.
“This is my room; pomoshch’ have special rooms just for them.”
Zariah’s eyes widen from my calling her “the help,” but they have nothing on the way her pupils dilate when I walk her through the locked door hidden behind a thick tapestry. “This is your room.”
Her grip on her towel strengthens when I shove her into a room the size of a walk-in closet, just blander and less inviting. There’s a single bed with a springless mattress thrust in one corner, and a stack of empty drawers on her right. It’s as cold and as sterile as her comment made my mood.
“There’s no heating, lights or electricity. It is as basic as they come, but perfectly adequate for a chambermaid.”
I’m lying. The regular chambermaids have similar-sized bedrooms, but they have heating and electricity. Although I could
request for Zariah to be bunked with them, I’m too pissed to think with the head on my shoulders.
Kostya has a big mouth. If he hasn’t already circulated news of Zariah’s purity, it will only be a matter of time before he does. Even though I shouldn’t give a fuck what happens to her, the thought of anyone touching her frustrates the shit out of me. Not because I want to seal the deal myself, but because as far as anyone is aware, we’re getting married at the end of the month. Even with having no intention of taking advantage of the situation my father has placed me in, I will not be made to look like a fool. Whether a whore or a housemaid, if it’s mine, you don’t touch it. I can’t explain it any more simply than that.
“If there’s no electricity, how will I see? There are no windows.”
After relishing the fear in Zariah’s voice, I yank down the tapestry with force. It shreds, sending particles of dust and cotton floating into the air. They’re easily visible, starkly contrasting with Zariah’s dark, wet hair.
I toss the rug onto the floor before nudging my head to the door we just walked through. “You either keep it open or use candlesticks. I’m not bothered either way.”
When I leave the room, she’s quick to trace my steps. “And my belongings?”
“I’ll have Lenin bring them in.” I dig a spare key for my door out of a woven basket of trinkets on top of my drawers before spinning around to face her. She’s scared but is once again putting up more fight than Zoran did. “You are to lock my door at all times. If you need to shower, there is a guest bathroom halfway down the hall on the right. You are to take your clothes with you.”
I step closer to her, ensuring she can see the warning in my eyes when I say, “Do not at any time walk these halls like that.” I wave my hand at her towel-covered body I’m fighting to ignore. I don’t take anything unwillingly given, but the scent of her arousal slicking my hand is proving difficult to ignore. “If anyone sees you like that, you will be punished. I don’t bring visitors to my room, so don’t have anyone here—male or female.” My ticking jaw frustrates me, but I do well at ignoring it. “Breakfast starts at five, so you will need to be awake by four.”