by Skye Warren
Chapter Six
Three years later
Walking through the Grand is like walking through a dream. A sweet dream, most nights. Flashing lights and bright colors. And sex. It coats these dreams with honey, thick and burnished gold.
There are bad dreams too, on nights when a new asshole walks through the doors and puts his hand on me. Security is quick to throw them out, when they see, and Ivan swift and merciless with retribution, when he finds out. And for those few minutes when nobody knows, when I’m alone with some new monster…well, everyone gets nightmares sometimes.
“You going onstage?” Bianca asks. She’s relatively new to the club, an ice queen, her gait more of a glide. She surveys me from a few inches higher, her plastic glass slippers raising her above me.
Of course I know her aloofness is an act. She’s actually a scaredy cat when it comes to Ivan, or most men actually, which is why she’s here.
“I’m done for the night,” I tell her. “Heading back now.”
“Oh.” She examines her nails, a shimmery opal. “Do you think you could check about that time off?”
“And the reason you can’t ask him yourself is because…” We put our schedules together at the beginning of every two weeks. Now she needs tomorrow off for some unspecified reason.
The mask cracks, just for a moment. “I need this. I really need this time off, and he’s more likely to say yes to you. Please. It’s…personal.”
She says personal like it’s a dirty word, and in here, it is. We don’t pass around a sharing stick in the dressing room. This isn’t a goddamn therapy session. No, we bury our issues deep, where it can turn our souls black, numb us from the inside out, like any other self-respecting stripper.
“I’ll talk to him,” I say, because it seems like the fastest way to make her stop.
“Thank you,” she says, relief evident. “I’ll owe you one.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, stalking past her. I hadn’t planned on talking to Ivan tonight. He will definitely notice my shaky hands. And with his bruisers reporting my every move, he’ll know why.
The crowd is decent tonight, a teeming mass I have to fight my way through, pushing and shoving just to stay upright. I get off on this—the noise, the people. The looks men give me as I pass them by. It’s why I loved this place the moment I stumbled into the club, wide-eyed and terrified. It’s why I begged and pleaded to be allowed onstage, back before I was quite legal—the lone nameless, underage girl in his otherwise legitimate enterprise.
And it’s why I put up with what happens in the basement. Not sex. God, nothing as pedestrian as that. Ivan could get sex from any of the girls in Tanglewood. For all I know, he does. It’s something different he wants from me, though.
Luca stands watch at the stairwell, face impassive. “Evening,” he says.
I smile, enjoying the challenge. I’ve gotten to know Luca Almanzar pretty well since we first met. And he can be pretty fun, except when he’s on duty. He’s like one of those guards outside the palace, a tall hat and an unbreakable stare.
Pressing myself close, I run my hand down his chest. I’m an inch away from him when I whisper, “Good evening to you too, handsome.”
He stiffens at my touch, at my words, but he doesn’t break formation. “Do you want to get me killed?”
“Buzzkill,” I say, leaning back.
One dark eyebrow rises. “I want to live,” he says drily.
It makes me laugh, and I poke him in his rock-hard abs. Of course it does nothing. He’s like a damn statue. “You’ve gotten more serious since I met you.”
“And you’ve gotten less.”
I freeze. Direct hit. “Is that so bad?”
He sighs. “No, it’s good. I’m glad you’re happy, Candy. If you’re happy.”
What the hell was happiness anyway? An orgasm? A pill? I’d mapped out almost every pleasure known to man and still hadn’t quite found mine. Years of dancing, of drinking. Years of being watched by Ivan, wondering if he’d pounce. The only thing I knew for sure was that I couldn’t keep going like this.
“I need to talk to him,” I murmur. An afterthought, even though Ivan is anything but.
He’s my first thought when I wake from a bender. My last before I take a hit.
“He’s in a mood,” Luca says.
When is he not? I don’t bother asking. Luca wouldn’t have an answer. No, I make my way down the stairs. I’ll just have to hide my trembling hands and shaky legs. I’ll have to hide how dry my mouth feels.
Hide how badly I want a drink.
It’s been three years since I first walked down these steps. I spent the first year locked up in his house, barely touched, barely noticed, left with books and music and dancing all alone. I finally convinced Ivan to let me dance in the Grand. He even got me my own apartment. But through it all, Ivan has always been there—directing my movements, picking my clothes, watching me. Waiting for me to make a mistake so that he can punish me.
I can’t keep going this way. Not even for Ivan.
Chapter Seven
It’s cold in the basement, without the body heat and the spotlights. Cold and damp. I wonder how Ivan’s desk can survive the moisture in the air, how it doesn’t rot, but the old carved wood continues to stand, incongruous and proud.
Ivan doesn’t look up when I step into the room. He knows Luca would guard that damn door with his life—or at least knock and announce the visitor if it’s club business.
Except for me.
I can come down here whenever I want. That’s the only thing that’s up to me. Because as soon as that metal door clangs shut behind me, I’m sealed in. Ivan’s in charge of me now.
And he wants me to wait.
There’s a feeling that comes over me while I stand there, in the middle of a cold, dark room. The same feeling I had on my knees for hours, reciting my prayers under the watchful eyes of Leader Allen. I was a child then, even if he didn’t always see me that way.
I’m not a child now…
Even if Ivan continues to treat me like one.
“Come,” he says finally, pen still to paper. He makes a final stroke, almost violent—his signature.
I cross the floor. The spikes of my heels barely touch the ground. It used to sound impossibly loud, the clack of shoes. And though I embraced so many loud and bright and immoral things about my new life, that was one I couldn’t shake. So I learned to walk quietly in my heels.
I stand directly in front of his desk, the tops of my thighs inches away from the edge. “Bianca wants to know if she can have tomorrow off.”
Pale gray eyes meet mine. “And the reason she isn’t asking me herself is?”
“Because you’re intimidating and, let’s face it, a cold motherfucker. She’s scared of you.”
That earns me something—a suggestion of a smile, a tilt of his lips. “But you’re not.”
“Should I be?” I challenge, but I already know the answer is yes. I’m scared, but I’m here anyway. What does that say about me? “I can cover for Bianca tomorrow.”
“Can you?” he says, which is his way of saying yes. His gaze sweeps over me like a tangible touch, taking in my ruffled lace bra-and-panties set in a pale, peachy pink. My nipples harden under his hot gaze, even through the gauzy fabric. “You work too much already.”
I give him a saucy smile, the same way I’d do for a customer. “I still find plenty of time to play.”
His lids lower. “Play,” he repeats, tasting the word.
Oh shit. There’s doubt in that one word. And derision. And unarguable dominance. It drops my chin to my chest and my eyes to the floor. I’m no longer the sassy, sarcastic stripper who flirted with Luca upstairs. Now I’m standing under Ivan’s scrutiny, waiting for him to pass judgment.
“And have you been good?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say.
But with just that one word, I prove myself wrong. He frowns at me. That frown. That stern expression, the forbidding glint i
n his eyes. I dream of his face this way, of all it means, of what comes next. This is a dream.
“Yes, sir.” It’s not what he wants to be called, not exactly.
He gives me a short nod. “You ate?”
On Harmony Hills there were acres of wheat, of corn. And the table—the table was empty. We were fed according to how much we had sinned. When I misbehave, I have a tendency to punish myself. Ivan doesn’t like this.
He’s the only one who can punish me now.
“Enough,” I say.
“You slept well?”
God, this concern. So twisted and fake and perfect. It slices through me, right to the core of regret and longing. I shrug.
One eyebrow rises. “Or did you go out last night?”
He knows I didn’t. The men watching me would have told him I didn’t leave my apartment. When I first came to Ivan, he got me tutors and textbooks. I started at a third-grade level and worked my way to high school level in the year that I lived with him. Meanwhile he dressed me up and sheltered me. And I knew I would never really grow up unless I left. So I demanded to move out, insisted on dancing at the Grand, and he allowed it as long as he could monitor my every move.
I’m a different person now. No one could recognize me, my hair like silk instead of straw, my skin flushed and tanned and powered instead of flat. I’ve filled out too. Good food has given me curves instead of a stick-thin body.
As much as I’ve changed, I can’t leave my past behind.
Someone won’t let me leave my past behind.
“I didn’t go out.” The truth sucks the air from the room. Even in his presence, I can feel another one. “I was too afraid, after…”
After someone broke into the Grand. After someone left a note scrawled across my vanity mirror with my pink-bubblegum lipstick. John 10:16. A Bible verse. Of course I recognized what it was. And of course I remembered what it said. The lessons are too ingrained in me to ever forget, imprinted on my mind and in my skin. Ivan was convinced it was a random attack, just another creep in the clientele, but I knew otherwise.
And I have other sheep that are not of this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd.
I may take off my clothes on that stage, but it’s not me they’re seeing. Glitter and flash. Artifice. Inside I’m still a follower. Ivan’s always seen that in me.
“Come here,” he says, no tenderness in his voice. There’s pure fury.
He likes me afraid, as long as he’s the one making me that way.
Ivan has increased security at the Grand in recent months. He’s increased security on me too. He’s always had me followed, always known when I did something worth punishing. Before, I’d feel their eyes watching me from the shadows, a constant presence. Now they stand in plain sight, actual bodyguards—not the least bit subtle.
I circle the desk to stand in front of him. A beat starts up in my body, the thrum of my heart made faster, louder, pulsing right between my legs. I’m trapped in this game like I’m trapped in this basement. The ropes are made from my own lust, with his strong hands tying the knots.
“You don’t think about that,” Ivan says sternly, but what I hear is, You don’t think about him. He’s talking about the man who left the note. I’m thinking about the man I left behind. “He won’t touch you. No one will ever fucking touch you.”
I want freedom. I want to feel safe. Those two things are opposite desires, and they tear me apart. He turns me on. He conditions me for this. But it’s not either of those things that keep me here. It’s hope, that one day he’ll somehow do both of those things for me—he’ll set me free and catch me when I fall.
“Except you.” A challenge and a plea at once.
He leans back, his expression dark. For just a second I see desire. I see longing. He wants more than what we have in this basement, this dungeon—more than the scraps he gives himself. Then the emotion is wiped away as if it was never there. His face is impassive. He’s a statue, as cold and unyielding as the concrete walls around us.
His head tilts toward the desk. “Bend over.”
My heart beats faster. I don’t want to bend over the desk. I want to be over his lap, to feel him getting hard underneath me. I want to be held by him, touched by him, surrounded by him.
“Candace,” he says, using my real name—and it works. It snaps me right into place, that headspace where all I can do is obey.
The desk is cool against my front, pressing against my breasts, the closest he comes to a caress. I push down my ruffled panties until they’re around my thighs, trapping me in place. Exposing me to his gaze and to his rage.
Then he’s standing behind me. “Did you drink last night?” he asks conversationally.
I remember staring at the bottle, half-full of amber liquid. I remember the dryness of my mouth, the knot in my throat. I didn’t want it. But I wanted this. “Yes,” I whisper.
Only a sip. A sip is all it takes.
His hand comes at me swiftly, a whoosh of air one second before impact. My whole body jerks. Pain explodes in my butt and spreads over my skin like wildfire.
“Well?” he asks, one hand fisting in my hair. He lifts, and I stare into the dark, empty hole that is my life. This basement, this man. This need we both share, under cover of night.
My voice is wobbly. My whole body is wobbly. “Thank you, sir.”
His fist gives me a little shake before he lets me go. I rest my cheek on the desk.
Another blow, this one even harder. There are no warmups, no mercy. Only punishment.
The slightest sound escapes me, a moan, a whimper. “Thank you, sir.”
He leans over me, careful not to touch. Only the faintest ghost of a feeling, his suit fabric against my naked skin. “Did you shoot up?” he asks.
“No,” I tell him, feeling the tears rise in my throat. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, didn’t want the rush. Didn’t want the pain.
That gives him pause. I feel his hesitation hover around us. “Did you smoke?”
“No.”
He stands, cool air replacing his body heat. “Were you a good girl, Candace?”
I can’t hold the sob in. It comes out of me, wrenching my body, relief and regret in one pained sound. “No, sir. No. I wasn’t. I—I touched myself.”
His satisfaction wraps around me like velvet, dark and seductive. Of course he wants more though. Whatever I give him, he always wants more. “Where did you touch yourself?”
I shudder. “No, don’t…don’t make me tell you.”
His hand rests on the curve of my ass, his thumb brushing over my heated flesh, back and forth. He hurts me and he soothes me, but never enough. Back and forth. Never enough pain or pleasure. He always leaves me needing more.
Back and forth. “No, little one. You’re going to show me.”
There are vines that wrap around me, their thorns pressing in, making me bleed. Being with Ivan doesn’t free me from the vines. He doesn’t make the pain go away. He makes me want more.
I shove my hand down, graceless, unpracticed, under my body and between my legs. I don’t slide my hand under my panties or finger my clit, not the way I did last night. I just cup myself, protective, afraid.
“What did you do next?” His voice is low, the grate of stone on stone. “Daddy needs to see.”
My eyes squeeze tight, and I shake my head. I can’t. I sin again and again, over and over. And every time, in the seconds before, with my very last breath, I’m fighting it. Fighting myself. Fighting him.
“Show me,” he coaxes, his voice dark and hypnotic. I would follow that voice anywhere. Even into hell.
I press one finger inside my pussy, where I’m already wet, where I’m burning up with lust and shame. I know my cheeks are pink even though my eyes are closed. They’ll match my bubblegum lipstick.
“That’s right,” he says with a sigh. “Can you find your little clit? I’m sure it’s nice and hard.”
&
nbsp; My fingers slide through my wetness and settle on my clit. It’s a hard nub, throbbing at the faint friction. “It is. Please.”
“Good little girls aren’t supposed to touch themselves, are they?”
I’m not a little girl. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say them. I can’t. I can’t add a lie to my sin. Because I am a little girl. I’m Ivan’s little girl, for as long as he’ll have me. Even if this is all I’ll ever be to him.
“I’m not good,” I say instead.
“I know. And I’m going to punish you. You’ll touch your clit while I spank you, and then you’ll learn what happens to bad girls.”
I don’t hear the next blow coming. It takes me by surprise, and I jerk, pressing my clit into my hand. Pleasure arcs through me, white-hot from my breasts against the desk to my toes curled on the floor. I moan and rock my hips, seeking more of the pleasure to take away the pain. The next blow comes too fast, and then he’s hitting me in earnest, beating me—it’s too much. My fingers on my clit only make me sensitized, only make me more aware of every ounce of pain.
I can almost feel the calluses on his palm, the signs that he once fought in the streets before he came to rule them. I imagine I can feel the lines of his fingerprints, uniquely him, branding me for his own. It’s at once a sharp blade and a wide blast, cutting me to pieces and spreading me apart.
He hits me harder and faster, until I can feel each blow reverberate inside me. The pain isn’t outside me anymore; it’s inside, digging deep. I can’t reach this any other way. Not with alcohol, not with dancing. And sure as hell not with sex. Only this—being hit over and over again by a man who cares enough to do it. He doesn’t love me, not the way a man does a woman. He takes care of me. He disciplines me.
He draws a circle around me and then hurts me when I step outside it.
It’s the reason I’ve stepped outside the line so damn much. This.
“I can’t,” I whisper, voice broken. I’m sobbing now. This is what he’s reduced me to. A crying little girl, a mess. I’m clinging to the desk. I wish I was over his lap.