Beauty: Part 1: Blaire's World (Beauty's Duet #1)

by Kirsty Dallas

  “I’m not a thing,” she spat out. “And if I had a knife I’d probably cut off his penis and shove it down his throat.”

  She was so matter of fact that my lips parted, and my mind went blank, but the girl paid me little attention, her seething anger entirely on Algis. Broken wasn’t even an adjective in her vocabulary. I’d been on the front line of too many rescues to count, slave girls, boys, women and men little more than a husk upon their release. Their minds so crippled and their spirits so crushed, few would recover from their ordeal. This slip of a girl was so far from broken, it made me pause. Perhaps I should give her my damn knife and let her carve up the useless twat. If Decena weren’t involved, I probably would.

  I sank back on my haunches with a sigh. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”

  “I made a promise that if I ever got free I’d kill him.” Tilting her head to one side, much like a puppy might do, she added, “Slowly. Am I free?”

  I considered her for a moment, taking in her defiant beauty. She looked like a wild animal, her tangled white hair hanging over her shoulders, deep bruises marring her fair complexion, blood still trickling from some of her wounds. A mesmerizing angel, full of tempestuous rage. Was she free? I guess she was, though I couldn’t deny there was a part of me that wanted to keep her. Could I refuse her vengeance? I’d been unable to deny my own, and it was the first step to rebuilding my damaged mind. She needed it, the reversal of power, the retribution.

  “Forty-eight hours,” I found myself saying, my thoughts carrying the words straight from my mouth before I’d truly thought them through. Her nose crinkled, and that little line between her brows appeared again. “You’ve got two days, then I must deliver him to my boss. I’ll give you two days with Algis during which time you may do as you wish with him.” Her eyes widened with shock, and I raised a finger. “But you can’t kill him.”

  BEAUTY

  “What?” Disbelief left me frozen in place.

  The stranger still sat on his haunches before me, unmoving, his face stony, his emotions carefully hidden away so I couldn’t get a read on him. Friend or enemy? I had no idea. His fingers laced together between us, his gaze holding mine. His accent suggested English, the way he used his words almost haughty and antiquated. Dressed in dark clothes with the letter ‘Z’ emblazoned on the chest and heavy duty boots, much like the men that stormed the ballroom a few nights ago, it contradicted his manner which suggested he’d be better suited to a tailored suit.

  “I see it in you,” he whispered. What could he see? Staring back into his profoundly vivid eyes, I watched him as he watched me, wondering what he saw. “I see the anger, I see the fire.” Unlacing his fingers, he reached out, and I barely withheld my flinch as the tip of his finger traced a line beside my eye. “In there. You’re not broken, not exactly. He hurt you, and now you want to hurt him, too. Am I wrong?”

  Hurt Viršininkas? I’d dreamed of it, the fine details of exactly how I might exact my revenge on him was sometimes the only thing that kept my sanity from taking wings and flying away. Or perhaps my sanity had long since fled, because given the opportunity to harm the man who had wronged me in so many ways sent my mind into a dream-like haze. His screams bouncing off the walls, his tears cascading down his cheeks, his blood soaking the floor beneath his feet. My heart pounded hard, my fingertips rubbing together as if I could already feel his death on my hands. It didn’t scare me, it didn’t even disgust me, instead, it roused me, filling my weak limbs with an electrified excitement. Was that what he saw? My deepest darkest secrets? I found myself wanting to search out the closest mirror and look for myself.

  When I said nothing, the man smiled. “I’ll give you forty-eight hours for your retribution, then I need to get Algis to the man who is owed his last breath. I’d offer it to you, but my boss . . . he deserves this.”

  “What happens to me, then?” I murmured with a gruff voice. “Will I go home?” The thought was a little overwhelming. Home? Where was my home? I couldn’t even see one in my warped mind.

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  It was an ominous answer for a simple question. Yet, as my gaze searched beyond the stranger, to the bed where Viršininkas slept, I knew I would take his offer. Forty-eight hours. Could I find retribution in just two short days after everything this man had done to me? Something told me I may not find my vengeance if given a lifetime, but I knew I would try. My hate for him burned hot. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to see him bleed. I wanted to see him humiliated. I wanted to see him take his last breath. My attention was pulled from the turbulent thoughts by a finger under my chin.

  “He must leave here alive,” the stranger murmured.

  Alive.

  But hurting.

  Just like he hurt me.

  ***

  “What should I call you?”

  The stranger, who I had come to grudgingly admit, was beautiful in a masculine kind of way, stood at the kitchen sink. He was washing his hands, having carefully attended to my wounds. Antibiotic cream, Band-Aids, and bandages sat strewn across the granite countertop, the bloodied dressings thrown in the trash. Without argument, I had taken a painkiller, and slowly the aches that wracked my body faded to nothing but a low background noise. After showering, I pulled on a button-down business shirt that hung to mid-thigh. It belonged to Viršininkas. No, not Viršininkas. Algis. Knowing his name seemed to humanize him, perhaps even taking away some of his power over my mind. As much as I didn’t want to wear anything of Algis’, I found a measure of comfort in being clothed in something so simple and soft. No bustiers or leather in sight.

  Wiping his hands and turning to face me, the stranger seemed to consider answering me. His head angled slightly to one side, and finally one corner of his mouth lifted resembling something of a smirk.

  “Hart.”

  Heart? Any other questions that sat on the tip of my tongue disappeared. I couldn’t tell if he was teasing me or not. Was it a nickname?

  “I can see you fumbling around in your mind trying to figure it out,” he murmured. “But I assure you there is nothing to figure out. My name is Hart. H-A-R-T, Hart. My mother was an English literature professor with a penchant for poetry. Hart Crane was a modernist poet from the early nineteen hundreds who stole my mother’s heart. When I was born, there was no doubt in her mind what I’d be called.”

  Hart. It was unusual, but I liked it. It probably should have been effeminate, but this man was all male, carrying darkness in his eyes that expressed anything but gentleness.

  “And you?”

  A simple question with no simple answer. Who was I? My previous name was barely a fading echo in my chaotic mind. One thing I knew for sure: I wasn’t her anymore, she was long dead. But neither was I, Beauty.

  “What did Algimas call you?”

  “He liked to call me Beauty,” I spat out, my face scrunching up as if a bad smell had entered the room.

  “Beauty,” Hart purred. The word sounded reverent off his tongue, but still made me shiver with revolution.

  Leaning forward, his large body hovered above mine. Thankfully, the granite counter between us resembled a protective barrier. I didn’t trust this man, in fact, I was certain that at any moment he would turn on me. Even though he hadn’t shown me anything other than kindness, there was something sinister about the way he moved. Effortlessly quiet, efficient, and controlled. He wasn’t your run-of-the-mill police, possibly not even a soldier. The unnerving way he moved and controlled himself wasn’t natural. It was learned and perfected. People who had something to hide made me nervous.

  While he hadn’t hurt me, I was fairly confident he wasn’t a good man. He also hadn’t been forthcoming of what would become of me and my freedom, which made me guess my freedom may not be as close as I hoped.

  “Perhaps, you need to take Beauty back.”

  My wandering gaze swung to Hart’s. He wasn’t mocking me, the seriousness in his eyes and the determined set to
his strong jaw told me as much. Take it back? And do what with it? Beauty wasn’t a name, it was a noun that had been used to belittle me, to turn me from a living breathing being into nothing more than an object.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Take it back. Beauty shouldn’t be something to fear, it shouldn’t be something so ghastly it makes you visibly squirm,” he noted my flinch at the mention of the name. Resting on his elbows, his gaze level with mine, he smiled as he held out his hand, palm upwards, a gleaming silver knife resting in it. “Take it back, own it, show that rapist fuck you are not his Beauty anymore. You are your own Beauty.”

  I couldn’t look away from the knife. How many times had I prayed for a weapon? How many nights did I sit on the floor beside Algis as he ate, wishing the knife in his hand was mine to use? With slow, tentative movements, I reached out. One finger touched the blade, so smooth yet deadly. It was the closest I had come to something so beautiful and sharp in many years, and I savored the feel of such power beneath my touch. Once I reached the hilt, my fingers wrapped around it, and then it was mine. Pulling it away from Hart, I held it protectively to my body. My lip curled and a feral growl purred from my chest. Hart simply smiled and rose to his full height.

  “Come, Tiger.” He chuckled. “Come see what I prepared for you.”

  He strode from the room without a care in the world, his back turned, unconcerned of the knife he had just relinquished to me. One part of my mind screamed at me to run, another wanted to attack, but the loudest voice was the one that urged me to follow. Slowly at first, I tracked him as he wandered through the house. Hart seemed comfortable here, even familiar with its layout. Soon I was padding along behind him on bare feet, the knife still clutched to my chest, my eyes darting around the house, wary of an attack at any moment. It didn’t come, but my heart began to race, and my palms became slick with sweat when I realized where we were headed. The doorway from the informal dining room was familiar. The stairs that led down to the basement level felt never-ending, and my feet seemed to grow heavy and reluctant the further I went. Cool air bit at my flesh as we made our way through the dimly lit corridor, my soft breaths coming in panicked gasps, my lungs frozen with terror. But I couldn’t stop following Hart. It was if he were the Pied Piper, and I was ensnared by his presence. At the heavy steel door to the dungeon where my nightmares began, we stopped.

  Hart glanced back over his shoulder and winked. “Consider this, my gift to the new and improved Beauty.”

  The door opened easily on silent hinges, and my world narrowed to the sight before me. The room was the same, but different. Instead of me hanging from the cuffs that bit into my flesh, was Algis. The sight shocked the breath from my lungs. He was naked, his head hanging limply, his chin to his chest. For the first time in three years, he looked nothing like the monster my mind had portrayed him to be. He looked small, weak, and oddly human. Hart strolled into the dungeon, looking over the stainless-steel tables adorned with all sorts of equipment that had been used to break me: scalpels, pliers, dildos, vibrators, scissors, and other instruments that made my stomach churn with sickness. From the walls hung whips, chains, collars, gags, floggers, saws, and an assortment of other paraphernalia.

  His inspection soon moved to the cage that sat on the cold floor, and I could hardly believe I had spent so much time trapped inside it. Small, too small, and entirely menacing. Hart stared at it for a long time before moving on to the obscene chair sitting in one corner. It was reclined, with stirrups for the ankles to secure one’s thighs wide and helpless. I had no idea what he was thinking as he observed my personal hell, his emotions hidden carefully behind a blank mask. Ever so slowly, Hart made his way closer to Algis, until he came to a stop directly in front of him. Reaching out, Hart gripped the shaggy brown hair that hung over Algis’ forehead and pulled, lifting his lifeless face high. A ball gag had been shoved in his mouth and was buckled at the back of his head, and spit dribbled down his chin. With a grunt, Hart let go and turned abruptly to face me.

  “Forty-eight hours, and you can’t kill him,” he muttered, stepping to one side.

  No longer did Hart look calm and relaxed, instead, he looked furious. His glare could have cut through the ice in the air as he stared at me.

  “Well, get in here and get started.”

  Shock stole my momentum, and a bombardment of confusing thoughts held me in place. Get started? Where would I start? I’d had so many dreams about this moment, and the room was filled with a concoction of devices that would bring forth pain and blood. Would I slice him open with a scalpel? Perhaps choke off his airway with a collar? Maybe I could penetrate and rape him with one of the many oversized dildos. Hart suddenly appeared before me, so close I could feel his breath on my cheek. There was tension around his hard and cold eyes as he glared down on me, lips flattened and nostrils flared. Was he angry at me? Perhaps I should hurt him, too. I was so fucking sick and tired of men looking down on me like I was the scum beneath their feet.

  “He stole you, raped you, defiled you, tortured you.” Hart’s deep voice rose with every word, and with each reminder of my imprisonment, I flinched. “How many times did you wish it was him and not you? How many times did you pray for help? How many times did you beg for mercy?” His words were chipping away at my mind, putting memories in there I didn’t care to recall. My breathing was choppy, and I swayed on my feet. “How many times did he ignore you and fuck you instead? How many men did he watch stick their cocks in you? How many hours did you hang from these chains? How much fucking blood did you spill on this concrete floor?” Hart was yelling now, and I realized his anger wasn’t directed at me, it was for the life I had been forced to live. As his rage grew, so did mine. It was as if we were somehow linked in this moment, his fury on my behalf pushing my own until I felt like a pressure gauge about to burst. The answer was . . . too many times to count.

  The rape was endless, the torture permanently etched into my skin, my humiliation drowned beneath tears. There were days where I begged until my throat was raw, and I prayed like an obsessed fool until one day I decided there was no God. There were men, though, lots of them, and the hours hanging from the chains that Algis currently hung were immeasurable. My eyes fell to the concrete floor, my blood had fucking stained it. All that feeling of hate and grief boiled over, and I screamed, my feet moving, taking me over the threshold and toward the man who had destroyed something within me, and at the same time created the wrathful beauty that now filled me.

  The knife slipped from my fingers to the stone floor, clattering loudly as my hands curled into fists. Then I began to hit him with weak punches, slaps, and scratches. I attacked like a wounded yet wild kitten. I’d only just begun, and my energy was already waning. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh was so familiar in this room, I was sure the sound had seeped its way into the concrete walls that would forever hold such devastating secrets. Tears clouded my vision, and with one last slap, my head hung low, and I swallowed a sob. Taking a step away, I glanced at Algis. He was still passed out, my pitiful attack gone completely unnoticed.

  “Why won’t he wake up?” My voice was rough, but almost resembling a whine. The tears that had filled my eyes remained unshed as I forced them away with a few blinks. Tears would not be shed. Today was my day for vengeance, today was the day I made this man bellow to the heavens for mercy. Overwhelmed with the endless possibilities of torture and mayhem, I rubbed at my arms as my fidgeting fingers yearned to reach out and cause pain.

  “I may have over-estimated the drug I used to sedate him. He might need a few more hours before he’s conscious again.”

  It wasn’t fair that he would sleep through my revenge. I wanted the man wide awake and screaming. Scooping the knife up from the floor, I retreated to the door.

  “That’s it?” Hart asked, his brows raising high.

  I couldn’t drag my gaze away from Algis. At any moment, I expected him to wake up, free himself, and attack me. My hands shook as I
held the knife to my body. I wanted to drag the blade over his flesh, dig it deep until he cried in pain. The need to hurt him was still within me, but he should be awake for it. I had always been awake for it.

  “Let me know when he wakes up. I don’t want him to miss what I have planned.”

  Turning, I scampered down the gloomy corridor, back up the narrow stairs, and into the warmly lit home. While not one single square inch of Algis’ mansion felt homey, I preferred being upstairs to being in the dungeon any day.

  HART

  The girl, Beauty, had surprised me. While her effort to attack the unconscious Algis was pitiful at best, her need for him to be conscious while she carried out the rest of her revenge made me hard. Perhaps I was sick, maybe even evil, but the thought brought me a rush of lust that made me want to fuck for days. The truth was, I got off on pain. Not sadism as such, for I had difficultly inflicting pain on my lovers and the women I fucked, but the thought of slicing my blade under the ribs of a piece of shit human being made me hard as fucking steel. If that piece of shite happened to be a rapist, even better.

  After a kill, the energy that coursed through my body wasn’t sated until I plowed into a woman, sometimes two or three at a time, hard and fast, for hours on end. The poetic screams of my kill heated me from the inside out. It wasn’t normal, I wasn’t normal, but I had accepted that fact many years ago. My love for death had been born when I was still a child, forced into violence by the most depraved of circumstances. For a time, I fought the sick need for brutality that stayed with me long after the blood had been washed from my body. Now, I motherfucking embraced it. Rotating my head, I groaned before palming the thick length of my dick behind my zipper. Yep, I was sick, and the next forty-eight hours were going to be painful with no outlet for the need that would build inside me. Sure, Beauty was all female with the parts I needed to gorge upon, but there was no way she’d be a willing participant in my animalistic need. I’d have to wait until this job was over, then I could call on one of my regular women, or perhaps pick up a new one from a local bar. Maybe a blonde . . .