by Amelia Wilde
A knock at the door.
“Come.”
Savannah is pretty, like all the others, but less timid. Spent hours on her makeup, obviously, and probably more on her hair. She chose a nice dress. And now she is here in my office with red lips and a coy smile. “They’re waiting for you downstairs. Six new girls.” An edge in her voice. Savannah is always nervous that someone might usurp her as the one most obnoxiously obsessed with me. She brushes her fingertips lightly over my things, which is asking for me to pin that hand behind her back and march her out of here. “Reya sent me to tell you.”
“You volunteered and you know it.” I’ve fucked her before. It was fine. A nice distraction. I would consider it a mistake, but I find it unproductive to dwell on those kinds of things.
“You’re right.” A pout. She tosses her hair over one shoulder. “I thought you might want to relax a little before you go downstairs.”
“No need.”
“Are you sure?” I stand up and straighten my jacket, reaching for my face out of habit. It turns out some stitches are required when your head goes through glass, and a bruise on my cheekbone is still healing. Savannah makes a sad face, the corners of her mouth turning down. “You still look hurt. I could make it feel better.” This time, when she reaches for my face, I catch her wrist in my hand and squeeze. Tight. Tighter. Then I drop it and brush past her, ignoring the flicker of a disappointed frown.
Savannah hurries to keep up with me, rubbing at her wrist with a pasted-on smile that becomes a real one before we’re even down the hall. She’s good, but not the best. I expect more of the same from the new girls I’ll be inspecting in thirty seconds. What’s important is the ability to craft them into human illusions. The best. The most expensive. It’s just good branding.
She acts as my own personal shadow all the way down to a room on the first floor, which is conveniently close to the loading dock and the back entrance. I can feel myself becoming the man who owns this place and everyone in it. A benevolent dictator, emphasis on benevolent. Buttoned suit. Perfect posture. Smile. Best not to scare them off before the real work begins.
Reya, my personal secretary disguised as a whore, is waiting with the new hires. All six of them are stripped down to panties and bras. If they can’t handle this, then I won’t put them out on the floor. Each one has her own attitude. The blonde on the far left is the first to meet my eyes and stick her chin in the air. She lets me turn her face from side to side and winks at me when I let her go. Saucy.
“Promising,” I tell Reya, who makes a note in my ledger. She’s good for many things, one of which is recordkeeping, another of which is hiding in plain sight. It would startle most people to find out what she really does for my business, but that’s neither here nor there.
The redhead next in line is promising too, but the third girl is trembling. Her arms are locked over her chest tight, and when I touch her face, she clenches her teeth. I’m not in the business of making pity hires, but what the fuck else am I going to do? Reya was one of those women, shaking and white-faced, blinking back tears. She’s become quite useful over the years. And this girl—judging by the peaked lines in her face—is hungry. “I think you’d be better off in the kitchens. Can you cook?”
“W-what?” She licks her lips. “Yes. I cook all the time.”
Lie. Maybe she used to cook, but not now. “Reya, she’ll start on dishes and work her way up.”
When I step away from her, she visibly sags, letting out a breath. Reya goes so far as to take her out of the room ahead of the other, depositing her into some waiting staff member who will give her a uniform and a bed.
Four and five, beautiful but unmemorable. They’re doing their best, putting on a pretty show, and it’s fine, fine, fine. Excited to be here. They should be, because they know I treat my staff well. Mostly. They bounce up and down on the balls of their feet when I move on, eager to get to what’s next.
And then there’s the last woman.
The sixth.
Suddenly I am far less interested in rushing through this and far more interested in looking at her.
She’s gorgeous. A doll come to life. Hair in luscious waves the color of sand kissed by the sun. Huge green eyes flecked with little chips of sparkle, like diamonds. But her eyes are not the most arresting thing about her. Not by far.
It’s that she’s giving me absolutely nothing.
Nothing.
Not excitement. Not fear. What the fuck is she feeling? A long look into her eyes reveals nothing. She stares straight ahead, as if I’m not even here. I spent most of my waking hours reading women, getting their worth out of them, and this one?
A closed book.
A book with uncut pages, wrapped in locks and chains.
I hate it.
Her lips part. “If you’re going to look any longer, you could at least pay me for my time.”
The rest of the room goes silent. Out the corner of my eye, I can see Reya’s hand frozen above the ledger, her mouth open in shock. It takes quite a bit to shock her, since she’s been with me so long, and the ripple moves through her and into the other women, who shift and titter and wait for me to react.
To retaliate.
“Take them out, Reya. Show them their new rooms. We’re done here.”
All of them start to file toward the door, but I hook a hand around her elbow and stop her. This woman. This alluring, irritating woman. Reya hustles the rest of the girls out into the hall. She leaves the door open—a silent sign of trust. Reya, the poor thing, has come to the mistaken belief that I’m not as dangerous as I used to be. I’ll let her keep believing it for the moment.
“Is this part of the interview then?” She crosses her arms, and I slip my fingers between them to pull them down.
“It’s an inspection, sweetheart. And I don’t think you’ve passed.”
I circle her closely and breathe her in. She smells like cheap shampoo and something sweet, which is at odds with the fire in her eyes and the games she’s playing. Cheap shampoo, but her skin is flawless, and her little bra and panty set looks new. She didn’t wander in off the streets. A mystery. I loathe mysteries. I only just finished my unwilling participation in another one involving my fucked-up foster brother and his new plaything. That fool.
I should show this woman the door. And yet….
“Why not?” She’s trying to keep me in her line of sight, but I make it hard, because I might act like a benevolent dictator, but inside I am a consummate asshole. A monster. “Am I not pretty enough for you?”
“Men will want you sweet and compliant. Stand still.”
She does, but I can tell it’s difficult from the way she tenses. I stroke a hand over the naked skin of her belly. Nothing shows on her face, even now, and I am so fucking tempted to make it happen that it feels like my blood has caught fire. “I’ll spread my legs. What more do you want?”
I brush my fingers up to the tiny bow in the center of her bra and higher, seeking out the delicate flesh underneath her chin. She lifts it for me, and fuck, I’m pulled into her, stepping far inside her personal bubble until the front of my suit makes contact with the skin of her back. I only mean to kiss the side of her jaw, touch it with my lips, really, but at the last moment, she turns her head and kisses me first.
It’s brief, glancing, her eyes fluttering shut for the shortest surrender I have ever seen.
A spark.
A single match in the night.
A thrill.
I let go on instinct—hot—and marvel at this development. My heart has gone out of rhythm, racing, getting ahead of me. That’s what they mean when they say thrill. A lifting sensation, like hurling oneself off a cliff and into miles of open air. What the fuck? The sensation is unsettling yet familiar. I’ve felt it before, but not in a long time.
She turns her head away, putting an inch between us, and looks toward the door, a slight color to her cheeks and a hitch in her breath the only evidence of the jolt that’s left
my skin sizzling.
I’m going to keep her.
It’s a rash decision, but sometimes there are only rash decisions. This one seems monumental, earth-shaking, even though the building stands and I do not fall.
No one will touch her until I’ve had my fill of her. None of the men prowling downstairs will get to do anything beyond look at her. Even the thought of their eyes on her makes my stomach curdle. Fuck those men. They can stay far away, floors away, and keep their hands to themselves.
Until I’m ready to sell her off. To rid myself of her. To shake her off like an old jacket and leave her in the past, where she belongs.
Until that moment, she’s mine.
3
Zeus
The air is on fire. I swear, that’s the only explanation for the heat in my lungs. She’s superheated the air, making all the oxygen ignite. I resist the urge to tug at the collar of my shirt, to strip it off and drop it to the floor. The expensive fabric might as well be sandpaper. I want it off my skin. But I’m in control here, not my fucking shirt, and certainly not this girl.
Who I want.
Who I’ve already decided to take.
But pinning her to the carpet and fucking her now would be too hasty. It would ruin the process of breaking her, of making her into something that will always wear my mark.
“Well?” She still won’t look at me. “Is that enough?”
“Fuck, no.” Her head snaps back around, her eyes wide, and for the first time, I see real fear there. She rubs the pad of one thumb over the knuckle of her index finger. It’s her only other tell. Such a small thing. What would she do if I put that finger in my mouth? “You’re not going to pass inspection if you don’t kiss me to my satisfaction. None of that virgin bullshit.”
She blushes a deeper pink and squares her shoulders.
I’ve made women fall apart for less than this, and I’m half-hoping she does; I’d like to see her break down, right here. There’s something intoxicating about real, terrified begging.
There was a time in my life when I thought I might become a man who didn’t want to see women like that, but it was only a pipe dream. I grew up in my father’s house, after all.
That fucking house.
It follows me everywhere. It’s a wonder people can’t see it right away, but then—I’ve spent a long time becoming something more interesting to look at than a fucking house.
“Okay.” The golden-haired girl nods to herself like she’s preparing to jump into cold water, and I could laugh. Fuck, I could laugh all night. But it’s deadly serious all the same. She takes a tiny step back, and I get another look at the sweep of lace across her hips and the decorative rose at the front of her bra. All of it would be better in shreds on the floor. “I’m not naïve.” The fuck she’s not, but she makes a show of it anyway, flicking her hair back behind her shoulders. “I know what to do. I know what you want.”
I’m prepared for her to throw herself at me so that I have to catch her. People this openly nervous often overreact, and because she’s nearly naked, I can see her muscles tensing. Either she’ll sprint for the door or she’ll rush me, and then I’ll get the pleasure of discovering exactly how weak she is. They are all weak, even the ones who try to be strong.
In the end, they’re all the same.
She’s not the same, but I don’t want to believe it. Not yet.
And then her movement begins. It’s only tentative for a split second, and then she’s waded all the way in. She’s committed.
She starts to get down on her knees instead.
I have my hand in her hair before her kneecaps make contact with the floor, yanking her upright, her hands flying to cover mine. She has small hands, and she’s powerless, so fucking powerless that my cock gets ahead of my brain and strains against the front of my pants.
A nervous gasp, a whimper, and I release her, but I don’t give her an inch. Not a fucking inch. Not today. Not with my blood molten and shredding my veins.
I would like to hurt her for a hundred years.
I should get a fucking prize for my restraint in this moment. A mirror on the back wall reflects the image of us—her slim shoulders and my own face. That won’t do. I pull it back, put on the expression I wear to all my parties, and catch my breath.
“Not like that,” I tell her, and even I am shocked to hear that I haven’t given the monstrous side of me away. Not completely. “On the mouth. Kiss me on the fucking mouth.”
She doesn’t hesitate, hurrying now, stepping forward and reaching up because she has to. I let her get her hands into the front of my jacket and pull. I let her feel how much bigger I am. Still, she doesn’t hesitate until her mouth is on mine, the movement tremulous and uncertain and so, so innocent.
What a fucking liar. I’m not naïve.
She’s as naïve as they come. Worse, because she’s come here for some reason she hasn’t admitted to me yet. I can taste it on her lips. Clear, sharp desperation. What would make a little thing like this so desperate? I’d ask her, but I can’t begin to formulate a question. My balls have drawn themselves up tight and are ready to make a scene, right now.
I slip my hands around the small of her back. No pressure—I’m not holding her there, just balancing—because I have to know how far she’ll take this on her own. Her tongue darts out clumsily to test my lip, and I choke down a mean laugh.
This is the worst kiss.
She has no skill whatsoever. But it’s also the best, most earnest kiss, and I want a thousand of them. A million. A fucking infinity of this first-kiss nonsense.
No one has ever toyed with her before, I see. She really must be a virgin.
My pulse has gone wild, my heart bucking and seizing and dying for this, and the hairs on the backs of my arms rise, the skin on the back of my neck hot and then freezing. What the fuck, what the fuck? I’m not this kind of man. I was never this kind of man, even when I had the chance. I don’t get taken in by innocence.
I was made to crush the life out of it, over and over until I could do it without flinching, without a pang of guilt.
None of that seems to apply now.
I push her away with the back of my hand, my knuckles brushing against that fabric rosebud, and for a split second, she doesn’t know what’s happening. She doesn’t have her guard up, and her pupils are blown out with the heat of the kiss, so black that it hauls up an old habit. It’s so old that it feels ancient, feels like one of those reflexes that should have been bred out of existence long ago. I put my hands on her shoulders and steady her, searching her eyes. “Sit down.”
She startles, and I let go—hot—and she touches her lips like it was the hardest, roughest kiss she’s ever had. Maybe it was the only one. “The other girls…”
“You aren’t going with them.”
“What do you mean?”
I straighten my jacket to cover my erection. “You don’t pass inspection.”
Panic darkens her eyes. “What? Why? Is it something I did wrong?”
“It’s more what you didn’t do. Listen… what’s your name, girl?”
“Brigit,” she supplies, worry threading itself through her voice. “I don’t have anywhere else to go. Please. Tell me what else to do. I’ll do it.”
I tug at my cuffs and my collar and smooth down the nonexistent wrinkles on the jacket. And I break my own fucking rules by telling her the truth. “You’d be better off on the street.”
A look over her shoulder—at what? “I wouldn’t,” she argues, and I’m impressed in spite of myself. Nobody’s ever fought so hard to be one of my whores. “I was—I was mouthing off, I know. I probably shouldn’t have.” Fucking probably not. “Please. Let me kiss you again.”
I let her dangle there long enough that she has the audacity to reach for me.
The need for her to touch me is so strong that it squeezes the air from the bottoms of my lungs and tightens a band around my chest. No. I catch her wrists in one hand, pinning them together, and her ey
es go wide again, locked on the place where I’ve trapped her. It’s like trapping a fucking hummingbird. She could fly away, her heart is beating so quickly.
“Yes.” Even from three feet away I can taste her innocence on my tongue. I can taste her desperation. What has terrified her so badly that she needs this job?
Eyes on mine, pulse beneath my fingers. “Yes?”
“You can try again.” I turn her toward the door and push her away from me, hard enough that she stumbles, light enough that she doesn’t fall. “Later. For now, go get settled in.”
The little thing dares to turn around and look at me one more time. “Settled in? But I—”
I sigh. “What, did you think you’d be out on the floor tonight? I think not. Without the proper training, you’d be an embarrassment to my business.” Another onceover, so she can see me assessing her, see me making plans for her. “You’ll need to be trained.”
She swallows hard. “Trained.”
She’s probably imagining the worst parts of sex. Blood and bruises. She’s not entirely wrong. I have a mean streak. “For a case this serious, I’ll do it myself.”
“You?” Terror at the margins, but she won’t let it in. “But that’s not—”
“I need some amusement.” I put my hands in my pockets and hold her gaze. “You’ll do nicely.”
4
Brigit
I should run. I should have been running a long time ago.
What gave me the idea that this would be a safe place? A bunch of white stone and golden light? God, I’m an idiot. Maybe I could find a bridge to sleep under and pick wild watercress by the ditch to survive. My heart is in a thousand beating pieces, hammering with fists against my skin to try to get out. Anything would be better than being trained by this man.
I said I wasn’t naïve, but I was lying. I thought I could handle this, but it’s not true.
It takes all my willpower not to fold my arms over my chest and scream.