Blood Enchantment (49 page)

CLUB ALPHA

A novel

New York Times
Bestselling author

MARATA EROS

All Rights are Reserved.

Copyright © 2014-15 Marata Eros

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

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Cover art:
Willsin Rowe

***Club Alpha
is a STANDALONE, PSYCHOLOGICAL DARK ROMANTIC SUSPENSE
and contains scenes of graphic violence.
May contain triggers***

Greta

Completion.

That's what it is to graduate with honors, and finally go after what I'll
be
in this life.

Marketing. International travel, stretching the bounds of the four languages I've mastered. Perfection.

Hot guys.

My eyebrows flick up.
Speaking of which
.

I track a handsome specimen right now.

A man moves across the room lithely, coming to stand at the exact opposite of the huge bar. His crystal tumbler full of amber liquid catches the light. His coloring suggests he’s Latino or some exotic Spanish mix. At six feet two-ish, he’s built to move, dance— and do other stuff.

My lips curl at the
other stuff
part of my internal monologue. I'm
so
wanting to find out what the sex fuss is all about. By all accounts, it's pretty life altering. It's beyond time.

My studies are through—it's Greta Time now.

His gaze locks with mine, and he smiles. A deep dimple winks at his cheek, and a cleft bisects a chiseled, square jaw.

Beautiful green eyes with thick black lashes rim the windows of his soul.

He pauses, and I say
yes
with my eyes.

Please approach me.

My breath catches like a trapped bird in my throat
.

What a beautiful man.

My hand grips the smooth curved wood of the high-end bar I find myself in; the other holds a low ball of peach schnapps.

I take a sip, grimace slightly, and set down the drink.

People flow between us as we stare across the room, and I lose him momentarily as the moving scenery of bodies blocks my line of sight.

I crane my neck, swinging my head side to side, searching. I remind myself that I'm not here to meet a man. I'm here to meet my fellow graduates and celebrate our graduation from the most prestigious university in Washington state.

Someone sits down beside me but it's not
him
. I look around the other man.

Tall, dark and handsome has vanished.

I take another absent-minded sip then knock back the rest of my sweet drink. Disappointment burns alongside the alcohol inside my stomach.
Where'd he go?
I restrain myself from pouting.

I stand. Against my better judgement, I'm brazenly determined to seek him out, then a wave of dizziness hits me.

My hand flies out to the bar and latches on. Frantically, I look toward the entrance, hoping my friends will arrive. Though I'm known for being frighteningly punctual, none of them share that trait.

I lift my fingertips from the polished surface and touch my forehead. My hand comes away clammy and shaking.

Alarm sweeps through my system.
What's wrong with me?

I forget the man with the deep-green eyes—and my drink and friends—as another wave of dizziness follows the first.

I stagger backward toward my seat, my knees hit the stool, and I sit down abruptly.

“Miss?” a low voice murmurs from my elbow.

I turn my head, but my neck feels loose, as though it’s made of rubber.

A man's face wobbles in front of me, his features coming together and shattering in the field of my vision.

“Are you well?”

Well?
No
. I shake my head, and streamers of color flow across my eyes. I groan, feeling nauseated as the dizziness grows.

I feel pressure at my elbow then a grip. I'm walking?

“Is she—” a deep melodic baritone voice inquires.

“I have her.” Curt. Final.

“Okay?”

“Fine,” says the disembodied voice at my side.

I'm gliding. My head tips back against a warm chest.

Everything fades to black.

*

Paco

Standing at the edge of the bar. I sip the sparkling cider.

My bodyguard, Robert Tallinn, remains by the exit while eyeing the entrance.

Though I’ve attended school in the states for many years, I still believe America is the most aggressive country in all the world. I remain vigilant while traveling.

My jet is scheduled to leave for Costa Rica early in the morning, and that is why I partake only of the non-alcoholic beverage in my hand.

Tallinn fought my spontaneous urge to visit the lounge within the elite hotel we're staying in.

Coffee is
grande
in Seattle. Very. I am here to romance the local coffee barons for their money, in exchange for my beans—a perfect trade, in my estimation.

Tallinn hates the lack of protection the hotel offers. I told him it's his job to keep me safe.

His smile was tight at those words.

I raise my glass to him now, and he glowers.

I laugh then take a sip and set my glass on the smooth polished surface of the wooden bar.

That’s when I see her, and my back goes ramrod straight.

The crowd is thick. Beautifully attired people mingle with others they consider to be of equal caliber.

But she stands out like an angel among demons.

Her head is tipped over a pale-amber drink. Her platinum hair is twisted into a loose bun at her nape. The size of the knot tells me its length—but not how it would feel in my hands.

Her graceful neck is bent as she studies nothing at all. She appears to be frozen in time. Waiting.

I stand, drink forgotten, and stare at the most beautiful woman I've ever beheld.

She lifts her face as though she has become instinctively aware of my gaze on her. Eyes like a late-summer sky fall into mine, and my chest grows tight. Light-pink color rises to her fair skin, and I feel myself harden inside my slacks at just a look. The attraction is beyond casual lust.

I feel as though gravity has asserted itself and I am being pulled into her orbit.

I must meet her.

As we continue to stare, people move between us, and another man sits beside her, large enough to block my view.

I set the tumbler at the edge of the bar and begin walking toward her.

I see her searching face for an instant as she appears to swing around the torso of the man who blocks our mutual appraisal.

I understand in a vague way that my approach isn't casual.

Someone steps in front of me.

“Oh, pardon me!” a woman says.

I go around her impatiently.

The angel stands. She appears to look shaken and unwell.

I stop.

The man beside her rises, his back facing me, and takes her elbow. She remains hidden behind him.

I vacillate, thinking of the connection, the electrifying chemistry from a glance. I begin walking again.

I intercept them, and the other man is half-carrying her, his arm locked around her narrow waist.

My eyes are for her, though, as I pose the question to the man, “Is she—”

“I have her,” he says in a closed tone. Final.

“Okay?” I finish my question.

Her cheeks are flushed, and her head has fallen back against his shoulder. The blue eyes I so admired are hidden by closed eyelids. Dark-blond lashes fan against her high cheekbones.

He is clearly with her. I should drop it.

I cannot.

“What is wrong?” My eyes still rove the woman, not giving the man my full attention.

The man turns. “Drunk.”

I look fully at him.

He winks; a deep sense of oddness surrounds the gesture.

Turning, he ushers her out. And I let them go.

Tallinn suddenly appears at my side. “What the fuck was that?”

I shake my head. “I am not sure.”

Tallinn stares after them thoughtfully. After a full minute has elapsed he says, “I didn't like that dude.”

Neither do I.

I stare at the empty space they had just occupied.

*

Greta

Brutal fingers grip my butt cheeks and pry me open. A hoarse cry escapes my cracked lips.

He plunges inside me again.

My muscles instantly tense around the intrusion, though my virginity is long gone.

Slick wetness covers my inner thighs to my knees.

Later I find out it is semen.

Sweat.

And blood.

His thrusting continues.

Silence is the only noise. The screams fill my head because my mouth is gagged.

Panting.

The only break in the quiet is the grunts of their ecstasy.

I'm unceremoniously flipped over onto my back. Four faces with masquerade masks loom above my warped vision.

“No,” I say in muffled agony for the hundredth time, lifting my forearm to cover my battered face.

One of the men hits me, smashing my face into the stained mattress.

Another lands on top of me, stabbing inside my wounded vagina. “Yes,” one of the assailants says as he uses me.

I slide back and forth on the mattress as he pounds into my unwilling body. Another pries my jaws apart, forcing my lips open. He jerks the gag out then thrusts his length inside my mouth.

Vile salty essence fills the space. My chin is jerked back and the hot liquid glides down my throat.

I choke.

He removes himself from my mouth and clamps it shut, pinching my nostrils together.

I have to swallow, or I won’t be able to breathe. My throat convulses, and he releases my jaw.

I scream as I suck precious oxygen, gurgling through his semen. “No!”

The next blow slams my other cheek into the mattress as my hips are lifted and a new man assaults me. His stabbing penis tears and burns where no one has ever been.

I can't live through this,
I think.

But I do.

Paco

Two Years Later - Present Day

September 29

Francisco Emmanuel Lewis Castillo.

I set the pen down and lean back, regarding my good friend and co-conspirator.

It is
terminado.

I've signed my soul over to the devil. He no longer chases me from the dark corners of my mind. This particular demon stands in the sunlight, taunting no more.

Zaire chuckles, running a hand through hair a shade of blond so dark that it flirts with being brown. He sets his ten-gallon cowboy hat on top of all that shaggy hair.

Clear hazel eyes regard me with amusement.

I say nothing.

Zaire Sebastian has been after me for the five years he's run the enterprise I finally succumb to.

Club Alpha.

He flat-palms the paper, spinning the sheets until they face him. His eyes flick down, and a fingertip stabs my signature.

“Careful, you might cause it to bleed,
amigo
,” I note softly.

Zaire laughs. “Always so cryptic, Paco.” He makes a low sound of chastisement in the back of his throat. “How long have I known you?”

Forever.

He reads my expression and nods. “It's just now I find out you have a hundred names?”

I dip my chin. “Just four.”

He grunts his answer and I'm struck by how different Zaire and I are.

He perpetuates fantasy.

I manufacture exotic coffee for exotic tastes, my own not excepted.

It is the taste for the very fine and my need for something extreme—a thing not within my control—that has finally driven me to Mr. Sebastian.

Zaire stands, offering his hand. “Are we clear on the terms?” He studies my face. “Humor me,” he adds as I give a single shake of his hand.

I spread my hands away from my body, enjoying the slide of my linen suit, which is tailored perfectly to never impede my movement, as though I’m wearing a second skin.

I lift my shoulder. “You wish for me to recount the particulars?”

“Hell, yeah, Paco. You're a particular kind of guy.”

True.
I smile and Zaire grins.

“I will have three months for this fantasy to come to fruition. I have three days from the time of this signing to submit the twenty-page questionnaire about the things that make me—uniquely me.”

Zaire's eyebrows pop to his hairline.

“It will be an honest disclosure,” I say.

“Nice. I like how my telepathy always works well between us.”

Zaire's rough-around-the-edges manner is a
fachada
, a clever front for the smart-as-a-whip man who swims beneath the surface. He twirls his fingers, encouraging my continuation.

“I have agreed to a
no
-
liability
clause against you, even in the case of my death, pursuant to the…
activities,
which might or might not present themselves.”

“And?” Zaire runs his fingers down the brim of his hat, where the evidence of the habit is in the curvature of the rim.

“I will tell no one. I understand and have agreed to the non-disclosure.”

Zaire makes the universal symbol for money, moving his thumb against his four fingers.

“I shall pay half in the moment listed therein, and the remainder at the end of the three month term, regardless of the outcome.”

Zaire slaps his palms together. “Hot damn!” His eyes glitter at me like captured stars. “I look forward to putting you through the paces, Paco. I ain't gonna lie—I've been wanting to get you like a fox in a trap since the beginning.”

I stroke my chin, my fingers finding the cleft at the end and squeezing it together. “I am aware, Zaire.”

“Yet you still agreed.”

I nod.

“Why? You've signed, now I
have
to ask. Why would you take this kind of chance? Because I'll be straight with you. I don't care about your money.” He pauses, his eyes moving to the ceiling. “Yeah, I do. What I mean, buddy, is you have
so much
to lose.”

I shake my head. “When a man has every need met, and ones he did not think he had are satisfied, then he is left with a void.” I cock my head, moving my hands to the pockets of my slacks. “You act as though you would talk me out of our arrangement.”

Zaire shakes his head. “No. You said, and I quote, ʽYour heart beats, but it does not live.ʼ”

“Yes. I am familiar with contentment, but I am not on intimate terms with contentment's distant cousin, joy.”

A slow smile spreads across Zaire's face as a flutter of emotion skates across the deepest part of me. Unease.

I embrace the uncommon feeling. For too long, I have felt nothing besides the slow, rolling river of time's passage. I welcome any emotion that causes my soul to surface through the murky waters of my complacent mediocrity.

Zaire shakes his head, and a low chuckle breaks the seam of his lips. “You're going to make a fun subject.” He gazes around the room before his eyes land on the wide expanse of glass that flanks the entire wall. From this vantage point, seventy stories aboveground inside the Columbia Center, the clouds appear touchable. The gray Puget Sound churns like angry boulders of water beneath us.

I walk over to stand beside Zaire. Our heights are similar, though our heritage is different. “Why do you do this?”

Without turning, Zaire places a forearm on the glass. He gazes over the city, at the raging sea beyond. “I know what it is to be rich. To be so rich you could park an incinerator in the house and burn money twenty-four hours a day.”

I say nothing, waiting for the point. Zaire Sebastian will have one.

He rolls his head on his forearm, facing me. “This isn't a game, Paco. Once we start, with the exception of the one-month markers, it's your new life. I have people everywhere. They can get to you anywhere in the world.”

I nod.
I'm counting on it
. I travel extensively to oversee the manufacture of my beans. I can be in Costa Rica one day and Brazil the next.

He straightens from his slouch against the window. “Your preliminary physical came back as outstanding, by the way.” His lips quirk. “My techs were making bets on how much time you spend on that build.”

“Oh?” My eyebrow hikes.

“Yeah,” Zaire turns and throws a punch toward me. I stiffen my gut and arch backwards, capturing his wrist and twisting as I dance into him.

“Shee-it!”

“And?” I ask. He struggles and I nestle his fist between his shoulder blades, cupping my opposite hand on his elbow.

I apply pressure.

Zaire taps my leg.

I drop his limb and step back, out of arm's reach.

We stare at each other.

“They said two hours—every day.” He's breathing hard.

I'm not at all. “They would be wrong.”

“How long, Paco? How much time do you devote to physical perfection?”

I cast my eyes down.
Too much.

When I look up, he's massaging his arm. A wicked grin slashes the solemnness of his face.

“I don't worship my body; I use it. I have trained it to be used. There is a difference between doing one thousand sit-ups and forcing the body's compliance.”

“Have you forced it?” Zaire asks.

“Absolutely.”

Zaire snorts. “You realize I have you as a level-five risk on the form?”

For the first time since our meeting began, I get a thrill like an electrical current. Singing tension winds through me, causing my toes and fingers to tingle with anticipation of the unknown. “Yes.”

“That means you're rating at the highest level for hand-to-hand combat, knife play—”

My lips twitch. “There is no such thing as
playing
with knives.”

He stares at me for a moment before going on, “Stylized weaponry and a variety of martial arts background.”

“Yes.”

“Is that accurate?”

A beat of silence presses between us like a bomb before detonation.

“Yes.”

“I will personally oversee your submission and handpick the girl.”

I open my mouth then close it.

Zaire's wide grin angers me.

“Cat got your tongue?”

I'm unfamiliar with the idiom, though I speak several languages.

“You have utterly no say in this fantasy, Paco. This is what you're paying the big bucks for. This is a match-making enterprise of the highest order. We will find your love match.”

I believe love to be an impossibility for me. However, I remain silent about my skepticism. “You trivialize it,” I say and hear the sullen tone in my own voice. I can't shake it.

“It's not about what you can
get
, Paco. You could have a bevy of the finest tail on the earth. Hell, chicks smell money a mile away, they'd swarm you like bees to honey. That's not what's at stake here.”

Zaire strides to the door, and I stroll after him.

He turns and gestures sweepingly, using the arm I didn't leverage behind him. “This is about a wealthy man—or woman—knowing the one who says
I do
really wants them for
who
they are, not
what
they have. This fantasy is engineered to pull out every stop to prove their worth. No one can pretend through the circumstances I provide at Club Alpha.”

He meets my silence with his own.

“Three days, Paco. You have three days for dissolution. If I don't hear back, you can assume I've gone through your questionnaire, found it to be sound and withstanding further legalities, your fantasy will begin.”

“And your failure rate?” I ask, though I know.

“Zero.”

Neither one of us mentions some of the candidates have sustained injuries during their unique fantasy trials.

I've interviewed each one personally. Their answers are the same: t
hey would do it again
.

“I would never guess you were a lawyer in charge of fantasy matchmaking for the wealthy, Zaire.”

He gives me a hard look. “And I would never guess you were an exotic coffee mogul with a ninth-dan black belt.”

I wink at him. “I went… how do you say it? Ah yes,
easy on you
.”

The look we share is between two men wondering how it would be to give it a go.

“What art do you practice?” I ask.

“Jujitsu,” Zaire replies.

We bow at each other, eyes locked—as it should be. Never take your eyes off your opponent.

“Now,” Zaire says, straightening, “if you don't have any questions…”

“I have many questions.”

Zaire's eyebrow lifts, and the corners of his lips twitch. “Ones I can answer?”

“No.”

He opens the door, and I pass through. “Then we're through.”

I turn as he shuts the door. I halt the swing of the solid Douglas fir with the slap of my hand.

“I'll see you on Halloween.”

“Trick or treat.”

Zaire closes the door. It latches softly behind me.

In three more days, the games begin.