Passion (10 page)

“Thank you. I am sure 'tis just a momentary
annoyance.”

Blaise was sure—it was not. However, he saw
them off and then went back to the study—where he wasted an evening
simply replaying everything. Mulling mostly, over whether it
mattered or not, whether he would let it matter, what his father
said, what his brother seemed to be attempting. In addition, what,
if any difference it could make now.

Chapter 3

“You are my captive…my slave...”

“I am your goddess. Your queen. Now be
silent, or I shall have to punish you again.”

“My whore queen…”

Gabriella listened for Stratton’s voice to
come floating over the chamber amid the pungent smoke of incense
again. They were in the area he called his playroom, and from the
first time he’d showed it to her, she likened it to a torture
chamber.

Thanks to the hallucinates he had smoked (her
own pipe filled with plain tobacco and spices Raith had provided)
and the amount of opaque she had mixed in the wine—Marcus was too
inebriated to move.

The chamber was at the main rear of the
mansion, its structure sealed off from what looked like a normal
residence by faux walls and passages.

She had certainly never known it was back
here.

The walls were draped with flowing black
silk, at times drawn to veil the chains and manacles attached to
brick. The most eerie of them was a crucifix that would suspend a
body in the air by the iron cuffs attached.

The haze was thick in the room. The odor she
had smelled on the first day, of bodily fluids, could not be masked
completely. The musk of decadence was years saturated into the
walls and furnishings. It was apparent he had had this little
hideaway for many years.

She chose not to think he’d had her mother
here, but did not doubt she had experienced it. It was a wonder to
her that Natasha had been sane when they escaped.

Tables were fashioned to be flipped over, the
underside hid boxes and strapped sets of all manner of pain
inducing contraptions. There were implements and tools, trunks of
them too, both ancient and special made. Whips, dirks, pins,
spikes, pliers and some hook shape she did not want to know the use
for. There was a shelf holding vials and containers, chloroform,
arsenic, resins, and others with faded labels.

Gabriella kept her focus on Stratton, having
an hour ago realized she was late meeting Raith again. She had been
(staying) with Marcus for a week, and the first two days, sleep
deprivation alone tested her resolve. Once he had her, he seemed
obsessed to the point he had offered no food and little to
drink.

She had been tested, she knew, even as Marcus
submitted to what he thought were her fetishes, she still had to
give a certain amount in return. She played her games with him,
staying mostly clothed at first, and pretending her excitement
during those moments, he allowed her to restrain him. However, once
she agreed to spend the night with him, he had gotten more
demanding and aggressive. At least now, however, he commanded her
to inflict more upon him.

Using her body, her looks, her voice, she was
slowly turning the tables, guessing rightly that once he believed
she gained pleasure from dominating, he began feeding into it, and
grew excited by it. He gained that pleasure normally from
delivering the pain himself. She knew that before, but had it
confirmed by the constant stream of talk he offered up when he was
intoxicated. Women were clearly objects to serve his needs, and he
talked of the loveliest, and how he liked to mar their flesh and
transform them as he put it, into his ideal. His idea of pain was
real, distorted, and extreme.

However, the first time she had used
implements on him and pretended to climax, his lust gave her the
advantage. Keeping it would be a moment-by-moment thing with a man
who had years and years, many different women, to perfect his own
cruel games with.

Marcus was nude at this moment, and across
the room, his body was strapped to a dunking board with leather
buckles. He still did not look so much a human to her as animal.
When his lust was high, he breathed in a hard wheeze and physically
resembled one, veins protruding, breathing agitated, eyes feral.
Though robust in height and torso, his legs were oddly thinner. His
manhood, flaccid or full, made her stomach roll. Everything about
him turned her stomach.

One of the first contraptions she had noticed
by a wide bed, on the other side, was so cruelly fashioned she
could not help but wonder if Raith’s wife had been butchered by it.
It was a casket like box, upright, but with slits where blades or
picks could be used. The persons head and arms were free, but to
her mind, it would make the horror all the worse.

Stratton had told her he had purchased it
from an illusionist. She had eyed the locks on it, the rust a
reddish color she likened to blood. In fact, many of his (devises)
appeared to have never been cleaned. The musk from the bedcovers, a
tangle of black and red velvet, was revolting too.

Gabriella covered her revulsions and
reactions, and played her role, alternating in teasing Stratton
like a naughty boy, and commanding him as her subject. He took
pride in his collection, his toys, as he called them. As her
subject, he was eager to please her, to take her punishment now,
but he was getting deeper into it, pushing it further and
further.

A snore had Gabriella rising to her feet. The
shreds of her chemise slipped down when she tiredly padded toward
him. He had grabbed her and ripped it when she was putting the
restraints on him.

Wax burns glistened on his chest, the welts
raised by the soft whip laced his thighs. He had a particular taste
for having his nipples pinched, and they were raw. Her own were
sore too, but she got no pleasure in it, in fact she could not wait
to salve them.

She undid the restraints, her nose repelled
by his sweat and a sweet scent of the opaque and wine coming from
his breath and pores. She too often fantasized of killing him when
he was like this. Gabriella stuck to the plan, telling herself it
would be over soon. He would be destroyed.

Once he was unbound, she crossed the room and
pushed on the panel that let her into her chambers.

It was always a surprise to realize it was
daylight, after exiting the room. Checking the clock, she muttered
a curse and wasted little time washing and scrubbing—she had enough
marks on her body and bruises from Stratton’s hands. Kissing him
brought bile to her throat, allowing him to pinch and paw her was a
small price to pay for the amount of information she was able to
get for Raith, though.

Getting dressed, pulling on her stockings and
shoes, she then braided her hair and coiled it crown like, and then
added a black cape to her ensemble. Grabbing up the books and
papers she had taken from his study, she tucked them under her arm,
hidden by the cape.

The servant’s stairs were accessible from
going through a closet and a narrow rear door. She used them to
leave and exit into the back alleyway. Gabriella slipped to the
street, and walked a block to the waiting hack. The driver knew
where to take her.

Fighting fatigue and hearing her stomach
growl, she laid her head back, trying to rest during the short
trip. She dare not take all the information at once, but had enough
so that Raith not only knew the customs officers on the bribe to
Marcus, but had proof of his other illegal schemes as well.

During the night, Raith hired men to empty
two of Stratton’s warehouses of wines and tobacco the man had
himself stole, or rather had stolen from merchants. They were at
Raith’s own house. Raith had already started printing the sheets he
would begin spreading on the streets that openly named Stratton in
the charges.

There were dozens of men in trade who
smuggled goods for Marcus, yet he double-crossed every businessman
he had dealings with, selling them goods, stealing them back, and
reselling them. His brothels were more than the flesh trade, the
majority of them sold goods black market, as well as having a
lucrative side business of kidnapping women and street children,
who sailed God knew where on Marcus’s ships. It explained much of
why she and her mother were hunted by his ruffians, and why the
most wretched hid from them in the tunnels, below the streets at
night.

She could not imagine what he did in other
countries, where he had his slaves and plantations, but he knew how
to get around the laws in England, who to bribe, and supply
whatever contraband for. He was not a man who could have gotten
rich the legal way, because what he was skillful at was crime. His
personal taste and the things he had visited on those he wanted for
himself, played into his assurance that he would never be punished.
He truly believed that he had so many in his debt and had fooled
many more—that he was beyond any law, moral, or otherwise.

He was, thus far, taking the other bait and
intercepting passionate letters, flowers, sweets and gifts, which
he thought were from Raith—laughing and sneering, jesting to her,
in his arrogant way about taking her from her old lover. She had
gone out with him once, a brief trip to the park. Raith had shown
up and done a very good job of mooning and playing the obsessed
lover. When he had attempted to talk to her, Stratton hauled her to
him and kissed her. It was obvious that he enjoyed thinking he had
stolen Raith’s mistress. One—who made every pretense of matching
his lusts.

Now that she was with him more, Gabriella saw
that the polish he tried to employ was very thin on Marcus
Stratton—an act he could not perfect, despite fine clothing and
wealth. He had a crude humor, and no real respect for human life.
The only person Marcus cared about was Marcus. The world and
everyone in it, was just there to make sure he got what he wanted,
when he wanted, and how he wanted it.

Gabriella jolted forward, not realizing she
had drifted off in sleep when the hack stopped. She stirred herself
and exited.

Before she could even knock on the door,
Raith appeared and pulled her inside.

“You’re late.”

She reached in her cloak and handed him the
books, and tied papers. “He’s built up a tolerance for drink and
drugs apparently. It takes hours for him to succumb.” Having walked
toward the study, she went in and sat heavily in the first chair
she came to.

“You look pale. Have you eaten?”

“No…Not since…what day is it?” She looked at
him.

Raith cursed. His dark eyes roamed her face.
“Wait here.” He laid the books on his desk and left, returning a
bit later with a tray of bread, ham, cheese, fruit, coffee, and
chilled wine.

Gabriella divested herself of the cloak,
ignoring his sharp stare at the bruises on her shoulder and neck
while she ate.

“How far are you letting it go,
Gabriella?”

Disregarding his arctic growl, she swallowed
the bread and wine, and then answered, “As far as I have to. We
deduced long ago, he is not a stupid man.”

She ate the ham, cheeses, and fruit, sipping
coffee, before finally looking over where he leaned his hips
against the desk. His hands cupping the edge beside him—fierce eyed
and hard as always, as usual Raith was in all black, shirts,
trousers and boots, his hair tucked behind his ears.

She murmured, “Be glad he is agreeable to any
submission at all. If it weren’t for the restraints—“

“We can end this another way.”

“We will end it as planned, as soon as you
have what you need.”

His nostrils flared. His pitch eyes bore into
hers. “It was always understood you would not let him abuse
you.”

Despite the fact, she sensed his anger, her
lips twisted in a mockery of smile. “Breathing the same air as him
befouls my soul.” She turned her head, sighed and tossed the grapes
back into the plate. “Having him kiss and grope, and pinch, is only
slightly worse.”

Getting to her feet, Gabriella put the tray
aside and walked over to the window, staring out. Wanting sleep.
Wanting it over. Wanting him dead.

She breathed inward through her clenched
teeth, only half-aware of what she was saying, because she was
sick, sick in the way she had been from the day she had stepped
into Stratton’s world. “You’ve no idea what it’s like to have to
touch and arouse such a demon. To listen to him chant out what goes
through his sadistic mind. That chamber…is a dank and sinister box
that reeks of—” She shuddered and rubbed her arms. “When he’s nude,
begging me to beat him a little harder, it’s all I can do to stay
in character, and not kill him.”

Several silent moments passed when she knew
Raith’s black gaze was fixed on her. She murmured after a time, “I
knew he robbed my mother, abused her in some way, now I know why
she could endure what became of her on the streets.”

“It will soon be over.”

“Yes.”

Tersely, Raith supplied, “The papers will
start circulating on the streets tomorrow. His warehouses should be
emptied by week’s end.”

She turned from the window and walked to get
her cloak. “I should go. Perhaps I’ll get a few hours rest whilst
he’s under the effects of the drug.”

Passing by him, she was detained when he
caught her by the wrist.

Looking up, Gabriella saw he was studying the
bruises there. When he finally lifted his eyes to meet hers, his
thumb washed over the marks, whether deliberate or unconsciously,
she did not know.

“Not much longer, Gabriella.”

Her hellish week, her fatigue, whatever it
was, made her all the more sensitive to his closeness. His scent
was so welcome, familiar, and so refreshing to her nose. His voice,
his touch, however light, something she had missed. Though his
expression was normally bitter, she thought she saw something
different in his eyes—some struggle, some moment like she oft had,
of wondering if, when this was all over, would there be anything of
their real selves to build anything with. On the other hand,
perhaps he was finally realizing that tool or not, avenger or not,
she was human.