The Parlour (VDB #1) (29 page)

He stopped his advance and watched the air leave her lungs as she wrapped her arms around herself and mentally pushed him away. He narrowed his eyes in response and reached for his shirt and coat, suddenly feeling a hole burning the very insides of him at her dismissal. He could force it again, he supposed, manipulate the situation until she embraced it again. However, this would prove ineffective in the long term. She needed to understand herself and let it consume her. Tucking his shirt in and pulling on the coat, he offered her the only help he could as he picked up his cane.

“When I was a child, Lilah, I was beaten by my mother, berated daily for being inadequate while my father ignored her behaviour or bowed down to her superiority. My life was worthless in her eyes, but I found comfort in her beatings. They were my solace and retribution in some ways. Disconcerting for a small child, hmm?”

She still didn’t turn, just continued her stare into the darkness.

“And then I was sent to Switzerland for education. The headmaster taught me some valuable lessons regarding the pain I found to be a necessary requirement. He was a sadist, something I knew nothing about at the time, and he used a plethora of instruments and cruel taunts to teach me to accept myself. I loved him for it. I would wait for the next lashing with bated breath and pray that nothing would get in his way. He was a God in my eyes, and without his guidance, I would have killed myself,” he continued, remembering the long nights and even longer days waiting for him to dispense his punishments. “I still wait the same way for Alexander. It heals me.”

She inclined her head, just slightly, just enough for him to see the light reflect off her cheek and the glint in her eyes. “You believe this world depraved, indecent. I am not a monster because of it, and neither are you. Do you comprehend? Do not allow your judgemental sentimentality to tarnish our moments, Lilah. They have been exquisite in their complexity.” She turned her head away again and wrapped her arms tighter with a huff of disdain. He headed for the door with a smile to give her the time she would need to take stock. Whether she wanted to understand or not, she couldn’t deny what had happened between them. She would turn with time, and he would wait. He knew it in his core as he twisted the handle and looked back at her small frame once more. He knew because she had something only two others had.

“Go, Pascal. Please, just go,” she said, her voice harsh and unyielding it its tone, which made him smile all the more as he left all the power in her hands and closed the door behind him. She had told him to go, and therefore that’s what he had to do for her. In such, giving her every element of power he could for her to be in control of him. Or rather, of them.

Or maybe even what was left of his heart.

As I wander along the street to meet Mr. White, I keep replaying the night over and over in my head. I’ve done nothing but that since Pascal left. I’ve barely slept, let alone thought of eating anything. There is nothing other than the thought of what I did, what we did.

The cold whistles around me as the snow begins to pour down in earnest again, but I can’t feel it. There’s nothing. No need for heat, no shiver, no trying to wrap myself into a cosseting blanket. Nothing. Just frigid air caressing my skin and making me feel alive, really alive. I can’t even really say I’m confused. Maybe I’m a bit freaked out, and maybe I’m trying to push the image of his broken skin away a little, but in reality, all I’m doing is smiling to myself and letting his scent worm its way through me. I haven’t showered. I couldn’t bring myself to wash him off me. I’ve never experienced anything like him before. Never have I felt the heat of someone so strongly inside me. Yet, in the same breath, I can’t begin to imagine what drove me to hit him with that belt. I think it was just anger, anger at his dismissal of me that drove me to just let it all out, to stop over-thinking and just say what I wanted to say. What’s the worst that could have happened? He’d already near drowned me to try and get the information out of me, which oddly enough, didn’t scare me at all. All I could see was his eyes, and for whatever reason, when I stopped trying to fight him, there was a bizarre sense of serenity attached to the act. Maybe it was that connection I have with him when we just let everything else go.

I’ve been trying to understand how this type of behaviour is acceptable. He said he needed what I did to him. I guess I knew that already because of the stripes already there, delivered by the man I’m about to meet. And then he told me the story about his mother and headmaster, which was a very odd turn up for the books. Why did he tell me that? Perhaps I should ask Mr. White why I beat the crap out of Pascal. I can’t deny it was as much for me as it was for him. I felt the frustration of the last two years pouring out of my arm as I kept hitting him – the fear of the streets, the thugs, the rapists, my irritation at the company I worked for, losing my apartment, my money, the cold. It was so very cold. All because Lilah James didn’t fucking stand up for herself enough. Lilah James was fucking weak, and look where that got her? Nowhere but on the streets of New York with a rotten old rucksack and an old photo of a child and her father.

Sadist.
That’s what he called his headmaster. Well, that’s not me. I’m not wandering along thinking about what pain to inflict next, like Mr. White probably does, but I am thinking about the rapture in his eyes when he took that beating. He did need it. He needed it like it somehow made him safe. I could see it in his whole body as he took every impact and sighed out in pleasure. And then I felt his power again as he slammed himself into me and regained his strength, finalising an already done deal. I sigh out, remembering his expression as he tried to explain what had happened. He looked humbled, nothing like the Pascal I know who somehow manages to make the whole world look beneath him. He looked honest. Just a man, dishevelled and relaxed. A man who needed some peace. Peace, I had apparently given him.

Turning the corner, I focus on the coffee shop and try to pull my professional head back on. I can’t imagine Mr. White will be best pleased if I don’t load him with all the information I’ve got and at least prove I’ve been trying. He won’t be able to fault the work I’ve done on normal divorce procedure, but as for the arrival of a child on the scene, I have nothing. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been researching most of the night because I couldn’t sleep. I’ve still found nothing. Still, there’s nothing I can do about that. I’ve done the best I can with what’s available, and, for some reason, Mr. White doesn’t seem nearly as scary as he did yesterday.

Walking into the shop, I scan for him but he’s not here yet, so I place my order and find a quiet spot in the corner where no one else is sitting. I lay the small folder on the table and just wait. There’s nothing else I can do, so I consider what I can do about Pascal instead. Why did he just walk out when I told him to leave? It seems so unlike him to just let something drop and walk away. Not that I know him that well, but he had a fight on his hands and he basically surrendered and left me to brood. Odd. He could have pushed me again, or talked me round in some intellectual manner, or even just fucked me again and made me listen to his intelligent ramblings about his world. But he didn’t, he just left. What am I supposed to do about that?

What do I
want
to do about that?

“Lilah?” Fingers snap in front of my face and I instantly try to draw back the scowl that flashes across my face.
Shit.

He raises that brow of his and then clicks his finger in the air, causing a hormonal twenty something to come racing over in seconds, pouting and shoving her arse in his face like a wench. He doesn’t even acknowledge her other than to order a double espresso. He just lowers his frame into the chair opposite me. He really is quite devastating in his looks – something that, at the moment, isn’t affecting me in the slightest. I’m almost perusing his body as if it’s a piece of meat, which it sort of is, I suppose. Tenderloin, or maybe rump steak, which happens to be dressed in casual jeans and a high neck grey sweater. He’s not fillet, though. The fillet steak is presumably still nicely raw and trying to heal himself back at Eden. Saliva fills my mouth as I stare straight into light blue eyes and question why anyone else is in the fucking room. It’s unfortunate and unacceptable. No one should be allowed to interfere with such a brazen display of masculinity, least of all twenty something hormonal children.

“Are you going to speak at all?” he says. My eyes flick down to sculpted lips and then linger on the chisel of his jawline, which is lightly caressed with dark stubble, beautifully matching his near black hair.

“Yes, sorry,” I blurt out in response as I try desperately to work out what the hell my brain is playing at and pull my gaze to the folder instead of him. “I’ve got this for you. It’s everything I’ve done so far. There’s also a memory stick if you’d rather look at it later. Unfortunately, I can’t find much out about the child, Claire. No records, nothing. Not where Lucinda is concerned anyway. Maybe she’s not her daughter?”

“Yes, she is,” he replies, absentmindedly picking up the folder and flicking through it.

“Oh, have you found something out? When did you see her?”

“This morning.” He throws the folder back down on the table and stares straight at me with a slightly concerned frown. “Do you think he should know?”

“What? I… I don’t think it’s my position to say. He’s your…” Friend, lover, man you beat up on occasion for sexual fulfilment? “Whatever he is,” I eventually snap out. He smiles quietly and picks up his coffee.

“Mmm, he is. It sounds like that bothers you?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant.” Yes, it does, and I don’t know why. Jealousy? Possibly. Or maybe it’s just the fact that I can’t seem to take my eyes off this new piece of meat in front of me, all the time wondering how he hurts Pascal, and why. Presumably, he gets the same feeling as I did yesterday, that urge to unleash all the frustration, or maybe forget about it for a while. Why would anyone enjoy that, though?

“You didn’t do as I asked, Lilah,” he says smoothly, with a small chuckle.

“I have. I’ve done as much as I can. I’ve only been on it for a while. I’ll get more information as soon as I–”

“And yet you’ve let him fuck you already. Not really screwing your legal head on tight, is it, Lilah?”

“He has not.” His brow rises. I’m not sure why I even bothered to lie. My air of superiority is quite ludicrous given the man in front of me and his clear ability to know everything. “Okay, maybe he has, but it doesn’t mean… In fact, it’s quite the opposite in some ways. I think... I’m…”

“You’re what?” he cuts in, still leaning back in the most relaxed fashion possible and fixing those blue eyes on me. “Hmm, what are you?”

“Well, he asked me to…” Beat him? Possibly not the best thing to say to the man that apparently owns him. I stop my mouth before it gets a chance to say anything else. I’m not entirely comfortable voicing that fact to anyone yet, anyway. Still, I won’t be brow beaten about it, regardless of who’s sitting in front of me. I was, in fact, asked to do it, however strange that may seem. “Anyway, how did you know? And how did you know which coffee shop I was in yesterday? Are you having me followed?” My eyes narrow at him.

“I can smell him on you. You also have the glazed quality he seems to produce on most things he plays with. Although you’re still looking at me, which is interesting.”

“You can smell him?”

“Mmm. Fragrant.”

My legs tighten together at the thought as I skim the circumference of the room with my eyes. Can everyone else smell him, too?
Wow. Not good, Lilah.
He chuckles and taps his finger on the table dramatically. I stare at its random beat, confused.

“Why are you doing that?”

“Do you like it?”

“No. It’s off putting.” How odd. Why on earth would I like that? “What else would you like to know? I’ve got quite a bit of–”

“Did you hurt him?”

“Excuse me?” In the middle of a coffee shop, really?

“Beat him, Lilah. Whip, lash, scratch, bite?”

My eyes widen, just as my mouth thinks about protesting my innocence. I can’t believe he’s doing this here. How the hell does he know? I catch the head turn of another customer sitting close and quickly smile to try and relax the air around us, lighten the conversation maybe. But at the same moment, I have an overwhelming need to tell someone what I’ve done, what we did. And if anyone can understand, it has to be him, doesn’t it? Mind you, will this piss him off? He doesn’t look pissed off. In fact, he looks quite calm really, but with his mood swings, who knows? I should lie. A small snarl crosses his mouth, anger flashing.
Perhaps not.

“Yes, sorry,” I eventually admit. Not that I am, but my eyes do find his chest rather than meet him face on.

“Mmm. Thought so,” he replies, sipping at his coffee again and not seeming to give a damn that I hit somebody that he apparently owns. What’s truly odd about me sitting here is that, if what Ruebin says about Pascal being owned is true, does that mean that the man across from me now is actually in control of the whole situation, including me? I find myself slowly crawling my eyes back up his body to meet his again. What does any of that mean to me? He just stares back, showing no emotion other than complete indifference.

“Don’t you mind?” For God’s sake. Why did that come out? We’re supposed to be discussing business and all I want to know about is this life altering thing that happened last night. He just stares again for a few more minutes, still showing no emotion. But he must be feeling something, mustn’t he? Isn’t it like having a boyfriend, a lover? There must be some jealousy attached to that feeling, or at least irritation. “Don’t you care?”

Eventually, his mouth quirks slightly as he tilts his head at me and licks his lips. He stretches his hand across the table and offers it up to me.

“Take my hand, Lilah.”

I frown at it and stay still. He smiles his charming smile, and then wiggles his fingers at me. “Come on, it’s only a hand. What damage can it do?” I’m sure it can do a lot of damage. In fact, I’ve seen the damage it can do all over Pascal’s back, but before I know it, I have put my hand in his.

He closes his fingers around my palm slowly, and then begins to increase his grip. I can feel the sensation travelling its way around my bones, as if they are instantly scared of the pressure.

“Care? Why would I care, Lilah? And be quiet, this will hurt. I don’t want a scene.” He manoeuvres his thumb up to my wrist and finds a point that causes so much pain I grit my teeth at the scream that wants to leave my mouth. His smile turns into something infinitely more chilling as his eyes turn darker, creepy again. He just keeps pressing, almost crunching the tendons against each other, grating them, and squashing to the point of me wanting to call for help. My body twists in the seat as I try to pull away from him, but no matter how much I tug, he simply holds me still in a relaxed fashion and refuses to let go. “Shh,” he says calmly, smiling and holding his finger up to his mouth as he gently decreases the pressure and begins to release me. “Should I be concerned that you can give him something I can’t, Miss James?”

Thankfully, the last question comes with the full release of my hand, and he leans back away from me again. I snatch it back across the table and stare at him in bewilderment, while trying to bring some life back to my fingers. Clearly not. I think I just got a small offering of true sadism. With all my clothes on. In the corner of a coffee shop. He drinks his coffee again and dusts off his trousers, like he’s thoroughly bored with his physical explanation.

“Now, do you think he should know about his daughter, or do you think I should keep it from him?” My mouth opens and closes like a goldfish. Who would tell him the truth after he’s done that to them? I’m still stretching my hand around as I weigh up my options. “I don’t like liars, Lilah. Be honest.”

“Why would you keep it from him?”

“Because he’s a beautifully intelligent fool who has his head buried too far into his own world of debauchery to be capable of being rationally responsible for a child. Would she not be better off not knowing she had a father like that? I love him, but like me, he is not exactly father of the year material, is he?” he replies, as if the last five minutes of bone crunching didn’t happen and something far more important is being discussed. His face has changed back to one of unease and softness. My frown dissipates at his words of love as I continue flexing my hand. It’s an odd form of love, I suppose, but it is his version of love nonetheless, and who am I to question his methods or madness? I should just keep being honest and do my job proficiently.