WITCHCRAFT (A Paranormal Romance) (40 page)

A black shadow dances along the silver bricks of Erilam Castle. Its owner hides in bushes, slips past guards, and makes their way to the road and the safety of ancient trees.

It's been three days since the break in at Erilam Castle. The Princess hasn't been seen outside of the castle since then. The rumor is that she's sickly from terror at the attempt to take her life.

The person, cloaked and running quickly, makes their way to the city. Although it's dark, the cities never sleep. The shadow of a person dashes down a dark alley, only to bump into another shadow, throwing the cloak back and revealing beautiful, curly hair.

“Princess Alessandria?”

“Oh, good! I was looking for you!” I wrap my arms around Timo's neck, but he pulls away and looks at me with confusion.

“No, what are you doing here? Without guards?”

“I got your letter, apologizing for leaving so quickly. You said you didn't think I would ever get it, but I did! Your arrow was true, and it pierced my bed just before I was to lay in it. You got lucky.”

His eyes grow wide. “I almost hit you with an arrow?!”

“Yes! But that's okay, because when I read your love letter, I knew I had to come. So, here I am! Take me away, back to America!”

“What about your castle? Your parents? Your country?”

I smile, closing my eyes for a moment, before looking up at that black sky again. “I have to follow my heart. Something in your eyes… well, I know that I don't want to lose you. I want to be with you, Timo, so please don't push me away. Let me come with you.”

Timo's fingers play with the fraying fabric of his shirt as he looks at the ground. Even in the dark, I can see that he's blushing. “I didn't expect to fall in love. Especially not with a princess.”

“I didn't expect to fall in love with a thief. But I brought a dowry, if you want to accept me!”

Timo looks at me with confusion again, a look I'm becoming very accustomed to, and then I pull out a pink silk bag. Its contents sift.

“Is that?”

I nod, then open it. Inside are my rubies, some gold, and many other jewels. Digging my hand inside, I pull out the biggest prize, and hold it out for him to see.

My pink diamond with a gold fleck in the center.

He takes it, looking from it to me, and then cracks a smile. That's followed with chuckles, and then laughter doubled over. I laugh with him, until he takes my hand and presses me against the alley's wall. His lips find my neck, still giggling, and he kisses my skin and rubs my sides.

“God, I missed touching you.”

“Well, you'll be able to have me every day, so long as you cherish me.”

“Won't you miss your parents?”

“Of course I will, Timo. But love is important. If I should deny myself the chance to be with you, I may as well be dead.”

He kisses me again. I sigh and lean my head back against the red bricks of a pub. This is heaven, and I wouldn't rather be anywhere else.

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Billionaire Sadism 1

A BDSM Proposition

Cat Calloway

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I didn't think it would be this hard. Part of my mind was thinking that maybe I should just go back and accept that staying with Travis is the best thing I can do for myself. it would hurt my pride, but at least I could have something to eat. I've had a single hot dog in the last two days.

When I'd caught him with another woman, it had been the last straw. The last of many straws. When I had left, I thought it would be easy to find someplace to stay. I spent two hours at the mall, thinking. Thinking that it would be easier than this. But it had been too long that I'd put up with his bad behavior. Too many things that should've been bigger warning signs. I guess I felt like I deserved the way he was treating me.

But I didn't deserve it. And that was why, no matter how much I wanted to, I wouldn't go back.

The hunger must have been getting to me. Between the gnawing, insistent hunger and the headache that wouldn't go away, I didn't even notice him walk up. I had a tin can set beside me, and sometimes people put change into it. That was how I'd gotten the hot dog. The sound of clinking change would make me look up, and I'd mutter a 'thank you.'

I didn't notice at first, because there wasn't a sound. Just, as slow as molasses, I realized blankly that there was a man who hadn't moved in a while standing just off to the side of me. I looked up at him with eyes so bleary that they still feature in my bad dreams.

"Yes?"

He looked almost bored by me, but he was looking straight at my face. As if he'd been staring.

"Would you like something to eat?"

I didn't trust him, not at first. I heard too many stories of girls on the street, getting picked up by some wanna-be Jack the Ripper, or thinking that a sandwich would get a girl into bed. I may have been desperate, but I still had standards. But I wanted him to be a good guy. I suppose, in a way, that's what I always hoped about men.

I know I'd hoped that Travis would turn things around. I'd stayed for so long, and he never did. And yet, here was a man I'd never met, and I hoped beyond all hope again.

I mumbled a 'yes,' so soft you almost wouldn't hear it. My eyes watered up and I started crying right there.

The dam of feelings, about Travis, about my ruined clothes, about my hunger, broke. I wanted to seem strong, independent, as if I were untouchable somehow even under the grime and dirt. But the relief of having someone, even a stranger, offer to fix it was just too much.

He took me by the shoulder and guided me to a car. It was expensive, even I could see. I wondered if he would expect a homeless girl to know, but I didn't say anything about it. I'd spent the last nineteen years of my life surrounded by people like this man.

That's why it surprised me how starstruck I felt. He offered me a bottle of water that was sitting in the fridge he'd had installed. I had seen it in party limos before, but never a car like this one. That was when my resolve broke. I accepted it and drank it down thirstily, almost ravenous. I wanted anything I could get my hands on. I would have drank from a hose if I found one, and I would've done it shamelessly.

I could feel the smile on his face. I didn't look at his face directly; I'd have gotten too embarrassed. That was when he started talking. I wasn't sure why he'd been doing this, and his talk only made things more confusing. In the back of my mind, I'd expected him to unzip his trousers at some point, or leer at me, or something. Maybe he'd tell me about the charity he worked for, or owned, or contributed to. The sinner or the saint, I figured. It had to be something like that.

But instead he told me about his business. He talked about a deal he had been making, about a business partner that he didn't like. No names, never any names. He was talking to me like I was his therapist. I just sat there, my head ducked down and taking heavy swigs of water from a plastic bottle. I made nodding motions to show I was listening.

I didn't know where we were going. I'd been in the area before, but the route was serpentine, as if the driver had been told to give us some time. I wondered if this was something that happened often and I just hadn't heard about it. Rich people picking folks up off the street and talking to them as some sort of free therapy. Daddy had never done it, I thought, not that I would have known if he had.

My mysterious benefactor reached over and put his finger gently under my chin. I was surprised to realize that he hadn't spoken for a minute or more. I let him lift my face until our eyes met.

"And you? What's your story?"

I thought for a long time about how much to tell. Maybe tell the truth, but somehow I felt like that would be dangerous. I thought about lying, too. I'd decided to gloss over it, and I tried to put the words together in my head. It had been so long since I'd really spoken at all. Weeks, maybe months. Most of the time, I only needed one-word answers to questions that people didn't care about at all.

"My boyfriend, I... he was cheating, and... I was dating this guy, and he..."

The sentences all sounded wrong, and all the fear and anxiety that had been building up hit again like a wave. I sobbed, looking at the holes in my jeans.

The man gently pulled my head into his chest. I could feel the powerful muscle that crisscrossed his chest against my matted hair and I cried against him. I don't know how long I cried, but when I finally dried my eyes, ready to move on again, we had stopped in the parking lot underneath a hotel.

My suspicions were raised immediately, but I was sent in with the driver. I followed behind him, as he walked through a maze of underground halls to an elevator. I stepped inside after him. The fellow was small -- shorter than me, slight, and a bit effeminate. Though he was at least a year or two older than me, he looked for all the world like a boy.

"You'll be getting a shower, then, and we'll do something about your hair and clothes."

The way he said it was... unexpected, to say the least. As if I didn't have a say in the matter, almost. And yet, at the same time, it was with the same easy confidence that it was what I would want that I'd heard so many times before, from Travis, from my father, that I didn't know whether to be nostalgic or angry.

The elevator continued up, and up. It was an express, I could tell. But then it opened to an expansive room, itself splitting off in several directions: the penthouse, I realized.

The driver took me to the bathroom and told me, plainly, to take off my clothing. The way he said it left little room for argument or hesitation -- I peeled my grimy clothes away from my body and held them in my arms.

"You can just drop them, I'll have someone come by to collect them when we're finished here."

I could feel my eyes widening. I wasn't going to just stand there, completely uncovered, in front of some man whose name I didn't even know! Indeed, working for a man whose name I didn't even know! And then he blinked in annoyance and I found myself moving mechanically again to obey.

He produced a tape measure and wrapped it around my body in a dozen ways, each one more invasive than the last. Then he sat me down on the toilet and inspected my hair.

Out of a drawer came a pair of hair trimming shears. It all seemed awfully contrived, I suppose, that they'd have so much of this set up. But I decided to play along and see where everything would go. He cut around my hair, chopping away at years of growth and leaving a horrible mess of different lengths. I almost wished I couldn't have seen myself.

Then he stepped back again and took a long look at me, judging and weighing his choices before stepping back in and trimming here and there. I couldn't see myself, since his body was between my eyes and the mirror, until at long last he stepped away and looked again, with that same measuring expression.

I looked like a lesbian, frankly! Or one of those punk-rock girls who were so popular back when I was in high school.

"Here," he finally said, handing me a towel and gesturing toward the enormous shower. "Get cleaned up. Some clothes will be brought in for you. I'll be waiting in the foyer to take you back down to Mr. Stone."

And then I was alone. Alone with my new hair, old clothes, and a tub larger than most cars. I turned the water on, letting it run hot. When I stepped in, I could feel it scalding me, searing out the pain and fear. Shampooing was a dream -- it had been so long since I had run my fingers through my hair. I couldn't imagine enjoying my hair short, and yet now it seemed almost preternaturally pleasant.

I came out feeling fresh, newer than I had in more than a year. A dress was on the counter top. It did not escape my notice that my clothing was nowhere to be found.

The dress was black and a hair longer than short. It fit easily and comfortably, without constricting or confining, yet clinging in all the right places. How they had found one like it in twenty minutes was a mystery I would never be able to solve.

The small, boyish driver rose to his feet when I entered the main room.

"Very good," he said, with the voice of a man admiring his work.

I followed behind him as he entered the express elevator once more. He reached into a bag and produced a pair of shoes, with tall spike heels.

"I took a guess at the size, but it should be fine."

I slipped them on, wobbling for a moment before remembering the feeling of walking on heels. The driver gave me a questioning look, then nodded.

When we returned to the car, we found my employer -- 'Mr Stone,' the driver had called him -- tapping away at his phone. When he heard my shoes on the concrete floors, he looked up. His eyes widened just slightly, seeing my transformation from ragamuffin back to my old self. It surprised me to recall that once I had taken such pride in my appearance, after so long. But he guarded his surprise well.

"I imagine you'll have worked up quite an appetite, young lady."

"Very much, thank you." It was odd to hear my voice coming out, sounding almost steady. I wondered if it was the clothing, or the cleanness, or the fantasy of the entire situation, or some bizarre combination of the three.

He smiled at me, almost seeming proud of the transformation himself. He opened the door as the small man walked around to the other side of the vehicle. I slid across the bench seat, and my mysterious benefactor slid in behind me.

"I'm sorry, where are my manners? All this time, and we haven't been properly introduced." He rubbed his hand on his jacket, as if to remove some sort of invisible grime. "I'm Jake Stone. And you are... ?"

"Jen. Jennifer. Smith." I took his hand gingerly and he placed his lips against my hand.

"A pleasure."

The car purred gently to life and we started to drive the circuitous streets once more. Along with the changes outside, I found myself feeling different inside. I considered the man before me. His hair was blond, but slight greying around the temples showed his age in a way that his face did not. He had an easy manner to him; the way his hands moved when he talked spoke of a sort of animated indolence, as if he thought it was very important to have some movement, but the bare minimum was sufficient.

As I thought back to his talk earlier, I realized that this extended to every aspect of his person -- he said only what needed saying to convey his complete idea, and nothing more.

I flashed a smile at him, then suddenly realized the state my teeth must be in. He laughed, a deep throaty sound that was difficult to describe.

"Well, Jen-Jennifer Smith. We're almost there. Are you ready?"

I nodded, feeling very conscious of my lips that pursed just slightly after realizing the sorry state of my mouth.

"Very good."

We pulled up. Borgia. I almost couldn't believe it. The place had only just opened when I had left, but it had been the talk of the town. The rumors had been that it had a two, three year waiting list. He saw the look in my eyes. Even after all my effort to keep a poker face before, I couldn't hide my surprise.

Mr. Stone laughed again, through sealed lips.

"So this is the gesture it takes to get a rise out of you? I'll have to remember that."

He guided me through the door. There were people waiting, a crowd as thick as you could imagine, and I distinctly heard the waiter say 'I can't promise anything, but we've got at least a two hour wait for lunch if one of our reservations doesn't show up.'

Which is why I was more than a little bit surprised when we walked right up to the counter, and the Maître d' looked up and smiled. "Mr Stone! If you'd called, I'm sure we could have arranged something to be ready for you. I'm sure we can fit you in somewhere, if you give us a moment."

And true to his word, he returned a moment later, a beaming grin on his face that he tried unsuccessfully to hide as the satisfaction of any job well done. "If you'll just follow me this way, sir and madam?"

I followed last, as he guided us to a table that bore no signs of having been pushed there only a moment before. He picked up the menus from the table and set one down in front of each of us.