XXX - 145 Enslave: The Taming of the Beast (7 page)

After long moments, they rolled away from each other. Jelena moved so her head rested on a pillow, and April rested next to her shoulder, looking a little dazed. She hadn’t expected things to turn out this way, apparently.
Neither, for that matter, had Jelena.
Phillipe hovered over them, blocking the light. “Impressive,” he said, his voice casual, even as Jelena noticed the raging hard-on in his black slacks. “I’ll get you both towels, something to drink.” He smirked. “The night’s young, after all. Perhaps you’ll have some more lessons to learn.”
Jelena waited until he left the room, heading for a bathroom nearby. She cuddled against April, who after a moment’s stiffness, melted against Jelena.
“I need your help,” Jelena murmured, so close to April’s ear that she doubted any tape could pick it up. “Will you see me? Away from here?”
April’s eyes looked wary.
Jelena pressed soft kisses against her collarbone, sweetly, while stroking April’s breast. April shuddered, her thigh covering Jelena’s, her hips swiveling slightly, insistently.
“All right,” she whispered against Jelena’s lips, kissing her again.
Jelena held her tight in gratitude, kissing her. Then felt some shivering again in the pit of her stomach, as the kiss grew more intent.
“Now, now, ladies,” she heard Phillipe say. “At least let me get some popcorn.”
Jelena growled against April’s lips.
If you think this is a show
, she thought fiercely, as she pressed against April’s body,
wait till you see what I’ve got coming up
.

Chapter Six
Find something to use against him
.
Nadia wasn’t sure if she was looking for a weapon, or for something less tangible: maybe information? Although she doubted she would be able to find anything that would be useful to blackmail him with. After all, she was a prisoner here. Who was she going to tell? Even if she escaped, she doubted she was strong enough to stay away from him for long.
Especially since, with every passing day, she seemed to grow more and more addicted to him.
She didn’t know how it was happening. Stockholm syndrome, perhaps, that bizarre dysfunction where captives became dependent on their captors. Was she losing herself, then?
She sighed. It might be easier if he weren’t such a damned good lover.
The “punishments” had not stopped, but they were no longer menacing. They were strangely ritualistic. If she were the slightest bit uncomfortable, he seemed able to sense it, and quickly changed the scenario to better accommodate her. Last night, he’d handcuffed her to the banister of the curving stairs, going down on her as she writhed, unable to move. But when he’d seen that the cuffs were biting into her wrists, he’d quickly changed the binding to soft silk cloths. And she’d stood there, rubbing at her wrists…waiting for him to return. She’d actually lifted her arms, holding still so he could secure her in place before continuing his sensual torment.
He wasn’t trying to hurt her. He was trying to pleasure her. And it was working more than she’d ever dreamed.
She supposed it should have been demeaning, strutting around a man’s house completely nude, awaiting his orders, making herself available to his every whim. But what happened when your body started
craving
those whims? When you found yourself going out of your way to make sure he’d be around? When you started pretending defiance, rather than expressing the anger you knew you righteously deserved to display?
What was she supposed to do when she was starting to enjoy the game?
She explored the house instead. He rarely left the mansion—the fortress, to be more accurate—so now that she was alone and not locked in her room, she took the opportunity. Maybe she’d find something to answer the questions that were beginning to plague her, more and more.
Maybe, just maybe, she’d find a way out, literally and figuratively.
She went down the hallway that led to her bedroom. Grimly, she tried every door. Most of them were locked. She turned the handle on one, and when it opened, she entered cautiously.
It was a home theater, in the true sense of the word, like those owned by all those stars on
Cribs
or
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous
or any of the other reality shows her sister Irina watched so intently had. There were eight very plush seats, a large screen, and discreet but obviously high-tech speakers. Built-in bookcases covered the back wall beneath the projector, stocked full of high-definition DVDs. She glanced over the titles absently. There were typical guy flicks:
300, Gladiator, Die Hard
. Any number of mindless action movies that even she enjoyed from time to time. A lot of noir-styled movies with anti-heroes, she noticed:
The Maltese Falcon, Casablanca, L.A. Confidential. The Usual Suspects. Chinatown
.
Depressing
, she thought. So it was either blood-and-guts or criminal despair. It suited what she knew about him. She had to be crazy to feel anything for such a…
Her eyes narrowed as she got to the lowest corner of the bookshelf.
“Cartoons?” she murmured in surprise, tracing her finger over the covers.
The Incredibles. 101 Dalmations. Shrek. Kung Fu Panda
.
She heard a noise, and abruptly stood, her heart racing. It came from the door she’d left open. More specifically, it came from the far end of the hallway.
“Dominic?” she called softly. Would he be angry, finding her nosing about in his rooms?
What would he do?
It wasn’t fear, she realized. It was excitement.
She ignored that discovery, focusing instead on what she was hearing. It was a soft clicking sound, vaguely familiar. It was followed by a sound like heavy breathing, coming from a large set of double doors at the far end of the hallway. She instantly realized: these were the doors to Dominic’s suite. A man like Dominic would have another exit, just in case.
If there was a way out, it’d be through these doors.
“Hello?” she tried again, walking to the doors and knocking softly. Of course, the doors would be locked. Who knew what else…
She heard a low animal growl.
It was unlocked, twisting easily in her palm. She started to turn the handle. She opened the door.
She got a glimpse of dark wood paneling and high vaulted ceilings, with dim, recessed lights. Then, snarling white teeth appeared at the door.
Shrieking, she slammed the door shut. Loud, deep, angry barking was barely muffled by the door. Falling on her butt, she scooted a few feet away.
“I see you’ve met Max,” Dominic said drily behind her.
She squeaked, spinning.
Dominic looked haggard, his complexion a bit ashy. His blue eyes were slightly unfocused. “That would be my dog,” Dominic explained. His voice sounded tired. “He makes sure that no one invades my privacy.”
“I was just…”
“I’m sure.” Dominic’s smile was wrong. He wasn’t angry. It was like he barely noticed she was there. “I’ll punish you later. Go on. Go to your room, wait for me.”
It was then that she realized he was holding his side. Without thinking, she tugged open his jacket. There, just beneath his gun holster, was a deep, bloody gash.
“Oh, my God.” She paled. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” he growled, more with irritation than anger. “Just leave, Nadia.”
“This is serious!” She looked at him like he was insane. “You should go to a hospital!”
“Stop,” he said. Now there was anger. “I can take care of this. Hell, I’ve had worse than this. Get the hell away from me, will you?”
“You’re going to stitch this up yourself?”
He shrugged. “If it needs it.”
“You look like you’re going to pass out on your feet,” she protested. “Here, I’ll take care of it.”
“Oh, really?” he drawled.
“I trained to be a nurse in Moscow,” she muttered. “I didn’t like it, but I’m not bad at it.”
He still looked skeptical.
“Besides, I’d get to see you in pain as I pushed a needle into you,” she said, rolling her eyes.
He sighed. “Good point.”
Then he collapsed partly against her, and she propped him up as best she could. Really worried now. He was more hurt than he let on.
She opened the door. The dog was there, still snarling, until Dominic said “Max,” in an exasperated tone. She stared. It was some kind of pit bull mix, she thought…perhaps Labrador. She’d always liked Labradors. It went quiet, growling low in its throat, looking at her suspiciously. Then it sniffed at Dominic, letting out a little whine.
“Get me on my bed,” Dominic said, “then give him a treat from the side of the bed, will you? Otherwise, he’ll be a pain in the ass, and I don’t want him biting you.”
She did as instructed, quailing slightly. Dogs. She’d been afraid of dogs. “Here, doggy…Max,” she remembered. She held out the biscuit.
The dog snapped at her. Squealing, she dropped the thing. Max devoured it in a second. Then he sat, tongue lolling out, looking at her expectantly.
“Should I give him another?” she asked quietly.
“Hell, no,” Dominic said, closing his eyes. “I spoil him enough.”
She sighed. She helped Dominic take his jacket off. When she reached for his gun, he stopped her.
“I may be hurt,” he said softly, “but I’m not stupid.”
She nodded, feeling a little encouraged…and a little disappointed. “Where is your first aid kit?”
“In the bathroom,” he said, taking off the holster awkwardly, then putting the gun in his uninjured hand. She re trieved a well-stocked box, pulling out what she’d need. Her hands didn’t shake, and she felt remarkably calm as she got the needle ready. She stripped off his shirt, examining the gash clinically.
“Knife?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Argument?” She cleaned the wound, thinking to keep him talking. He didn’t seem to have anything resembling anesthetic, so this was going to hurt.
“Not exactly,” he said, not even wincing as the needle pierced his skin. He remained perfectly still, even though his grip on his gun tightened. “Listen, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You should take a painkiller,” she said, then rolled her eyes when he shook his head. “Fine.” She rummaged in the kit, pouring out a few pills. “Then at least take the antibiotics.”
He scowled at her, then took the pills. She grinned to herself, and he didn’t notice. She started to work on the wound again. He grew a little more pale, his forehead sweating slightly.
“You know, talking might take your mind off the pain,” she suggested.
“It’s fine.” He looked stoic.
She yanked on the thread. He hissed, glaring at her, moving the gun with meaning. She smirked back at him. “Read any good books lately?”
He stared for a second, then relaxed slightly—as much as he could, she supposed. “Not really. But I’ve acquired a new hobby I’m enjoying.”
A hobby. Was that what she was to him?
And what the hell is he to you?
She saw his eyes start to glaze slightly. It wasn’t blood loss—he was right, it looked worse than it was, although she felt sure it hurt like hell. Of course, she’d slipped the painkiller alongside the antibiotic. He was too busy glaring at her to look. Which meant that he was in enough pain to be tricked.
She ought to feel more triumphant. Instead, she felt…
Good God. Am I actually worried about him?
She froze.
“Are you almost done?” he asked irritably, snapping her out of it.
“So,” she said, her voice shaking, “you were randomly stabbed. I guess that’s why you don’t leave the house very often.”
“I seem to remember saying I don’t want to talk about it,” he muttered, but his voice sounded sleepy. “It wasn’t random, though. And yes, it is the reason I don’t leave the house very often.” He grinned. “That, and because I don’t like being too far from your delicious naked body.”
She felt a little tug of desire, and frowned at him. “You’re not in any state for that,” she scolded gently, even as the flesh between her legs twitched expectantly.
“My cock would differ with you,” he said, and she noticed that he did, indeed, have an erection. “But you’re probably right. Wouldn’t want to tear these stitches, huh?” He leaned back, sighing. “I hate stitches. Hate hospitals.”
“Because of…” She paused, wondering if maybe she’d gone too far.
“The explosion, you mean.” He was slurring a little. “Yeah. I was lucky—if Alexis had known about the guy I went to, she would’ve paid him to kill me when I was under the anesthetic. She’s still got a hit out on me.”
“Alexis?” Nadia asked blankly. Who was that?
And why are you jealous?
“Old girlfriend,” he said. “Old lover, really. She thought we were going to get married. Got pretty pissed when she found out I was still playing the field.”
“You cheated on her?” Nadia tied off the stitches, bandaging the wound.
He sighed. “I was a different guy then,” Dominic said. “And Alexis was special.”
“Oh.” Bile rose in Nadia’s throat. “You’re all taken care of…”
To her surprise, Dominic reached out, took her hand. “Alexis was the daughter of the man I admired most on earth,” he said carefully, opening his eyes to look at her. “If he wanted me to marry her, then I would have. She was beautiful, and amazing. But she was cruel, and utterly spoiled. Whatever she wanted, she got.”
“Oh,” Nadia repeated, this time with different inflection. Dominic didn’t sound like himself. There was no sarcasm, no coyness. He was being completely honest.
“So she decided she wanted to own me,” he said, and he stroked the back of her palm. “Of course, she still had other lovers, too. But
nobody
screwed around on Alexis Carmello. I guess it totally humiliated her. And she really thought she was in love with me.”
“What happened?” Nadia breathed.
She’d never seen the naked pain in his eyes before. It seared her to her soul.
“Once her father died,” he said, “I left the organization. And she took the opportunity to try and kill me.”
Nadia swallowed hard.
“It didn’t work, obviously,” he said, his voice thick. “But it left me like this.”
She clutched his hand, hard. She wanted to kiss the pain away. There weren’t enough kisses in the world.
“I wasn’t always like this,” he murmured, then drifted off into sleep.
She froze, listening to his deep, even breathing. Even his dog was lying at the foot of the bed, completely relaxed.
Take the gun. Kill him. Get his car and get the hell out of here
. Nobody would find him. Nobody would know it was her…
She stared, his scarred face defenseless in sleep. His grip had relaxed, the gun slipping from his palm. She picked it up carefully.
Then, just as carefully, she placed it on the nightstand. She took off his shoes, then pulled a light throw over his bare chest. Carefully, she sat at the edge of the bed.
She couldn’t do it. He’d had so many chances to kill her, and he hadn’t. He’d played with her: he’d introduced her to her body, to pleasure, to a whole different side of herself. Call it Stockholm syndrome, or dysfunction, or sheer insanity. But she couldn’t kill him while he slept.
She left the room, going to the kitchen, making herself a cup of tea. Then she went to his library, examining his books. She found a mystery writer she liked, and settled down in one of the chairs by his bed, reading quietly.
He woke with a start, reaching around the bed for his gun, yelling. Then he focused.
“You drugged me,” he said. “You fucking
drugged
me!”
She clucked her tongue. “You needed to rest.”
He took the gun, his face livid.
“You drugged me!”
She closed the book. “And I put your gun on the nightstand.”
He stared at her, not comprehending. Then he stood up. “Go to your room.”
“Of course,” she said, but it held none of their usual banter. She was genuinely worried about him. Which only spoke to her insanity.
Two days later, he’d only said the barest of words to her. She was really worried now.
What was he going to do?
She’d thought of asking him how he would punish her, but she got the feeling it wasn’t that kind of game. Not anymore.
On the third day, he finally walked up to her. He tossed her a bundle of clothes. They were clean, the jeans and T-shirt and simple underwear she’d worn the first night he’d brought her here. Even her sneakers.