by Quin Zayne
“Alright.” Swallowing, she allowed her hands to dangle at her sides, feeling naked and not only because Annalise hadn’t supplied her with any panties. She must have intended to keep from marring the sleek lines of the dress. She felt keenly aware of her thighs, her lips, her clit.
As she made a slow turn, the dress brushed her ass heightening her sense of being nude.
“Beautiful,” she whispered, as she strode to where Annalise waited at the door.
They passed through it and her heels send the knell of their approach through his villa.
Annalise led her to a table on the balcony. The way the attendant’s eyes kept sweeping over her body made blood rush to her face. She arrived breathless.
Damon stood and pulled out a chair for her.
A lanai with a ceiling fan made the dining area shady and reduced the heat.
“Lovely Rose, welcome to my oasis.”
“It’s good to see you,” she murmured, putting the napkin on her lap. A lush display of ginger and birds of paradise adorned the table.
A sharply-dressed man in a linen suit served lunch for two.
“Thank you.” She nodded to him, pleased by the mineral water with fresh lime. Clearly, Damon remembered her order from the Sky Lounge and conveyed it to the staff.
She shook herself and sat up straight. Somehow, she had to stop clinging to every small sign that the—master of the estate saw her as an individual human being. He couldn’t, or how could he demand her obedience in erasing herself? Still, it was heartening he allowed her to have her own taste in beverage, instead of ordering her to conform to a different drink for his Rose.
Damon’s golden eyes gave her a cool glance. His man bowed.
“Thank you.” He gestured and the man left us.
My host waved his arm, indicating the view, his island.
“Are you enjoying it here?”
“Yes. It’s beautiful.” She quashed thoughts of the not-enjoyable things.
She took care that her smile reached her eyes. She adjusted her posture from the crown of her head to her tail-bone. She relaxed her hands and lips to appear feminine. She raised her brows enough to appear hyper-interested without using the muscles enough to encourage wrinkles. Practice paid.
His smile deepened and he took a long look at her.
“You becoming lovelier each day, my Rose.”
My face burned. She lowered her gaze to the bubbles rising in her glass. Beyond them, turquoise waves crashed at the jagged cliffs. He had her in perfect Gothic isolation. A young woman alone, dependent on a harsh and mysterious man. Could she melt his hard heart and become the Lady of the manor? She'd always loved such stories, but she didn’t want to live in one.
“Thank you. I’m—practicing all of my lessons.” She raised her glass to him. “Thank you for this drink. Annalise was a great help with getting ready for lunch.” She waved her hand at the dress.
His eyes gave her an appreciative sweep from her artfully disarrayed hair to the bodice pressed just right against the lace bra and one Roman-styled lavender sandal swinging in his view. “Yes, she has a good eye for enhancing beauty. You’re welcome. I’m glad you like her. You’ll meet Lucinda tomorrow. They’re discreet and efficient.”
“I appreciate the help.” She stopped before she could say she could use all the help she could get.
Rose, the woman he required, must be confident and gracious. The time for trying to be cute to charm him was past. He chose her. Now she had to fit his specifications. This wasn’t easy. The constant guessing drained her.
She took a long pull on the mineral water and patted her lips with the napkin. She figured unless she was answering a direct question or speaking about something he’d find pleasing, such as his company or his island, she’d do best to ration her words. As a talkative person, this might be the toughest part of her transformation.
Mandy gave him a bigger smile, amused at herself. It felt good to lighten up at last. This didn’t have to be so difficult. She’d treat it like a long fashion shoot. She had to stay in character and please the client. It wasn’t the first time.
“You’re coming along well. I appreciate your serious approach to your studies. I realize I’ve put you under a good deal of pressure.”
She managed to stop her mouth from dropping open. He sounded so human.
“Thank you.” Her voice came out as a husky whisper. For once, she sounded like a golden era movie actress, without even trying.
“Eat, my dear. You must keep up your strength. I have a special lesson for your this evening.”
My heart stalled.
She sensed this lunch with him was a treat, a reward for being good. One more play in his manipulation of her.
Not only did he demand her obedience, he was twisting her to crave his approval.
He was making her into his Rose.
Tilting his head, he regarded her with grave expression. He pressed his finger across his lips and tapped them.
She couldn’t stand it any longer. “What? What is it? Is something crooked?” As beautiful as it looked, her face still troubled her.
“Not at all. You’re exquisite. You were beautiful to begin with, and you’re simply more exquisite now.” He ducked his chin and his hand stole to his beard. “I tell you what, Rose. I’ll shave. that way you’re not the only one transforming.”
She gritted her teeth, stop calling me Rose. But she didn’t say it. He was trying to help her feel less alone. She cast her mind back to when she had to shoot a mascara commercial and deliver perky lines with wind-whipped sand stinging her legs.
“Thank you,” she said in a friendly newscaster tone.
If only she could call Ken. But she had no signal, and she was forbidden to call or send messages in any way. That was spelled out in the contract, but the consequences were only now getting through to her. Damon had been definite that he’d know if she broke the rule. She exhaled, grateful she hadn’t touched Dr. Laszlo’s phone.
“Relax, Rose. Eat.”
Smiling, she tucked into the beautiful meal. Pretending to savor it, but tasting nothing. Her appetite had fled at the sight of him.
“Delicious.”
“Yes, it is.” He smiled with only half is mouth, clearly seeing right through her.
She focused on the shimmering sea beyond balcony. More than the transformation, it disturbed her to no longer have friends. Here, she was dependent on Damon and his staff for everything. As he intended. Hell, if she sent a message in a bottle someone would probably show up to intercept it. For all she knew she was under surveillance on ever part of the island, and he had submarines to stop her from defecting.
Not that she wanted to go anywhere. After all, this was where her job was now.
He pushed back his plate and she stole a glance at him. The lines around his eyes and mouth appeared to deepen.
“What is it?” She put out her hand, not thinking, and covered his.
He blinked and a muscle jumped in his jaw. “A memory.” He waved his hand.
“Tell me, sometimes it helps to say the things that haunt us.” She dared to squeeze his hand.
His lips twitched, as though uncertain whether to clamp shut or attempt a sad smile. “My sisters—disappeared last year. It was Grace’s eighteenth birthday. Darla was twenty. They were close as twins, nearly inseparable. I teased them.” His eyes went distant, out to sea. “They were much younger, and I’d always had the impression both came as a surprise to my parents. Due to their religious beliefs, our parents kept the babies, even though each daughter was—inconvenient, even embarrassing—to them arriving late in their middle age. They doted on the girls. There were only the three of us siblings. I was, of course, the dynastic heir. They were simply—wonderful. Full of life and beauty. They brought the house to life.”
“I’m so sorry. Did anyone ever find—any trace of them?” She glanced at her hands, noticing the echo of what he’d said about her bringing this place to life.
“No. I’ve never believed it was an accident.”
A chill went through her. “What was it?” She knew what he was going to say. She clutched the chair, steeling herself.
“Murder. I’m sure they were assassinated.”
“Why?” She covered her mouth. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.” Assassinated was a strange term for the killing of two young women.
He didn’t look at her. “Probably as a warning to my father. When you become so big—when you destroy people and entire families—wipe out towns, anything and everything on your rise—you engender hatred. Blood hatred. The bile that fuels killing of the most personal kind. Killing them was a greater violence than killing him—or Mother. They got her too, of course. She died within two months of their loss. Her heart. My father is on his way to join her. He takes comfort in that. He believes he’ll be reunited with Grace and Darla and Mother when he dies. Soon, now.”
“You don’t believe it.”
“No.” He shook his head, raised his glass and lowered it. “No. I believe they’re dead.”
“There are—” she cleared her throat and dared to continue. “There are indications, not only spiritual but also among non-believers, that we do exist beyond death.”
He waved her words away. “My sisters are gone,” he whispered. His eyes flashed. “I’m nearly certain of who’s responsible. My rise will squash him.” His enraged smile distorted his face. “If he doesn’t die by the time I’ve taken everything from him that matters, he’ll spend his last days on this earth wishing for death with every breath he takes.” His hand inadvertently struck the table, making the silverware clatter.
In his blow’s wake, a mosquito lay squashed, one leg moving, a burst of blood tainting the glass.
His man appeared from a doorway and retreated.
Mental note. Never make Damon angry. She wondered who his enemy was. No way in hell she’d ask.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she murmured, taking refuge in the social formula Rose was permitted to utter.
“That’s good of you, Rose.”
His other hand, large and warm, descended over hers, capturing and holding it against the glass.
The island held still, holding its breath with her.
He shook himself, giving the impression that another self had made it out from behind his armor, and now the dominant Damon had to exert control.
“Starting today, you’ll study and practice intensive language programs.”
“More than one?” She crossed the silverware on the plate. She couldn’t pretend to eat. All those language programs on the computer. No, please, no.
“Yes. You’re free to choose which order to complete them. I suggest you start with whichever of them you’re most familiar with, and don’t mix the Romance languages at first. I spent months with my brain spitting French when I needed Spanish. You need to master the basics and a reasonable vocabulary within a few weeks.”
“That—doesn’t sound—possible.” The task resembled the fairy tale about a prince having to empty a river using a slotted spoon.
What the hell did he think I was, a computer? He might want the perfect sex doll, but I wasn’t a fucking robot.
He leveled those amber eyes at her across his glass. “Surely you don’t think you’re going to stand at my side and do nothing. I’m going to be president of one of the greatest multinational corporations on the planet. I’ll be calling the shots in entertainment and all forms of media.” He set the glass down without drinking. “You’ll have to look delighted to meet business contacts all over the world. Prepare to admire babies and fashions. You must charm key people and speak intelligently about the company. You’ll find briefing materials and videos to study in the library. There’s a desk there provided for your use. You’ll have to be a diplomat, so you must converse reasonably well in multiple languages.” He gave her a slight, condescending smile, all his earlier vulnerability gone. “We have the best accelerated language courses in the world.”
She bit back the temptation to be sarcastic. Of course the Karl dynasty’s near-monopoly on US books gave him control over learning materials as well. My stomach fluttered. “But wait. It’s—for only a couple of years. Surely it won’t be necessary to do all that—.” She clamped her lips shut at the warning flare in his eyes.
“Do as I say, Rose. You must meet the demands of your role. That’s a condition of your position.” His voice lashed like a whip.
“Yes. Sir.” Yes, I signed the contract.
The bloody contract. The British were onto something with bleeding cuss words. It might as well have been written in blood, a contract with the devil.
She envisioned Damon with devil horns. It wasn’t difficult to do.
“Open the lessons on the computer in your suite. You’ll find the accelerated language learning program.”
“I’ll do that.” She rose from the table and stalked away from him, pretending he ordered her to do so. Fuck him.
In the refuge of the opulent suite, she punched a pillow. All this luxury had a price. Instead of giving in to her sulky younger self balking at homework, she went to the room’s desk and opened the lessons.
After re-checking the daunting list of required languages, she donned the headset and got to work learning French. It seemed the most productive place to start, as her Spanish was passable.
As Damon warned, her brain kept reverting to Spanish. No doubt, he never tired of being right.
She listened and repeated the sounds, and replayed anything she got wrong, mimicking the hard-assed training style of her taskmaster downstairs. The bastard.
As she sped through the first lessons, the rhythms and meanings began to click. She could do this. The course was as excellent as Damon bragged. She'd never experienced anything like it for rapid results.
The process of gaining vocabulary and phrases felt effortless. Repeating each word multiple times along with a native speaker while looking at relevant pictures helped her to store the correct sounds, meanings and context in her mind. This worked.
The passing time struck her when she noticed long shadows from the coconut palms falling across the desk. She'd been at it for more than two hours. The lessons engaged her more than she expected, providing an escape from her bizarre situation. For a change, she focused completely on something outside of herself. The effect was therapeutic.
She relaxed for the first time since she entered Damon Karl’s island home. No, not home. Fortress, more like it. This isolated villa full of luxuries and art didn’t feel like a home.
My arrival experience was more like entering the gates of Hell, if Hell was a literal place.
So much about this place made her flash on the myth of Persephone. In particular, she savored that she emerged from the Underworld to reunite with her mother Demeter every spring. Some day, she'd emerge.
Pressing her hand to her face, she covered her eyes and held still, holding in the pain. There would be no family waiting for her. There was no one to return to any longer.
This was what it was to be alone in the world.
She belonged to a monster, and there was no going home.
Swallowing, she released her face and focused outside the window at the swaying palms.
The ache inside—all this work—the doll face, being dressed to his specifications, striving every moment to please him, and he did nothing. My hand carried the feel of his hand on mine. That was all he gave her. That brief contact, a flash of truth showing his grief before he slammed shut, and compliments that belonged more to his staff than to her. A tear stole down her—Rose’s face.
Pushing away from the computer, she stood and stretched. She unlaced the Roman sandals and stepped out of them, padded to the French doors.
Forehead pressed to the immaculate glass, she allowed the bottle glass waves to take her away.
My mind fought being soothed.
This landscape held no drifting leaves for autumn. The jungle fascinated her, but it also r
oused anxiety, half-buried dread of giant snakes and clawed predators.
No more fear. Compared to Damon Karl, the island’s wildlife might as well be house pets. Tomorrow, she'd get outdoors. Exercise would help beat the blues. In order to play this part, she must resist depression. Falling into a funk would be too easy to do, and it would ruin everything.
Sex dolls didn’t become depressed. Neither did highly-trained paid companions ordered to function as freaking diplomats and company figureheads.
The perfect living doll didn’t feel, nor have a life, nor a real heart.
He’d revealed more of what was in store for her, that was a small win. Welcome to the subtext. He was molding her to become a face of Karl, just as she'd been a face of a cosmetic company in her teens. Only so much more so. Still, at it’s core, the contract made her his whore. No, her acceptance of it did that. She stalked across the room.
A good sex doll was a woman who could be bought.
She met wide lavender eyes in the dresser mirror.
If I'd been bought by the devil, would that mean I no longer had a soul? Maybe the final soul-capture happened farther in the descent.
She shook off the fantasy. This was ridiculous.
Mandy, my name is Mandy. He can call me any damned thing he wants. I’m going to fulfill this contract and get paid. That’s all. She clenched her fists so hard they hurt.
She yanked off the lilac dress and threw herself on the bed, panties-less, her calves marked by the gladiator lacing.
The mattress welcomed her, molding to her shape, supporting her perfectly.
Perhaps that’s what happened to him. Everything became too easy. It had to do something to a man, to have everything handed to him, to be allowed to indulge any whim.
It still rankled that he managed to be beautiful. His exquisite, arousing appearance was another sign he might actually be the devil.
Laughing, she slid under the silk sheet, pulling up the comforter. The room was never chilly, but she wanted the comfort of being enveloped in softness. Tonight, she needed that.
Nightmare
She jolted upright, gasping.
