Deep Cover: A Dark Billionaire Romance

by Sophia Reed

  So I hoped she passed it.

  27

  Annie

  There was the same pomp and circumstance before this party as for the last. That didn't make me feel any better. For the last one I'd been poked and prodded into a gown with a sheer top and found myself drugged and tied to a post while Cole allowed me to be auctioned off to the highest bidder, who just happened to be a guy with deader eyes than anybody I'd ever seen in the Brotherhood.

  There were fittings for a dress, this one a corset top that the seamstress seemed to think should be tightened enough to become part of my flesh. And for this one there were heels, which Cole told me I'd have to learn to walk in. The first trial run I took at it – trial stumble, actually – was so uncoordinated and bizarre he broke into laughter and couldn't stop. It didn't help that the same thing happened to me, so that I was unable to let go of the wall I'd been trying to hang on to and just leaned there, breathing gasps of air and laughing. He'd told me to practice wearing a pair of panties and garter and stockings because he might as well have something to look at, but even topless and blushing I thought the uncontrollable laughter probably detracted from the erotic content.

  He didn't tell me what he'd done on his trips, and I didn't ask. He'd been gone most of January and the beginning of February but I'd had conversations with Tad, the occasional run-in with Nina that never ended the way she expected (or maybe did), the coursework for the criminal justice class I wasn't officially taking, running, lifting, massage.

  No yoga. No meditation. It was like a bizarre vacation. Like vacationing in jail.

  The bad thing was knowing that the party was coming up.

  When Cole returned a week before the event, I expected him to return to the morning maintenance spankings or even to discipline me for refusing to let Nina do it. Or something.

  Okay, or anything. Because even with the stuff that was filling most of my days, I didn't have enough to distract me around the clock. It wasn't like I wanted him to hurt me. More like I just wanted something to happen.

  I was sure of it.

  The dress for this party was not see through. That was nice. It was long and the skirt dropped from the waist as panels of shimmering silk. I was sure I wouldn't be allowed to wear anything under it, but unless I was cavalier in the way I chose to plant myself on a chair there would be panels covering me and panels I was sitting on. It would expose my hips, and I'd worn plenty of bathing suits that did that.

  I was more worried about the heels but as long as we didn't do anything stupid like going for a hike, I'd be fine. There were plenty of walls to lean against when I started to tip over.

  Right up to the day of the party everything was normal, in the version of normal where the man who considered himself to be the master utterly ignored the woman he considered to be his slave. Until the morning of the party, when he found me after my run.

  I was still breathing hard, using a towel on my hair and face as I came back into the cell, the guards having not even bothered to ogle me. It felt like we were all coming down with Stockholm syndrome.

  When I entered the cell, I was so startled by Cole's appearance I didn't even think to sink to my knees. It felt very much too much, like running into a boss or something. It might be a surprise, but unless you were the employee doing the thing you weren't supposed to be doing, it was no big deal.

  Finding him there, seeing his face, the face of the masochist, I felt my stomach twist and even though it would have been too late, I might have dropped to my knees if he hadn't grabbed me by the arm and dragged me into his office.

  His office. Not the punishment room. Not the room with the giant bed where he sometimes took me. His office.

  "Sit," he said, and I sank to my knees. At the last second I realized he'd meant on the chair beside the desk but he didn't correct me.

  I was so busy rethinking everything I'd just thought and done, I missed the beginning of what he said and didn't have the guts to ask him to start over.

  When I was undercover, there was a chance at any minute I could be hurt. Jesse would have taught me that even if there hadn't been other assignments before him. He was the one who loosened a molar with one blow. He was the rage sex, the man who drove his fist into the pillow beside my head when he fucked me.

  More than that. Undercover there was the possibility of being killed. Obviously. Nobody likes a narc.

  Only with Jesse, it was a game. Consummate, total immersion, with rules that were never properly explained and a man who enjoyed causing pain and did it when angry, when excited, when calm and dangerous.

  My submission to Cole had never been a given. I wouldn't submit to him. I wouldn't let him break me.

  But I'd let him help me. That was the agreement and that was why I sank to my knees and why I stared at the ground and called him sir and did the things I did. Because of the agreement. Because he was helping me.

  I hadn't submitted. I wouldn't. And my "obedience" came and went.

  He leaned in close to me. "I haven't touched you in weeks."

  God, I know. "Yes, sir?" My hands worked together in my lap.

  He looked down at them, where they wrung themselves together, and he grinned, the smile of the man who had originally scared me so badly. "Oh, yes," he said. "No spankings, no caning, no crop, no dildos, no whips, no bondage." His grin grew wider, that upside down triangular grin menacing now.

  "I know, sir," I whispered, as close as I was going to come to letting him know I'd missed the attention. Or letting myself know. And it was only because there wasn't much to do out here. I was never a good student. All that studying wasn't enough to keep me entertained and when I tried to do more than two runs a day, the guards refused to let me out. Something about eating disorders and not letting me think I was in charge of anything. Two runs a day and all the weights and so on, I was in the best shape of my life.

  And bored.

  Not bored enough that Cole's smile wasn't absolutely terrifying.

  "You see," he said slowly, raking his gaze up and down my body and making it feel like I was wearing nothing - not my running tights, jog bra, t-shirt, sweatshirt. "It's more than just the orgy I told you about."

  Of course it is. But I felt anything but flippant.

  "It's pretty much anything goes."

  I was startled out of common sense. "What does that mean?" I squeaked. There were times having been deep cover stood me in good stead and then there were times like this when I couldn't think of anything in the world that would work for preparing.

  "It means," he said, and now he dragged a finger from my forehead to the tip of my nose, then down to my chest. Useless, it was squashed into a jog bra the athletic company called a "major masher." His hand lingered for a minute, as if confused, then he pulled back. "That I've been leaving you alone because I want you to feel every. Single. Thing. And it means that Vincent will be there and while I can stop him from taking my property out of the house, I cannot stop him from touching you this time."

  I was on my feet before I managed to stop myself and Cole, for his part, stepped back rather than trying to stop me. This was where gangbangers were better than crazy rich guys – you knew what they were going to do. If Jesse had told me to sit and listen and I'd jumped up and paced, he'd have corrected my behavior without bothering to name it as such.

  Cole, though - he stepped back. And I never knew what was a test with him and what wasn't.

  "I can't – " I started, then stopped, then tried again. "I mean, I'm – " afraid of him, but fucked if I'm going to say that. My gaze went back up and my eyes locked with Cole's. "Please, sir."

  The smile that slowly crept across his face was cold and rock hard with certainty. He wasn't going to do anything about this. He wouldn't let Vincent take me anywhere out of the house because he considered me unready.

  But he was going to let that dead-eyed man do what he wanted to me during a party that was part orgy, something I thought had gone away with swingers in the seventies. Befor
e I was born, for fuck's sake. Without being told I took the chair again, staring at Cole.

  28

  Cole

  Now she was learning. Now she was scared and she was turning to me.

  Good.

  29

  Annie

  The party crept closer slowly. What had seemed like a breakneck pace reduced to a snail's crawl because all I wanted was to get it over with. At the same time, I didn't want it to ever get here.

  Seemed like I was getting both those wishes. Be careful what you wish for.

  Two days before Valentine's Day Cole surprised me, showing up at the door as I waited for the guards to let me out for my morning run.

  "I thought I'd join you this morning." His evil smile was back.

  Afraid I'd just keep running, sir? But I was learning better than to say things like that. I half hoped he'd relented in some way, that he would at least do something to me before the party so my body didn't feel quite so – clean.

  I didn't have a better word. The things that Cole did to me made me feel soiled at the same time they made me feel hopeful and – oh, fuck it, I hated it and a part of me didn't hate it, so I hated that part of me.

  Cole St. Martin was fucking me up as much as fentanyl ever did.

  "Some company would be nice, sir." What was I supposed to say?

  We set off across the flat of the valley floor, the distant mountains a shimmer of purple against the sunrise. The air wasn't as cold as it had been a week and a half ago. Spring comes faster in the Southern Nevada desert than it might up north. Or in Seattle.

  "I thought I'd tell you a little about my guests who’ll be coming night after tomorrow," Cole said. He ran effortlessly, without ever seeming to breathe hard if we went at my pace.

  Just one more reason to consider him a bastard. I smiled to myself, then considered what he'd said and stopped.

  "Sir?"

  "These guests are important to me," he said. He slowed a little so I could match his pace. "Vincent and Kie are the first couple. Vincent is the man who bid and won you at the auction."

  I felt a stab of ice twisting in my gut and tried to remind myself I'm a police officer. I'm strange and strong and I can take care of myself and at its root, somewhere along the line, this is all nothing more than an elaborate game, played by –

  But it breaks off there, that somewhat hopeful thought. Because it's not played by consenting adults. Many of the slaves are trapped by circumstance or contract, whether because they were a runaway or they have no money or anywhere else to go or, like me, they're dealing with an addiction or some other thing that could ruin them if their "benefactor" hadn't taken them in.

  "I don't remember Kie, sir," I told him.

  "No," he said and didn't further clarify. Of course I hadn't asked for names when I’d tried to lead a rebellion and get everyone to run away from the party that turned auction in which Vincent "bought" me from Cole who "bought me" from Samuels.

  "There's also Claude and Chloe," he said. His sights were set on the mountains. By my count we'd already run four miles and he was still moving out, away from the compound. "He's a tenured professor and she's his slave. She's lovely, very delicate. Her skin is almost blue, it's so white. I've quite enjoyed hurting her in the past."

  I shivered and stopped abruptly "Sir? Does that mean that he – "

  "I'm keeping a count from now until the party is over. I'm sure you can guess what it's for. That was the first three." There was a challenge in his eyes. He was the one who decided to walk me pervert by pervert through the lineup for the damned party and now he was telling me that by asking a question I'm already three – what, demerits? Am I back in school? – to the bad.

  Abruptly the challenge in his eyes, the dawn run, the fucking party, the fet, the hit, the fucking contract – all of it was more than I could bear.

  Hands on hips, I shouted at him, my voice rising into the morning air. "What do you want from me? What am I going to have to do to convince you I'm fine on my own? Give me the drugs! Let me decide how and when to take them. Turn them back into capsules! Please stop doing this! Please, Cole, please – "

  I broke off realizing I'd just called him Cole. He always was in my thoughts.

  To his face? Mr. St. Martin at the very least, and Sir was much better.

  "What did you call me?" His face was a mask of menace.

  Not like he hadn't heard me. "I called you Cole. I'm sorry, sir." There was no point in saying that sometimes I thought of him that way. Obviously I did. Just as obviously, I shouldn't.

  "You're at eight," he said, and I supposed I should be keeping count. And that right now I should repeat the number and thank him and call him sir.

  All I did was wait for him to go on with his list of fabulous dinner party guests who for some reason were important to him.

  There was Dr. Andrew, though I didn't know if that was first or last name. He was fifty, apparently, with a girl, Cecile, who was in her late twenties and had been with her owner for ten years.

  There was another couple coming, he said, though they hadn't actually confirmed. He went on to tell me about the importance of the men – in medicine, in law, in insurance – and the beauty and submission of their wives and slaves.

  I listened. I responded.

  I dreaded.

  Day of the party, I woke so sick with cramps and headache I thought I'd have to beg Cole, on bended knee if necessary, not to put me through it. But an Imodium and some Ibuprofen later and he'd proved to me it was nerves.

  I felt better physically, anyway.

  First thing in the morning I couldn't run and once the drugs took effect, Cole wouldn't let me run. He seemed amused at my growing fear.

  He posted a schedule for me to follow, for when each part of my preparation was to be finished: the shower, the make up, the hair-styling, dressed and walking on those stilts. This time it was all up to me and it was hard not to go ahead of schedule for some of the things I needed to do. I wasn't great at getting my curls to do anything but cut short or into a ponytail.

  But everything came together before I would have expected it and I was waiting for Cole in the ice blue dress with the panels for a skirt and a non-see-through top. Wearing shoes I'd practiced in but could still barely walk in.

  I definitely wouldn't be threatening to run away tonight.

  I was still burning to ask what he meant by orgy. I wasn't required to sleep with Cole St. Martin – ‘required’ a word that made me grimace. I could still walk out if I had to, I told myself again and again - I didn't believe it. When he came to get me I was standing in place, swaying a little from the four inch heels but otherwise put together as requested, my hair up in a complicated style and a few curls here and there free and framing my face. The spaghetti straps of the dress showed off the muscle I'd put on and the silky dress showed off my nipples, but I was clothed even if I had no underwear. It was enough.

  "You look beautiful," Cole told me, took my arm and started us toward the door in a stop and start rhythm that made me immediately think about Stacey's wedding. He stopped before we reached the door and asked, "What number are you up to?"

  As if he didn't remember. "Eight, sir," I told him and he smiled like the cat with cream on its whiskers and walked us to the elegant living room.

  I hadn't anticipated being hostess but I also hadn't expected to be late. Everyone was already there and Cole walked me to the center of the living room and took my fingertips in his hand, spinning me for everyone to see. The dress flared out around me and I resolved to move with less speed.

  I looked to see what Cole wanted me to do.

  "Sit down," he said, and indicated a place on the couch. I was uncomfortably nestled between two of his male guests. There were only three other couples, which was more than enough. The spot he indicated, I was at least pleased to see, was between what must be Dr. Andrew and Claude, because Vincent was across from me.

  Cecile knelt by the feet of her husband, the mysteriously n
amed Dr. Andrew, who paid as much attention to her as he might to an end table. For her part, the woman didn't seem unhappy about it. She was going on thirty, not there yet, and kneeling in place didn't bother her. She wore a red sheath dress that complemented her very blond hair and green eyes. Not that we saw much of them, as she kept her gaze downward.

  As for Dr. Andrew, I heard him talking about the price of gold, the price of whisky, the price of a trip to the Caribbean, and a few other things that made me wonder if he truly was rich. Or maybe that was just how the rich stayed rich, the same way Cole insisted a CEO stayed CEO by being hands on.

  I had to stop thinking of him as Cole. I risked a glance at him. He was involved in discussing something about politics with Claude and didn't notice. An electric tingle moved through me at the sight of him. He was in black tie tonight, his blond hair brushed straight back, his smile much in evidence. His suit was, of course, tailored especially for him, but even so it was amazing how it disguised all the muscle I knew was there.

  I swallowed and looked down again.

  The main house wasn't somewhere I spent much time. It was like visiting relatives who make you nervous, those relatives who never accept you as you are.

  My mother and sisters, maybe.

  The living room was luxurious, with suede couches and glass coffee tables. Tonight things had been rearranged so all the furniture – couches and easy chairs for the men, hardback wooden chairs for the ladies when they weren't kneeling – made a sort of courtyard in the middle, all of it covered in sheets.

  That didn't give me a good feeling.

  Around the edges of the furniture and in between the pieces, there were tables laden with food from Mexican to Chinese, and a few French offerings by way of ham and cheese croissants. The Mexican looked authentic, decorated with salsas and jalapeno peppers, red and green and lovely. The French offerings included wines and baguettes and cheeses.