The Vanity of Roses

by Lily White

  I’d caused them.

  His lips brushed mine on a tease, the softest of temptation. But then he claimed my mouth, the kiss brutal, hard and punishing. I sighed into his mouth, my body heating, the sheets beneath me bunching as I rolled my hips in invitation.

  One hand on my throat, the other went to my hip to still me in place. A sound of complaint crawled up my throat, but it didn’t affect him. He continued kissing me how he wanted, at his pace. My naked skin wasn’t enough to force his hand or bend his will.

  I was beginning to think nothing could make Callan do what he didn’t want.

  It made me envious of him.

  His fingers squeezed my throat, but not enough to steal my breath. It was just one more tease.

  When he released my hip, he trailed his fingers up my body, never stopping until they found the straps at one wrist, tugged it free, and then moved to the other.

  Instant relief flooded me, my skin burning where the straps had been. Callan wrapped an arm beneath me and moved me enough that he could lie down and pull my back against his chest. I rolled my ass against his hips, but his hand clapped down to stop me.

  “I have a fight tomorrow,” he said.

  Terror raced like ice water through my veins.

  “I know.”

  “Then let me sleep. Unless you don’t want me walking out of that ring.”

  My heart skipped a beat, coming back with a painful thud I could feel down to my toes.

  “I don’t want you in that ring at all.”

  Quiet laughter shook his chest, the heat of his body warming mine.

  “That’s not for you to decide.”

  Breath rattled from my lungs, a tremor taking over. “Will I be there tomorrow? At the fight?”

  Callan nodded his head and tugged me closer. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Silence and then, “Because it’s time you learn where your family’s money comes from.”

  Lisbeth

  Callan was gone when I woke the next morning, his massive bed disturbingly empty, the sheets practically swallowing me. I breathed in his scent as if that could comfort me.

  My stomach hurt. It’s what cracked my eyes open. Even in sleep I hated today, tonight, this life that kept me chained and constantly aching. I was a ball of frenzied nerves, my pulse painful and hard.

  He could die tonight.

  The thought was on repeat in my head.

  I have no idea how long I lay there suffering the stinging cold of worry. Eventually, a knock at the door snapped me from the fog, a whip crack voice cutting through the wood.

  “Lisbeth, it’s time to get up. You have work to do.”

  Gretchen.

  I was half happy to hear her voice and half annoyed. If anybody could snap me out of the dreadful haze, it was that woman.

  “I’ll get dressed,” I answered.

  “Be quick,” she snapped through the door. “I’ll wait for you out here.”

  Be quick...

  It was just like her. Which is probably why she was the best thing for me in the moment. Gretchen was sharp as a tack, and while I couldn’t stand how stern she was and how she held everybody to an impossible standard, I couldn’t claim she was a hypocrite. She held herself to the same standard.

  From what she’d confessed to me, I knew why. Gretchen was fighting her own battles, claiming her own space and finding pride in herself despite everything.

  I wondered if it was that pride - that vanity - that would eventually destroy all of us.

  Perhaps humility is a better choice. You don’t have to fight for it. You don’t have to regret it. There are no insults to take back or apologies to be muttered.

  Others could afford to be humble. But not a Rose. Not me.

  My stomach flipped again as I stepped into the shower and got dressed once I was clean.

  I sucked it up, straightened my spine, rolled back my shoulders and met Gretchen in the main room. Her eyes dipped to my neck as if searching for more marks. Embarrassment tinted my cheeks.

  She clucked her tongue. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t be ashamed. Whatever you’re doing, it’s working. Do not regret what it takes to crawl out of your hole.”

  Except I wasn’t crawling out of anything. I was only digging myself deeper.

  Subject dropped as quickly as it came up, Gretchen turned to lead me from the family suites with the click of her sensible shoes.

  “We have a busy day. In one hour, you’ll be packed into a van with other staff members and taken to the pit. Your job is to make sure the arena is spotless. The family does not suffer embarrassment easily. As you well know. The leather chairs are to be polished. The brass railings gleaming. The floors better have vacuum tracks embedded in them. Once that is accomplished, you’ll be assigned a new uniform. Your evening will be spent running for drinks or snacks or whatever it is the guests consume there.”

  She spun on me.

  “And you will do all that with your chin tipped high. Guests will recognize who you are. Do not buckle beneath them.”

  They could stare all they wanted. My serving them wasn’t what hurt the most. I only feared watching Callan die while they all shouted for the entertainment.

  Gretchen must have seen the truth written all over my face.

  Her voice softened. “Don’t worry about him. I’ve had the opportunity to witness Callan in the ring. He’s not one to be shoved to his knees. His opponents, on the other hand...”

  A pause, the silence significant. Gretchen placed her hand on my arm. “Ignore what happens after the fight, Lisbeth. It will slice you to the bone, but you can’t let them see you crumble.”

  Her cryptic words were left hanging as she turned to continue leading me to the dining hall. Only a few servants were eating, and I assumed they were the ones working the fight. Holly sat with them. Her bright blue eyes glanced up at me with fear behind them.

  Gretchen left me at the breakfast bar with only a few more words to chew on. “Eat well. You won’t want to eat later tonight.”

  Our eyes met, and the warning hit home. Something bad was going to happen, and she didn’t want me shattering to pieces where anybody could witness my pain.

  It only made my stomach twist more, but I forced food on my plate regardless. Forcing it down my throat was a far more difficult task.

  An hour later found us at the arena, scrubbing and polishing. Holly stayed by my side but didn’t say much. You could tell she was nervous to be there. Several times, I’d thought to ask her why she would sign on for this job, but I thought better of it.

  Something was going on, something awful, and I didn’t want the truth of it to weigh on my shoulders along with everything else I was carrying.

  Eventually, the day bled into night, and we were given our server uniforms. While the men were assigned the typical black jacket and pants with a crisp white shirt, the women were required to show a bit more skin.

  By bit, I meant practically all of it.

  The cocktail dress was hugging the curve of my ass, crawling back up every time I yanked it down. The beaded bodice did nothing to hide what was beneath it. They could have installed a stripper pole and it would have been the perfect accessory for the ridiculous costume I wore.

  Maybe this is what Gretchen was warning me about. I hoped this was the worst of it.

  Poor Holly looked skittish in her matching uniform. It was all sorts of wrong. She was too innocent for whore-chic. The black was a stain against the loose blond waves of her hair, a stern contrast against frightened blue eyes and spotless fair skin. She didn’t belong here, and I had half a mind to drag her from the arena to demand Gretchen escort her home.

  While we waited at the large double doors near the front for the guests to arrive, I couldn’t help my question.

  “Why are you here? This place isn’t for you.”

  “I’m here for you,” she admitted, her voice like steel, surprising me. “You’ll need me. Gretchen knew it, so she asked me to come.”r />
  I was terrified to ask anything else. But there was no time like the present to learn what was so bad I’d need a person to keep me from collapsing.

  I opened my mouth to finally ask the question, but guests poured through the door, the absolute worst fucking timing. I didn’t recognize many of them as they stepped through in their expensive suits and shiny shoes. It seemed every one had their hand gripped on the hip of a beautiful woman dressed in clothes that competed with mine for whore of the year.

  As they passed, their eyes slid over me, recognition blazing, their mouths pulling into smirks that I brushed off and squared my shoulders against.

  I was a Rose, damn it.

  Prideful even when stripped down to nothing.

  The seating filled up quickly, not that it was a full stadium. A little over a hundred could sit in the audience. My stomach was doing somersaults by that point, but I ignored it while filling drink orders, my teeth grinding every time a hand slapped my ass without permission.

  I shot a look at one asshole who tried to run his fingers up my skirt, the threat hitting home when he attempted to take what wasn’t offered and a guard stepped up to almost break his finger for the effort.

  Surprised, I shot a glance at the guard, only to discover it was the fighter, Conner, that I’d brushed shoulders with in Callan’s room.

  Turning to him, I grabbed the lapel of his suit jacket and tugged his ear down to my mouth.

  “Don’t worry about me. Keep an eye on Holly. These guys will eat her alive.”

  He glared at my hand, and I released my hold, patting at the fabric to smooth the wrinkles.

  “Sorry.”

  Escorting me down the steps so I could fill more drink orders, he planted a hand on my lower back and said, “Holly will be fine. My instructions are to watch you.”

  That surprised me.

  “To keep the men from touching me?”

  “To keep you from running,” he answered, his eyes sweeping the chaos in the arena.

  Of course. I should have known that.

  Fifteen minutes...

  The voice over the loudspeaker caused me to jump in place, meanwhile the crowd around me became more chaotic, their eyes locking to the ring while their bodies straightened in their seats.

  Dread chewed at me while terror sliced at my veins. I turned to look at the center arena, but it was still empty, the large gates on the far end securely closed.

  Behind me, a throat cleared and I spun when a hand touched me.

  “I’m surprised they don’t have you hidden downstairs. Typically the prize isn’t allowed to wander.”

  Disgust swept in to mix with the dread and terror. Bile coated the back of my tongue as I met the stare of Antonio Mortize. My eyes flicked to where Connor stood in the distance. Although his eyes weren’t on me, I could sense he was watching. It only made me feel a little safer.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. As you can see,” I said, sweeping a hand down to indicate my uniform, “I’m working.”

  Antonio’s lips curled at the corners, the lights above us reflecting sharply off the gold jewelry he wore. Just like last time I’d seen him, he was dressed in a suit that screamed money, the grey fabric a touch too shiny. It was apparent money couldn’t buy taste.

  Stepping into me, his breath brushed my cheek, and I shivered in disgust.

  His voice was a deep whisper. “You’re my prize when my fighter kills Callan in the ring tonight.” His tongue smacked against his cheek, and I threw up in my mouth. “I have all sorts of ideas how much work you’ll be doing once I have you.”

  Fat chance. I’d die before letting this asshole touch me.

  Stepping away from him, I met his stare, Rose pride intact and in place. “Callan will kill anybody you send down there.”

  It felt weird saying those words, but hell, if this was what my family had done all along, I had to assume it was in my blood.

  There were thorns beneath these pretty petals. I just had to find them. Even if they were only for show.

  Antonio laughed, his eyes studying me.

  “Enjoy the show tonight, Lisbeth. I’m sure it will be eye opening for you.”

  Callan won’t die, I promised myself. It was a mantra in my head as Antonio walked away.

  A few minutes later, the lights above the audience dimmed and those above the ring blazed brighter. Holly stood a few feet from me at the bar. Her tray was being loaded with drinks, but her eyes were locked on me.

  Turning to stare down into the ring, I felt glued in place, my feet heavy like anvils and every muscle locked against my bones. Blood thundered in my head, the rush of it making me dizzy. The first indication that anything was beginning was the slow creak of a large set of wooden gates swinging open.

  The audience was silent around me, disturbingly so, everybody’s focus on the dirt oval beneath us, at a space bordered by twenty foot walls, on a ramp that opened to the ground once those large gates were fully open.

  My eyes scraped down the aged wood, over large, heavy black hinges and down farther to see one man standing at the entrance of the ring, his back to me, his shoulders broad beneath a black suit.

  Before him, two men approached, their bodies stripped from the shadows as they stepped into the glow of light.

  My eyes went to Callan first, heat blooming in my chest to recognize the set of his broad shoulders, the bulk of his arms, a set of abs that ran to his waist with so many bright ridges and shadowed valleys that I melted every time I saw his body.

  He stood with his legs shoulder width apart, his expression blank, black hair gleaming beneath the lights above. Both his hands were taped in green, his body covered only in a pair of black athletic shorts.

  Beside him, another man stood. He had the same build, if not bulkier. He wasn’t as sculpted as Callan, his waistline thicker and less defined. He radiated the promise of absolute violence. I recognized him as one of the men who’d visited the arena that day with Antonio. He looked like a fucking psychopath. A smile stretched his lips as if he couldn’t wait for bloodshed.

  They stopped in front of the third man, facing him.

  The suited man must have been mic’d, his voice a booming sound across the audience.

  “Do you both understand that this fight is to the death? One winner. One loser. Once you step inside and the gates close, there is no turning back.”

  I understood then that the ring was hidden in the sham facade of a warehouse because it wasn’t legal. My family’s money was dipped in blood, just like Callan had told me. It made me sick to think about it, horrified to wonder how many people had died so that I could sleep on silk sheets and live a life wanting nothing.

  Wasn’t their life as valuable as mine?

  Callan and his opponent nodded their head in unison, the suited man nodding back before stepping aside to let them into the ring.

  Around me, the audience began shouting, their feet stomping the floors, demanding blood.

  So engrossed in watching Callan, I’d forgotten there were people watching me. When a hand landed on my shoulder, I jumped again, my heart lodging uncomfortably in my throat.

  I spun in place to find Connor at my back.

  “You’re supposed to be serving drinks,” he reminded me, but despite his blank expression and aggressive presence, his words were lined with amusement.

  Shaking my head, I opened my mouth to respond, but the audience screamed louder, and my head shot around to see Callan facing his opponent in the center of the ring, their bodies set and prepared for battle.

  Connor’s chest brushed my back, his voice soft against my ear.

  “Are you worried for him?”

  Movement caught my eye, and I glanced over to see the large gates swinging closed. They slammed together with a bang of finality. One man had to die for them to open again.

  Nodding my head to answer the question, I swallowed and felt a bead of nervous sweat slip down my throat.

  “The guy fighting
him is a punk,” Connor laughed. “Callan wouldn’t even break a sweat if he didn’t have to pretend the fight was fair to put on a good show.”

  He touched my chin and turned my head in the direction of a private box set on the opposite side of the ring that I hadn’t noticed. Inside were Franklin, Antonio and Jacob.

  While Antonio paced with a nervous strut, Franklin and Jacob stood still with their arms crossed, their eyes trained on the men below.

  “They’re not worried. You can tell by how still they are. Moritze knows his man is as good as dead. Callan is not the man to fuck with.”

  A roar erupted through the audience, and my eyes snapped down to the fight.

  Mortize’s man had thrown the first punch without a bell or any other indication the fight had started. Callan dodged the blow with an arrogant smirk stretching his lips. He reset his feet and waved his hands between them daring his opponent to step forward.

  I knew that expression on Callan’s face intimately. He wore it every time he tortured me.

  Connor stayed at my back the entire time the men fought, my own private play by play as he explained what Callan was doing to drag things out for show, how he was allowing his opponent to continue being the aggressor in order to wear him out.

  The man didn’t land a single punch, but when Callan’s arm flew out for the first time, a sickening crunch underscored the roar of the crowd, blood flying from the man’s face as his head snapped around.

  He stumbled back a few steps before Connor laughed and said, “You see? Callan’s toying with him.”

  It was oddly comforting to have Connor explaining the fight to me, even if my stomach was still churning with terror.

  But with that terror was burning heat.

  Callan was the epitome of masculine temptation, his aggression calling to me, his body a machine that my eyes couldn’t stop admiring. He was liquid again when he fought, a force of nature, brutal and focused, just as violent as he could be when running his tongue between my legs or dragging his teeth along my shoulder. Except in this arena, he promised agony instead of pleasure.

  Another few punches and Callan’s opponent was unbalanced and staggering, the fight drawn out by Callan dodging any return blows, the two men circling each other like predators.