How many times in my life have I heeded to those instructions?
'Close your eyes, Violet.'
'Eyes closed, Mercury.'
'No peeking.'
'Look away, Mercury.'
'Don't look.'
'Keep those pretty blue eyes shut tight.'
No matter who asked, I obeyed. I turned away from the world before me and receded into the shadows plaguing my mind. And every time, I braced myself for the pain I knew was coming—the pain I was expected to pretend didn't exist.
“Just trust me.”
My Keeper, unlike all the others, somehow has a way of calming me with as little as a sentence, a touch, a look, and because of that, I close my eyes, bracing for pain.
Pain that never comes.
I suck in a breath when his hands plunge into my hair, trailing over my scalp, gently pulling apart curls with his fingers. The rhythmic side-to-side shift tells me he's braiding it, flushing Layla's hard word down the drain strand by strand, but I couldn't care less. His touch, combined with our quiet breathing, lulls me into a state of relaxation so fierce I melt against him, my back pressed to his stomach, head lolled forward.
“It's not perfect, but it works.” He moves the braid aside, letting it trail over my shoulder. “What about this?” He taps the gauze covering my neck. “Covered or uncovered?”
I know it looks ghastly, but I don't care. I shouldn't care. I'm a Blacklighter and damn proud of it. No way in hell is my brand being covered up like a dirty secret.
“Uncovered.”
“Alrighty.” Fresh air hits my tender skin as the bandage is slowly stripped away. Kessler hums, so close to my ear I can feel the vibrations rumbling in his throat. “Doesn't look too bad, all things considered.”
“I don't care how it looks.”
Kessler sighs. “I know you don't.”
After covering my neck in a thin sheen of ointment, he turns me around, grips me under the arms, and props me up on the counter like I weigh nothing.
I keep my eyes closed as the faucet sputters to life, and seconds later, the warm touch of a wet washrag drags over my face. It dabs at my lips, my eyes, my cheeks, and softly scrubs other areas until I feel like my skin can breathe again.
“Much better,” Kessler says softly. “Just...one last thing.”
I fail to stifle a surprised yelp when fingers dip into my bra. Kessler's skin is hot against mine as he maneuvers around the swell of my breasts, cupping first one and then the other, removing whatever Layla inserted. His touch is methodical, clinical even, and although I know what he's doing serves a purpose, my nipples tighten painfully when met with the calloused skin of his palm. They beg to be touched as I swallow hard, lashes fluttering, thighs clenching together as I try to focus on something other than the fact that I want him to strip me down and close his mouth over my nipples and suck until I forget my name.
“You're not making this any easier,” he laughs, bumping his stomach into my knees. “Open up.”
My legs spread apart so fast it's embarrassing. He steps in close, still working on adjusting the elastic of my top until it sits just right. Unable to escape the rough denim of his jeans rubbing against the thin spandex of my shorts, I release a small whimper of pleasure when he shifts just right, and immediately shake my head, digging fingers into the edge of the countertop.
I have to say something. Do something. Anything to drag my mind away from the surge of need pulsing through me, demanding I arch my back and grind against him. Already, I feel my wetness soaking through the black material of my shorts, and I know this has to stop.
Not here.
Not now.
Okay, maybe here, but definitely not right now. Not tonight.
I wrack my brain, searching for a question. Literally any question.
“What did Blair want?” I blurt.
For a moment, Kessler stills, and that's all it takes to extinguish the heat that's been building within me. Anyone else would dismiss his moment of hesitation or ignore it entirely, but not me. I know I've asked a question he doesn't want to answer.
After readjusting the straps of my top, he speaks. “Just wanted to talk.”
“About what?”
“The fight.”
“And?”
Kessler sighs. “And nothing. I'm to escort you to the cage like the good little Keeper I am and then stand back and look pretty while you do all the hard work.” A low rumbled laugh accompanies the lie, so I play along by laughing too. Whatever he's keeping from me has something to do with Blair, and as much as that burns me, I can't question it. She's just as much Kessler's Madam as she is mine. If she instructed him to keep me in the dark, so be it. I can't push. Her word is law. If Kessler could tell me the truth, he would. If there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that.
“You can open your eyes now.”
I open my eyes but refuse to immediately look his way. Hopping off the sink without giving him my attention is harder than it should be, but when I finally do manage to plant my feet on the ground without reaching for him, I turn around and face the mirror.
This time when I smile, it's sincere. The feeling of my lips pulling apart is still a tad bit foreign, but it's anything but forced. Kessler has braided all my hair together and now there's only one rope to grab, as opposed to the hundred different curls there were before. My eyes are still rimmed in black but it's subtle. The foundation has been lightened as well, showcasing hints of my pale complexion and scarred skin without making them my defining features. And the red lipstick? Completely gone.
“Better?” Kessler asks with a smirk. I nod happily, to which he winks, pecks a quick kiss to the top of my hair, and backs away. “Give me five and I'll be ready to go.”
The easy way in which my Keeper shows affection worries me. Not because I don't like it, and not because I don't understand it—there's a lot about male/female interaction I don't understand—and I'm well aware he's been forcefully locked away and denied human contact for so long he thirsts for it now. That's all beside the point. I'm happy to participate in this give and take of emotional baubles; I just don't know what it means. I don't know where it comes from or what I'm supposed to do with it. Do I enjoy it? Yes. Do I want it to stop? Absolutely not. Will I eventually reach a point where I'm reliant on what he gives me—all the touches and words I've been surviving without for so long?
That's the million dollar question, isn't it?
Tonight isn't the time to search for answers, however, since there's too much at stake for my head to be anywhere else. I brush away the worry and insecurity Kessler has managed to drag up from the depths of my dark, murky soul, choosing instead to prop myself up against the open bathroom door and watch from the shadows as Kessler strips.
Coiled muscles line his back, and somehow, without clothes on, he looks so much bigger. Stronger and more virile. Each shift of his arms sends a cascade of motion rippling out under his skin, forcing my eyes to follow. Twin dimples sit just atop his ass, and even though I've seen a lot of bare man asses in my life, none of them have compared to Kessler Lawson's.
I'm well aware how predatory and creepy that makes me seem, but so what? I am creepy. I am a predator. The only weird part of this scenario is that Kessler is far from prey. As one of the biggest men in the house, he should be the one stalking me, and maybe one day, he will. But for now, he's still living under the assumption that we operate much like the outside world—within the glowing ring of societal norms, but that's just not the case.
I think back on what it was like when Layla and Eric were first paired. Every time they walked down the hall together, there was a full foot of space between them. That space slowly vanished, until one day they were holding hands. A week later, he had his hand pressed to the small of her back. Now, years later, they have absolutely zero boundaries as to what they're willing to do to each other's bodies, both behind clothes doors and in public. Not even a month ago they were caught fucking in the elevator, but did they stop
once the doors opened? Nope. They finished. Because fuck societal norms.
Kessler pulls on a pair of jeans—sans underwear, which makes me smile—and a dark gray t-shirt. I continue appreciating his body from afar until he stops moving, and it takes me a full ten seconds to realize he's watching me all but drool like a dummy in the shadows. He doesn't say a word. He only smiles in that intense, all-knowing way of his as he shoves both feet into socks and boots and ties them without ever looking down.
Kessler crosses the room and stops at the foot of my bed to grab the bag Layla left behind.
“What's this?”
I shrug. “It's from Layla, so there's no telling.”
Kessler peeks inside, and that's all it takes for the room to fill with his laughter. Head tossed back, eyes closed, he cackles like whatever's inside that back is the funniest thing he's seen in all his damn life.
“What?” I ask, reaching to grab it. “What is it?”
He plucks a single bottle from the bag and holds it in front of my face so I can see the label. “Sensuous lube for his and her pleasure,” I read aloud. “Flavored. Exotic piña colada.”
I'm assuming I should either be embarrassed by the fact that Layla assumes we're having sex and need extra lubricant or I should find it just as funny as Kessler does, but neither of those things take root. I'm just confused.
“Why is that funny?”
The laughter dies away, but his smile remains. He takes hold of my chin and gently tilts back until I'm looking straight into dark eyes filled with mirth. “Because, Mercury, you're both incredibly sexy...and unbelievably dangerous, which leads me to believe you're a hazard to my health.”
“Okay...so?”
“So, I can think of about ten different ways I'd like to put this lube to use.” His smile grows to epic proportions as he searches my face, reading everything he needs to know in the flush of my cheeks. “But I'm allergic to coconut.”
Immediately, I burst into laughter. It's such a freeing feeling, such a trivial joke, but for this moment of weightlessness, I have Kessler to thank. Perhaps it's happiness I'm feeling. Maybe even joy. It could be a number of things, but I'm hesitant to put a name to it just yet. No matter what it is, I enjoy it. Immensely. And that's all that matters.
“I doubt that has actual coconut in it,” I point out, giving the bottle a shake before dropping it on the bed.
“That is true,” he says, pulling me against him. “But is that a risk you're willing to take?”
Our chests bump together and I grab two handfuls of his ass. Just because I can.
As far as his question goes, I'd like to say yes; that I'd take every risk laid in front of me if it meant I got to have my way with the owner of this magnificent body, this gentle soul, but something gives me pause. And the realization slams into me so fast I pull in a breath.
I'd risk a lot in regards to my own well-being, but there's not much in this life I'd risk when it came to Kessler. Because now that I have him, now that I've seen just how gentle my Keeper can be when I'm in his arms, how magnificent he tastes when he kisses me, how stupidly safe I feel within the confines of his arms...the answer is no. I wouldn't risk anything that stole him from me, no matter how small of a risk that may be.
“No. I wouldn't.”
Kessler pulls back, eyes assessing, and not only do I see affection shining down on me, I see guilt. There's no mistaking it. I see it every day on a dozen different people's faces, so I'm well acquainted with the emotion. Whatever my mother said, whatever she did, it's weighing on him, and somehow, my little admission made it worse.
The moment disintegrates around us, every pretty, pastel emotion fleeing until we're just two people standing chest-to-chest in a dark room. My Keeper jerks his chin toward the door when it's clear our moment of levity is truly dead.
“Let's go,” he says, waving a hand to the door. “You've got a fight to win.”
Blacklighters is crawling with locals by the time we enter through the back. It's crazy loud and the air is thick with cigarette smoke and the scent of stale perspiration. Apprehension tightens my shoulders, but excitement has the rest of my body zinging with energy.
A Blacklighter's first fight sets the tone for how the rest of her career will play out. I, more than anyone other Blacklighter, am expected to bring in enough digits to appease Blair. As the next Madam in line, there are certain expectations I have to meet, and if I can start off on the right foot, maybe that will be enough.
After carefully maneuvering between no less than a hundred flailing, dancing bodies, we find Layla and Eric hidden in a corner near the cage, tucked into one another, deep in conversation. As soon as she lays eyes on me, her shoulders fall. “What did you do to my masterpiece?” she demands, standing so she can take hold of my head.
She's hurt, just like I knew she would be, but before I can open my mouth to explain, Kessler beats me to it. “She didn't do anything.” His hands disappear into his pockets as he looks at me, gracing me with a barely-there hint of a flirtatious smile. “I did.”
Layla glances between the two of us, a knowing grin spreading across red lips. Anger momentarily forgotten, she nudges me in the side. “Guess I'm not the only one who grabbed a quickie. I hope you like pina coladas. Or, yanno, getting caught in the rain.”
I roll my eyes. Not only do I have no idea what the hell she's talking about, but I'm seconds away from dragging her out of the room and demanding she tell me everything there is to know about male seduction because, clearly, I'm fucking doing it wrong. She'd laugh if she knew just how wound up I am over Kessler, and how I've thrown myself at him twice now without ever getting what I want—what everyone apparently assumes I'm getting.
Before I can make a total ass out of myself, however, Harper and Jordan join us, along with the other Blacklighters and their Keepers. Layla makes quick, efficient introduction, swinging a pointed finger from person to person. “This is Kanji and April, the other Blacklighters, and their Keepers, Ty and Richard.” The man at my side nods at the women but glowers at the men.
“We've met,” he says evenly, speaking of Richard in particular.
I bow my head, grimacing. Yeah, they've met. In the hallway outside our room, right after I screamed like a banshee while Kessler's head was between my legs.
The other Keepers grin and I think they're about to say something crude, but the same time Richard opens his mouth, the lights overhead fade, signaling the start of the fight. My heart pounds wildly within my chest as a blinding spotlight shines down on where we're standing, and the announcer—a local radio DJ on our payroll—begins reading off a list of who's squaring off tonight.
“On tonight's roster, we have five of Farewell's finest ladies going up against the Blacklighters of Sneed, Arkansas.” The drunken crowd cheers. Most everyone here is a regular, so they know our Blacklighters well, me being the only exception. “April of Farewell is here tonight, and she's ready to prove to each and every one of you that big things come in small packages.”
He's got that right. April is tiny, barely five-foot tall, but her energy never wanes. Eric says as much as he leans into Kessler and jerks his chin toward April. “Lots of people put their money on April. She can run circles around the other fighters until they wear themselves out trying to grab her.”
April beams under his praise, but Layla interjects. “Yeah, and it sucks. Bitch is the Tasmanian Devil in miniature.”
There's no love lost between the two women. It's no secret April has the hots for Eric, but no one faults her for that, not even Layla, although she can be quite shitty about it at times.
Sometimes, a Blacklighter gets lucky and is paired with a Keeper who respects her and shifts everything in his life to ensure his world revolves around her—much like Eric did with Layla—but then there are times when a Blacklighter isn't so lucky.
Richard may stay glued to April's side, but they never touch, never speak. His eyes are always wandering. If another Blacklighter were to show even a
hint of interest, he'd abandon his loyal facade and turn a blind eye to every rule in the book just to get a crack at her. He may seem loyal, and you'd think that if push came to shove he'd place himself between his Blacklighter and whatever entity was trying to harm her, but you'd be wrong. He would step aside, watch, and smile.
That's what you get when you pair a beautiful mocha-skinned princess with a white supremacist. It's no wonder she looks at Eric like he hung the moon. She sees the way he treats his Blacklighter and is green with envy.
“April will be fighting...” the announcer pauses to pick a name from the large glass fishbowl at the bar, then yells, “...Trisha!”
The visiting crowd from Sneed claps, but they don't seem all that excited. Probably because, across the room, their own Blacklighters are cast in a similar light, and the woman pumping her fist in the air—Trisha, I'm assuming—is twitching and fidgeting like a puppy on crystal meth. She's out of her mind high, and although I'm sure that will help with her pain tolerance once April gets a few good hits in, it sure doesn't bode well for the strategy needed to stand a chance against a Farewell Blacklighter.
“We also have Harper, the Blonde Bombshell, going up against...Carly!”
Both fighters raise their hands in the air and let out war cries. They look fairly evenly matched, but there's a darkness in Carly's eyes that Harper doesn't have, and that worries me.
“As always, we have Layla, Farewell's favorite redhead, and she'll be rounding on...Kimberly!”
Layla doesn't showboat, but she does seek out her opponent in the crowd, and the only reaction she gives is a roll of her eyes. “Another redhead. Fun.”
“After her long-awaited return, we have Kanji, here to make her ancestors proud. She'll face off against...Diana!”
Kanji seems absolutely oblivious to the announcement as she holds perfectly still, staring at the floor as Ty secures a brace around her left knee—the one she broke last year.
“And last, but certainly not least, in her debut fight here at Blacklighters, we have the beautiful, the deadly, the elusive Monster of Farewell, Mercury Havenworth!”
The Monster of Farewell (Blacklighters Book 1) Page 18
