by Jaci Burton
Meg met strength with strength, her excitement mounting. She pushed harder into his unyielding body, greed swamping her, fraying at her control. Taking his lower lip between her teeth, she worried at it.
Six years. He’s only a man, he lied. How many? How many whores? Filthy . . .
Meg nipped hard and John’s lip split. She licked at the sweet taste of blood.
“Shit.” Despite the grip of her clawed fingers, John drew back, wiping a smear of red from his lip. “Slow down, sweetheart. Let’s make it last this time.” When he smoothed a curl behind her ear, Meg batted his hand away and he frowned.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Meg rubbed her eyes, her head buzzing. “I don’t really know why I did that.”
John smiled his slow serious smile and slung a heavy arm across her shoulders. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Come and show me this Bruised Orchid of yours. I haven’t had time to explore.” When he skated his palm down over her spine to pat her bottom, Meg laughed, her tension easing.
“It’s, um, very dramatic, isn’t it?” she said, gazing at the huge four-poster bed, the tall burnished doors that concealed an extraordinary range of whips, paddles, and cuffs. The richness was reflected in the mirrors lining the wall, as if there were a second pavilion, a secret space where fantasies were made manifest. The patina of rich dark wood was everywhere, polished to a high shine. Not a speck of dust. All was as it should be.
Fastened securely against the wall, a heavy wooden whipping cross gleamed magnificently, the light sparkling off dangling chains. Pressed so closely against John’s side, she felt the instinctive recoil ripple through him.
“It’s all right,” she said immediately.
John squeezed her waist. “I prefer the bed.”
Meg frowned. There were other Pavilions with magnificent beds, decadent bathrooms. The Bruised Orchid had never really appealed to her, so why had she chosen it?
“The bath’s through here.” She led him into the adjoining chamber.
“Impressive.” John gazed at the deep square tub, at its cunningly curved shelves and steps, his dark eyes bright with wicked speculation. “You could fit six in there.”
“I can arrange it, if that’s what you want.”
Had that been her voice, so mean and shrill?
“No.” John’s face hardened. “It is not what I want. Why would you think that, Meg?”
Meg’s belly turned a slow, uneasy somersault. What was wrong with her? “It was a stupid thing to say.” When she pulled in a deep breath, she thought she heard the corset creak, another stitch snap. “I apologize.” She ran her thumb over a seam. Yes, another half-inch. Perhaps she should loosen it a trifle. “I’m sorry.” She gave an uneasy laugh. “Again.”
Odd, she could have sworn the laces tightened, just a fraction.
Nine
“All I want is you.” John nuzzled her hair. “In that bed. I’m going to make you scream, Meggie.”
Scream? We’ll see who screams. Left, you left . . .
Meg felt shivery, her brain soupy, almost as if she were coming down with the ague, yet every now and then, a thought appeared out of the fog, honed sharp with purpose.
Now was not the time to succumb to weakness. Meg shook off the muzzy feeling and squared her shoulders, the boning of the corset enforcing perfect posture. Taking John’s hand, she led him back to the bedchamber without a word.
“Is it popular, this sort of thing?” He stopped beside the cross and looked it up and down, his mouth thin with distaste.
“Oh yes.” Meg’s lips drew back from her teeth. “We have clients who crave pain. And courtesans who specialize in the loving administration of it.”
John’s brows drew together.
“Feel the weight of the thing,” said Meg, and the background noise in her head began to boom and recede like a dark surf, timed to the beats of her heart. “It’s so solid I doubt even you could shift it.”
John raised a brow. “You think?” He slid his palm along one diagonal of the cross, right to the top.
Vain, so vain. Stupid man.
The surf was crashing in Meg’s head, so loud, she couldn’t think over the roar of it, could only feel, only do as impulse dictated. Swiftly, she stretched up and locked the waiting manacle around his wrist. The snick of the mechanism engaging sounded very loud.
“Meg?” said John, his brow creasing. “Meggie, what are you doing?” He fumbled at the shackle with his free hand. “Where’s the key?”
Her lips were numb. “Cupboard,” she whispered hoarsely. Sister, the words were difficult to say! “Get . . . I’ll get it.” She took three wobbly paces and flung open the doors.
Leather, black and red. Silver and steel, row upon serried row, gleaming in the light.
When she turned back, she had the metal-tipped quirt in her hand, the one from her vision in the mirror.
John glanced from her face to the whip and back again. When he lost color, something inside her howled with glee. Now you see, betrayer. Pay, ah Shaitan, you will pay!
“Meggie,” he said, very low, holding her eye. “What’s wrong?”
Abandoned, left. Not good enough. Too fat, too dull, too stupid.
Ruthless fingers poked at the wound in her soul, ripping at the scabs, making it bleed afresh. Oh, it hurt, hurt so much.
He didn’t care then. He doesn’t now.
“Are you listening to me? Meg, what’s the matter?”
“Everything. John, I—” The corset tightened, compressing her ribs unbearably. Meg gasped for air and the rush of blood behind her temples stabbed like knives.
“You haven’t forgiven me for leaving, is that it?” His face was grim. “I thought I’d made it clear. I had no say in the matter.”
“Yes, I have. Nngh!” Now her vision was hazing, a bestial roar filling her skull like a storm.
“No.” She raised the quirt. “No, I haven’t. I’ll never forgive you, never!” On the last word, the whip flashed down, riding on the scream of hate that ripped out of her throat. All her strength was behind the blow, but John twisted aside at the last moment and it caught him across the back of the thigh.
“Aaargh! Shit!” He clapped a hand over the welt and blood trickled from beneath his fingers. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Fury darkened his face.
Oh, he’s easy. It’s so good, so very good. Trapped like a fish on a line. More, do more.
Dropping to her knees, Meg clutched at her head, tugging viciously at her own hair. “No,” she rasped. “Sister, I must be mad.” She raised her eyes to John’s and saw absolute horror replace the rage. “Help . . . me.” The words emerged in a tortured whisper.
“Gods, your eyes are as black as the corset. Meg, what—?”
But she sprang to her feet, glorious in her wrath and her vengeance. A quick step sideways, and she was behind him. Insane strength poured through her in a dark stream. Still gripping the quirt in one fist, Meg grasped his vest in both hands and tore it from top to bottom.
John gave a startled grunt that turned to a shouted curse when she caught him fair across the shoulders with a cracking blow. The cross rattled against the wall, but it didn’t budge. More quickly than she could credit, he spun around, putting his back to the wood, his chest heaving. “Meg,” he said. And then more loudly, “Meggie! Stop this, it’s crazy.” He jerked at the manacle, his triceps rippling with power. “Shit! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Meg stood panting. In some far-off corner of her mind, she could hear herself, screaming, struggling, but waves of bloodlust swamped her mind, overriding her control. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, her hair streaming behind her, her lush, creamy curves magnificently showcased in black velvet, the gems glittering like opened arteries on her breast. Her face was set in a rictus of a grin, and yes, John was right, her eyes had gone utterly black, but they were tinged with ruby flames.
She looked like the goddess of death incarnate.
You ar
e. We are.
Look at him, taste his pain. Ah, he’s beautiful. Roll the agony around in your mouth, feel it deep inside, better than a hard cock.
Horribly, she was aroused, her sex swollen like a ripe fruit. Moisture trickled down the inside of her thigh. She could smell it, earthy and somehow feral.
Merciful Sister, no. No! Meg choked, a sour burn in her throat. But before she could think, could set herself to resist, power rose from the small of her back, where the corset laces pressed against her skin. It spiraled up her spine, a great roaring gout of it, driven by a cruel wind.
There was no room there for Margaret May Mackie, for John’s Meggie, only for blood and vengeance. Appalled, Meg watched her arm rise and the quirt whistle down, laying a stripe across John’s chest that went white, then filled with an angry pink. On the heels of the blow, he reached out with a warrior’s trained reflexes and grabbed her waist, pulling her almost off her feet, strong fingers digging into black velvet.
Almost immediately, he released her. “Fuck!” He shook his hand vigorously. “It burned me! Burned me.” He’d lost so much color, his lips were gray. His intent gaze fastened on her face. “Meg, take the fucking thing off. Now!” The last word was a barked command any soldier would have jumped to obey.
“Yes, yes!” At least, that’s what she meant to say. Instead, Meg felt her lip curl in a sneer. “Am I beautiful?” she demanded. She spread her legs, showing him the puffy folds between her thighs.
One arm still fastened over his head, John straightened, staring, his dark eyes very direct, every muscle tense. Gods, what a formidable man he’d become!
Betrayers come in all sizes. No man is faithful.
With a tremendous effort, Meg whispered, “My father . . .” Cool air kissed her flesh where the side seam opened another inch.
The corset was crushing her breasts against her ribs. It hurt. Not in his mind. A sewer, like all men. Want to see?
Holding her eye, John said, “You are not beautiful in that thing. It’s ugly. Take it off.”
The bloodstorm in Meg’s head went insane.
As if she’d been whipping strong men all her life, she waded in, the quirt rising and falling, the welts blooming across John’s chest, his ribs, his stomach. Tears streamed down her cheeks, yet her mouth snarled, her panting breath scented with hatred.
With a grunt, John swung around, exposing his ruined back to the lash. He set one knee against the center of the cross and gripped the manacle with both fists. The muscles in his massive shoulders swelled and bunched with power. Wood creaked and the quirt lashed down, drawing blood from scar tissue.
Sister, it was the bravest thing she’d ever seen! As if the vision had been conjured from the depths of the cold hells, she saw him shackled to an oar, his hair long and matted, his body bare save for a rough loincloth. A long lash snaked out, curling over his hunched shoulders in a vicious kiss, wielded by a slim, pouty-lipped youth in an embroidered satin jacket. John made no sound, though his jaw bunched with strain. He could have broken the boy over his knee.
Gods, it was the whipmaster!
A cold sweat popped on Meg’s brow, her stomach heaved and pitched. In the ensuing paroxysm, she managed to uncramp her fingers. The quirt fell with a small clatter and rolled closer to the bed.
Get it.
Meg shoved her hands into her armpits and hung on. “N-n—” she said through clenched teeth and another half a dozen stitches unraveled.
The silence inside her head lasted for no more than a heartbeat, though it seemed forever. On the periphery of her consciousness, she could hear John swearing, the chains rattling. Against her spine, the laces slithered, slick as sewersnakes. Then they tightened, a half-inch at a time, the beautiful black velvet ponderous as a giant crusher worm.
Get it. A vicious hiss.
Meg fell to her knees, writhing, her ribs cracking. Speech was beyond her. Rolling, she attempted to reach for the laces, but she couldn’t suck in enough air to move her arm, though her lungs labored. Sister, she was going to die!
With the last of her strength, she focused her failing vision on John. Blood ran down his arm from under the manacle, but he was ignoring it, his dark eyes burning into hers, full of horror and fury. “J-John,” she mouthed.
Pulling in a huge breath, he took a fresh grip on the cold metal. “I’m coming. Hold on.” The muscled shoulders that had pulled a heavy oar day after day for three long years took the strain. With a bellow that shook the walls, he gave a final desperate heave, the power of it coming as much from muscular buttocks and strong back as from his upper body. Wood and metal groaned and the manacle ripped free.
But he didn’t dive on her as she expected. Instead, he whirled away, out of her sight. Meg must have blacked out, because she roused to the feel of cold metal against her spine, the blessed sensation of the corset falling away.
Air returned to her lungs in a painful whoop, making her choke and splutter. Strong arms gathered her up as if she weighed less than nothing and she was pressed against a hard, warm, breathing surface. “Meggie? Look at me. Meggie!”
It took an extraordinary effort to force her eyes open. The moment she did, John blew out a long breath. “Thank the Brother.” He rose smoothly, Meg still cradled in his arms, and strode over to the bed. When he laid her down, she clutched at him with desperate fingers, but he drew away. “Wait a moment, love,” he said, in a voice as hard as winter iron. “There’s something I have to do.”
Her head swimming, she watched him scoop up a long dagger from the floor. Sliding the tip under the small patch of midnight velvet, he lifted it with a grimace of distaste and tossed it into the fireplace. The pale, bumpy ridges on his back were crisscrossed with fresh welts and smeared with blood. One forearm was dappled with it. Meg squeezed her eyes shut in an agony of remorse. Oh gods, what had she done?
By the time she’d found the courage to open them again, he’d got a fire going. As she watched, the first hungry flame nibbled the edge of the corset and a flare of green phosphorescence shot up with an angry hiss. Then another and another.
John gave a grunt of satisfaction and padded back to the bed. He stood looking down at her, his face unreadable. A warrior’s face. “Where did you get it?”
Meg struggled to her elbows. “Sorry, John, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why . . . how I . . .” Tears overtook her.
“I do. Where did you get it, Meg?”
She raised a hand, only to let it fall. No wonder he didn’t want to touch her. “It was Shalla-Mae’s. I . . .” A guilty flush bloomed on her cheeks. “Took it.”
John ignored the last part. His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean was?”
Meg abandoned her pride. “John. Please.” She held out her arms.
His face contorted. Taking her hand, he dropped to his knees beside the bed and pressed her palm to his cheek. “Sweetheart, I’m all over blood. Look what I’ve done already.” He nodded at her nude body.
Startled, Meg glanced down. A long red smear marred the curve of one breast, another lay across the pale swell of her belly, just above the dark gold of her pubic curls.
“Godsdammit, what does it matter?” Tears choked her voice. “You saved my life. Even after I—” She couldn’t go on. Instead, she reared up and brushed her lips across his tanned chest, in the space between two slashes.
His fingers moved in her hair. “I don’t think it was you, Meggie. Tell me about this Shalla person.”
“Yes.” She dashed the tears away. “But in the bath.” Cautiously, she straightened. “We should clean those welts, get some healall on them.”
John glanced at the fire, still burning a high, vicious green. “Should be safe enough. Can you stand?”
“Of course.” Meg swung her feet to the floor and rose. Automatically, she moved close, slipping her arm around his waist before she remembered. Flushing, she pulled away.
John didn’t flinch. He leaned down to plant a gentle kiss on her cheek. “I’ll be fine, Meggie. T
he Brother knows, I’ve had far worse.”
“But not at my hand.” She glanced up at his face, but all she could think of was his poor back, the old scars and the new. Her guts turned over. Gods, the new scars she alone was responsible for! “Let me get the key for those cuffs and then I’ll make it better, I promise.”
“Look at me, sweetheart.” When she managed it at last, he touched her hair. “Then you can make it better.” One corner of his mouth quirked. “Will you kiss it for me?”
Sweet Sister, how she’d missed that expression! Her heart ached.
“Oh, yes.” Tugging on his hand, Meg started for the bath chamber, averting her eyes from the fireplace. “Wherever. Whenever.”
The bath water steamed, a pale yellowish green. No wonder. Meg had poured three full vials of healall into it, turning a deaf ear to his protests. The welts stung like a bitch in the warm water, but they were nothing really, not even the ones across his back.
It wasn’t the injuries that worried him, but how they’d come about. Suppressing a shiver, John leaned back cautiously into the concave shape at the end of the tub, drawing Meggie between his open legs. Deeply troubled, he nuzzled her hair, trickling water over those luscious tits with his cupped palm, watching the soft pink nipples bead up and turn dusky.
He blew out a long breath. “Tell me about Shalla-Mae,” he said.
He’d always loved the sound of Meggie’s voice, low and pleasing, with the slight burr of the familiar Cressy accent. It had deepened as she’d matured. But as she spoke, his guts contracted with horror, bit by bit, until a cold lump lay hard and heavy in the pit of his belly. Gods, enough hate and despair for a murder and a suicide. From out of nowhere.
Magick. Shit. Black Magick.
He must have let the words slip out, because Meg twisted in his arms to stare into his face. “What do you know of Magick, John? Black or otherwise?”
“The Trinitarians have wizards they call diablomen—demon masters. They trap demons and constrain them to their will.” He shrugged. “Supposedly.”
“And?” Her soft blue-gray gaze was shrewd.
“I’ve seen them fight, Meggie.” He swallowed, remembering thunder rolling across a deck, small lightnings arcing from within bilious green clouds. Throttled screams of horror, cut short by the crack of breaking bones. And chewing.
