The Black Wolf

by J. A. Redmerski

  “Because they fight longer, and harder,” I tell her. “Their lifestyle toughens them up long before I get to them; they’re not afraid to fight back, they’re defiant, vulgar—they’re strong and I respect that. But most of all, training them is a challenge. I happen to like a challenge. And there is no challenge in training a girl too afraid to fight for her life and her freedom; nor is there any satisfaction in owning a girl who has already been trained. And is being a whore not a flaw in and of itself?”

  Francesca purses her lips thoughtfully.

  “Well aren’t you afraid one of them might slit your throat in the night?” Francesca sits down on the arm of the chair next to me; I can smell the faint scent of her shampoo she’s so close. “It’s women like you described who would be the most likely.”

  “I’m not afraid at all,” I tell her, looking up at her. “Not because I don’t think they’re capable, but because I don’t fear death.”

  “I would never hurt Niklas; I love him,” Izabel says, looking up briefly.

  Izzy, what happened to you keeping your mouth shut?

  Francesca smiles, regarding ‘Naomi’s’ innocence, but there’s nothing kind about that smile. I feel like she wants to kill Izabel, and her speaking up just then has little to do with why—she wants to kill her because she’s special, beautiful even with her butchered hair; she wants to kill her because I’m fond of her. But she won’t because Izabel isn’t hers to kill. A chill moves up my spine, and that never happens. It takes a helluva lot to set me on edge like I’ve suddenly become. This woman is insane, no doubt about it, she is as twisted as Seraphina Bragado was, maybe even more-so. What is she going to do? It’s what I keep asking myself. What the fuck is she gonna do? Because I know she’s going to do something. Before we leave this mansion, Francesca Moretti is going to unveil the monster that wears her skin.

  She stands up slowly, gracefully even.

  “So tell me,” she says with her back to me, “what particular kind of flawed whore are you looking to purchase?”

  She goes toward the massive desk, her movements like liquid over the floor.

  “Preferably hair the color of honey, maybe black hair—I haven’t decided. Twenty-one, twenty-two years of age”—I touch Izabel’s hair again—“same age range as my other girls. Oh, and I don’t expect even your cyprians to have many physical flaws, but if you have one with any scars or birthmarks, the more interested I’ll be in doing business with you.”

  “That’s quite a specific list,” she points out suspiciously. “I have to wonder if you’re not looking for a certain kind of girl, so much as a girl in particular who already has a name, who may have once been loved by someone who’s still looking for her.”

  Yes, that’s exactly what Olivia Bram is—you’re a smart woman, but not smarter than me.

  “When you order food at a restaurant,” I say with no expression, “don’t you expect it to look exactly as it does on the menu when they serve it to you?” I wave my hand at Izabel and Nora. “As with all of my girls, it’s just a preference.”

  She ponders my words for a moment. “You are a very interesting man, Niklas,” she says.

  The doors open to the right of us and in walks Emilio as sour-faced and distrusting of me as ever.

  “Your room is ready, Sister.” He looks only at me when speaking; cold, threatening…jealous? Hmm.

  “Good.” Francesca gestures at me with her hand. “Come with me,” she says.

  I stand and Izabel follows suit.

  Francesca stops, looks back and says, “Oh, and if you don’t mind, have your girl remain undressed. You can punish her in my room for her display in my great hall earlier.” She turns and proceeds toward Emilio waiting for her at the door.

  I look at Nora, still standing in the same spot, in the same obedient position all this time, and I smile even though she’s not looking at me.

  “Come, Aya,” I tell her, and she does exactly as I say.

  I’m gonna love the shit out of this.

  Niklas

  We take an elevator to the top floor, five floors up, and step out into a room unlike I’ve ever seen—because I’ve never been to a crazy narcissist’s house before. The entire floor that could hold a dozen large rooms is one massive space overlooking the four floors beneath it from a circular balcony in the center. Twelve great arched windows are positioned in the wall, bare of curtains, the glass filled up with the night sky; the wall rises up many feet seamlessly to form the ceiling shaped like a dome above us. More life-sized Greek and Roman statues stand tall on their marble and white stone bases. White. This woman loves the color white; everything is saturated in it: the walls and floor and even the furniture; the only colors that offset the blinding shit are the swirling grays in the white marble, and the black in the fringes on the sofa pillows, and the black and grays in the Italian rugs.

  At least twenty slaves stand waiting in various spots within the room, all dressed in sheer white cotton dresses with nothing on underneath; no shoes on their feet.

  As if the room wasn’t proof enough of how powerful and spoiled this woman is, there’s a throne, an actual throne sitting impressively at the far end of the room atop an enormous marble dais five steps high. The throne is even white, made of wood, with intricate carvings along the legs and arms, and plush white cushions on the seat and back, which is at least two feet taller than her head if she were sitting in it. Long sheer white pieces of expensive silk and lace fabric drape the throne: over both arms, across the seat, over the tall back, and flow out into the floor.

  Francesca leaves us and makes her way through the room as if she were a queen, moving effortlessly over the cool marble floor. Slave girls approach her immediately, knowing what to do; one takes the dress from her hand at the exact moment Francesca places it there, while two other girls slip a long white silk robe onto Francesca’s outstretched arms. Everything is precise and fluid, like a well-rehearsed ballet: the way the girls move around to Francesca’s front at the same time and enclose her naked body inside the fabric, to the way they step away from her at the same moment, bow their heads low and then turn to face each other as Francesca walks between them.

  Two girls await her at the throne, one on each side; the one on the left stands beside a silver tray that appears to hold all sorts of makeup and tools to apply the makeup; the one on the right stands with a comb in one hand and something in the other I’m assuming might be hair decorations of some sort—I’m surprised no one has come in and put a crown on the bitch’s head.

  Emilio walks past the three of us and goes toward his sister. I notice that although he does whatever she tells him to do, he’s not afraid—for the most part—to approach her when he wants, to speak to her freely when he wants, or to touch her when he wants. No one else would be able to do that. Francesca would probably kill them swiftly. Or, at least in the case of her sisters and her mother, they might just get the shit knocked out of them—they are Francesca’s blood after all.

  Emilio leans in and touches his lips to the edge of Francesca’s mouth, and as he pulls away slowly, his eyes move to look at me in a sidelong stare; a grin dances on his lips.

  “Please,” Francesca says, unfolding her hand toward me, “make yourself comfortable.” She gestures toward the furniture placed not far from the bottom step of the dais.

  Emilio descends the steps just as we make our way to the sofa, and the moment Emilio moves out of the way of his sister, the two slave girls who had been waiting on the left and right of her, get to work on her hair and makeup; another comes up and sprays perfume in her direction.

  I take a seat on the sofa; Izabel sits next to me; as always Nora sits at my feet on the floor next to my briefcase.

  “Emilio,” Francesca says, “bring Niklas my whip.”

  “Of course,” he says with a sly grin.

  I want to glance at Nora, see if she looks nervous, but I don’t. Besides, I know she’s not afraid of me—she let Fredrik torture her.

&
nbsp; Emilio moves somewhere on the other side of the vast room; I keep my eyes on Francesca.

  “I have a few cyprians for you in mind,” Francesca speaks up. “I will have someone bring them here soon for you to look at. But as they do not reside here in my mansion; it may be an hour or so before they arrive. I trust an hour isn’t too long to wait?” The girl putting on her makeup always pauses when Francesca speaks, and then starts back up again when she’s done.

  “I can wait two hours if I need to.”

  Emilio appears in front of me, leather whip dangling from his hand. With a crooked smile he holds it out to me.

  “Unless you’d like me to do the honors,” he suggests, glancing at Nora.

  I think on it. “You know what,” I say, “I’d like that very much. Be my guest.”

  They didn’t expect that; Francesca and Emilio lock eyes momentarily. Then Emilio turns his attention back to me and says, “Well if you insist,” and he reaches down and grabs a hold of Nora’s elbow, yanking her to her feet.

  “You would let another man punish your girls?” Francesca inquires suspiciously.

  “Sure, why not?” I answer indifferently, with the shrug of my shoulders. “I wouldn’t let another man touch Naomi, but Aya might benefit being whipped by someone other than me. It’ll make her envy Naomi more than she does already, and maybe she’ll work harder to earn the same respect. Besides, I came here to do business and I don’t really want to waste time dealing with other issues.”

  “Naomi, she’s still very…obedient for someone who isn’t a slave,” Francesca says.

  “Yes, she is.” I look at Izabel next to me. “Naomi is however she wants to be; just so happens she chooses to be what I adore most about her.”

  Izabel as Naomi smiles bashfully, her green eyes skirting mine.

  “And what do you adore most about her?” The more Francesca talks about Izabel the more I feel like she’s working her way toward something.

  Reaching out and cupping Izabel’s chin within my fingers, I turn her head to face me. “Her kindness,” I answer Francesca, looking into Izabel’s eyes. “There’s a dangerous fire inside this girl, but she covers it up with compassion and love—things I’m incapable of possessing—she’s greatly flawed; sometimes she acts too quickly, is too impatient for her own good; she speaks before thinking; and I admit sometimes she maddens me. But most of all, Naomi is very…human. And I admire that about her.” I stop long enough to give Izabel a thin grin that only she can see, and something flickers in her eyes. Then I shake it off, whatever the fuck that was, and look away from Izabel, dropping my hand from her face.

  “She’s still obedient to me, sure,” I tell Francesca, “but despite her obedience, she can still get herself into trouble with me sometimes.”

  “I want you to kiss her,” Francesca says, and it feels like a dare without being obvious.

  My heart stops beating all of a sudden.

  I turn to look at Francesca sitting up there on her throne; the slave girls working furiously on her hair and makeup. Francesca gazes down at me through gleaming eyes, growing darker as they’re painted in black and gray eyeshadows.

  Something as simple as a kiss shouldn’t be a reason for pause, much less question—I’ve already paused, so I know I can’t question it or Francesca will know I’m full of shit and that ‘Naomi’ is no more my girl than Claire is anymore. But kissing Izabel is anything but simple, and although I never expected to finish this mission without having to violate Izabel in some way, a kiss is the last thing I wanted. Of all the unspeakable things I could’ve been forced to do, kissing her is the worst. It’s too intimate of an act—fucking her senseless would’ve easier.

  I dip my head toward her and slowly touch my lips to hers; my hand carefully wrapped about the side of her neck. I want to squeeze it, like I would any common whore like Jackie who I can fuck my aggressions out on, but I can’t. I can’t and I don’t know why. Instead, I slip my tongue into her mouth and find hers. And I can’t take it; I feel my lips slowly crushing against mouth as we drink in each other’s breath. I want—need—to pull away, but I can’t do that either. I kiss her long and deep and hard until I feel like I’m running on the fringes of my emotions; they’re tearing away at me like hands in Hell reaching out for me as I leap over the flames, trying to pull me down with them into sin, and as hard as I try to get away, a part of me wants them to take me. I want to sin. I want to kiss her.

  And so I do.

  And I don’t stop.

  Izabel

  I…I can’t think straight.

  Niklas

  The searing crack! of the leather striking Nora’s back breaks the kiss, and when it does, Izabel is looking at me, unblinking, her moist lips parted slightly just as mine are, close enough I can still feel her breath on my mouth.

  “You’re a liar, Niklas Augustin.”

  My gaze breaks away from Izabel—thankfully—to find Francesca on her throne; I look up at her quizzically.

  Francesca smiles, knowing. Knowing something.

  My heart is in my throat—has our cover been blown somehow? I need my gun. Fuck! I need someone’s gun. Panic chokes me from the inside and I feel my eyes searching the vicinity for a weapon though without actually moving my eyes; but on the surface I’m as cool and confident as I ever was.

  “You told me you loved no one,” Francesca says and relief washes over me in a wave. She smiles, glancing at Izabel only briefly. “Your feelings for that one run deep—the kiss betrayed you.”

  I smirk at her. “Believe what you want,” I say casually, straightening the lapel of my suit jacket.

  “I believe you’re a good liar,” she points out, “but your ability to hide your feelings is atrocious.” Her smile stretches; her dark eyes sweep over me deviously, as if she’s picking me apart, trying to figure me out and knowing she’s doing a fine fucking job at it. Well she’s crazy—I don’t have feelings for Izabel; I’d rather…(I swallow hard and round my chin)…in Izzy’s words: I’d rather it burn when I piss.

  Another crack! zips through the air.

  I get up from the sofa.

  “Emilio,” I call out, approaching him from behind, “why don’t you let me show you how it’s done.” It was an insistence, not a question; I reach out my hand to him for the whip and he stares at me with a deadly combination of humiliation and rage. It was my plan all along, telling him he could punish Nora for me; I wanted another opportunity to show Emilio up in front of his sister. And it couldn’t have come at a better time: I need to reverse the weakness Francesca thinks she found in me—feelings for Izabel—and I need to get the hell away from Izabel. More importantly, the heavier I step on her brother’s toes, the less inclined she’ll be to listen to his opinions; and since Emilio is closest to her and the one who distrusts me the most, it’s vital I continuously prove I’m the alpha in the room.

  Nora stands facing the wall, her arms raised high above her head, her palms pressed flat against the white paint. Two angry stripes, red and swollen, lay across her back, the newest ones amid a myriad of old wounds and still-healing ones. Her long white-blond hair covers most of them. I take the whip from Emilio’s hand, ignoring the looks of hatred he’s shooting me with, and step behind Nora, the whip in my hand pressing between her naked thighs. I reach up with my free hand and move her hair away from her back, gently draping it over her right shoulder. “Remember that day,” I whisper against her ear from behind, my chest pressing against her back, “in that room surrounded by walls, just you and me and an old scar that you dug your fingernail under, twisting and moving, until the scar peeled away from the skin and blood ran down my chest?” I shove the whip upward between her legs so she can feel the rigid leather between her nether lips. Then in a voice that Emilio can actually hear, I say to Nora, “Answer me,” and then pull away from her ear.

  “Yes, Master, Aya remembers her mistake with the girl. Aya shouldn’t have humiliated you.”

  I step away from her. Farther. Far
ther. And then I crack the whip against Nora’s back. Again. And again. And again. Nora never moves, never makes a sound, and I have to wonder if beating her has affected her at all. I stop at five lashes because, like I said earlier, I’m here on business and don’t want to waste time with other issues.

  Placing the whip in Emilio’s hand as if he were like any other slave girl in the room, I approach Nora again, just like before, my mouth against her ear. “I should sell your ass to these crazy people—you’d fit right in,” I whisper so no one can hear but her. “I don’t know what my brother wants with you, or why he brought you into our Order—don’t fucking tell me it was Izzy’s decision, because I know that’s bullshit; even if she wanted you here I know you wouldn’t be here if my brother didn’t want you to be. I know him better than anyone.” Fitting my hand around the back of Nora’s neck, I squeeze with aggression, shoving the side of her face against the wall—she doesn’t flinch. “I may hate him for what he did to Claire, your sister, but he’s still my brother and I still watch his back.” I trace my tongue down the shell of her ear, move my hand from the back of her neck and to her throat, squeezing. “And nobody fucks my brother over but me. Nobody will have their vengeance on my brother for any wrong he’s ever done, but me.” I release her harshly.

  I have to wonder if that’s why Nora is really here—to get back at Victor for killing her sister. She could’ve killed him and even Izabel by now already, but who’s to say that’s her way? Revenge can be dealt in many forms; and the easiest, less satisfying way of exacting it is to just get it over quickly. Nora Kessler doesn’t strike me as the getting-it-over-quickly type.

  “Naomi,” I say, “bring Aya her dress.”

  Izabel gets up from the sofa with the dress in her hand, and as we pass each other moving in opposite directions we lock eyes briefly, accidentally, and then look away just as fast.