Wishing Well

by Lily White

  “And I’ll keep doing it until you let me have her. I won’t kill her.” His voice lowered in volume as if he were speaking to himself and not me. “I won’t.”

  Lifting his green eyes to mine, he argued, “The others were an accident.”

  My heart squeezed at the sorrow of his tone. Maurice never could control himself. It wasn’t his fault those accidents happened. For as intelligent as he was with formal education, he was terrible when it came to emotion or social norms. It’s why we had to keep him locked up like an animal. He didn’t know any better. “I know,” I answered. “Which is why you have to trust me that Penelope is the wrong woman for you.”

  What I didn’t tell him was that a large part of my refusal was the fact that I wanted Penelope for myself. I could never reveal that particular truth. It would drive him to violence.

  It broke my heart to see his expression fall, to see the shame Maurice felt. Regardless of how difficult a problem he had been in my life, I truly loved my brother.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered, moving across the room to take a seat next to him. He trained his eyes on the elevator doors, refusing to meet mine. Filling the silence, I offered, “I can find someone else. You just need to give me a few days. The annual masquerade ball is tomorrow and it’s taking up most of my time, but after it’s over, I’ll find you another woman. Okay?”

  “D’accord ,” he answered, switching back to our native language.

  With pure truth in my heart, I said, “Je t’aime, mon frere.”

  He nodded his head, still refusing to meet my gaze, and also refusing to tell me he loved me back.

  . . .

  The night passed uneventfully, my thoughts trapped by a certain brunette that had made herself as scarce as I had over the past few days. Like a rabbit avoiding a hungry wolf, she’d scattered each time she caught a glimpse of me inside the hotel, my desire deepening because it was the frightened ones that drew my notice, the shy women that would fully bloom beneath the direction of a skilled hand. I knew in my heart that by the time I was finished with Penelope Graham, her body would sing and she’d lose her inhibitions to become exactly what any sensual man would want in a slave.

  The ball had already started on the first floor by the time I dragged myself away from my piano to dress in my tuxedo and mask to make an appearance among the wealthy crowd that could afford the cost of entrance. I had no intentions of staying at the ball for long, but looked forward to the time I could remain incognito watching a woman find her way within an event unlike anything I assumed she’d experienced before. From what I knew of Penelope, from the behavior I’d seen, she was not raised among the privileged and elite; she’d gone from humble beginnings to the streets. Observing her when she didn’t know which man was me would be a pleasure because she wouldn’t tuck tail and run away.

  The only question was: Would she wear red, or would she wear green? I wasn’t worried that she’d choose the wrong color. Her behavior over the last few days had been telling.

  Tugging my black jacket into place over my black shirt and black bow tie, I settled my mask over my face, tying my hair back at the nape of my neck to keep it carefully out of place. The ends brushed my collar and I considered trimming the length as I left my suite and made my way to the elevator, admiring my reflection in the polished bronze doors as I was taken to the lobby and to the ball.

  Music reached out to whisper against my ears and draw me in its direction, the sound growing louder with each step I took toward the large ballroom. I didn’t see Penelope immediately once joining the party, but after circling the event a few times to make sure everything was moving along as expected, I spotted her within a small crowd to the right of the dance floor, a broad smile stretching her beautiful face.

  My breath caught in my chest to see the color dress she’d chosen, my body rigid and tense to know that tonight would be my first taste. I couldn’t wait to strip the dress from her perfect body, could barely contain the urge I had to bend her over and spank her perfect ass until all the rebellion had deserted her mind. She’d calmed down some since I first brought her to Wishing Well, but there was still that streak of defiance and disobedience I knew she carried inside.

  But first, I would watch her, I would study her and observe her to see if she blended well within a crowd of people who were nothing like her. I would see how often she glanced about attempting to find me. And then, after the show was done, the dancing over, the night winding down as the guests continued to drink champagne, I would lead Penelope to her room on the fifth floor and show her what to expect from a man with my tastes.

  Two hours wasn’t too long a time to wait.

  Taking a woman by the hand, I invited her to dance, and as I led her through each spin and dip, I kept Penelope within my peripheral vision, enjoying how she sipped from her champagne flute watching the event. I was wrong to think her humble beginnings would keep her from blending in ... it was her striking beauty that drew every man’s eye that accomplished her inability to go unnoticed. Let them look, let their eyes take their fill. Penelope would be guided by my hand tonight.

  The music in the ballroom grew silent as the lights of the chandelier dimmed. Professional dancers dressed in their finest costumes took their place on the floor as the crowd parted to give them adequate space. After this show, after allowing Penelope to watch a dance that would awaken the desire inside her, I planned to lead her from the ballroom up to her room and show her how pleasure could mix with pain.

  Standing back, I watched the dancers move into place, I felt my heart kick beneath my ribs, felt the music flow through me as the lighting in the room shifted to focus on the dance routine. Their bodies moved in a perfect beat, their costumes provocative and appealing, but by the time they ended their coordinated moves, Penelope was nowhere to be seen.

  Glancing around, I wondered where my beautiful girl had run off to, thought that perhaps she’d gone to use the restroom or to find another drink. When she didn’t return for another half hour, suspicion gripped my thoughts. Had she gone to her room alone? Had I spent too much time enjoying watching her when she didn’t know it was me?

  I needed to find her. Needed to tell her that she wasn’t a mistake at all, but a sadistic man’s dream.

  Leaving the ballroom, I walked the halls to the restrooms, and not finding her, I took an elevator to the fifth floor. Rage tore through me, blinding anger, as I turned a corner.

  Tuxedo in place, mask in hand, a man walked down the hallway from the direction of Penelope’s room - a man that should never have left his cage. Beneath the burning heat of my fury, ran a cold line of fear.

  “Maurice,” I said, my voice soft, my mind unwilling to believe I was watching my brother walking around without me there to control him. My heart stumbled, skipped, images flashing through my head of broken women and the blood that spilled. “Is she?” I couldn’t finish the question, my terror too intense.

  “I didn’t kill her,” he said, approaching me, his green eyes locking to mine, his broad shoulders rolled back, his demeanor triumphant, daring me to say something.

  “How did you get out of the basement?”

  I was so shocked by his appearance, I could barely formulate a logical thought. Concern trickled down my spine followed by disappointment. Had he killed Penelope and lied to me just now? Had he torn apart a beautiful girl that was showing so much potential?

  “Same way you get in,” he answered, a challenge in his grin. “I also didn’t kill the man you sent with my dinner. But he has been bound for an hour by now. I had to make sure he didn’t come running to tell you I’d escaped my prison.”

  “We need to get downstairs, Maurice. Before anybody sees you.”

  There was no strength to my voice, my shoulders withering with the weight of my anxiety, my fear that Penelope Graham breathed no longer.

  As if intuiting my thoughts, he repeated, “I didn’t kill her.”

  I blinked slowly and swallowed down the knot cloggin
g my throat. “Did she behave for you? Was she scared?”

  Anger flashed behind his eyes, shame, satisfaction and something else. “She called me Vincent. I didn’t like that. But it was my cock she came on, wasn’t it? My tongue, my words, my hands, my teeth.”

  Grin stretching wider with the knowledge of having beat me to her, he moved past me toward the elevator, not fighting to remain free of his cage.

  I turned and watched my brother stalk off, and I realized as he moved smoothly down the long hall that this was the first time I’d ever seen him so calm.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I spent two weeks avoiding Penelope after the night of the ball, two weeks avoiding Maurice, two weeks staying away from Wishing Well as much as possible so that I wouldn’t have to face what had occurred. The morning after the ball, I’d checked in with Theresa to ensure Penelope showed up to work, and after discovering she was alive and well, I’d taken off to stay at one of my other properties, avoiding everything but emails from work.

  Taking my anger out on women in bed had done nothing to soothe my rage, and no matter how I busied myself, how I gorged on food, on alcohol, on sex and on entertainment, I couldn’t shake Penelope from my thoughts.

  That night was supposed to be mine. The first taste of her should have been by my mouth and not my brother’s, yet Maurice had proven to me that his prison wasn’t as secure as I’d always thought it was.

  Why that night? Why her? Why hadn’t Maurice broken free before that moment and alerted me to his ability to escape? It was my own arrogance that I’d locked him down sufficiently that led to a night where he gnashed his teeth and broke free of his chains.

  I’d wanted to give him as much freedom as possible by having the basement of Wishing Well modified for his use, and in doing so, I’d put lives at risk. I’d put my business at risk. And I’d put my own welfare at risk.

  After three weeks, however, I couldn’t stand being away any longer, and from what I’d been told by my hotel manager, Maurice hadn’t again attempted escape. I wondered about his sudden good behavior after discovering there were ways to breach his cage.

  Returning to the hotel, I’d worked for most of the day before deciding to take a walk through the garden. While wandering down the path, I wasn’t surprised to find Penelope standing over the well, her hand opening to drop a penny to the bottom, the copper coin flashing in the afternoon sunlight as it fell from her palm. Unable to resist the siren’s song, I stepped up behind her silently, leaning down so I could whisper against her ear, “If you could wish for anything in the world, Penelope, what would you wish for?”

  Tears slipped down her cheeks. She reached up to swipe the tears away, but I caught her wrist with one hand while using a fingertip of the other to catch the tear for myself. “Why are you crying?”

  Penelope sniffled, the sound wrecking the silence. “No reason,” she answered, her voice curt, defensive. “Just had a bad day, is all. It’s nothing important.”

  Attempting to step away from me, she gasped when I refused to release her wrist, snatched her close and spun her to face me. I knew why she was crying. I knew it had to do with me. But I wanted to hear the words fall from her lips. Despite everything, I was still a cruel, greedy bastard.

  “Tell me why you’re crying.”

  “Why do you care?” she hissed, wanting to scream but keeping her voice quiet so as not to disturb the other people who were wandering down the paths. More tears spilled over cheeks that were stained pink, and like the first time I’d given her a tour of the gardens, I dragged her away from the well and into the private alcove.

  I wouldn’t lie and claim her anger didn’t turn me on, it was just another example of the rebellious nature she harbored inside her beautiful body.

  “Why wouldn’t I care?” I asked, my hand still wrapped firmly over her wrist. When she scowled up at me, I had to fight not to spin her around and bend her over my knee. Three weeks hadn’t been enough to rid the obsession I had for her. If anything, it had only dug the obsession deeper.

  What had she been like when Maurice deceived her? What had he taken that was mine?

  After several failed attempts to yank her arm free, Penelope gave in, gave up, practically withered beneath the understanding that she was battling a far stronger opponent. I admired her for the fight, and wanted her for the ability to acquiesce and submit. “You used me,” she finally admitted, a rough edge to every word doused with sorrow, anger, and insecurity. So confused as to my behavior, she was lost, and I wouldn’t be the one to chase away the shadows that held her - not yet. Not until I knew exactly what had occurred the night of the ball.

  “I never promised you anything. Only a mistake, only one night.”

  Tears slipped from her face to fall to the ground, watering the grass, drenching the soil, her pain nourishing the life of the earth beneath us. Much as it nourished me. “I know, and that’s why I should go before I say or do something that gets me fired. I need this job.”

  “What were you wishing for when I found you just now? What did the coin you dropped represent?”

  “What does it matter?” She asked, her voice broken, defeated.

  “It matters to me. Perhaps I can help you achieve whatever is you desire.”

  Flinching at the words, she shook her head. “No. I won’t go through that again. I won’t.” Finally succeeding in pulling her wrist from my grasp, she crossed her arms over her chest, her walls resurrecting. And with an honesty that dragged breath from my lungs, she locked her glistening brown eyes to mine, the gold flecks brilliant in small streams of light. “You made my body sing. I won’t deny that. But then to walk away without a word? Without a thank you or a goodbye - with nothing! I can’t, I won’t, I-“

  Catching her chin with my fingers, I stilled her head, moving closer as her eyes widened, her nostrils flaring just slightly from fear, from need, from uncertainty.

  My voice was a bare whisper as my lips hovered a teasing inch above hers. “Did I kiss you that night? Do you remember?”

  “No,” she answered, the one word drawing more anger, slicing deeper into her heart.

  At least this first, this taste, will be mine. For what my brother stole from me, he didn’t take this...

  Softly, I pressed my mouth to hers, stood unmoving, undemanding, as a shudder coursed through her body, the tremble easing as she relaxed into the kiss, a pitiful sigh escaping her lungs for me to swallow.

  Maurice may have stolen this angel’s body, but her soul belonged to me.

  Myths. Legends. Fairytales. They all betray the truth about a person’s lips, that their kiss is the means by which life can be given or taken away. It’s never in the physical act of dominance and decimation, it’s in the submission to whim, the simple caress of one mouth against another, the slide of a tongue, the passion that ignites when two people share that single moment of pure bliss.

  Even a whore will spread her legs for whatever a customer offers, but she won’t give her mouth to him, only because a person’s secrets, their hopes, their dreams, their heart can be found in a kiss.

  I’d taken that from Penelope as she pressed her body to mine, as her lips parted to grant me entrance, as my fist tightened within her hair and I delivered the promise of pain. She trembled again, but not from fear, and that’s when I knew she was mine.

  I could forgive Maurice for what he’d stolen because, in truth, Penelope’s heart was still firmly held within my hands.

  Breaking away, I left her breathless, I watched as her eyes fluttered opened, noticed the hint of pink that colored her skin, the distance she’d placed between us now gone.

  “I want you to come to my suite tonight.” My voice was huskier than I liked, the truth of my feelings coming out in the rough texture, the loss of fluidity in speech.

  “Okay,” was her simple answer, her eyes closing again, her lips slightly parted, inviting me to taste again. I grinned, always amused by this puzzling beauty.

  “Ten o’clo
ck. I have work to accomplish beforehand. The entire sixth floor is mine. The elevator takes you directly to my door.”

  Stepping away, I stopped, turning just enough to glance at her from over my shoulder. She stood entranced, slightly drunk, bewitched. “You never told me what you wished for.”

  Heat colored her cheeks, a sheepish expression changing her face. “I wished for happiness.”

  Penelope was a horrible liar. My lips curled at the corners. “Is that all?”

  A few seconds passed before she released a heavy breath. “I wished for love.”

  Inclining my head, I flashed her one last smile before walking away. I wished I could be going somewhere peaceful, somewhere quiet where I could enjoy the moment I’d shared with a woman that had expertly trapped my thoughts. But instead, I was in route to the basement to face Maurice for the first time since the night of the ball. I already knew what he would demand from me, and after my time with Penelope in the garden, I already knew how I would answer. This meeting would not be pleasant.

  Not at all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Faiville Prison, 10:37 am

  “You look tired.”

  Meadow sat back in her chair, her intent to seduce Vincent choked out by her vehemence and anger. Losing the battle she’d intended to wage against a man used to the emotional fray, she did something he wouldn’t expect: She answered him honestly.

  “I am tired. But I’m also angry with you. I’m sad for Penny. I feel lost, which I assume is how she must have felt her entire time at your hotel.” Another question nagged at her mind, but it wasn’t one she would state aloud, not yet anyway.

  Vincent watched her carefully, his focused attention unsettling because Meadow knew he could see every emotion that battered her defenses. She’d wanted to win against him, to do what Penny could not, but even now she felt herself sinking beneath the surface of turbulent waves.