Bloom: A Dark Romance (The Order, 1)

by Nikki Rae

  “Not there, Dog,” he said, then pointed to a cage beneath the bed, not so much as a pillow inside.

  I blinked harder than necessary to clear my mind. I had to focus on what I’d been ordered to do. There would be time to formulate more of a plan later. Besides, they always got too comfortable in the fairytales they spun themselves. It was inevitable they slip up.

  I rummaged through the closet and dresser to find something to change into to find them both bare except for a flimsy lavender robe that looked eerily familiar to the one from the plane, only longer. This was a subtle move on his part. He knew I had been in these clothes for more than two days, that a bath would make me more relaxed and to remind me of where I was and who controlled each moment, he’d provided me with something I had so casually declined only a day before. I stamped down the voice that told me I would bathe and dress in the same clothes, that I could rip the robe to pieces just as easily as the fancy dress he had sent me. This battle wasn’t worth bloodshed. If I changed, he would continue his façade—even for a few minutes, a few hours—and he would treat me like a human being a little bit longer. It wasn’t much, especially because it was a blatant lie, but it was time, and time meant more than believing whatever he tried to feed me. It meant I could gather information, formulate a plan.

  I took the robe from its hanger and opened the remaining door in the room. It opened to a medium sized bathroom, which was eons bigger than any I had ever been afforded. The tub was freestanding with a showerhead attachment, all of it done in copper. The toilet was across from it, a sink beside that. Another enormous window overlooked the wilderness outside, and hanging plants hung from the ceiling. There were some of the same variety I had seen downstairs, green with large leaves and vines traveling along hooks that had most likely been installed for just that purpose. It made the room seem as if the greenery was growing from the walls, as if I was in a courtyard and not a glamorous prison. A few of the plants had flowers; pink and white ones that looked like upside down hearts and hung over the sides of their containers. I wondered why he had put so many in my own bathroom. Did he think it a nice gesture, or was it simply a good place to make things grow in the middle of a harsh winter?

  I fiddled with the knobs of the tub and plugged the drain, making the water as hot as I could possibly stand it. An assortment of bath and body products waited on an iron end table to the side of the tub. I opened and sniffed a few of them, deciding on one that was the least strong and smelled of clean sheets and lemon. I poured it into the tub and created bubbles before it filled and I stepped in, the heat bringing goose bumps to my skin, yet it was welcome. As I undressed I realized just how cold the rooms were.

  Sinking into the water, I allowed myself a moment of calm as I held my breath and dunked my head beneath the surface. Reaching over to the table, I found shampoo and conditioner and took my time lathering and rinsing them out of my hair. I stared at the ceiling, more of the exposed beams as downstairs, the plants in the sunlight of the morning, trying to convince myself I wasn’t screwed.

  Carefully drying my skin and hair, I slipped the robe on, left my clothes in a neat pile by the tub, spotted a wide-toothed comb, and untangled my mass of hair. I pulled the plug from the copper tub and watched as the water and bubbles disappeared in a clockwise whirl. Finally, when there was nothing else to do, I slowly opened the door. I was a little surprised to find that he wasn’t waiting there. The rebellious part of me wanted to explore. Take the time he thought I was in the bath and look at the other rooms upstairs, but it was a fleeting thought that left the moment the silk of the robe touched where my new tracker was. He would know, and I wasn’t even sure if it was worth it.

  Instead, I forced myself towards the stairs and then, step by step, down. I heard music coming down the hall and I was grateful it didn’t connect me in any way to the Compound. It sounded similar to Wagner, but I wasn’t sure if I had heard it before. I had never been a fan, but anything was welcome over something I’d heard at the Compound. I was here now, and I had to focus on that.

  He had his back to me as I entered the living space, sleeves rolled up to his forearms as he stacked wood by a recently lit fire. In my younger days, when I was stupid, I would have thought to take one of those logs when he wasn’t looking and hit him over the head with it—even better if he fell into the fire and was permanently disfigured the way I had been, the way I had made sure my last Owner had been. But doing that now would only anger him when he came to. It would trigger an alarm of some kind; the security cameras were no doubt wired so if such an occasion occurred, he could press a button and guards of all kinds would rush in, ready to beat a girl senseless or drug her or both.

  At any rate, Master Lyon turned when one of the floorboards under my bare feet moaned. “That’s better,” he said, stacking the remainder of the wood and dusting his hands off on his pants as if they were merely jeans and not the expensive trousers men like him wore.

  As he turned fully towards me, I stayed glued to the back of the room, the heat from my bath rapidly fading with each second. I realized when I looked at him that he had rolled his sleeves up further, and his right arm, starting at the elbow, was completely inked black. It was a blanket of the shade, concealing something I could only guess. I wondered how far up his arm it went and what he could possibly have to hide with such darkness.

  “Come dry your hair by the fire,” he said. “I’ll bring breakfast in here, where it’s warm.”

  He walked past me as if it had been a simple request, but it was anything but as I tried to head towards the sofas. Eventually, my feet carried me to the loveseat in front of the coffee table and directly in the line of the fire’s heat. He brought in a tray with two plates, glasses of orange juice and coffee on top, and set them down on the table.

  Master Lyon picked up a fork from the tray and I flinched without meaning to.

  “I'm not going to hit you with it.” He was amused again. I was a trained monkey to him.

  I kept my eyes on my hands in my lap as I felt him lean back in his seat; he was staring at me, trying to guess what I was thinking or what I would do next. I kept my eyes on my fingers, willing them not to shake.

  After several long minutes of silence, only the gentle music filling the space between us, he spoke. “You have questions.”

  My eyes traveled towards him without my permission. He had a slight smirk, like he knew what all of my questions were and I wanted to wipe it off of his face. “Yes, sir,” I said instead. I could play his game for a little while if it kept me safe. If it kept him from hurting me a little longer.

  “So do I.” He left another few moments of silence like I was supposed to say something, but I could think of nothing. “If you answer what I like to know, we can eat breakfast and you can ask me anything you like.”

  I blinked a few times, trying to figure out what his game was, why he was doing this and putting off what he really wanted. Before I could form a coherent reason, his hand was on my thigh, over the thick robe yet still somehow warm enough that I could feel it burning through the fabric. “Ma petite,” he said, “You aren't looking at me. What did I say about looking at me when you speak?”

  I hadn't realized my gaze was focused on his hand. I turned my attention to him, his deep brown eyes gleaming with some sort of satisfaction I couldn't place. “Ask,” he said softly.

  My throat was dry and no words would escape. I didn't want to know anything about him. I didn't want to know any of his motives. In reality, I had no questions—not for him anyway. Any answers he gave would only make my short stay worse. Not knowing sometimes was better than knowing what awaited you.

  “Nothing?” he asked.

  I had no answer for him other than to avert my eyes.

  His hand left my leg and he placed it on his own knee comfortably, like we were having a normal conversation. It was quiet for a long time. The song changed to something different. I recognized it as Bach’s “G Minor”. I liked this song. We were allo
wed to listen to mostly classical music at the Compound and they tended to bleed together for me, but this one I always found comforting. It was the one that played the night before I was sold the first time. The one I heard the night before I escaped and found the world outside, where girls weren't owned and men didn't pay for them. When I was caught, I listened to the song to comfort me, remind me of what I had seen and what I had learned. I refused to forget it. I found it oddly poignant that it would play right now, at this moment.

  “Fawn,” he said suddenly, his voice soft but still making me jump in my seat. “Were they out of flower names?” he asked, a smile in his voice.

  He let on that he knew about the inner-workings of the actual Compound more than my last Owner. Then again, my last one only cared about one thing. He didn't play these mind games this guy seemed to like.

  Master Lyon sighed, convinced I wouldn't answer, but for some reason I couldn't keep my mouth shut.

  “I was one of the originals at the California Compound.” I hesitated almost too long before I brought my eyes back to his face. He was staring, waiting for me to say more. “We all had animal names,” I said, trying and failing to hide the disgust in my voice.

  “Fawn,” he said. “With those eyes?”

  I blinked, wondering what he meant.

  “They’re so large and expressive,” he explained. “You’re more of a Doe to me.”

  So this would be my new name? Not Dog or Whore, but Doe?

  He smiled like I’d said something funny but I wasn't joking. “Do you not like it?”

  I didn't know why he cared if I did or did not like something. It shouldn't matter to him. I didn't like any of this and it was obvious. He was asking to toy with me, get me to talk. I was done talking. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep the words from spilling out.

  “Have you kissed a man before, Biche?" he asked, changing the subject without waiting for an answer.

  Doe in French. Fabulous. I supposed it was better than the usual “slut” or “bitch”. It still did nothing to ease my mind, all sense of calm shattered with his one question.

  “Answer me.” There was warning in his tone.

  “N-no, sir,” I stammered, angry at myself for letting my voice tremble.

  “No one?” There was an air of disbelief in his tone. “I thought you had been sold before.”

  I fought off the shiver that snaked down my spine and sat up straighter, staring him directly in the face. “I was, sir.”

  “I know your virginity is intact,” he said, “but he did not try something as simple as a kiss?”

  I couldn't help the smirk that appeared on my face. “He...didn't get that far,” I said, “sir.”

  Master Lyon laughed to himself. “I am not surprised.” He stared at me, eyes never leaving my face. “You caused him worse scars I heard,” he nearly whispered as he glanced at my legs, which I hurried to cover with the robe. I did not look away.

  I remembered that day; the boiling water, how I poured it on him as he touched me and how even despite his pain, it was hard to pry his fingers from my skin so I could run. It was the worst pain I had ever experienced, but I didn't even feel it until the immediate danger was behind me and my lungs felt like they would burst. Even then, it was nothing compared to the freedom. I would relive it every day if it meant I was no longer owned.

  “So in a way,” he continued and I couldn't tell if he was speaking for the first time in a while or if he had been talking the entire time, “I will be your first kiss.” He tipped my chin so I had no choice but to look directly into his steady gaze.

  Even with him holding me in place, my neck seemed incapable of supporting the weight of my head as I shook. This was why he’d had me bathe. Not because he was being kind or even wanting to make me think he was being kind, but for his own sick purpose.

  “If you're going to do something, just do it,” I snapped.

  He might own me now but be couldn't control everything about me. Others had learned this. It was time I showed him I wasn't another wilting flower waiting to be picked like the rest of them. I had thorns, and if provoked, they would stick in his fingers, leave scars the way I had to others.

  My new Owner moved back slightly, squinting as if he had suddenly seen something he hadn't before. He probably had.

  Without a word, he wound my wet hair around his wrist, his fist against my scalp. He yanked my head back so far that I was nearly staring at the ceiling, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of breaking the contact.

  When he spoke, he was as calm as ever, and I wasn't sure if it was scarier than if he had chosen to scream in my face.

  “I would be careful in how you speak to me, Doe.” His grip loosened, but only a fraction; I couldn't get away if I tired, which I didn't dare. “Now,” he said. “Answer my question.”

  I gulped, unable to form words. I opened and closed my mouth a few times, desperate to make it work, but nothing discernible would come out.

  His expression softened, but it was in a condescending way. I was a child and he was a scolding parent. I had spilled milk all over the table after they had told me to drink it.

  “Let me simplify it for you,” he said, coming closer to my face but still speaking in a calm, even tone. “Have I beaten you?”

  His words were warm against my skin and they made me shiver. As a reminder that we were supposed to be having a conversation, he gave my head a small, sharp yank.

  “N-no, sir.”

  He leaned his cheek against mine and I could feel him smile against my skin. I wanted to back away from whatever he was about to do, but I was stuck, held in place.

  “Have I starved you?” he asked.

  “No, sir.” My voice was steadier now and I allowed myself to feel proud of this fact.

  His hand finally released its hold but I didn't dare move as he ran his fingers through my hair, calming the waves he had created and soothing the ache in my scalp.

  “Have I raped you?” he asked almost casually.

  My blood ran cold and I wanted to freeze but I refused. “No, sir.” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from saying “yet”.

  “Then what is there to be afraid of?” He asked the question like I was scared of getting on an escalator, not of the man who had paid for me when he could have easily found a willing woman.

  “I...” It was hard to form the words. “Sir,” was the only thing I could get out.

  Master Lyon laughed softly as he pulled away so he could once again stare at my face. “Close your eyes.”

  This was it. I could fight him off or I could let the inevitable happen. Get food afterwards as my reward instead of a beating as a punishment.

  “I am only going to kiss you,” he whispered. He sure liked to talk. I could talk too.

  “And what if I don't want to kiss you, sir?” I asked as politely as I could. Somewhere, I knew this was beyond stupid. I was only making things worse for myself, but the part of me that didn't care, the part that wanted that one ounce of freedom even if it condemned me, overrode everything else. If this was my life now, I was going to be me. He was going to get what he paid for.

  “I am trying to make this easy,” he said, “but we can certainly do this the hard way if you prefer.” His smile was easy and it made my stomach flip.

  My eyes snapped closed.

  “Wise choice.” He cupped the side of my face before his hand slid down to my throat, slightly grazing the new stitches before settling just below them. He could choke me if he wanted to, but something told me he wouldn't. He wasn't the type. There was less of a chance of me surprising him if he cut off my ability to speak.

  “Your heart is beating so fast,” he observed.

  I had no smart response this time. I just wanted whatever he was about to do to be over. I could process it later, when I was alone. Then I could get back to the goal.

  His thumb grazed my bottom lip and it startled me. I wasn't expecting something so gentle, something that didn't hurt. He not
iced me flinch and made a small, amused sound.

  “Just breathe,” he said, a laugh in his voice.

  I didn't want to fool myself into thinking his easy going demeanor was meant to put me at ease, but I used it anyway. I could pretend he was worried about my wellbeing just as well as he could pretend that this was a real, normal relationship. I took a deep breath and slowly released it between my teeth.

  He didn't speak again, and just as my body began to calm, his lips touched mine and my heart started hammering in my chest again. It was soft and warm, not as invasive or disgusting as I was expecting. I was surprised he allowed me to inch away first.

  Master Lyon gave a small smirk. “Good,” he said, still too close for me to breathe evenly. “Now I want you to kiss me back.”

  I twisted my hands on top of my knees, unsure of what to do.

  “Stop fidgeting,” he scolded, placing a palm on top of them and stilling me. “Shall I start?”

  Was he giving me a choice?

  I tried to be as shy as possible. Maybe if I pleased him he would leave me alone the rest of the day. Maybe he wouldn't want more than some simple conversation and a kiss. Either way, being in control for even a false moment was better than nothing.

  “S-sir?” I asked, playing up the stutter. “May I try?”

  He raised an eyebrow, but other than that, he didn't seem skeptical. “You want to?”

  I swallowed the real fear in my throat and made sure it showed on my face so he could see. “I-I would...” I stared at his hand, still on top of mine in my lap before returning my eyes to him. “I would like to try, sir.”

  He nodded once then waited.

  I bit my lip; I didn’t know where to start.

  “It isn't difficult.” He sounded the slightest bit annoyed before he softened and closed his eyes. I was grateful he was no longer watching. “Just copy what I did,” he instructed after I still had not made a move.