Serenity's Key

by Charlotte E Hart

  I punch the redial button and lift it to my ear, bracing myself for the impact of his voice.

  “Where are you?” he snarls at me after two rings. Nice. I crack my neck out and wait for a more pleasant reply because fuck him and his attitude. He needs to learn some damn manners. “Lilah?” I still don’t respond. I want that voice softer, thankful. I did this for him. I’m damned if he’s going to act like an arsehole and get any reaction from me other than anger. There’s silence for a minute as I continue to breathe into the phone and not say anything. My brow rises when I eventually hear that foreign language spoken softly, causing emotions to rush back into me that I’m not the slightest bit ready for. “Lilah, please. Answer me.” Better.

  “I’m in the Strasbourg Excelsior, staring across at the hotel where they’re staying. They haven’t left yet that I know of.”

  “She is well?”

  “She’s fine from what I could tell. She seemed to be asleep when I saw them last.”

  There’s more silence after that. I don’t know why or what he’s thinking about. I only know what’s travelling around my head as I continue looking at the other building and let the sound of his small huffs fill me with love. I wish I could turn it off. That was the whole point of me leaving, to get away and close him down in my mind. But now, listening to his footsteps and breathing, I can’t help but want to be with him again, in any way. I wouldn’t care if we were fighting, fucking, screaming or shouting. I wouldn’t even give a damn if he was chaining me up and causing me pain. I’m just desperate to be with him again, to feel his fingers, his weight, his teeth. And I’m even more in need of him whispering those words I want to hear.

  I shake my head at myself and stand up, hoping to get rid of the idea that we can somehow make this better.

  “You should come and take over so I can get on with my plan,” I snap into the phone, now pacing to try and lesson the need to tell him I love him. Why the hell I would want to say that, I don’t know. It’s just tiredness. I need to get out of this country.

  “What is this plan of yours, hmm? Run and forget our time together? Dismiss our moments as inconsequential?” Fuck him. That doesn’t deserve a response, no matter how the words roll beautifully off his tongue. He caused this between us, not me. It’s all his fault.

  “I’m in room 420. I’ll leave as soon as you get here. Bring my money.” And with that, my finger ends the call, and I wish it was as easy to end his hold over me.

  Clothes. I scan down my body and notice the disgusting mess I’m currently wearing. Blue skinnies and a baggy shirt. I will not meet him looking like this. Never again will I look a mess in front of him, or any other man of consequence. I quickly walk over and grab my backpack, yanking out the best looking outfit I have and shaking it out—my cream jumper, with a light green shirt beneath it, and the tailored trousers I found in the store. It may all be green, but it’s the best selection I have, short of the cream skirt and heels, which I could wear, I suppose. I look at my poor old backpack again. I’m hardly going to look fabulous and then carry that around with me, am I? Plus, there is still snow on the ground. Less than in New York, but it’s here nonetheless. Trousers it is.

  Pulling out the ironing board, I begin setting it up as I keep looking over at the other hotel, trying to focus my eyes. I’m so fucking tired. I really need sleep, a fact that is rapidly confirmed when I start to iron the first garment and burn my finger.

  Fuck. I place the bloody thing down and inspect the damage. It’s not that bad, but Christ it hurts. I could almost laugh at myself. After all the things I’ve been through recently, all the pain, chains, and whips, I’m here worrying and wincing like a bitch at a small burn? Stupid and pathetic. I shake my hand out as I snarl at the pain and continue my quest to look perfect. Before I know it, there are creased lines precisely in place, soft cashmere ready for slipping on, and shining boots I shined with the hotels freebies. I wish I could shower, too, but I’m worried that Jon and Roxanne might leave or take Claire somewhere while I’m in there. Perhaps I could shower quickly when Pascal gets here? I roll my eyes at myself and snort. Of all my stupid thoughts, that is definitely the most ridiculous. Pascal in the room with me while I get naked? That could only end one way—a way I’m no longer confident about, let alone ready for. One day, when I’m completely over him, maybe I could fuck him. Maybe even trust him again, forget the look in his eyes when he hit Alexander.

  No, I’ll just douse myself in perfume and apply make up again.

  I’m not sure why I’m putting so much effort into looking perfect as I swipe heavy black eyeliner on and top up my mascara. Maybe it’s the need to show him that he will not beat me, or beat me down. I am more than that. Stronger. He will not win this argument by appearing superior. He is in the wrong. I’m not. And I will appear in control when he gets here, if only to walk straight past him and show him what he lost by being jealous for no reason. If anyone’s breaking here, it will be him, not me. I have nothing to break for. I’m done being broken. I’m whole. Maybe a new whole, but I know who I am, what I am, how far I’ve come and what I can achieve if I stay the course, because it’s my course I’m setting. It’s a course I’ll travel swiftly, and with a sense of resolve I’ve never had before thanks to Alexander, and maybe Pascal in some ways. James Prescott will not know what’s hit him when I eventually get back to New York and start working. I may not be able to deal with Alexander again. I don’t know, but I’ll damn well make myself indispensable anyway, or I’ll find another job so quickly none of it will matter. This Lilah James will not lose at anything. If this is the way to win in life then I’ll win every fucking race I put myself in. I’ll use what I know and break everything in my path to get to where I need to go, decimate it if I have to. Never again will I be walked over.

  I flick my hair into shape, teasing the sharpened, blunt ends into place, and then stare at my reflection for a minute more, watching my natural half smirk settle into place. Poker faced. Perfect. Exactly what it needs to be to deal with the Pascals of this world, not that there’s anyone else like him on the planet. Thankfully. I keep staring until I’ve convinced myself that I’m done. I couldn’t look any better really. Maybe I could if I’d bought my ‘shield’ with me or had a shower, but for now, this is me. Finished and looking forward. Done.

  Time ticks by as I continue looking across the road, waiting. Still nothing happens, only the sporadic trundle of workers and a few lorries. I’m beginning to give up hope that he’ll ever get here as I keep glancing at the clock. Bastard. He’s probably doing it purposely, trying to stretch out my nerves by prolonging the delay, but eventually I smell him before he knocks on the door. I don’t know how that’s possible, but it is. It’s as if his aftershave entered the building before he did. It permeates the air around me, lingering under my nose and filling the whole room with him before I should know he’s here. I didn’t see the car arrive, but then I don’t suppose he arrived at the front, did he? He likely went around the back, or perhaps flew in on his vampire wings. Given his ability to manoeuvre himself about in the dark, I daresay he’s adept at creeping up on people should he choose to. In fact, he’s probably outside the door now, waiting.

  I slowly turn my face towards it, letting my legs drop to the floor and pulling my laces tight on my calf as I wait for those three taps of his. Three taps. Tap, tap, tap. Pascal’s here. It’s like a warning bell ringing in my ears, telling me to flee, or run to him—one or the other, which makes no sense to me at all. Whatever he’s doing out there, he’s doing it purposefully. He’s probably trying to wind me up or build momentum for his arrival, put me on the back foot, make me more nervous. It’s not happening. Fuck playing all these games.

  I get up and ram the last of my belongings into my backpack then tow the battered old thing along the floor with me towards the door. I’m going. Gone. I’ve done my bit, done the right thing by Claire, and now it’s time to go home.

  A faint whistling begins as I reach for the do
or, which completely throws me off my stride. It’s instantly recognisable as the song we danced to at that strange club he took me to. It’s romantic, and not what I was expecting at all. What did he call it? A sonata? Beethoven. Before I fall hopelessly in love again, I remember the words he said to accompany the beautiful melody, the lies.

  “They are sensations. They caress and cajole, my love, teasing the mind into believing something that is untrue.” Very apt.

  Well, beautiful as it may be, I don’t know what he thinks whistling it will achieve—other than potentially softening my resolve. I’m still going home, though, because that lovely tune doesn’t change the fact that he chained me up and then discarded me like the whore he believes I am. Fuck him. My hovering hand snatches at the handle and swings it wide, hoping I’m ready to deal with his presence.

  I’m not.

  The impact is immediate as he stands there and stares back at me. There is no cheeky smirk, no arrogant self-possession, no smile. There is nothing but that lethal gaze of his that he achieves only in his moments of weakness. Everything braces inside me as I look up at him, everything. My knees lock, brows firm, lips stay frozen in place, not daring to open my mouth for fear of the wrong words tumbling out, and my hand stays firmly fixed to the door handle. It’s the safest place, because the need to reach out and touch him is profound. Any other version of him and I could have dealt with it, but this one—the one who is hurting and being truly honest with his thoughts, wearing the same look as he had when he told me he loved me—this one is hell on my senses.

  There we stand. I hardly dare to move as he just stares, breathing heavily. I don’t know what he’s wearing but for a flash of red because I can’t rip my gaze from his eyes. I don’t know what any of it means. I was ready to walk. I am walking. I should just move past him. I’ve done my job, but I don’t want to, or can’t. He’s just standing there, and I can’t move. Why can’t I move?

  He flicks his eyes over me quickly before they land straight back on mine. There’s no noise, no movement to interrupt us. It’s just he and I again in one of our timeless seconds, and I’m falling so fast I can hardly feel the air beneath me. I’m drifting, just as I always do when he’s honest. I can almost feel his beauty falling on me like gentle summer rain. All thoughts of aggression have gone from his face, disappeared as if by magic somehow. All I’m left with is the man who kissed me in the park, the one who uttered sweet words and promised me love. The one I threw snowballs and laughed with. The one who clung onto me in his rage and allowed me to calm him down. The one I’m still hopelessly in love with.

  Fuck. I need to stop this.

  My eyes swing downward as I grab up my backpack and try to get past him. He doesn’t let me. He just grasps my hand and turns me back to him.

  “You should keep your eyes out of that window,” I say quietly, swinging my head back in the direction of the room rather than looking at him again. “Your daughter needs you and you need her.” He hardly misses a beat as he lifts my chin and guides my face back to his.

  “I am already looking at that which I need, Lilah.” No. No.

  I shake my head at him and take a step backwards, tugging at his hand as I do. No. I’m not doing this. No matter how beautiful he looks. Not here, not now, not ever. He broke this, broke us. Broken and tired. There’s no going back. No forgiving, and no forgetting, regardless of the scenes of love still dancing around my mind.

  “Your daughter needs you, Pascal. I don’t.” With one final twist of my fingers, they fall from his grip, leaving my heart in his hand as they do. “I hope you find your peace. I just need the money to cover the flight and room, then I’ll leave you.”

  He doesn’t move or utter a word as a small smile starts to creep onto his lips. He seems to grow a little and sweeps his gaze across me again.

  “It is a quandary, no? How would one get away without funds, hmm? One could hardly fly without such things.” Bastard.

  “Give me my money, Pascal. I deserve it,” I snap.

  “Not,” he replies sharply, turning his back on me and heading into my suite. The fury starts in my toes, instantly racing around my body and galvanising a response. Fucking man.

  “I did what you asked. Give me the money you promised.”

  “I seldom offer promises, especially when I am in torment regarding the present circumstances. You should not have trusted my offer, my dear, whatever it may have been. It was delivered only for the purpose of influence, hmm?” What? Blood boils beneath my fingertips as I snarl at his calm reply and watch him wander casually to the window. “Did you think I would allow you to escape so easily?” he says, pocketing his hands and turning back to face me, fully exposing his absolute beauty. “Tut, Tut. We have matters to deliberate, Lilah. Intricate and candid discussions to have—ones that may require my belt, hmm?”

  I feel my lip curl at the thought as I consider my options and remember the cage in the dungeon. I can feel heat building inside me at the temptation to just fuck, and get rid of this ache for him that still lingers. I could stand here and argue my point, I suppose, until we fuck the last breaths out of each other. I could even walk straight over there and slap him senseless, showing my disappointment, but I don’t. I simply pull in a long breath and refuse to play his games. I said I was going, and I meant it. And I’ll damn well do it on my own if I have to—hitch-hike, run, walk, any of the above. I’ll sleep on the side of the road, find cover beneath the trees. There’s only one person who knows how to survive the streets here, and it’s me. He’s not scaring me, or cajoling me into doing anything. Fuck him and his games. I’ll get myself back to the airport, and then I’ll phone James Prescott and get him to arrange a flight one way or another.

  My body turns and swings itself out of the door before I think much more about it, ready to get on with my life and one step closer to truly despising the man behind me. Unfortunately, I’m not given another foot of breathing space before he grabs hold of me again and pulls me back into the room, slamming the door behind him as he does.

  “Why must you be so infuriating?” he shouts, shoving me towards the chair and pointing at it, then physically holding my shoulders to force me down. “Sit, and be silent.”

  “Fuck you. Silent? You expect me to be silent?” I snarl, knocking his hands away and instantly hauling myself back up to force my body into his. “I will never be silent unless I choose to be. You can take your orders and shove them. Damn you, and damn your sense of appropriateness. I came here to help you, and you reward me like this? A simple fucking thank you would have been nice, along with my money so I can leave.”

  He smirks, daring to glance me over again while licking his lips.

  “Alexander’s money, hmm? Those whore wages of yours, my dear?”

  The slap that rings out in the room is heavier than I’ve ever delivered, and as I push at his chest and then send another one flying at him, I can’t help but smile at his hand as it grazes his face. He stalls a little, wiping a trickle of blood away and grinding his teeth. Fucking man. If he wants to do it this way then I’ll do it. Anger and pain race through me, bellowing out from my depths with no thought to the consequences other than causing him the same pain he’s delivering to me.

  “You think that hurt? Try giving me that belt again. I’ll show you what’s burning up inside me. Come on, Pascal. That’s what you want me for, isn’t it? For me to punish you? Come on. I’ve got plenty to punish you for. How about nearly killing Alexander? That’s a start,” I spit out, walking backwards and beginning to circle him. “Then for me, yes? For chaining me up and acting like a spoilt brat who couldn’t get his own way. You’re a fucking child who dared to treat me like one of your other whores. I’m not a fucking whore. Who the hell do you think you are, calling me that?”

  He doesn’t speak. He just stands there smirking at me and drawing his tongue over his teeth, like he’s admiring his handiwork.

  “Yes, you can have that. You made me, found all this inside me. Well
fucking done,” I continue as I wave my hand over myself. “Are you going to use it now? Hmm? Come on, take the belt off and give it to me. What are you waiting for? Scared you’ll get too close? Nervous of the love still growing inside of you? Or is it just the thought of Alexander and I together, without you. Does that hurt the most? The image of those hands on me, inside me, does that make you ache? It makes me ache. It all makes me ache. I can feel it now, fingers delving and probing. Fucking and growling.” It isn’t Alexander I imagine as I move in closer and swipe my fingers across his bloodied cheek. I wouldn’t have a clue about Alexander’s hands, only Pascal’s.

  The more riled up I feel myself becoming, the more I can feel their intensity. I can sense them clawing at me, feel them grabbing and twisting. “It’s those ferocious moments, isn’t it?” I whisper, closing the distance more, inadvertently torturing myself with the feel of his cheek against mine. “The thrusting, the force? Nails shredding, embedding themselves?” His brow twitches as I shove his chest again, pushing him away and stepping back. “Perhaps I should I fuck you for the money, too? Like I did for him? Do you want to feel me ride you again, feel yourself buried inside me? How much am I worth to you? I never did get my fifty thousand dollars.”

  I wish I were as in control as I sound, as I stand perfectly still and glare at him. I’m not. I’m shivering beneath my own words, and the fact that he’s slowly unbuttoning his jacket really isn’t helping. I sneer at his hands, watching him continue to ready himself as he peels it from his shoulders, exposing sheer perfection covered in a red shirt. I internally beg him not to do it as he reaches for his tie next, begging myself to leave as I see him yank at it and finally throw that to the floor, too. My heart is screaming ‘no’ into the air, and my lips are parted, ready to let it out, but it won’t leave my mouth. I know exactly what’s about to happen as he levers his belt open, and my body wants nothing more than exactly that. Why? Why can’t I just leave, or get down on this floor and say stop?