Feyness

by E. S. Carter

  He slumps to the floor, and I bend down to reposition his prone body, taking care to make him comfortable.

  “You are wrong, my brother. She is not like us because there is still innocence in her. I never touch innocents, and neither do you.”

  Then I walk away from his body and scoop up my wife, striding from the room directly into my quarters next door.

  My brother will want vengeance when he wakes. I just hope I can redirect it on her father and spare her from his quest for revenge.

  I am floating.

  Peace surrounds me and for the first time since I was a young child, I’m not alone. I feel safe. I feel cared for and cherished.

  “Am I dead?”

  A raspy chuckle breaks the silence, and I feel a movement to my side, but with consciousness comes pain.

  It hammers at my temples and throbs behind my eyes. The soreness in my throat aches and burns like I’ve swallowed battery acid.

  “No, Princess. You’re very much alive.”

  My eyes blink open and meet my husband’s penetrating blue ones, only his look isn’t icy, it’s soft, unguarded and worries me more than the fact that he is lying next to me propped up on his elbow.

  I shift uncomfortably and attempt to push myself upright.

  “What happened?” My naturally husky voice is more of a squeak, the syllables punch at my swollen throat in their struggle to escape.

  “Easy, Faye. Here, sip this slowly.”

  Cole hands me a small glass of cold water, and I take a large gulp, but the fluid refuses to pass my bruised muscles, and I choke, hoarsely coughing up the drink and soaking the front of my dress. The wet fabric clings to my breasts highlighting every curve and I can feel Cole’s hot stare like a brand to my chest.

  His hand reaches towards me, and I flinch, but I’m shocked when he makes his intentions clear and slowly lifts the glass to my lips.

  “Small sips.”

  We lock eyes when his gentle placement of the glass to my mouth allows me to take a little drink.

  As the fluid runs down my throat, cooling bruised flesh and soothing the ache, I remember the reason I am hurting so bad.

  I carefully remove my lips from the glass and sit a little further back on the large bed.

  My eyes stray from his face and take inventory of the room.

  It’s far bigger than the one I was previously kept in and decorated in cool blues.

  “It was my fault; I provoked him.”

  I don’t look back at Cole. Instead, I purposely make my eyes take in my new cage. They fall on a portrait of a beautiful woman nailed to a cross; a woman with long blonde hair and striking blue eyes. She is clad in a simple white dress and wears a crown of blood red roses. A single tear falls from each of her eyes, the exquisite detailing making it seem as though I could reach out and wipe them away.

  It is breath-taking.

  It is harrowing.

  For I know who the painting depicts.

  “She’s beautiful.”

  He turns at my words and looks towards the artwork, his eyes drink it in as though he is looking at it for the first time.

  “She was.”

  His words are soft, a tone I’ve never heard from him before. Sadness in shades of blue slightly darker than the walls of the room, blankets him, caressing his skin.

  “You look like her.”

  His eyes flash to mine. Confusion is evident in their depths.

  Quick to cover my slipup I stutter, “Y-you have her eyes.”

  His hand lifts to his face, his fingers lightly tracing the skin below his lower lashes. He seems unaware of the movement, but I watch with rapt attention. The gesture is childlike in its innocence, unlike anything I’ve ever seen this complex, brutal and fierce man do before.

  He turns back to the painting, before standing and moving towards the door. With his fist tightening around the handle, his aura changes once more and the blackness engulfs him.

  “You have one hour to get yourself ready.” He gives one last fleeting look towards the painting and his harsh voice returns, “I want you to watch the life leave your father’s eyes, as I watched the life leaving hers.”

  Then he’s gone.

  There is no automatic lock on this door, and I hear the turn of a key before his footsteps move away, and I am left in silence.

  Silence and the tears of a mother.

  Less than an hour has passed when I hear the key in the lock once more.

  I’ve been unable to change as the closet in this suite is only stocked with men’s clothing, another indicator that this is Cole’s room. The best I could do was to freshen up and wrap some cold towels around my neck to try and soothe the bruising and lessen the angry red handprints that span its circumference.

  I sit bolt upright, my stomach churning with worry.

  If Luke enters this room, I’m dead.

  His hate for me will never be tempered. It runs through his body alongside his blood and is woven into the very fabric of his being.

  It isn’t Luke who enters but a petite older lady with smiling eyes and curly salt and pepper hair.

  In her arms she carries fresh clothing, and behind her a young boy, no older than fourteen, enters the room carrying a tray holding a cafetiere, a bowl of soup and a soft bread roll.

  “Mr. Hunter wishes for you to wear these and would like for you to eat something before you leave.”

  She places the clothing on the ottoman at the foot of the bed, and the boy deposits the tray on the table at the far end of the room.

  Once their task is complete, the boy leaves the room with the woman close behind. As she approaches the door I call out, “Thank you, Mrs…?”

  She turns to face me, her smile broad, “I’m Anne, Mrs. Hunter. Head housekeeper at Hunter Lodge and the young lad with me is Simon; he’s been with us about two years, but you’ll only see him out of term time as he goes to school at the Briarbrook Academy.”

  Briarbrook is an exclusive boys’ boarding school, and I wonder how the son of a housekeeper got acceptance to such an elite institution.

  “Thank you, Anne. And please call me Faye.” I shrug before adding, “I’m not sure I’m used to my new name yet.”

  “He’s a fine man to be wed to Mrs… I mean, Faye. I’m sure you’ll soon love being a Hunter.” Then she leaves with a soft nod of her head. Her aura is serene, no lies or malice in her words.

  One would expect the staff of a man like Cole Hunter to be scared of their master, not to hold him in such high regard and I am certain no sane person would want their child around him, especially not an impressionable young boy. Meeting Anne and Simon has totally perplexed me, and I’m unable to connect the dots in the increasingly complex life of my husband.

  Picking up the simple black trousers and cream cashmere sweater that Anne left for me; I quickly strip off my dress and find the clean underwear in the small pile of clothing. I am just pulling the little scrap of pale blue silk over my hips when the door opens once more, and I rush to grab at the sweater to try and cover myself.

  Standing in the open doorway, my husband stares at me. His eyes roam over my body and linger on the areas of skin left uncovered.

  Lust emanates from him, his posture tightening before he strides into the room kicking the door closed behind him. He moves to walk towards me, then glances to the uneaten food and changes direction, walking instead to the attached bathroom.

  “Eat, Princess. You will need to line your stomach.”

  The bathroom door rattles on its hinges with the force of his slam and I slowly release the breath that I never even realised I was holding. My hands shake as I slip the sweater over my head, but before I can pull on the trousers, I hear the door open once more and bang harshly against the wall.

  A shirtless Cole, clad only in his suit pants, his belt and top button open, exposing the trail of dark blonde hair that disappears into his underwear, strides across the room with a fire in his eyes.

  I retreat. The backs of
my knees hit the ottoman at the foot of the bed, and I clasp my black trousers tightly in front of me as a pathetic shield; as if retreating from this man will do me any good.

  Between one blink and the next, we are toe to toe.

  The leather of his shoes touches the skin of my feet and I am unable to stop my breath from hitching.

  “Do you want me, Princess?”

  His hand reaches up, and he gently traces the line of my jaw with his fingertip. My entire body is a quivering bundle of nerves from just one touch.

  “Do you want the good and the bad?”

  My voice, still painfully raspy whispers, “Show me the good, I’ve seen enough of the bad.”

  His hand stops its movement and drops to his side. His eyes are ferociously boring into mine.

  “The good and the bad are intertwined. Your eyes drink in my looks and the goodness I appear to have, yet your body recoils from the bad.”

  This time, he lifts his hand to trace across my clavicle. “Even though you fight it, I can smell that you want me, Faye. It pours from your skin and drives me fucking crazy.”

  I shiver. I can’t help myself. As a person starved of touch, he elicits desires in me that I never knew I was capable of feeling.

  “Then take what is yours, don’t ask me for permission as I am incapable of giving it.”

  The words spill from my traitorous lips, his aura completely disappearing before it flares the brightest red.

  Within moments, I am pinned to the bed by my bruised neck. Cole’s grip around my throat is firm but not intent on causing pain.

  The red pulses around him, almost taking on its own physicality and all I can do is submit. My body reacts to his, and I drop the trousers from my grasp. My legs fall apart, spreading wide to accommodate his broad frame. The blue silk that covers my sex is wet with arousal, and my nipples are so hard they hurt.

  He lets his eyes slowly roam my body and a growl escapes from low in his chest when they get to the apex of my thighs.

  Using the knuckles of his free hand, he slowly traces the outline of my pussy lips through the damp fabric. The touch is so gentle it physically hurts and the throbbing between my legs is so relentless that I cannot concentrate on anything else.

  His touch stills and his movements stop when he presses firmly on my mound, dragging a hoarse moan from my lips.

  His eyes darken, his lids hood and his sinful mouth tips up into his trademark smirk.

  “Oh, I have your permission right here.” He rubs his knuckles firmly over my covered clit, circling and pressing to the point of pleasure laced with pain. Then he stops and brings his hand to my mouth, rubbing my juices all over my lips. “But it’s from here I want your consent. When you can beg me to fuck you, that’s when I will make that ache you feel between your thighs go away.”

  He releases his grip on my throat abruptly, and before I have the chance to take my next heaved breath, I hear the bathroom door slam once more.

  He’s left me strung as taut as an archer’s bow.

  The throb in my core so strong I feel it in the ends of my fingers and tips of my toes.

  He’s wrong, though.

  No matter what he does to my body, I will never beg.

  I’m fully dressed by the time Cole emerges from the bathroom.

  He’s clad in his requisite tailored suit; the fabric moulded to his frame like a second skin. The sight of him is utter porn, every woman’s fantasy clad in expensive tailoring and only serves to heighten the pulse between my legs.

  I feign indifference. My gaze colliding with his, my eyes ignoring the red mist that hasn’t dissipated even slightly.

  I may be sexually amped up to breaking point, but I’m not the only one. Cole can pretend to be unaffected by me, but my gift allows me to see exactly how much I get to him, and I use that knowledge to strengthen my resolve.

  He assesses me slowly. I can see his mind working, but I would never guess the next words out of his mouth.

  “You’re staying here.”

  My heart stops in my chest.

  Is he not about to overthrow and murder my father? Have his plans changed?

  Or worse still, will he send me back?

  You can tell how messed up your life is when a place where you have witnessed horrific murders, been strangled half to death and threatened almost hourly, is a better choice than being sent home.

  Home.

  What an abstract word.

  In my panic, I rush forward a few steps, only stopping when my brain kicks into gear, and I come to an abrupt halt about a foot away from him.

  “No. Take me with you.”

  The please begs to fall from my lips, but I hold it back.

  My voice must have come out bolder than I thought, his eyes narrowing in disapproval.

  “You’re not the one calling the shots here, Princess. If I say you’re staying, you’re staying.”

  Straightening my spine, I stand in front of him, my body challenging him to deny me by force.

  “After everything he’s done, do not deny me this. Do not stop me from watching the man I despise, the man who stole my childhood from me, the one that made me this-” I motion to myself, the disdain in my voice evident, “- do not take away my right to see him pay for his sins.”

  My voice breaks on the last word, and I swallow down the lump in my throat, blinking back the wetness in my eyes.

  He regards me silently. His eyes never once leaving mine, and I’m grateful he doesn’t notice that I’ve clamped both hands to my sides to stop them from trembling.

  “Would it help?”

  His voice is soft when he finally replies. He awaits my response but sees my confusion.

  “Would watching me flay your father alive help lay your demons to rest? Do you thirst his blood enough to hear his screams forever? Your flesh, your kin, murdered by the man you now belong to until death do us part. You want that, Princess?”

  I don’t hesitate.

  “Yes.”

  If my reply is me forsaking my soul, so be it.

  He nods. Accepting the truth he holds out his hand for mine.

  “Then, come. If it’s his blood you wish for, I’ll provide you with enough to sate any need for revenge you have.”

  I place my hand in his; the tendrils of blackness that are so normal to me now, wrap around our entwined fingers and curl around our wrists.

  At this moment, despite the reasons for our marriage, despite us not yet consummating our vows, we are one.

  We are darkness.

  I have never had a feeling of such rightness.

  The beast I carry within calms at her touch.

  God may have forsaken me, damned me to hell from the day of my birth, but if it was to bring me to this moment, so be it.

  The fires of hell can eternally burn my bones to ash for just one more glimpse of this or even one more touch..

  As I stride from my private suite, the eyes of my mother at my back, the hand of my wife in mine, I vow to both God and Satan that I will make him pay.

  He will wear his sins painted on his skin in blood.

  I will wear his skin as a trophy.

  She will wear my blackened soul as a promise.

  We arrive at our destination, an imposing, red-bricked, Victorian mansion in Holland Park, one of the most exclusive postcodes in London.

  The property is secluded, sheltering behind a high encompassing brick wall and is surrounded by pristinely manicured gardens.

  I’ve never been here before or heard of The Red Order owning anything of significance in this area.

  While I drink in the mature gardens and pretty, ivy-clad frontage of this exquisite home, Cole growls commands into his phone.

  “The target is in place? Good. Clear the area, follow protocol five and take out all guards. Spare no one but the target.”

  Whoever is on the end of the line says something that makes Cole sneer, “Do not harm any of his merchandise. I want it all safely bagged up and taken to Anne. K
id gloves, Grim. Are you hearing me? You got your retribution, and it is now time for mine.”

  His orders are for Grim; that means Luke is also here somewhere and this knowledge makes my pulse spike, adrenaline pumping so fast to my extremities that all four of my limbs shake.

  Between the pounding of my heart in my ears and the opening of the car door, I hear, “Good. The bitch deserved it.”

  He hangs up and steps from the car, my panicked gaze landing on his outstretched hand.

  You begged for this, Faye. Take his fucking hand and walk into this palace with steel in your spine and the enticing scent of blood on your lips. It’s time.

  “It is time, Faye.” His hand reaches further into the car, my husband seemingly reading my thoughts.

  My hand touches his, and my body reacts on autopilot, guiding me from the car towards the magnificent property before us, but it’s not my eyes I am viewing it through, it’s a young Cole’s.

  I look to the hand I am clutching and see a soft feminine one, nails perfectly French manicured, skin smooth like silk and not my husband’s powerful grasp.

  I lift my gaze, and my eyes land on the natural beauty of his mother. Her long blonde hair is loose and blowing in the breeze and her other hand swings happily while holding onto one of a smaller boy – Luke.

  Happy laughter giggles from his tiny chest, the dark sky now morphed into a bright sunny day.

  I watch as my hand gets swung in alternating motions to Luke’s, and I feel the joy emanating from Cole’s innocent soul.

  I turn and look at the building before us, Cole’s mother softly speaking to Luke, telling him that he must be on his best behaviour, “Be good, my boys. Daddy is waiting for us inside, and we want to show him how well-behaved we all are. He’s meeting with lots of important people, and we don’t want to make him look bad, do we?”

  My head shakes in tandem with Luke’s, and he looks over at me mischievously, obviously having other plans.

  She pulls us into her hold, tenderly placing a kiss on each of our foreheads before leading us through the open doorway and into a cool, marble-floored foyer.