by A. M. Sexton
I didn’t ask him any more questions after that. I didn’t think I could bear to hear the answers.
We slept again for what felt like only moments. I woke to Ayo scrambling away from me. “He’s coming.”
A second later, Donato burst into the room. His anger hadn’t faded in the hours he’d been gone. If anything, it was worse. The beast was fully in control.
It was a terrible night. Ayo screamed and begged and cried. I ached for him, my cock kept hard by the il, but my stomach roiling. I fought to keep from being sick at the way Donato used him. I lost count of how many blows I took across my face for not obeying fast enough. I lost track of how many times Donato called me a whore. He vented his lust and his fury on us both. He left afterward, not slamming the door this time, but walking out quietly. I had a feeling the monster in him was finally sated.
I lay on the floor where I’d fallen, battered and sore. My ass hurt from being pummeled, my ribs ached from being kicked. The right side of my face throbbed from his backhands. But I’d had it easy. Ayo lay on the bed, curled into a ball. His pale body shook with the force of his sobs. When I tried to touch him, he flinched away from me. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to cry with him, to try to tell him everything would work out, but he was afraid of me and I didn’t have time to win back any of his trust. The butler came to get me.
“Not yet,” I said to him. “Give me a minute.”
“It’s nearly dawn and the carriage is waiting. You have to leave.”
I looked helplessly over at Ayo on the bed.
“I know,” the butler whispered. “I’ll take care of him. I promise.”
I was beaten, in more ways than one.
I went to the carriage. Back down the hill. Away from Miguel, who I might have loved. Away from Donato, who I hated. Away from Ayo, the soft, sweet boy who had only asked me to kiss him.
CHAPTER TEN
The next day the pedalcart driver came by as arranged, but I wasn’t out front to meet him. After all, I had nothing to report to Anzhéla or Aleksey. I told myself that was the only reason. I told myself it had nothing to do with the giant bruise on the side of my face, from my hairline to my jaw, or my eye being nearly swollen shut. I sat alone, staring out of the window. My little room was high and near the back of Talia’s building, and I looked out over white roofs toward the city wall.
I hated it all. I hated the city. I hated the trenches, which I couldn’t see but could somehow feel behind me, and the desperate wretches who lived there. I hated the white district and the oblivious fools who filled it. And more than anything, I hated the fucking hill and every single person who lived on it.
Most of all, I hated Donato.
Every time I thought of him, my heart ached. I could barely breathe. I kept thinking about the yacht. About floating in the sea while anchored to him. About how good I’d felt while he made love to me in his bed.
And then I’d think about the night before, the hatred in his eyes, and the things he’d done to his slave.
How could Miguel and Donato even be the same man?
More than anything, I thought of Ayo, out of my reach on the far side of the wall. The butler had said he’d help him, but what could he do? Some calming salve on his rectum, an ice pack for his eye. But there was no serum or elixir that could soothe the worst of his injuries. Those were deeper, buried in his psyche, out of reach of any normal doctor.
They could’ve programmed the tears away, too. At the time he’d said it, I’d thought it sounded like an even greater cruelty, but I understood better now why it was something he might have wished for.
Early in the afternoon, Talia knocked on my door. She came in without waiting for me to admit her. “Get out,” I said, without turning to look at her.
“You missed your appointment. Anzhéla wants to know—”
“If I had anything worth telling her, then I would have kept it. Now get out.”
“Misha—”
“Get. The fuck. Out.”
She sighed heavily, obviously annoyed. “He’s asked to see you tonight.”
“No.”
“You can’t refuse to go.”
“I sure as hell can. He can find a new whore. I’m done.”
She hesitated and I sat stiff in my seat, trying to decide what I would do if she argued. Would I throw a fit like a recalcitrant child, or burst into tears? Those were the two most likely possibilities. Luckily I didn’t have to find out. She left without saying another word.
Outside, the temple bells rang at regular intervals, marking the passing of the day. The buzz of the afternoon market faded. I could hear children running through the streets, shouting to one another, playing games I’d never had the luxury of learning. As the sun fell low in the sky, their parents began to call them inside. Time to eat, honey, and we still have to attend to your lessons. Nobody had ever spoken those words to me. Nobody had ever really loved me. Not since my mother.
I remembered with sudden blinding clarity how it had felt to be held in her arms. I remembered her voice. Run along now, Misha. Mummy has work to do. For the first time in more than ten years, I let myself think about how it might have felt to have a normal life. What if she had lived? Would she have called me in from my games? Would she have called me “honey”?
Would I still be a whore?
She’d talked so many times of returning home to Aurius, and for years, I’d fostered a dream of going there myself, as if that distant city harbored a better life waiting to be found. I was older now. I knew better. It would be the same there as here. It was the same all over. Dirt and filth and squalor. I was trash, a guttersnipe turned thief, and a whore. No matter what city I ran to, I’d never be more.
I jumped at a knock on my door. My cheeks were wet, although I hadn’t realized I was crying. I dried them hurriedly. “Go away!”
But my visitor didn’t oblige. Instead, whoever it was turned the doorknob and let themselves into my room.
Not Talia this time, but Donato.
I jumped from my chair. It crashed to the floor as I backed away, instinctively trying to find cover, but there was no place to go. The room was too small. There was nothing to protect me. Next to me, the window beckoned. We were only four stories up. What would happen if I jumped?
He put his hands behind his back. His expression was blank. “I don’t like having my invitations refused.”
“Then maybe you should learn to treat your guests with a bit more respect.”
He stared down at the floor. He seemed penitent, and yet he could just as easily have been angry. He might ask for forgiveness, or he might lash out. I had no way of knowing which it would be.
“I’m sure that’s true,” he said at last. He looked up at me. “I tried to warn you. I thought you understood the terms.”
“I was a fool.”
“So my credit is gone already? I had hoped it would be buy me more than that.”
“Your credit is only good for me. It doesn’t extend to others.”
He absorbed that for a minute, rocking on his feet. “So, this is about the slave.”
Ayo! His name is Ayo! But revealing that I knew his name would likely cause more trouble, so I resisted. “I can’t stand what you do to him.” And to my horror and my utter dismay, my anger failed me and I found myself choking back tears. “I can’t stand what you make me do to him!”
He looked down at the floor again, still holding that same rigid pose, his hands clasped behind his back. His hair was perfectly in place. Only the slow, almost imperceptible rocking on his feet gave him away as human. “Do you want me to apologize? Maybe if I explained, you’d understand—”
“I don’t want to understand!”
He nodded slowly. “I see. Well then, there’s nothing left to talk about, is there?”
“No, there isn’t. I’d like you to leave.”
“I’m not leaving without you.”
“Well, I’m not coming.”
“Shall I take you by force
then? Drag you back to my house by your hair and remind you that you’ve sold yourself to me?”
I began to shake. Yes, he could do that. Talia would probably let it happen. But I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of my fear. I stood up as tall as I could. I tried to look brave. “If you like, sir.”
He sighed and, for the first time, his posture broke. His shoulders fell. Suddenly, he didn’t look strong. He looked beaten.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Is that what you want me to say?”
Was it? Was an apology enough?
He seemed so lost. The tattoos on his cheek reminded me once again of tears. I found myself remembering the night on the yacht. Him in front of me on his knees. “Can I come closer? Can I touch you?”
“Why are you even asking? I’m your whore, right? You can take me by force and nobody will think twice about it.”
“That’s not what I want. Not tonight.”
I closed my eyes and tried to breathe. I was still shaking, but my anger was gone, not because I forgave him but because I had no strength left. I was numb. Empty. Inconsequential. If I jumped from the window, I’d float away, like one of the balloons the children carried on festival days, disappearing into the clouds.
The breeze from the window cooled the tears on my cheeks. I felt him approach—the strength and enormity of him tenderly invading my space, the comforting smell of him wrapping me up in its reminders of gentler days.
I jumped when he touched me, although it was only his fingers under my jaw. He lifted it, turning me toward the waning light from the window, moving me out of the shadows so he could examine my face. With the window behind me, he hadn’t been able to see the bruises he’d left. I opened my eyes, determined to make him truly acknowledge what he’d done.
He winced when he saw it. He touched my cheekbone with such tenderness, I once again found myself thinking he couldn’t possibly be the same man who had given me the bruise.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I really am. I’m not myself when it happens. I know it’s a terrible, weak excuse, but...” His words hitched to a stop. He took a deep shuddering breath. He was close to tears. “I hate myself for it. I’d give anything to be able to take it back.”
Oh, Miguel. Don’t make me love you again. “I’m just a whore anyway, right?”
“Yes. And I won’t apologize for that. I won’t apologize for fucking you either, especially not when I know you enjoy it as often as you do. But what happened last night...” He shook his head. “That goes beyond what I pay you for. I know that. That’s why I tried to warn you. Why I try to give you more when I can. Like the yacht—”
Yes, like the yacht, where he’d fed me berries and whispered reverent prayers meant for me. Where he’d made love to me in his bed and given me the gift of floating in the sea.
Without warning, I burst into tears. I shook and blubbered and sobbed like a fool. I tried to push him away, but he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me against him. He held me, even as I fought him. Even as I tried to pummel him with my fists. I had no strength to truly get away. I wasn’t Misha anymore—Misha who grew up on the streets and could have held off any bully. Misha, who knew how to fight and how to get free. I was a kid again, lost and scared and confused, and it was a relief to finally stop struggling. To give up and let him hold me tight against him while I cried. To feel him stroking my hair. To hear the soft sounds he made in my ear.
“I’m sorry, honey. I’m so sorry I did this to you. I’m so sorry I hurt you.”
I hated myself, because I couldn’t be strong. Because I found such comfort in his words and the feel of him. I hated myself for the way my arms snuck around his waist. For the way I longed for him to soothe me more. I hated myself for crying like I hadn’t done since the day my mom had died and the innkeeper had dragged me from the room where her naked body lay across the bed, bruised eyes empty and staring at the ceiling, her legs spread wide, the final indignity of her murder, not even covering her after what he’d done.
I sobbed and I shook until I was empty. Until I found myself on my narrow cot, cradled in Donato’s arms while he rocked me. It took me a long time to steady my breathing. It took me a minute more to organize my thoughts. To put into words what my mind had finally pieced together. To find the strength it took just to speak. “I can’t be like that,” I whispered at last.
“Like what, love?”
“I can take whatever you give me, good or bad, but I won’t be one of them.”
“Who?”
“One of you. An abuser.”
He tilted my head back to look down into my eyes. The sun had gone while I’d cried. I wished the light that fell through my window was the pure, blue-tinted electric light of the upper city, rather than the sinister orange and yellow of the gas lamps that lined the streets. “I should have known. Whore or not, you’re too pure for that.”
“Don’t make me. Not ever again. Please.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know if that’s a promise I can keep. When those days come—”
“Be stronger than that beast you hide.”
“I wish it were that easy.”
I fell silent, tucking my head under his chin. He rocked me again, stroking my back.
“I thought of you,” he said a minute later. “The whole way there. Not coming back, because I wasn’t myself. But those first two nights, I lay in that bed, and it was exactly as I imagined. I could smell you all over it. I wanted desperately to be home with you instead of where I was.”
“If you had stayed, this wouldn’t have happened.” But even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t true. His changes were inevitable. Unpredictable, but unavoidable.
“This wouldn’t be happening either,” he said.
“True. But that would be easier.”
He kissed the top of my head. “On days like this, I love you more than you’ll ever know. It’s a small consolation, I know.”
“It’s something.”
“But is it enough?”
I had to think about that. Despite the horror of the night before, despite my sore face, I said, “It could be. But only if you can keep that promise. Only if you can let me stay me.”
“Fair enough.” He chuckled. “I don’t even know your name.”
“I don’t know it anymore either.”
He stayed there with me all night, curled behind me on my tiny bed, his arm around my waist, his face buried in my hair.
“Don’t you want what you came for?” I whispered once, pushing my hips back against him.
“I don’t want a whore tonight,” he said. “I want a lover who forgives me.”
And so I slept there in his arms, warm and safe.
For how long was anybody’s guess.
***
I barely roused when he left. I was vaguely aware of his lips on my temple, a whisper in my ear. “I have to go, love. I’ll come again tonight. Will you let me see you?”
When I woke hours later, I couldn’t remember if I’d answered him or not.
Donato had them bring dinner to my room. Not the food Talia’s whores usually had, which was decent but simple. This had been prepared especially for me by Donato’s chef—small beef medallions grilled in rich butter, so tender they practically melted in my mouth. Sautéed mushrooms. Berries like we’d had on the yacht. Pieces of tangy cheese. A tart white wine.
He came in as they were clearing it away, and he brought dessert: candied orange peel coated in a rich dark chocolate. He fed me the first piece and smiled at the way my eyes rolled back at the taste. It was bittersweet and utterly decadent. It tasted like sin, and when I looked at him, I suspected he knew my thoughts.
“You’re trying to bribe me,” I said.
“Yes,” he admitted. “It’s one of the few things I know how to do.”
He fed me another piece, and I was reminded again of the yacht. I remembered clearly the way his fingers had tasted, the thrill they’d sent coursing through me. My pulse began to race. He leaned cl
oser and kissed me, his lips soft against mine.
I was torn. It felt good to be seduced by him, but I remembered the evening with Ayo too clearly, and I found myself pulling away.
He let me go. He stayed where he was and let me lean back in my seat. He reached up to touch my bruised cheek with his fingers. The swelling had gone down, but the discoloration remained.
“I hate that I did this.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Have you forgiven me yet?”
“I haven’t decided.”
He brushed his fingertips down my cheek, over my jaw to my neck. He trailed them over my collarbone. I shivered, half afraid, but half delighted. “I don’t want to force you,” he said quietly, “but these moods don’t last forever. I want to be able to make it up to you properly while I can still be gentle.”
I nodded, because I understood what he meant. Somewhere between this sweet tenderness and the nights of rage, lay a middle ground where we normally resided. In our normal evenings together, he was often forceful and demanding, but rarely cruel. I could handle those nights. I even enjoyed them more often than not. But I knew if he approached me that way now, with his violence so fresh in my mind, I’d be terrified.
He was trying. I recognized that. Not only by bringing me treats, but by coming to my room at all. By letting me choose if and when we made love again. But this window wouldn’t last forever.
I leaned forward, close enough that I could kiss him, although I stopped short.
“Convince me that you love me,” I said. “Even if it’s a lie. Even if it’s only for today.”
He smiled and slid his hand behind my neck. “Even it if it is only for today, it’s still not a lie.”
I felt a now-familiar sting behind my eyes. I didn’t want to cry in front of him again, but already a tightness that threatened to break me formed in my chest and throat. “Hurry.”
He kissed me, drying my cheeks with his thumbs as he did, pushing me gently back onto the bed. His weight against me was comforting, and I clung to him as he unbuttoned my shirt and spread it open, exposing me, leaving me more defenseless than I’d ever been. I began to quake with fear, and my tears came faster.
