Conquer (XXX Vadim Book 3): Club XXX Book 6

by Lana Sky

  “Who is Irina? Who was she to you? What did she say?”

  “Irina…” He sighs, and rolls onto his side, capturing me in his arms, drawing me against him, my back against his chest. His mouth settles against the back of my skull, his hands on my breasts. The heaviness in his voice tempers any lust the position inspires. In some ways, I feel like what It is to Magda—a security blanket, being crushed for comfort. “We were not lovers,” he says into my hair. “I need you to understand that, because when I describe our relationship… It was never sexual. But given the nature of our environment at the time, sex with another was not a necessity.”

  I wince, my heart aching for him, as it does every time I try to picture the horrific trappings of his childhood.

  “Emotional connection, however?” he continues gruffly. “That was a commodity we both sought with an almost addicted fervor. But not in the way you are thinking. More like… The need to feel superior. Challenged. Our games revolved around the manipulation of others. Our captors. Our clients. We were damn good at utilizing those we could control to the fullest extent—and relishing in that power. It was all we had.”

  I slip my arms from his protective cocoon and tentatively stroke the length of his arm, sensing his need for something reassuring. Something to tether him from that darkness. He grunts, gripping me even tighter while lowering his mouth to my throat.

  “We were kept like dolls,” he explains, his tone empty. Lifeless. “Locked into rooms for clients to pick from the way one might select a garment from a rack. Those who couldn’t learn to turn off their pain—perform and endure—didn’t last. But I endured, and Irina? She thrived. We were both young when we came to him. I might have been thirteen? Fourteen? She wasn’t much older, a beauty from Eastern Europe trafficked by her own family to pay off gambling debts. We were…favorites, of our owner,” he says, his voice hitching over the word. Favorites. He’s used it before I realize, and I suspect that term means more than the superficial definition. It was a shackle.

  “The sick bastard used us more than the others. Demanded more from us. He dangled our appeal before his most prized clients, and we did what we could to beat each other at the game. If she could learn political secrets from one powerful dignitary, then I would learn firsthand intelligence from another. If she gained a necklace as a token, then I would cajole a more expensive trinket from my own abuser. We traded knowledge and money and companionship, each of us fighting to cement their role as the better player. The strongest. The coldest. We were just children,” he admits, his voice deepening. “Surviving the only way we knew how. And that way involved backstabbing and intrigue. If Irina were assigned to a client she didn’t like, I would be manipulated to perform in her place. If there were a punishment awaiting her for food she’d stolen, or rules she’d broken, I somehow would be the one to wind up lashed. I let her use me as her scapegoat,” he adds, his voice thickening as if only now can he admit that to himself. “I let her take from me. Toy with me… Abandon me when she saw her own escape.”

  And in the process, he learned to mistrust those around him, seeing any and all forms of communication as strictly transactional.

  “I never begrudged her then,” he admits, flexing his fingers over my breasts, making me shiver in a tormented mixture of pleasure from his touch and disgust at his words. “But our owner, the Collector… He enjoyed his favorites too much, and so sick a man he was… He aimed to breed us—but not on our own terms, mind you. I don’t even know how advanced the technology was back then, but one by one, we were dragged off to the medical suite. Strapped down. Prodded. Poked. Our liberties and DNA taken as though we were animals in a kennel, matched with the intent for our offspring to be bought and sold. My turn came not long before I escaped,” he adds coldly. “I was sure I’d torched the place to ashes, burning all traces of those experiments.”

  “So…you think Irina took your ‘samples’ for Magda?” I don’t know how to say it without sounding foolish. A naïve innocent crudely narrating the darkest details of his past as though they’re a spectacle to gape over.

  But if anything, some of the tension from him eases, his lips nuzzling my heated flesh. And for the first time, I reconcile the fact that he’s holding me at all—not staring into place, numbly recounting this like the few other times we’ve broached this topic.

  “Irina was always cunning,” he says. “Cunning and calculating. Those times she used me to her own ends? She always had a token on the other end to make up for it, or so she saw them as. For instance, after I’d be whipped for her crimes, she’d sneak a priceless jewel into my chambers. Or a sweet. Though those gifts were always predicated by a desire on her part to use me again. They always carried a price.”

  And thus, a brooding, ice-cold transactional man was born from the darkness of such a cruel life.

  “If she did manage to get a hold of our ‘samples.’ Have Magdalene… To her, the girl would only ever be a token. A means to an end—and by dangling her before me, eventually, there will be a price to be paid in return.”

  But in the case of his daughter, I don’t think he’ll hesitate to pay it, whatever it may be.

  “What did she want when she came by the house?” I ask warily.

  “Nothing,” he rasps, but his voice is gruff with unease. Unsteady. “Nothing. She told me she ‘missed me,’ then she left. No mention of Magdalene. Not even a fucking confirmation or a threat. And that is what…frightens me. She always wants something. Everything is a means to an end.”

  “But Magda isn’t a token,” I whisper, matching his apparent protectiveness.

  “Nor a toy,” he agrees. “And I am not the same broken little boy she left behind.”

  I shiver at the ferocity in his tone, my heart aching for him. Thinking quickly, I resist his grip enough to twist around to face him and loop my arms around his neck. Desperate to distract him, I kiss a path up from his collar bone to his mouth, grinding my hips with every teasing peck.

  He lunges into the kiss, pinning me beneath him, easily parting my legs.

  And this time, I let him take from me.

  Whatever he needs.

  All that he can salvage.

  Everything.

  Chapter Ten

  We return to my parents’ house in the morning to find Magda once again in the garden, but this time sampling frozen treats—sugar-free I see at a glance—on a picnic blanket spread out beneath one of the orange trees. Mother and Daddy sit on either side of her, each cajoling her into trying a new delicacy, their laughter carefree.

  My heart swells in my chest. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them so relaxed—let alone my mother willingly sit so close to the actual earth. Her eyes sparkle as she runs her fingers through Magda’s loose curls as Daddy shapes orange peels with his tongue to make her giggle.

  “Your kid is a master manipulator,” I tell Vadim in awe as we watch her work from the obscurity of the sunroom. “I think someone will wind up with a very good haul at Christmas.”

  His jaw clenches at that, his gaze constricted with an emotion I can’t read just yet. Something every bit as tender and delicate as the freshly blooming flowers spreading their petals throughout the garden. If I stumble too close to it now, I might wind up crushing it.

  So instead, I coax him out where we join the makeshift picnic much to Magda’s delight. Soon enough, rather than just two peons to fawn over her, her court grows to four, and every bit the little princess, she plays her role to the fullest extent.

  “Can we go to the beach?” she asks, once we’ve eaten lunch and my parents have gone off in search of more things to placate her with—my father with the promise of showing her his power tools once he’s cleaned the shed, and my mother in the process of fetching every dress I’d ever worn from storage.

  “The beach…” Vadim locks eyes with me, conceding the decision to my discretion, I suspect. Something tells me he’s well aware of the sensitive ground venturing into town treads upon for me.

 
; But my past wounds aren’t Magda’s problem.

  “I can show you my old haunts,” I tell her, tugging at a curl. “I loved hanging out on Faraday beach.”

  Just like that, we bundle into the car and enter the town I haven’t stepped foot in since my divorce was finalized over six months ago. It’s one of those small, overly beautiful, secretly judgmental, and cloistered coastal towns with none of the allure of say, Orange County, but twice the charm.

  I’m pleased to find most of my old favorite cafes and boutiques are still in business, gearing up for the peak tourist season.

  “You lived here,” Magda says, this time with utter confidence, her eyes on a gaggle of giggling blond teens decked out in matching designer fashions.

  “Hey!” I elbow her in the shoulder as we leave the car parked beyond the boardwalk. “I would never walk in an identical cluster. I was the trendsetter, not the follower.”

  Her sly grin tells me she doubts that assessment.

  Still, we trailblaze our own path through the beach bum clones, lazily patrolling the boardwalk before skimming past the water as Magda skips through the waves, her sandals in hand, her smile infectious.

  “Something tells me you’re considering investing in a beach house,” I taunt Vadim once I spy the way he’s watching her. Avidly, like a man who thought he’d never see the sun experiencing a full-on supernova up close and personal.

  “Already in the process of closing on one,” he admits, running his finger along the collar of his casual button-down. “Seeing your family’s home sold me on vacationing in wine country.”

  I have to wonder if this purchase came before or after our makeup session last night. Judging from his smirk, he won’t tell.

  I lean against him rather than prod, slipping my hand in his as his other arm goes around me. I crave this nearness now more than ever—because as much as I hate to admit it, there is a reason I preferred to stay on the East coast, shacking up with a sexy, handsome billionaire rather than come back home.

  Being here still stings.

  We’ve passed the seaside diner Jim took me to early on in our relationship. And the spot on the beach where he proposed—but with a stand-in ring because his father’s credit line at the jewelry store hadn’t gone through at the time. Now, we’re nearing the overlook where he liked to stroll, showing me off like arm candy before he tired of me.

  I’m doing my best to ignore the poisonous nostalgia, but my mood must plummet to the point that even Vadim senses it.

  “Let’s take a break,” he suggests, stopping short before a row of white picnic tables positioned with a view of where the boardwalk intersects the beach. “How about some ice cream?”

  “Okay!” Magda takes his hand without a second thought, and they head off toward a frozen treat stand a few paces away. I find myself scanning the stream of traffic combing through the boardwalk as I wait, letting my brain run rampant with vicious scenarios.

  I wonder if Jim is enjoying life with his new baby and harlot. If he takes her here, to these places, and she’s dumb enough to assume they belong to her alone. If they both expect that I’m somewhere in hiding, living off his alimony payments and seething with jealousy.

  I think that’s the part that alarms me the most. I’m not seething. I’m pissed—so very pissed with myself and the fact that I suffered for so long. Lied to myself for so long.

  And all for what?

  To discover that the world beyond my marriage could be ten times more beautiful, and sexier and fulfilling. And I never had to change the person I was—not really. Dumb, lazy Tiffy could thrive when given the chance, with or without a relationship to assign her value.

  Fuck Jim, may he rot in marital bliss.

  But, because the world is cruel, I think I wind up conjuring him from thin air.

  I almost mistake him for another balding, beer-gut sporting beachgoer at first. But no. No one else could sport that smug posture, like a peacock strutting, wanting the whole world to see the gussied-up, naïve little hen he’d cajoled into marrying him. His hen looks even younger than Francesca when glimpsed out in the open and not scurrying from me in the church corridors or cowering in Jim’s shadow.

  She’s slender, with ginger waves curling down her back, a baby balanced on her hip. He has his arm around her, showing off the sexy young piece of ass a washed-up man his age managed to score.

  But shock isn’t what has me lurching to my feet, toying with the idea of running back to the car. Just pain. Because I recognize that look on her face—the thin-lipped smile, and simpering expression. God, how could I face myself in the mirror every day and not see it before?

  But they see me. Jim cocks his head, frowning once he spots an unwelcome addition to his fawning crowd. He squints as if unsure if it really is me—dressed in a sexy, A-line beige sundress, my hair hanging loose in the style he never liked, my makeup bold and obvious.

  His lips twitch in that ugly way, a hallmark of his irritation. Most often glimpsed when I said the wrong thing or seemingly embarrassed him, and he felt the need to “set me straight” with some cruel tirade. Rather than approach me, he tugs his new bride closer, almost protectively.

  Because in his tiny brain, I’m still in love with him. Still pining for him. I bet he thinks I followed him here on purpose, waited for him.

  Fuck him.

  I don’t even realize I’m taking a step forward until a pair of tiny arms goes around my waist. “Mommy!” a little girl chirps, clamoring for my attention. “We got you ice cream! Do you like it?”

  A masculine arm encircles my shoulders, as the child—who I’m startled to recognize as Magda—flanks my opposite side.

  “Here you go, baby,” Vadim murmurs, pressing a cone piled high with strawberry ice cream into my hand, his lips soft on my cheek. And yet his voice is loud enough for anyone within ten yards to easily here. “It’s about time we got back, don’t you think?”

  Like orderlies guiding a wayward patient, he and Magda block me in, forcing me down the length of the boardwalk. Purposefully I suspect. And yet, I can’t resist glancing back, just enough to see Jim’s face.

  “Keep walking,” Vadim tells me, his tone gently insistent. “Let’s savor this moment.”

  Savor…

  He couldn’t know who Jim is, could he? I look over to find him and Magda trading conspiratorial winks, and then it clicks. Hell, yes, he knows.

  And he intervened to give me a revenge too sweet to have devised on my own.

  “You two and your mind games,” I murmur, equally awed and impressed.

  Poor Jim. He’ll probably spend all night wondering if it really was me he saw—the woman he supposedly defeated—or a stranger with a beautiful life he could only dream of.

  I’ve never dreaded leaving my parents’ home more. Even Magda seems to sulk at the prospect after a week spent gardening and playing dress up in my old wardrobe. Vadim, ever the resigned stoic, is the one level-headed enough to muster us to the airport after three days spent in utter bliss.

  “I mean it, Tiffy,” my mother scolds as she and Daddy follow us out to the car. “We expect you back for the summer holidays. And Magdalene, darling, I’ll take you to all of the clubs once they open. Oh, all of the girls will find you so darling, and we can get you into tennis lessons, and maybe if your father does decide to try out a pageant or two—”

  “Stay in the muck, kid,” Daddy says with a knowing wink. “You’ll learn more rooting through the dirt than you ever could in some fancy dress.”

  “Oh, Harold,” my mother whines in exasperation.

  They fuss as Vadim claims the driver’s seat, and we make our escape. In the end, the journey home isn’t anywhere near as daunting as I’d initially thought. Travel with one stoic—and a mini-stoic in tow—is an experience in of itself. Especially when Magda struggles to hide her excitement during her second plane trip, and Vadim loses himself in the pure joy of watching her eagerly prattle about plane engines and aerodynamics.

 
When she finally tires out, I find myself seated beside him, my head on his shoulder, his fingers lazily parting my hair.

  “How did you know?” I ask, eyeing the clouds rolling beneath us beyond the windows. “About my ex?”

  He shrugs, his expression neutral. “I noticed you were uncomfortable, and I made a logical leap to the obvious conclusion.”

  Fair enough. But as I submit to his gentle stroking, he adds, “And, I may or may not have researched the man the second I learned you were divorced.”

  “Oh,” I croak, stunned by the implications of that confession. Seemingly harmless. But seemingly not, considering Vadim’s wealth of resources. Not to mention his knack for manipulation.

  “I don’t think your arrival caused his ill mood, however,” he explains, going a step further in his assessment of my ex’s mental state than even I did. “It seems that persistent rumors of his infidelity may have reached the leadership of your old parish. Poor James may have been relieved of his duties for the time being, given the rumor of impropriety.”

  I gasp and bolt upright, placing my hand on his chest. “You didn’t! You devil!” I’m grinning ear to ear, though, even as I feign utter shock. “I, good Sir, am a lady far beyond the machinations of revenge.”

  “Of course,” he concedes, drawing me back to him, his lips brushing my forehead. “As am I. As am I…”

  Hours later, when we finally pull up to the house, I’m alarmed to find that I’m not anywhere near as homesick as I’d assumed I would be. My family home in California is a beautiful oasis, but when glimpsed in the dappling evening sunset that reflects like embers over the water, I have to admit that Vadim’s home has a certain charm to it.

  Even Magda seems affected, skipping up the front walkway, It dangling from her hand. She moves assuredly, with the knowledge that this is hers. Her home.

  But somewhere between the last section of the path and the front door, she stops short. The color drains from her face, and Vadim is before her instantly.