“Rebecca told me something about you,” he murmured. My eyes snapped to his as I wondered what on earth she had said. “You used to like having your hair brushed.” His eyes took in my short hair. I didn’t say anything, I was completely confused as to why Rebecca would have told him that. “Did Jonas make you cut it?”
I shook my head, running my fingers nervously through the soft wavy locks. “No, Shakhta. I asked Mast...” I paused, fear forcing my words to stop. Shakhta’s eyes were not berating; his features were calm and relaxed. “I asked Jonas to have it cut, to stop the other men from pulling it.”
Shakhta sat forward, his arms rested on his knees. “I’m sorry you had to endure that,” he murmured.
I couldn’t understand why he would be sorry. He didn’t do it.
“I’ll be right back.” Shakhta stood abruptly and disappeared into the bedroom, returning less than a minute later with a brush in hand.
I watched him cross to me, his movements perfectly noiseless and almost seductive. Such masculine beauty made my heart race just as his smile had done. Was this feeling attraction? Attraction was dangerous. I had been attracted to both Jonas and William at one stage, and both of them had taken turns in systematically destroying my soul.
“Would you like me to brush your hair?” Shakhta offered.
No one had brushed my hair since I was a little girl. The idea spiked a rush of excitement in me. “Yes please, Shakhta,” I whispered.
“Would you mind sitting on the ground here, I can sit behind you more comfortably then.” I slid to the floor and watched as Shakhta sat down behind me, his strong legs framing my small body. At the first sweep of the brush through my ridiculously short hair, my body trembled and a war broke out between my heart, body, and mind. The former two very much in favor of the familiar strokes, the latter was caught somewhere between shock and fear. He followed each stroke with a gentle caress of his palm and the tenderness was a reminder of all that I had lost. I shouldn’t be letting him touch me like this. Even though he believed that he too had sinned, the depths of his depravity had nothing on the things I had seen and done, but I selfishly wanted to cling to this moment.
I vaguely remembered my mother brushing my long hair. She would hum as she did so, one hundred strokes of the brush so that it would grow long and healthy or so she said. Back in the days when the most difficult things I encountered were sharing toys and being scared of monsters in my closest. Then following one warm April evening my parents were gone. God saw in His infinite wisdom that He should snatch them from B and I, leaving us alone and afraid. I had been a wistful, energetic child, and following my parents death, I stepped it up a notch. I was angry, confused and demanded the world show me some sort of beauty. I lived with defiance. I was stubborn, fearless and full of dreams. I left Claymont, I left B, and in my wake I left nothing but a measly note trying to explain my need for freedom. In an attempt to find that freedom, I found nothing but captivity. My body and soul had been taken from me, my heart shattered, and my search for proof that there was beauty to be found in this world, ripped away from me. I had lived an ugly life, surrounded by ugly people in what I had come to realize was an ugly world. But right now, in this one simple moment, I found a small glimmer of peace. As my eyes shuttered closed, my mind seemed to drift with the gentle rocking of the opulent yacht I was trapped on. The soothing strokes pushed the fear of the liquid depths surrounding me away, and for a single moment in time they made the ugly world I had lived in seem like a distant memory.
A low cough brought me plummeting back to reality. My eyes snapped open and took in a woman standing just outside the glass door that separated the elegance of the yacht’s interior from its exterior. She was tall, with a golden tan that made me instantly jealous. Her long thick chestnut hair was drawn back into a high ponytail, and her brown eyes were lined with thick lashes as they took in Shakhta and me. She was wearing tan cargo shorts with a fitted black tank top over ample breasts. I wasn’t jealous of the woman’s exotic beauty; I had seen plenty of beautiful women and I had been told of my own beauty often enough to believe it to be true. But beauty was skin deep and the toxic hate inside beautiful people tarnished the outside, so no, I wasn’t jealous of beauty. What did bother me though was the way she arched a brow in our direction and seemed to take in Shakhta with enough familiarity for me to realize they had some sort of a past. I was not oblivious to relationships where sharing was common place. I had been Jonas’ submissive; he had collared me, yet he allowed others to touch me frequently. Perhaps Shakhta had a similar relationship with this woman. The thought actually made a sick feeling coil in my stomach.
“Emily, this is Gabriella; she works for Montgomery Securities. Gabbie, this is Emily.”
Gabbie. She had a nickname that rolled off Shakhta’s tongue almost affectionately. And I had been delegated to Emily rather than Em. I didn’t like it or the feeling that accompanied it. This was why I wanted to be numb—emotions and feelings were too hard—they hurt.
Gabbie smiled and it was full of honest sincerity. “It’s nice to meet you. I thought I’d see if you would like me to set up the grill. I thought maybe we could grill some fish, make up a salad.”
Shakhta stopped brushing. “We only had breakfast a couple of hours ago, but you know me, I’m always up for food.” Gabbie smiled warmly at Shakhta. She cast us one last curious glance before turning to leave, and I found the nerve to speak up without my Master’s permission.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
Gabriella glanced over her shoulder, a question in her perfectly arched brow.
“For the clothes,” I explained. Her smile was genuine.
“Couldn’t have you sauntering around the yacht naked. Bomber is a breasts man, he wouldn’t have been able to pry his eyes away. Larz wouldn’t have been able to stop blushing, and Mr. Possessive here would likely have beaten them both to a bloody pulp for just looking.” With that she left us alone again.
I felt more than heard Shakhta’s soft sigh behind me. “How’s your head, Em? The sedative I gave you can sometimes cause a lingering headache.” I was all of a sudden Em again. I silently chastised myself for the foolish hurt I was feeling. I was a broken submissive being delivered home by a temporary master. Nothing more, nothing less. I took note of my body, of my head, searching for pain or discomfort. I was far too accustomed to pain. I had lived with it on a daily basis for so long it was almost peculiar not to feel it. A low ache at the base of my skull confirmed the presence of a headache but it was hardly worthy of notice.
“I’m fine. Thank you, Shakhta,” I whispered.
“How about you help me put a salad together?” Shakhta suggested.
This made me nervous for numerous reasons. First and foremost, I didn’t know how to cook. I had never had a need for it. Master Jonas…Jonas had a house chef always on staff. I glanced over my shoulder, and Shakhta had a sexy smirk on his face that made my stomach flip with anticipation. Anticipation of what, I wasn’t sure. My body was responding to him, to the way he looked. I was most definitely attracted to him.
“From the horrified expression on your face, I am assuming you don’t cook much?”
I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. Blushing was a physical response I thought I had long ago done away with. In the life I had been forced into, there was no room for inhibitions or embarrassment. However, Shakhta had brought color to my cheeks without any effort or use of sexual innuendos. The smile that followed his playful smirk began low on his lips catching at one corner and led to a full-fledged grin that made his eyes crinkle in the corners. I followed the path of his joy, my eyes taking in every inch of happiness, my own lips frozen like stone in a frown that felt perpetually unbreakable.
“Come on, I’ll teach you.” Shakhta easily stepped over me and I quickly stood and followed him to the state-of-the-art kitchen.
Once all the ingredients were set in front of us, Shakhta had me slicing tomatoes. Easy, I could do this, and it would he
lp keep my mind off the movement of the yacht. Well, it had done so until I peered out the window and found myself wondering if we could possibly hit an iceberg or something and sink. I looked back down at the tomatoes and tried valiantly to ignore my fears.
“Shakhta?” I couldn’t help but seek out his permission to speak.
“Hmmm?” Shakhta answered as he expertly diced and sliced the leafy greens, while I slowly and painstakingly dissected a tomato.
“What did you say your boat was called, Shakhta?” I watched his lips twitch with the need to smile.
“My yacht is called Utonut' Moi Grekhi.”
I was watching Shakhta handle the knife at my side like a pro, and I tried to emulate his movements. “May I ask what that means, Shakhta?”
“You may ask me anything you wish, Em. It is Russian for drown my sins. Larz thought it was in bad taste to have a vessel with the word ‘drown’ in its name, but I’m the type of man that cannot be deterred once I have set my sights on something.” The depth of his statement was profound as his dark eyes pierced mine. I was unable to hold his gaze so I invested all my concentration on the tomatoes before me.
“You speak Russian, Shakhta?”
“I do. My stepfather is Russian. I was taught from an early age though I rarely use the language anymore.”
I tried to discreetly watch Shakhta from the corner of my eye. “Not even with your family?”
His gaze looked sad for a moment. “I don’t see my family anymore, Em. You almost finished?” He changed the conversation swiftly, his voice void of emotion.
In my haste to finish, my hand slipped, and the knife sliced my finger.
“Em!” Shakhta suddenly cried out.
The force of his voice caused my hands to drop, my head to lower submissively. I had upset my Master; my body immediately sank to a position of forgiveness while tensing ever so slightly in preparation for punishment. Shakhta’s strong hands gently took my injured finger and wrapped a clean dish towel around it to stem the flow of blood. While holding my hand against his chest, his other hand cupped my chin and lifted my gaze.
“No punishment, Em, I promised remember?”
I nodded. I had remembered, but I still didn’t trust him. There was always punishment—always.
“I’m going to take a look and see if you need stitches.”
I nodded again. As if unwrapping a fragile gift, Shakhta pulled away the towel. Blood pooled from a deep gash in my finger.
His gaze darted to mine for a moment. “I don’t think it will need stitches. Let’s clean it up and put a small bandage on.”
I nodded again, woodenly and despondent. My body was still guarded, as if awaiting the flogging that would surely come. Shakhta led me to the bedroom, pushed at my shoulders in a silent request to sit, and I did. He disappeared into the bedroom and came back out with what I assumed was a first aid kit.
He knelt before me and began another careful examination of my finger. “This is going to sting a little.”
I watched him raise the bottle of liquid and pour it directly over the cut. There was some pain but nothing unfamiliar and not entirely uncomfortable. Shakhta watched me carefully as he continued to dry and wrap the cut. Once he finished, he sat back on his heels still vigilantly watchful.
Just before I had a chance to become uneasy with his meticulous consideration of me, he spoke, “It bothers me that this doesn’t bother you.” His head nodded toward my hand that now rested in my lap.
It was just a cut. I wasn’t sure what he expected from me. Tears? Flinching? I had endured worse, much worse.
“It was the same in the hospital; your reaction to pain is one of indifference.” Not quite sure how to respond I kept quiet. “It’s not a normal way to react to pain.”
Suddenly I felt nervous. Jonas had assured me that I would not be able to fit into everyday society; that I was not normal and people would notice. He told me I would more than likely be institutionalized, locked away with all the other crazy people.
“Shakhta, it was just a small cut,” I whispered fearfully.
“When you were in the hospital in Claymont, you refused pain medication.”
A thought suddenly occurred to me that Shakhta might think I got off on pain. There were men and women out there who enjoyed pain on a sexual level. Perhaps he thought I was one of those people, a masochist of sorts.
“I don’t like medication that makes me sleepy, Shakhta. I don’t like being helpless,” I quickly explained.
He raised his hand, and just when I thought he might place it on my knee, he hesitated. He had promised me he wouldn’t touch me without my permission, a promise which I found almost laughable, if I ever remembered how to laugh again. He was my Master; I was his slave, his property. He could do as he wished with me. Curiously, for the first time I could ever remember, I wanted this Master’s touch. I wanted to make him happy. I took his hand and placed it carefully on the exposed skin of my knee. The warmth under his large gentle hand felt soothing, and I could not hold back the soft sigh that tumbled from my lips in a whisper of air. His touch was protective and tender, so unfamiliar yet desirable. The pleasure of this touch was captured in Shakhta’s dark eyes. Any further words were caught in my throat. I was utterly speechless. This large, mysterious almost fearsome warrior was looking at me with such lust and yearning. I couldn’t breathe and didn’t move. While part of me hungered for his touch, I was afraid of it, too. Shakhta’s fingers moved ever so slightly on my skin, as if testing the feel under his hand. There were no scars on my knees; the skin was smooth and blemish free.
“I can understand that. I’m not fond of sedatives and pain medication for that same reason, but your response to the pain itself is…” He seemed to struggle to find the words.
“Detached?” I offered, because that was the simple truth. Shakhta nodded, the movement jerky and forced. “Shakhta, I don’t know any other way to be. You’ve seen my body, and if you have even the slightest idea of who Mast…I mean Jonas is, then you have a small understanding of what I have been through.”
Shakhta shook his head. “I know Jonas took you against your will, Em, I know you did things that you didn’t want to do, but I’m not entirely sure what brought you to this level of detachment to pain. To be honest, I’m not sure I could even handle hearing what you went through. I fear it will make me quite angry.” I sighed, and after a moment’s hesitation, I allowed my hand to settle over his. My hand was much smaller than his; my nails were perfectly trim and smooth whereas Shakhta’s were a little dirty and chipped. I marveled in the difference between my new Master’s and old Master’s touch. Jonas’ hands were perfectly smooth, but delivered such pain. Shakhta’s hands were slightly rough, but had not shown me any pain. Yet.
“Jonas was my Master, and for a price he shared me in his clubs. I don’t enjoy pain, in fact, I hate it. But I was shared with masochists who got off on delivering pain, even to a sub that didn’t get off on receiving it. Another of Jonas’ subs taught me some simple meditative techniques to help me withdraw from the pain and to cope with it. Removing my conscious thought from the actual physical aspect was something I learned over a long period of time, but it no doubt helped me cope with those occasions, and perhaps these occasions.” I lifted my bandaged finger and concentrated on the pain. It was there, but it was nothing but a dull ache that caused me little to no discomfort.
“I hate that you had to go through that, Malen’kaya,” Shakhta confessed. I lifted my solemn gaze to his. I wanted to ask him what that word meant. I hated the fear and hesitation in asking something so simple. In the end I didn’t need to ask him, he somehow knew. “Little One,” he whispered. “It means little one.” I liked his name for me; it was so simple, so innocuous. I wanted to gather the name to my heart and never let it go.
“That was the easiest part of what I went through, Shakhta. Being forced, being physically hurt can break a woman, but over time a broken woman can be rebuilt. Jonas shared me with one particular
man, who wasn’t like the others—his hands were gentle—and I hated him because of it. He made sure I found pleasure every time he touched me, and it was always in front of a crowd. Jonas knew how much I hated my body’s response to him, so I was shared with him often and it was always on display. It was Jonas’ way of reminding me that I completely belonged to him, that even my pleasure was something he controlled. It was those moments—when my body craved something my mind and heart didn’t want—that destroyed me. Those are my sins.”
A low growl emitted from Shakhta’s throat which shocked me a little. Shaking his head in frustration, he turned his hand so it no longer rested on my knee but captured my own hand so our fingers tangled together as if we were no longer two, but one.
“I can’t change your past, Em. What I can do is change your future though, and that’s what I intend to do. I’m going to prove to you that those so called sins are not yours to carry, and I’m going to give you back the freedom that was taken from you. I promise you.” His eyes almost sparkled with the depth of his sincerity. “And you will come to realize that I keep my promises.” With one last squeeze he let go of my hand and rose. “Why don’t you rest in here for a while, and I’ll call you when dinner is ready?”
I nodded, my hand feeling cold at the loss of his touch. I had never held hands with a boy or a man. It was such a simple gesture that broke my heart to be without. As I mourned the loss of Shakhta’s soothing hand and gentle promises, he left the room quietly.
Tortured Soul Page 6
