The Devil's Russian Beauty

by Ana Lee Kennedy

  “I heard what you and your friend discussed on the other side of the wall.”

  She gaped up at him. Fuck, I’m a dead woman.

  “Hey, I won’t cause any trouble…for you,” he said. “But I can’t go to sleep at night knowing there are people being sold as sex slaves.”

  When she didn’t reply, he released her arm and stroked a thick lock of hair back out of her face that had come loose when she’d stumbled.

  “Are they mostly women?”

  She said nothing, her heart pounding so hard she thought she might pass out.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “Just nod once for yes and blink once for no.”

  She gave him a slight nod.

  “I’ll see what I can do to help.”

  “There’s nothing you can do.” She tossed her purse across to the passenger seat, followed by her shoes. She shut her eyes for a few seconds in an attempt to gather her wits. Behind them, traffic passed, the tires of each vehicle whirring over the pavement. Somewhere a little dog barked. Up the street, the squeal of tires sliced through the square. Something about this guy rattled her right down to her bones, a good rattle, one that told her that he meant what he said. Oh, to have an escape, to be able to—no, he was giving her false hope. “You don’t know Ezra.”

  “No, I don’t.” His smooth, bedroom voice rolled over her in a blanket of velvet. “I don’t even recall hearing his name when the Werewolves of Rebellion were dealing with Hudson’s shit. Where’d he come from? He certainly wasn’t Hudson’s second-in-command, was he?”

  “I’m not telling you anything else except for”—she straightened and darted her gaze around, suddenly fearful River Rebel eyes and ears were everywhere—“that Ezra isn’t right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s not like other people. He’s creepy.”

  “Like how?”

  “I’ve said enough. We can’t ever talk to each other again. Bye, Phil.” She climbed into her car, shut the door and started the engine, keeping the windows up so he couldn’t talk to her. Backing out, she kept her gaze on the parking lot. If she took one last look at him, she might run back to him and beg him to make her his.

  And wouldn’t that cause so much pain for so many people.

  * * *

  Phil hurried over to his Harley. Within moments, he sped out onto the street. If he stayed back far enough, he might be able to follow Daffodil without her noticing—at least he hoped so. There was no way he could go on with his life with the knowledge that he hadn’t alerted the authorities to the people being smuggled through the River Rebels’ compound. Women and young girls were shipped overseas as well as across the nation to fulfill the twisted needs of buyers. Some would be sent to pimps. Others would find themselves in the hands of sadistic monsters. He knew there was a demand for young boys, too, so if this Ezra guy wasn’t already dealing them, he would be soon.

  This had to be stopped. First, though, he had to see for himself what was going on.

  But scouting out the River Rebel’s MC was foolhardy without someone to watch his back. He didn’t have time to call Ass Crack, Tom or even Beastman right now. If he waited for someone to join him, he might lose Daffodil.

  And fuck if the leggy blonde didn’t turn him on. He didn’t care if she’d been a sweetbutt her entire life. She needed someone to take care of her.

  She needed him.

  Chapter Five

  “Why do you have to meet Scary Mary so late?” Frank asked.

  Bernadette looked up from tying her sneakers where she sat on the sunporch. “It’s not late, babe. It’s not even eight yet. Supper is done and cleaned up, everyone is chilling… What’s bothering you?”

  “It’s getting dark.”

  “That’s because we’re heading into autumn.” She stood and picked up the flashlight on the windowsill by the screen door.

  “Can’t you call her or something? Tell her you’ll meet her in the morning?”

  She looked at him, really studied his expression, his eyes. Unease resided there. “Babe? What is it?”

  He shrugged, then raked one hand through his hair. If the man didn’t stop his habit of pulling his fingers through his hair, he was going to go bald. She grinned. Even bald, he’d be sexy.

  “Just take the 9mm I gave you,” he said.

  She raised her shirt and showed him the shoulder holster. “I even loaded it with silver-coated bullets just to be on the safe side.”

  “And Steven is going with you.”

  Frustrated, Bernadette groaned. “Frank, he already thinks I’m going to eat him alive. Ever since Tony’s death, some members look at me like I had something to do with it.” Realization smacked her in the face. “Oh, wait. Is that what’s bothering you? That someone might hurt me because they think I’m using black magic?”

  “That’s a big part of it, yes.” He leaned against the doorframe.

  “And the other part?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s just… Well, something isn’t right.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  He straightened and crossed his arms over his chest. “You do?”

  Nodding, she took a spare windbreaker off one of the coat pegs by the porch door. “Something is…off. Whenever I’m in the presence of magic or someone’s supernatural power rises—such as when your wolf is piqued—my power rises, too, and it feels like I have hot water simmering beneath my skin. Whatever is causing it comes and goes.”

  “Then that’s all the more reason you should stay in this evening,” he said, reaching for her.

  “Frank, the more I learn about my abilities, the more I can help protect your clan.”

  “Our clan,” he said.

  She stared up into his onyx eyes. If only she could erase the worry lines etched into his forehead, show him that she was now perfectly capable of taking care of herself. “Okay, babe?”

  His gaze bored into her, his eyes flaring amber as he struggled with his inner wolf. He blinked, released her, then stepped back to lean through into the kitchen and holler, “Steven, get your ass out to the sunporch.”

  The prospect appeared within seconds, but upon seeing Bernadette, he sobered. “What’s up, Boss?”

  “Bernadette has to go see Scary Mary this evening, and I want you to escort her to the woman’s cabin.”

  The guy looked uncomfortable, even scared. “Uh…could you get someone else to do it?”

  Frank sighed. “Look, Bernadette did not kill Tony. She didn’t have a hand in it at all, and Scary Mary isn’t bad. Have you forgotten that Mary saved Bernadette, Puppy and the other women the day of the Claiming and Maiming? And that Bernadette helped kick Bloodbath’s ass? If she hadn’t thrashed him with her magic, Bloodbath would’ve gotten the upper hand on me and I probably wouldn’t be here standing in front of you right now.”

  With trepidation, Steven looked Bernadette up and down, then said, “All right.”

  “Take a weapon,” Frank told him. “Bernadette has one on her too.” He looked at Bernadette, his expression stern. “Don’t be long. If you’re not back by ten, I’ll come looking you.”

  “That doesn’t give me much time to—”

  “I mean it!”

  She startled at his ferocity. “All right.”

  He drew her into his arms and hugged her, placing his chin on top of her head. “I don’t mean to be a jerk, sweetheart. I’m following my instincts, and they tell me you need to be careful.”

  “I hear you.” Pulling out of his grasp, she shot a glance at Steven. “Let’s go.”

  The door slammed behind Daffi. Shit, she’d forgotten the hydraulic had been removed. The slam reverberated throughout the MC. Behind the bar counter, Ezra looked her way, and her heart dropped to join her stomach where it had bottomed out.

  “Daffodil Anastasia,” Ezra called. “So nice of you to join us.”

  Trembling swept through her body. Any time Ezra used her given name, she knew she was
going to receive punishment for something. As Ezra left the bar and strode toward her, she began her trek across the open floor to him. If she made him walk all the way to her, whatever punishment he had in mind would be doubly bad. She mustered bravado she didn’t feel and resigned herself to either getting backhanded across the face or knocked down and kicked a few times. She hoped it wasn’t the latter.

  “You have been a bad girl, my Russian beauty,” Ezra drawled.

  Passing one of the lounging areas, Daffi caught sight of Jess sitting next to Stickman. He offered her an apprehensive look, and Jess mouthed the words I’m sorry to her.

  “Yes, Jess told me you’d be late,” Ezra stated as he caught the exchange. “But you knew this was a delivery night, so you should have made excuses to your coworkers and left on time. The delivery just arrived, so the merchandise is already screaming and crying.” He stopped in front of Daffi, standing toe-to-toe with her. Without her usual high heels, he towered over her like a sequoia. “So, my pretty girl, what punishment do you deserve for your negligence?”

  As Daffi stared up into his eyes, she almost told him to kill her, to just end her life because she truly didn’t care anymore. She didn’t care because she had no hope. She didn’t care because one more beating wouldn’t push her into submission any further than she already was, nor would it force her to want to please him. All she wanted was for this shit life to end so she could have peace. Maybe in the next life she would find happiness.

  But, after all the shit she’d done to stay alive, she’d probably burn in hell regardless, so nothing mattered. She certainly didn’t, and neither did the poor women who were somewhere in the back of the building shivering in cages and crates.

  “Well, Daffodil?”

  Her resignation settled over her in a cold sweat. “Do whatever you feel is necessary.”

  He blinked. Surprise slid across his face.

  She didn’t even have time to brace herself. He punched her square in the face. Pain blossomed in her cheek and sliced through her nose, arrowing right up into her sinuses and behind her eyes until she thought her eyeballs would explode from their sockets. She wasn’t sure, but it felt like her teeth actually rattled. Something hard and unyielding struck her backside and her head. Gradually, she was aware she was lying on the floor, but the boot to her ribs several times forced her to curl into the fetal position. More pain stabbed her over and over. Jess’ cries reached her, as well as Stickman’s orders to shut up or she’d get the same punishment.

  Finally, the pain stopped and she gave herself over to oblivion.

  * * *

  Daffi awoke to horrible pain pounding in her ribs, her face, her lower back, and along one hip. She whimpered, then someone lifted her into a sitting position, creating more discomfort to whizz across her nerve endings. Another whimper escaped her, followed by a soft curse.

  She looked up into Stickman’s face.

  “Fuck, baby. You’re a mess.”

  “Gee, wonder why,” she snarked, then grimaced.

  “Get on your feet,” he ordered. “If you don’t, Ezra will beat you again. He was so pissed at Jess for crying for you that he knocked one of her teeth out.”

  “I can barely move now.” Tears slipped down her hot, swollen face. She had to breathe through her mouth. “I think he broke my nose.”

  “Ezra says you have a way of calming the merchandise, so get over there and do your magic.” He jerked his head in the direction of six heavily boarded crates from which crying and pleas emanated.

  With Stickman’s aid, she struggled to her feet and over to the crates. The area where shipments were stored looked like any other warehouse, except for the bloodstains here and there on the floor. A couple of guards stood ready with pry bars. When she reached the first box, the men pried the top off. Inside, Daffi found a girl no more than 16. Her mascara had run down her cheeks, sweat plastered her long platinum hair to her head, and she’d been stripped of everything except her white bra and cotton panties.

  “Please,” the girl said. “I want to go home.”

  “Be quiet and obey without question,” Daffi told her, cupping her cheek. “If you stick to those two rules, you’ll be okay. Always remember that. Hold on to those rules.”

  Tears coursed down the girl’s sweet face, then plopped from her chin to land on her thighs.

  “Okay?” Daffi said.

  Hesitantly, the teenager nodded, her eyes full of terror.

  “Hold on to those rules,” Daffi reinforced. “Don’t forget them.”

  “Are you…like me?” the girl questioned.

  “Since I was eight years old.”

  The teen’s lower lip wobbled and a sob tore from her.

  “Remember the rules, sweetie.”

  “Okay.”

  “If you stay quiet, someone will bring you a meal and a bottle of water,” Daffi said, wishing she could take the girl away from there.

  Again, the teen nodded.

  Daffi motioned to the guards, and they replaced the lid, this time using zip ties to lash the top on instead of the nails.

  Moving to the next crate, Daffi spoke in the same way to each abducted woman. This time Ezra was selling three teenage girls from about 15 years of age to 19, two brunettes in their early 20’s and a redhead who Daffi guessed to be 28 or 29. Most buyers wanted young, supple girls, but there were still those who liked more mature women, so occasionally, if they were attractive and took good care of their bodies, Ezra would collect women in their late 20’s to mid-30’s.

  The last woman reminded Daffi so much of her mother at that age that she had to stifle a gasp when she looked into the box.

  “Please,” the woman cried, “I need to go home. I have two little girls who need me. They’re 11 and 12. They have no one else…” The woman let out several high-pitched sobs, as if a flock of frightened birds had flown out of the crate.

  Frantic to shut her up, Daffi motioned for her to be quiet. “Shh, don’t say things like—”

  “Notify Ezra that wherever they picked up this woman, she has young girls who can be sold too,” one of the guards said to Stickman.

  “That’ll make him happy,” Stickman replied, as if the guy had just shot his dog. “Really young ones bring stupidly high prices.” He met Daffi’s gaze. “Don’t look at me like that, baby. You know this is a business.”

  “Fuck you!” Half walking and half limping away, she headed toward the door that led to the prostitutes’ rooms.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Stickman hollered. “You’re not done here. If you leave, Ezra will kick your fucking ass.”

  She didn’t bother to reply. She felt nothing anymore. Pain was just pain. Eventually it faded. If Ezra wanted to beat her again, fine. At least when she passed out she could leave this world for a time.

  At the end of the hall, she paused, checking for Ezra’s whereabouts, then she hobbled across the MC and over to the stairs leading to the nicer units where hers was. When she finally reached her room, she let herself in, locked the door—not that it would keep anyone out—and limped over to the tiny bathroom. The tub wasn’t one where she could stretch out in luxury, but it served its purpose, and a hot, soothing bath was just the ticket for the screaming pain in her ribs and hip.

  After she turned the water on and adjusted the temperature, she poured a healthy dose of lavender-and-vanilla oil, a luxury she seldom bought for herself from the Nightshade women’s boutique, into the tub, then stripped and settled herself gingerly into the bath. As she began to relax, the lock to the door disengaged, followed by the door opening, then shutting. An angry sigh whooshed out of her. Privacy here was as rare as fart diamonds.

  “There you are,” Stickman said.

  “I can’t go far.” She kept her eyes shut. The silence stretched.

  “Ezra’s still pissed off at you.”

  “So?”

  “You really don’t care?” Stickman asked.

  “No.”

  “Why are you
suddenly so difficult?”

  She frowned but didn’t open her eyes. “Why do I have to be treated like shit? I am a human being, but because I’m a woman, I don’t count. Just like none of those slaves Ezra has in storage counts.”

  Movement finally forced her to look up at him. He’d lowered himself to his knees and kneeled with his hands on the edge of the tub. “Most people really don’t have a choice in this life, Daffi. Sure, there are those with nine-to-five jobs, those who sit at home and raise their kids while their spouse works, kids who go to college, but the harsh reality is that the ones who are homeless, those who live in terrible poverty and those involved in illegal trafficking outweigh the ones who have stability in their lives.” Stickman leaned over and probed her nose, his fingers rough but warm. “Your nose isn’t broken, just bruised and swollen.” He took one of the two clean washcloths off a tiny shelf over the toilet and dunked it in the sweet-smelling water. “People like you and me do what we have to in order to survive.”

  “I’m tired of surviving,” she replied with venom. “I want to live.”

  As Stickman began soaping up the cloth with some gel out of a dollar bottle kept on the corner of the tub, Daffi let her mind wander. If she had a real life, she wouldn’t be sitting here now in a hot tub of water, praying the pain in her body would fade. The Wraithkillers had been rough, but Crow, and any of his men, had ever beaten her or any of her fellow sheep for stupid reasons. Most of the hard knocks she’d gotten were from fighting with other sweetbutts over men, drugs and money. Crow and his MC might be outlaws, but they were nothing compared to the River Rebels and their new president. She’d heard the whispers throughout the MC about Hudson getting out of the pen in a few months, but she highly doubted Ezra would step down as acting president. She wouldn’t be surprised if Hudson had an accident while in prison so he could never return to his MC. She’d seen the same thing happen when she’d been in another MC gang outside of Chicago. She’s been really young then, but she’d had enough sense to lay low and not draw attention to herself. Eventually, she’d been passed to a less vicious gang as a bonus for helping with an especially dicey drug sale.