He wanted to sleep, but something wouldn’t let him. From the back of his drained mind, the answer came—his woman wasn’t on her leash. He wasn’t worried about her getting away or running away. It was just the very idea of his woman not being chained to his bed that irritated him. He took a moment to peel off what was left of his uniform.
Mustering up more strength than he believed possible, he cradled her limp body and carried her upstairs. It was only when he secured her delicate-looking leash back to her silver locator that he was able to crawl into bed next to her and sleep.
When Darvlicht woke up again, it was morning. He groaned. He’d only just gone to bed, yet his body always awoke at dawn. He’d trained himself too completely to oversleep. Officers awoke at dawn. Period. That’s what he’d been told, over and over again, through the course of his training—officers awoke at dawn, officers awoke at dawn.
Exhaustion combined with his rage. He was just about to reach for one of his weapons, one of the tools he liked to use on his lovers, when he suddenly remembered it wasn’t next to him. Instead, his war prize was curled up in his arms. The feel of her warm breath against his chest calmed him, the way it so often did. He held her tighter. The next thing he knew, sleep pulled him under.
When he woke up again, it was dimmer in the house. Evening. He’d slept all day. All fucking day. Had he ever done that before? More basic concerns carefully listed themselves in his head. He could use a shower. He could use food. His woman would probably wake up famished. He glanced at the small table in his bedroom, ensuring she at least had her usual stash of fruit, nuts and candy, but she needed a more substantial meal. When had he last prepared a meal for her? He wasn’t sure. Too long.
He staggered into the shower and made his brain focus on what needed to be done. His mind carefully reviewed and selected what supplies he had in his kitchen as the water poured over him. He’d pushed her hard last night. She needed a good meal. By the time he wrapped himself up in his robe, it was dark outside.
He silently went downstairs to prepare both himself and his woman some food. He couldn’t stop himself from looking in the formal dining room and smiling. He walked into his living room and fiddled with his stereo before retrieving an old CD he had in his collection, Schubert’s Death and the Maiden. Somehow, it seemed appropriate.
He moved to the kitchen as music filled the house. He found some nice fillets in his fridge and some potatoes in his pantry. He sliced the potatoes up thin and fried them in some oil while he cooked the steaks in a pan. He couldn’t think of anything heartier than steak and potatoes.
As he prepared their dinner, he again wondered what was becoming of him. Usually, he spent the Saturday after The Recital either buying useless shit for his wife or handing some whore a huge envelope of cash. The more blood he’d drawn, the more it was going to cost him. He’d never spent an entire Saturday in bed before preparing a late dinner. And on top of that, he’d never spent the entire night eating his wife’s pussy. Fuck, he’d never imagined that such a seemingly submissive act could even placate the sadist in him. But with his war prize, well, it had. Oh, it had. He smiled as he remembered her sweet pleas for him to stop.
He carried the tray of food upstairs, wondering if his woman was awake. He found her sitting up in bed as if the smell of cooking food had roused her, which it probably had.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, knowing she had to be.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Good. Come here.” He set the tray on the small table in their bedroom.
She quickly came over and sat down as he carefully laid out the cloth napkins and silverware he’d brought up. He poured her some tea as well. Sometimes, he would drape her across his lap and feed her. But last night, she’d pleased him so completely on such deep, usually untouchable levels that he felt no need to dominate her in that way right now. They both dug into their food and ate in silence. After dinner, she drank her tea. Lost in his own meditation, he was almost startled by her sweet voice.
“Why me?” she quietly asked.
Her words lacked any anger or despair. It wasn’t a cry of, “Why me?” It was more of a real confusion.
Her question baffled him. He knew how responsive she was to his voice and his gaze. Instead of demanding clarity, he merely studied her, knowing she’d probably volunteer a bit more information.
“It’s just that…the other agents would know what to do in this situation. I mean, my superiors get mad the second they look at me, my instructors are constantly telling me that I ask too many questions, and my seduction teacher thinks I’m a joke. It’s just that…the other agents would know what to do,” she said again.
“No, the others would know how to play this situation. It would be a game to them, a carefully executed strategy of sex for favors. A blowjob in exchange for breakfast, a hand-job for lunch and so on.”
“So…you like me because I suck at this game?”
He chuckled at her question, genuinely amused by her choice of words.
“No. I like you because to you,” he paused and poured more tea for himself, “it’s not a game.”
His woman said nothing to that.
He smiled darkly to himself as he took a moment to admire his war prize. She hadn’t bothered to put on a robe when she stood and came over to the table. Instead, she was still wearing the few scraps of white lace and ribbons she’d had on last night. She was probably so hungry that she didn’t care about clothes.
She looked happy and satisfied, the way only a good meal can satisfy someone. An unfamiliar tug of guilt gripped his heart, which was, well…strange. In his line of work, guilt didn’t usually come into play. But now, he felt guilty for not feeding her better or more often. His gaze homed in on the half-eaten jar of nuts on the table. He also noted the depleted fruit bowl. Fruit and nuts. That’s all she’d had in far too long. She’d also been cooped up for far too long as well. He’d taken her to the opera a few nights ago, but she needed another night out. He immediately caught his train of thought. What the hell was he feeling? Compassion? Seriously?
But then, his war prize had always had this effect on him. The coldest, most logical part of his brain rationalized what he was feeling. She had basic human needs that required attention, that’s all. He’d just addressed her caloric and nutritional requirements. Now she needed fresh air and exercise. He was merely caring for his toy, much in the same way that he had his car detailed and waxed once a week.
“You need a night out,” he declared, pouring more tea for her.
She looked at him as if that was more than she expected. “Out?”
“Yes. You’ve been cooped up for too long.”
He stood and walked to the dresser. He quickly shed his robe and slipped into fresh undergarments. Her gaze followed him to the closet where he slipped on a clean uniform. For him, there were no real days off. He was always expected to go out in public in uniform.
As he slipped on his hat and gloves, she carefully sipped her tea. He could tell she was trying to hide her excitement. “Where are we going?”
“Depraved,” he said simply. Once he was dressed, he moved to the closet where he kept his woman’s wardrobe. He’d added a few things to it. Judging by her reaction, he didn’t have to explain what Depraved was. She told him she understood by the shocked look on her face.
Depraved was the hottest and most exclusive nightclub in Berlin. Hell, in probably the entire empire. He’d heard it was the primary reason why non-native citizens in the empire, those who lacked German ancestry, would try to sneak into Berlin.
“Here, you’ll wear this tonight,” he declared, pulling out a short, black leather dress. “I’ll give you an hour to shower and prepare yourself. Don’t disappoint me in your appearance. You have plenty of makeup to achieve the look I want.”
Hell, that certainly wasn’t a lie. He’d dropped a small fortune on makeup and cosmetic supplies for her.
“I understand,” she said simply. “I won’t
disappoint you.”
It sounded like the end of that sentence, but his extensive training told him something. “What?” he pressed. “What were you going to say?”
She looked at him, seemingly shocked he’d picked that up. “I really can’t get anything past you.”
“No,” he said simply. “What were you going to say?”
She averted her eyes for a moment. “I was going to say, ‘thank you.’ I’m grateful to get out. So, thank you.”
Her words were so different than the words from his former lovers. Hell, it wasn’t the “thank you” part that surprised him. Fuck, they all said “thank you” once he delivered payment. It was how she said it, so sweetly and innocently. It touched him. And it was really in that moment, after everything they’d been through, that he realized something. He could never let her go. Ever. He’d occasionally toyed with the idea of releasing her someday but now, with that simple ‘thank you,’ she’d sealed her fate.
“You’re welcome,” he said simply. “I have some paperwork to go through. I’ll return in an hour.”
She only nodded at him as he turned and walked out the door. He headed to his office. As he sifted through papers and reports, he heard water running. He also heard her singing in the shower. She was singing in English. Usually, they spoke German to each other. In the beginning, he’d used English with her, but that was mostly to try to calm her during the early days of her captivity. It mattered little, really. They were both so fluent in both English and German, there were never any misunderstandings. Her German was truly excellent. Her government had trained her well in that area.
Although seduction wasn’t exactly her strongest point, her language skills were top notch. She’d almost fooled him the day he arrested her. He remembered it well. She’d spoke German to him but in an Irish accent to try and muddy her country of origin. At the time, she’d tried to convince him she was merely a non-native citizen who had sneaked into Berlin illegally. It had almost worked. He’d been ready to cut her loose and let her go, but at the time, it was her pulse that had betrayed her. It had quickened and slowed in all the wrong places, telling him she was reacting incorrectly to certain things he did and said. Hell, he’d even received a viable tip that she was an American spy, and it still took him a good twenty minutes of talking to her to determine that, yes, she was indeed an agent for American intelligence. That still impressed him to this day. It wasn’t easy for a speaker to truly hide his or her country of origin, at least, not from an SS officer. His training in linguistics had been so rigorous and so extensive, he could usually tell the speaker’s country of origin in only a few syllables.
He logged into his computer and pulled up his extensive audio library. As he waited for his woman to prepare herself, he carefully went through his recordings and samples, wanting the information to stay fresh in his mind. It was all part of his daily workouts and routines. What he’d pulled up was a relatively simple exercise. Fundamental really. But the best officers practiced the basics, too. He pulled on his headphones and started the lesson. The computer would play a sample, and he would verbally identify the correct country of origin in that country’s language. For example, if the speaker said something in German but their country of origin was Russia, then he would have to say “Russia” but not in German, in Russian. SS officers were required to be fluent in the phased-out languages.
Once, when he was still at the academy, but long before his final trials, he’d stupidly said “Italy” in German, correctly identifying the country of origin but not in Italian. It was at a point in his training when mistakes were no longer accepted. He’d received a single cane lash across his back for that mistake. It had intentionally been made deep to leave a scar, which it did. Just the other night, he’d felt Isabel’s fingers tracing it, as if she didn’t know at first what it was, but then she’d wisely pulled her hands away. He knew that she knew what it was. Again, she was a trained agent. When his ex-wife wanted to be especially cruel and manipulative, she would call the scar his failure.
He closed his eyes momentarily, banishing the memories. He reached the half-way mark of the exercise and realized it had been a little over an hour. He blinked at the clock, surprised so much time had slipped by so quickly. He stood, eager to see his woman. Excited even.
When he opened the door to their bedroom, he could not have asked for more. She had followed his instructions exactly. She was wearing the short leather dress he had laid out, yes, but there were so many other things she had added. Her chestnut hair was brushed down around her shoulders and teased into sexy waves in a way he had never seen on her before. She’d also done her makeup with a heavier hand than when they’d gone to the opera. Her eyes were lined with a much thicker layer of black eyeliner, and she’d selected a darker shade of red lipstick.
The dress, which had looked good on the hanger, looked even better on her. It hugged her body perfectly and the leather cups of the black dress forced her breasts up, creating a mouth-watering effect of ample cleavage. A pair of spikey, black high-heels completed the sex-goddess look.
He swallowed hard and moved in closer to complete his inspection. She said nothing and merely allowed him to silently examine her. There were so many patches of exposed, creamy white skin that it was hard to take it all in at once. But everywhere he looked, from her legs to her arms to her cleavage, he noticed a subtle sparkle, as if she’d rubbed her entire body down with some glittery lotion she’d found in her supplies. She’d even painted her fingernails crimson.
But there was something else…something far more intriguing that glittery lotion or crimson nails.
There, around her neck, was a thick chain of gold with a heavy-looking pendant. The rectangular shaped pendant rested just above her cleavage. He raised an eyebrow, curious about this piece of jewelry. He hadn’t purchased a gold pendant necklace for her. Where did she get it? He took the sizeable pendant between his fingers and examined it, realizing it was, in actuality, a piece of men’s jewelry. A bit confused, he read the German words and symbols on it. This was his.
Over the course of his career, he had picked up more than his fair share of service awards and commendations. Some of these service awards came in the form of jewelry, like cuff links or chains with pendants, something shiny and sparkly that looked nice in a velvet box. No one expected him to wear any of these trinkets. Hell, they went against his uniform regulations. He always just chunked them in the top drawer of his dresser and promptly forgot about them. It was really more about the ceremony at the time, the handshakes with the VIPs, the line in his record. He looked at her, curious as to why she’d done this.
She met his gaze. “I’m not sure why, but I just felt like I needed something that labeled me as yours.”
If she had tried, she couldn’t have done or said anything better. But that was just it. She hadn’t done this to manipulate him or play him. She had done it because she needed to do it. He couldn’t even speak. He had never been a fan of collars but somehow, this was different.
“If you don’t like it,” she stammered. “I’m sorry. I—”
“No, don’t apologize for this. I like it.”
The next twenty minutes or so was a blur as he unlocked his woman’s chain leash, put her in his car and silently drove to the club. He retracted the moon roof on his car and took the long route. During the entire drive, she smiled up at the night sky, clearly happy to be out of the house. He didn’t deserve her, he knew. He deserved the whores he used to pay for or the manipulative cunt that had been his wife.
Not surprisingly, he was already hard again. He shook his head slightly, baffled by the entire fucking thing. Again, as he had so many times before, he asked himself about a million questions. Why did she affect him the way she did? Why was he so intrigued with her? And of course, the big question, how could he so easily find a release with her, when it had been fucking impossible before? How did she so easily please the darkness in him? Why? How? He really had no clue. Well, maybe he did
have one clue.
After all, isn’t evil always attracted to innocence?
Agent of Darkness Page 8
