"Wake up," she whispered.
He jerked awake.
She was gone, the room as it was supposed to be. Luthias sat up, still breathing like he had just finished a marathon; he snarled with frustration when he realized he had ruined his drawers and his sheets. Slowly, he fell back onto his pillow, disgraced enough to sit in his filth while he sorted out his head. His mate. His fucking mate. Even in death she would be the death of him, yet still—he wanted her back. He needed her back.
When he closed his eyes, he could still hear the coordinates. He engraved them in his mind. Perhaps when he found Elizabeth, he could finally get some sleep.
Chapter 1: The Hand of Fate
Her name was Elizabeth Brissette, but tonight she was Blondie, since the clients were allowed to choose what they called Stedman's escorts. She assumed by the name that she had been chosen for her blonde hair, which Mr. Matthias Seymour had made clear by his constant comments throughout dinner. She understood, of course. Real blondes were hard to come by in this industry, and despite what L'Oreal might advertise, you can tell when it comes from a bottle. More than that, her particular shade of blonde was unusual: a true gold which stood out against her milky skin, a cascade of waves all the way down her back. She had never cut her hair, not once. It was only part of her life she had ever had any control over. From foster homes to waitressing to the sex trade—in Las Vegas, her story was a dime a dozen.
She readied herself in the hotel bathroom of the Luxor, heaven compared to the one-bedroom apartment she shared with three coworkers. Make-up was strewn across the countertop. Naked, to keep stray powder off her dress, she leaned over the sink to apply a second layer of mascara. She still blushed when her nipple brushed against the handle, reminding her where they were without the binding support of a Victoria's Secret 32DDD (the only one in the entire store, which she had had to fight another girl for like it was water in the Sahara.) At nineteen she had discovered that contrary to popular belief, a natural 32DDD was not a fun size. They were heavy, disproportionate to her bony body, and made it impossible to wear sweaters without looking like a blimp. Not that her clients cared. To them, her endowments were pleasing decoration.
After a moment Elizabeth stepped back, capped her mascara. She folded her arms beneath her tits, for support, as she surveyed her reflection. Deep blue eyes were all but masked by heavy shadow, liquid liner streaked out like Cleopatra to make her look more like her escort ad. Her foundation had evened out the color on her cheeks, and hidden disillusioned shadows beneath her eyes. She felt her breasts were a false advertisement for the rest of her form, which wasn't particularly shapely: it wasn't a workout regimen, but persistent hunger, which kept her thin. She could trace her ribs with her thumb, along with the protrusion of her hip bones, all the way around to an ass that was comically flat for her industry. Her boss, John Stedman, sometimes made her wear padding in her underwear when they were out in public, "to balance her out."
Another lipstick, maybe, she thought.
A dash of blush to keep her from looking as ghostlike as she felt. After wiping the purple from her lips, she dug a pink lipstick out of her purse, applying it to soften her features. With a glance back to her reflection then, she felt less like damaged goods. She almost felt pretty.
Stumbling a bit on an injured foot, Elizabeth hung on the doorframe to catch a glimpse of the digital clock by the bedside: 7:15. She had 15 minutes to be ready for Mr. Seymour, who had promised to meet her back at their hotel room at 7:30 following a trip home to the wife. Rushing now she slid her arm across the counter to dump her makeup back into her Ziploc, which she then tossed into her purse. She wet a paper towel to scrub away the lingering powder. As she pulled back on that slip of a black dress, she tried not to think about how grabby her client had been under the table at dinner. She tried not to feel the ghost of his boney hand on her knee.
Her ad stated that Elizabeth liked older men—much older men—not because that was true, but because they were usually incapable of going through with sex. They usually paid to have a pretty face listen to their fantasies, take them to dinner, and maybe give them a hand job to put them to sleep. In the three months she had been at this job, since she had turned 21 and been fired from the "barely legal"-themed waitress position, she hadn't had to do the deed once. That was why Mr. Seymour's lustful thigh-stroking during the main course had her uneasy—she had assumed that 68-year-old man with gray hair and a bald spot the size of Kentucky had had his fill of sexual encounters. Apparently, not the case.
He only paid until 10pm, she reassured herself. He'll get distracted.
Elizabeth waited on the bed at 7:26, legs crossed knee over knee, hair held up in a plastic clip so she could grandly reveal it to him when she ran out of things to say. She adjusted the underwire of her bra to get her breasts to sit more prominently against the dress' sloping neckline. She still wore her shoes because her right foot was tightly bandaged after an accident that morning, and explaining wounds was never the way to set the mood.
She heard the knob rattle. It rattled more urgently. She sighed, assuming he had forgotten his keys. In no rush to get the door for him, she let the rattling continue, until it stopped. No sooner had she moved to investigate than the door burst open, the doorframe splintered—she was suddenly standing before a stranger, the deafening squeaking of a door on one hinge all that filled the air between them.
"You...ah..."
She was too startled to scream, panic, anything. All she could do was stare at this man who was not Mr. Matthias Seymour—who was hardly like any man she had ever seen in her life. Over six feet, he was more than a head taller than her, with hair that was straight, black, and long. His hair touched his elbows, rivaling her own length. His skin was whiter than hers, without blemish, appearing in all ways smooth to the touch. Even his outfit seemed out of place, though he wore it well: black slacks and a white shirt, a long brown coat that screamed of expense. Although his features were all but feminine with their distinction—a narrow face tapered by an angular chin, thin eyebrows and cheekbones you could cut your teeth on—he was intimidating. Intensely hazel eyes, almost gold, were locked on her. His brow was set by unspoken expectation.
"Emilie," he said.
Elizabeth could hardly breathe, gripped by confusion and fear. Did she run? Did she call the police?
"Y-you have the wrong room," she managed. "And...you broke the door."
Her words rolled past him as he walked into the room, going directly to the nightstand where she had set her purse. He picked it up, opening and examining it, and all she could do was stare in horror. Who was this guy?
"Put that down or I'll call the police," she said, regaining her senses.
"Your phone is here," he said, pulling her brick of a cellphone out of the purse. "How will you do that?"
She felt her blood drain from her face. Her eyes flickered to the phone by the bed—next to him. She was powerless.
"What do you want with me?"
Her tone was steady, even as her fingers started to shake. Her heart pounded faster as he closed her purse, setting it back down on the table.
"You're coming with me," he said. "Is this everything you have?"
"Look, if you want to spend time with me, I can give you my boss' number," she said, though she had a feeling that meant nothing to him.
Unamused, the man looked her dead in the eye, as if daring her to follow through. The intensity of his look made her want to melt into the floor to avoid it, though a stranger part of her was—aroused, somehow. His shirt was missing the top button, revealing that the chest beneath was defined by muscle. His arms were thick in that long coat. Whoever he was, he was strong. No wonder he had been able to kick in a door.
"I had hoped you would be able to remember," he said, his low voice like a rumble in his chest. "Regardless, I'm not about to let you whore yourself another night."
"Then why don't you tell me who you are?" she asked, playing his game. She took a step t
owards her purse, hoping he might move away and she could make a mad dash with it. For now though, he was planted like a statue, though his gaze followed wherever she went.
"Lord Cennasaí," he said. "You called me by Luthias."
"I...called you," she said, trying to understand this man who believed himself a lord. "You really think you know me?"
"Once. Before you were this."
"Did you know me as a waitress then?" she asked. "I'm sorry, I served a lot of people..."
Luthias only looked more annoyed. Before he could say anything more, they were interrupted by the arrival of her client, who stood flabbergasted in the splintered doorway. Elizabeth thought to compliment Matthias' almost-acceptable combover, but decided against it.
"What's this about?" Matthias demanded. "Who is he, some kind of boyfriend? I paid good money for today and I don't remember him being part of the deal."
"I'm so sorry," she said. "I don't know—“
"What's your business with her?" Luthias asked, words sharp as his sneer.
"That's none of your business, young man," Matthias said. "Don't think I won't get hotel security if you don't leave right quick."
"Is that a threat?"
The question was deceptively cool, as Elizabeth's keen eye noticed Luthias' tense muscles and the raised vein in his temple. She didn't want to think what this man was capable of. She was far from a friend to Mr. Seymour, but wasn't about to see him hurt.
"Matthias, maybe you should go while I...sort this out," she said, attempting to diffuse the situation.
"So he gets in on my time?" Mathias looked disgusted. "I don't know what kind of company that Stedman is running, but I didn't pay for another man's sloppy seconds."
"He's not my guest," she tried to assure him. "I won't be long, I promise."
"Just another whore, aren't you?" Matthias scoffed. "Guess escorts really aren't a cut above the rest."
It all happened in a moment. One minute, Matthias had pulled out his phone, the next it had cracked on the ground as Luthias slammed the old man against the wall, grip on his throat strong enough to leave his feet dangling above the ground as the old man gasped for air. Without pity, Luthias' grip tightened.
"You aren't worthy of the air she breathes."
When Luthias broke Matthias Seymour's neck, Elizabeth finally screamed. It was a sound stopped short when she covered her own mouth with her hands, trembling with horror as Luthias tossed the corpse to the side, which crumpled over itself in a limp heap. She wasn't getting enough air but she couldn't move her hands, knowing she would scream again, and that scream would get the killer's attention. All she could do was stare, as Luthias flicked off blood drawn by his sharp nails, and turned to face her. His gold eyes swirled now with red, as if physically tainted by bloodlust. In those moments, she swore she was staring at the devil himself.
"This is the last time you'll see me this way," he said.
His nails retracted to a normal length. The red in his eyes faded into white. Yet as he approached her, he seemed now to her more monstrous than he had before—a beast, parading in human flesh.
"What are you?" she whispered.
He was silent, at first. He reached to her, as if to touch her cheek, and stopped himself. His hand fell to his side, though his eyes never left her.
"A demon," he said. "And so are you."
Her mind ceased to function. She stared, the corpse forgotten now in the face of his words. As she stared, all speech and all thought evading her, he went to the nightstand and picked up her purse.
"Come with me."
He stopped in the doorway, looking over his shoulder, awaiting her. Elizabeth was frozen. She knew she couldn't stay here, not with a corpse and his words hanging overhead. Demon. He was—she was. How could she be demon? How could he think that? Was it possible? But could she really just follow him, a monster who had just murdered a man in cold blood?
Her legs moved her before her mind had decided. She found herself following him, even as she looked back and saw Mr. Seymour's body slowly sinking down the wall. Blinking back tears, Elizabeth followed Luthias.
Chapter 2: Into the Dark
The morning of the day Luthias took her, Elizabeth had been dreading her appointment. She had woken 8am to her phone buzzing under her pillow, leading to her groggy fumbling at the buttons and an eventual answer.
"Hello?"
"My busty beauty," Stedman had crooned. "You've got another client."
Elizabeth rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, though in her voice she feigned excitement.
"Who's the lucky guy?"
"Matthias Seymour, he got our number at the strip joint on the east end. He's a spry 60-something, so he might be a bit young for you, but I'm sure you can show him a good time. You can show him a good time, yeah?"
She was staring at a mark in the ceiling, trying to figure out what was spattered up there. She always cleaned the area around her mattress, doing her very best to maintain a bubble of serenity in a room that was otherwise a hurricane of clothes, needles, crusted condoms, and cracked eyeshadow. Amelia and Tanya never picked up anything; having discovered that Elizabeth was tidy, they somehow picked up even less. They told her if it bothered her she was free to clean up after them.
"Yeah," she mumbled, slowly heaving her shoulders to pry herself into a sitting position. "What time? What are we doing?"
"He's got you from noon until 10. Wants to get an early start. You get a show and dinner at a 5-star joint, so I better not hear any more complaints."
"I know, I know," she managed.
"You're new, but you're not that new. You get one more chance, Liz."
"I'll be good."
"It's just sex," he said, almost reassuring. "Look, all you've got is a high school diploma and here I'm giving you triple what you made waiting tables. A lot of girls would kill for this."
"No, I know," she said, holding her head. "I'll be good, Stedman. I'm a good girl."
"That's the spirit."
He hung up, and she dropped her phone off the side of the unsupported mattress, drawing her knees to her chest. The sheets tangled around her feet were scratchy from not being washed—her own fault for not wanting to go to the laundromat alone when she came home at night. It was dark then. Despite having to look after herself all her life, even now, she was terrified of what could happen when alone in the dark.
Elizabeth had always been a sweet girl, terribly eager to please, which people told her would get her far in life. Unfortunately, she lacked the other components that would have carried her along, like family, or financial means. All she knew of her mother was that she hadn't wanted her. The woman hadn't even bothered to name the baby girl she dropped at the fire-station before disappearing forever. Some secretary must have decided they needed something to write on her papers, and so, she had become Elizabeth.
Brissette was the name of the first foster family she was placed with: a well-meaning couple in Northern Nevada who had taken on more than they could handle. In addition to their own two children, they had had three foster children at a time, usually of disparate ages. The older ones were always acting out, leaving quiet Elizabeth to entertain herself, never quite feeling like she was important enough to be noticed. The couple had eventually given up the whole affair, leaving seven-year-old Elizabeth and her two foster siblings to be split up between new families.
It had gone on that way for years, with Elizabeth getting moved from place to place never for any one reason, never her fault, but the result was the same. The constant relocation meant she had always been behind in school, eventually leading her to have to repeat her senior year—which was half in part due to misplaced paperwork—and putting college entirely out of reach.
She had lost her virginity at prom, to a boy who told her she was a great lay, but not wife material. That seemed to be the theme of her life. Aged out of the foster system, she had thrown herself at a string of boys for the sake of lodging alone, nearly all of t
hem revealing themselves to be manipulative, cruel, or cheaters. Eventually she had found herself in Las Vegas, her self-esteem trashed, wanting to disappear amongst the sea of people. She told herself she wasn't going to do sex work. She could waitress, show a little cleavage, and try to make ends meet. Then, she had been fired, and bills needed to be paid. Stedman had been right there to tell her she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen.
Having no reason to stay in bed anymore, Elizabeth reached for a hairband set precariously atop her alarm clock—on the ground, like her mattress and everything else in the room—winding up her hair in a sort of bun at the nape of her neck. She allowed herself a few deep breaths, thinking that would be enough to calm her down. Unfortunately, her thoughts drifted back to her last client, who had insisted on wriggling his shriveled member between her tits until he spewed himself everywhere, laughing.
Elizabeth found herself hyperventilating. She grabbed her pillow, smothering herself with it so she could scream. Amelia and Tanya said they loved this job, that it was the most fun they had ever had earning money. She hated it. It made her feel lower than dirt. It made her hate living.
Put on a happy face.
It's what she told herself every day.
She dropped the pillow, forcing herself to her feet. Before she could get to her shoes, she stepped on a shard from a broken beer bottle, which stuck deep into the ball of her foot. She cursed, grabbing her foot and stumbling to Tanya's yellowed mattress, where she blinked back tears and slowly pried the glass from her flesh. She couldn't even cry for the pain. There were worse pains in this world.
--
Luthias had led Elizabeth away from the hotel and to a waiting limousine, unsettlingly calm for someone who had just killed a man. He opened the door for her, like a gentleman. Even there she hesitated, but the sound of approaching police sirens made her quickly dive into the vehicle. Her heart pounding in her ears, she couldn't appreciate the luxury of the interior, which was spotless and without odor. Luthias slid in beside her, closing the door.
BILLIONAIRE ROMANCE: The Unforgettable Billionaires: The Complete Collection Boxed Set 1-12 (Young Adult Rich Alpha Male Billionaire Romance) (Alpha Bad Boy Billionaire Romance) Page 38
