Freed (Assassin's Revenge Book 3)

by Crescent, Tara

  “Hands in front of you,” he ordered and I obediently clasped my wrists as he’d indicated, my fingers grazing the rope. His fingers tugged at my hair till my neck was exposed. He kissed the hollow of my throat, his eyes steady and warm. “You are so very eager, aren’t you?”

  I nodded. What could I say? The prickles of pain on my scalp as he tugged at my hair, the softness of his lips against my skin, the heat in his eyes - all of these things had sent desire rushing back into my body. I rubbed myself furtively against the knot, knowing that if Alexander saw me, he’d stop me.

  He caught me. His eyes narrowed and I gulped. Damn it. “You want to come, Jenny?” he asked me smoothly, one eyebrow raised. “Okay.”

  His fingers pinched my nipples into erect buds, then fastened nipple clamps on them. I hissed at the familiar spike of pain, but it quickly faded to a background ache. He grinned with sadistic relish. “Come anytime you want,” he said.

  Then he picked up a flogger and swung it at my ass.

  There were no words to describe the tidal wave of sensation I was flung into. Each time I swung forward from the stroke of the flogger, the clamps swayed and tugged at my nipples. My pussy ground into the knot of rope, the cotton drenched from my juices. I was standing on tip-toe, dancing from foot to foot as the thousands of pinpricks of heat from the flogger caressed my ass and my back.

  I lost track of how long he flogged me. I lost count of how many times I came.

  When I finally slumped, unable to swim in the sea of sensation any more without risking drowning, his hands were there to catch me and to keep me safe. He wrapped his shirt around me and led me with infinite tenderness into the master bathroom, holding me close while he ran a bath for me in the large porcelain bathtub that was big enough for both of us. “Join me,” I whispered to him when the water was almost to the brim.

  He undressed and my gaze dropped to his cock. He was still hard and even though I was tired and sated, I needed to go down on him. Complex emotions guided me, trust and gratitude, need and want, maybe even an emotion that was more tender.

  Somewhere, along the way, some switch had clicked in me and I wanted to bring him the same pleasure he brought me.

  I wanted him to moan out my name when he came. Not Ellie - he couldn’t call me that, because I wouldn’t risk my revenge, not even for him. But when he called me cherie, something stirred inside me and I would have done anything for him.

  “Please, Alexander,” I begged him. “I want you in my mouth. Please let me make you come.”

  He went down on me a generous number of times, but he so rarely let me reciprocate. It was a far cry from Abeokuta, where uncaring cocks had been thrust down my throat, more times than I cared to count.

  “I thought you wanted me in the tub,” he teased.

  “I changed my mind,” I replied, sinking to my knees on the bathroom floor. He didn’t stop me and that was permission enough. My lips closed around him and I felt his fingers wind through my hair, but he didn’t fuck my face. He just touched me while I gave him pleasure.

  “Ah, Jenny,” he groaned as I took as much of his cock into my mouth as I could. I licked and sucked and exulted in each moan, each grunt, each hiss of pleasure I took from him. In this moment, I felt wanted in a way I’d never been.

  When he came, I swallowed every last drop, licking my lips as I looked up at him smugly through my eyelashes. His fingers tightened in my hair and he smiled affectionately at me. “Are you being a brat again?” he accused me. “You aren’t cut out for demureness.”

  We got into the tub, Alexander leaning against the cool porcelain. I rested against him. “What am I cut out for, in that case?”

  I heard the smile in his voice. “Fishing for compliments, cherie? You aren’t meant to be coy, either.” He kissed my neck and when he spoke next, his voice was very quiet. “You are a warrior, aren’t you, Jenny?” His arms wrapped me in his embrace. “But even warriors need to find a place to rest once in a while.”

  He could read me so well that it was terrifying. “Is that what Provence is to you?” I asked him. “A place to rest?”

  “Perhaps,” he said. “Or perhaps true rest is in this moment. In the warmth of this bathtub, with you leaning against me.”

  I was rarely at a loss for words, but in that moment, I couldn’t find anything that could be a suitable reply to that.

  Dylan, I reminded myself fiercely, ordering myself to feel nothing. As if it were that easy to control my emotions. You are only here because of Dylan.

  Chapter 9

  Alexander:

  There was a car in the driveway, but I hauled out a couple of old bicycles that evening. “Come on,” I said, grinning at the stupefied expression on her face. “Let’s go grab a glass of wine in the village.”

  “On a cycle?” she asked, sounding surprised. “I thought you’d take the Ferrari out.”

  I shot her a look and she had the grace to look embarrassed. “I wandered through the place exploring this afternoon when you had to take those phone calls,” she said. “I’m sorry. I thought you said you didn’t have a Ferrari when I asked you about your keychain.”

  “That’s not what I said,” I corrected her. “I said it was a long story.” I would have preferred it entirely, but her question had inadvertently brought the memories back…

  ***

  It is a year after the suicide attempt. My aunt has concealed the news from my father. I haven’t been to visit him since the day she revealed the truth. I can’t. What can I possibly say?

  He doesn’t know that everything has changed.

  Every year, though he’s never visited, the gifts have been lavish on my birthday. When I was younger, I had hoped for his attention instead. Now, the idea of seeing him abhors me.

  Eighteen is a milestone birthday. In France, it also the age when one can officially drive, so my father sends me a Ferrari. A top-of-the-line race car for a teenager.

  Last year, I would have been thrilled with his present. I am a teenager, after all. However, this year, the car holds no appeal. I just want to escape and forget.

  He thinks he can buy me. This car, just like every other present in the past, is meant to buy my loyalty. It is the first time I realize the value of money and the advantages it can bring.

  Six months later, the official paperwork to change my name is completed. My father gets the message. He phones me and I can feel his rage pour out in waves through the line. “Do you think it’s that easy to make your way through the world? I will disown you.”

  At those words that cut me loose, my heart gladdens for the first time since my aunt has told me the truth. “Do what you will,” I reply. My voice is indifferent. He doesn’t know that his money is irrevocably tainted. I will never touch it.

  I leave Provence after that conversation, but not to college, like I had originally planned. In the last year, another plan has been made. To combat the horrors of my father, I must steep myself in violence.

  I become a soldier-for-hire. When I’m not working, I’m at the target range or at the gym. Learning skills and building strength.

  I start playing the stock market. I make money. I’m aggressive and reckless and above all, I’m lucky. I make more money. The first million is difficult. The next few are not. It is, after all, quite easy for the rich to become richer.

  The car stays locked up in the garage in Provence.

  The years pass. My fortunes rise and my father’s fortunes fall. My aunt dies. Through all of it, the car sits and gathers dust. I never once insert the key into the ignition. I will never drive it.

  ***

  “I don’t use the car,” I replied. “I have some unpleasant memories associated with it that I’d prefer to forget.”

  She didn’t look satisfied with that answer and uncharacteristically, I elaborated. “My father bought it for me when I turned eighteen,” I clarified. “It wasn’t a gift as much as an attempt to buy love.”

  “It must have been nice to be rich,
” she responded wistfully. “When I turned sixteen, my mother gave me a hundred bucks. I took that money and my savings from four years of odd-jobs and I bought a beat-up Taurus. That thing was a death-trap. You could see the road underneath because bits of the floor had rusted through. I could have used a Ferrari.”

  “Is that what you believe?” I asked her. “Do you think money buys you some kind of protection from harm?”

  “I do,” she said, her jaw set in a stubborn tilt. “Alicia needs money to live, remember?”

  I ignored the fake cover story. “I know it seems that way to you,” I responded. “But money is a tool. It can be used for good, but it can also be used to control a person. My father wanted me to fall into line, so he sent the car.” I shrugged. “It didn’t work.”

  “How much is it worth?”

  “I have no idea,” I replied.

  “And it’s just sitting there? You should sell it and donate the money to a charity.”

  I looked at her, embarrassed. “You know, I’ve never once thought of that?” Inwardly, I smiled. The gesture of generosity would drive my father insane. “What cause would you support, cherie?”

  She had a sad look in her eyes. “Can you give it to a domestic violence shelter?”

  That seems fitting. He had caused so much pain, and would serve as a tiny measure of atonement. Yet so much still remained to be done. “I will,” I promised her.

  Chapter 10

  Ellie / Jenny:

  The next morning, the two of us poured over maps and train schedules. I’d downloaded some travel guides onto my e-reader and at Alexander’s request, I made a list of attractions I wanted to see. Roman ruins, mostly. The Pont Du Gard was not far away from Arles. Nimes had one of the most amazingly intact Roman amphitheatres in the world. Carcassonne had a famed medieval walled fort.

  Alexander surveyed my list with an amused smile. “What?” I asked defensively.

  He shook his head and stroked my cheek. “I haven’t played tour guide in many years,” he said, sounding indulgent. “Allons-y. Let’s do this.”

  We would wake up early in the morning and get on a train, heading to one of the places on my list. France’s rail system was excellent; most places were less than two hours away on the high-speed trains. We would tour the attraction and Alexander would insist on ordering a bottle of wine for lunch, something I was happy to let him do. We would have long and leisurely meals, talking about what we’d seen. In Avignon, I protested passionately over the greed of the Popes in the Middle Ages with their lavish tapestries and their coins of gold, while the peasants starved in the streets. Alexander’s lips twitched. “Why do I get the feeling that I’m also being attacked here, Jenny?” he asked dryly.

  But I wasn’t attacking him, not even in the slightest. I’d never been on a vacation before in my life, and I was just enjoying myself. The South of France was a pretty glamorous destination and Alexander was an excellent travel companion, patient and good-humoured. He took me to eat some truly exceptional meals in small tucked-away restaurants I would have never discovered on my own. He made me laugh.

  He still worked for Dylan. Sylvia was going to be in Paris soon. I was being an ostrich, burying my head in the sand, ignoring all these things. I told myself I was entitled. One week, I reasoned with myself. Surely, I’m allowed one week of pretending.

  I refused to consider that I might be falling in love with him.

  In the night, tired from our day of exertion, we’d tumble into bed. Some days, he’d reach for me and we’d make love. No toys, no gadgets. Just hands and tongues, fevered breathing and bodies in contact. Other days, I’d nestle in his arms and fall asleep. It was idyllic. It could not last.

  ***

  On the last day, we planned to stay close to home. I wandered among the fields of lavender, arm in arm with Alexander. In the morning, I had cycled to the tiny village and I’d bought ingredients for a picnic - bread, cheese and olives, and an apple pie for dessert.

  We went for a long, lazy bike ride and at some point, we pulled off and dropped to the ground to eat our food. The sun’s rays beat down, but we were under a tree and its leaves provided some shelter from the heat. There was no one in sight, no one around for miles. We were completely alone.

  Alexander looked at me wickedly when we finished eating. “Is outdoor sex on your hard-limits list, Jenny?” he asked me.

  “Here?” I was shocked, yet intrigued. I wanted Alexander all the time.

  “Look around,” he invited. “There’s no one to be seen. Take off your dress.”

  That had been an order, uttered in the firm, even tones of my Dominant. I nodded instantly. “Yes Sir.”

  Warm breeze caressed my skin; I felt the sun’s rays on my back. I climbed on top of him at his command and I rode him, bouncing up and down on his cock while my fingers rubbed at my clitoris. Each time I was at the point of climax, his hand locked over my and he stopped me. Each time, he shook his head with an amused smile. “I’m enjoying the view too much,” he teased. “You can’t come yet, cherie.”

  He had called me bright star in Paris two years ago. I wanted him to call me that again. I wanted him to call me by my real name. Ellie. No man had ever choked out my real name in the heat of passion. To Dylan and his guards, I was cunt or bitch or slave. To Alexander, I had been Rachel two years ago, Jenny now. I was never Ellie and I just wanted to be her.

  But I had my mission and this was the one barrier I dared not cross. I could not tell Alexander the truth. It would be the end of my quest for revenge and the end of my life. Instead, I existed in my little fantasy world where he was just a guy and I was just a girl and we made love under a tree in Provence.

  When we were done, cleaned up and dressed again, he looked at me with a glint in his eyes. “So, outdoor sex is a yes, then, I take it,” he quipped. “Which makes me want to explore every single thing on that list. Threesomes, Jenny? What do you think?”

  It was like he’d doused me with a bucket of cold water. I started to shiver in terror. Sylvia. She was coming back to Paris and Alexander had told her in Bangkok that he would let her play with his toys. Under the terms of the contract I’d signed, he needed my consent for that. So he was asking me.

  “Jenny?” His voice was sharply concerned. “What’s wrong?”

  I couldn’t form words. I was shaking too hard and I was having trouble breathing. I felt dizzy. I was at the cusp of a panic attack.

  “Breathe.” His voice was steady. “Jenny. Come on. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.” His hand held mine. It was as warm as mine was cold.

  I listened and obeyed, but it was a full five minutes before I could form words again. My skin was still cold and clammy. Alexander put the picnic blanket around my shoulders. “Better?” he asked me after a while.

  I nodded.

  “What happened?”

  “Panic attack,” I replied. There was no point trying to conceal it; he’d just seen it happen. “I have them sometimes.”

  “Do you carry drugs for it?”

  I shook my head. “It passes. The breathing exercise was useful. How did you know?”

  His lips thinned into a humourless smile. “I’ve seen panic attacks before,” he replied. “Do you know what triggered it?”

  Sylvia. I couldn’t deal with Sylvia in the playroom. I couldn’t cope. Mission or not, I had too many scars from the last time Sylvia’s life and mine had crossed paths, and the deepest of these scars were not physical. “Alexander,” I begged. I went to my knees and took his hands in mine. “Please, I beg you. Please don’t share me with Sylvia. She terrifies me.” The tears poured down my cheeks and I brushed them away. “Please. I’ll do anything. Just not that.”

  “Hush,” he soothed. “Relax, cherie. Please…” He put his arms around my waist and positioned me so I leaned against him, my back to his chest. “You misunderstood me. I have no intention of sharing you with Sylvia. I promise you.”

  “Then who?” My voice was uncomprehending.
>
  “You remember Anton from Lori’s auction? He is going to be in Paris in a few weeks. If you were interested in such a thing, the two of us have topped women together before. If you aren’t interested, then,” he kissed my fingers, “it’s not a big deal. I will never do anything you don’t want to happen.”

  Could it be true? I leaned against him and wondered if I could indeed trust Alexander’s words, the way every instinct of mine was screaming for me to do. “No Sylvia?” I asked cautiously. I needed to hear him reassure me again.

  “Never, cherie. I promise you.”

  I clung to his hands. I’d learned to protect myself, but in that moment, I drew all my strength from him.

  Chapter 11

  Alexander:

  Marie-Therese is long dead, of course, but the second woman Dylan took, we find alive, Jean-Luc and I, in a brothel in Berlin.

  Her name is Pamela. She has no papers and no identification. She can’t remember anything. Her body has reacted to protect her from the horrors visited on her by shrouding her memory in a cloud.

  She is wasting away. Her skin is translucent; her purple veins bulge through. She has a blank look in her eyes. I will learn to recognize that look as Dylan’s calling card.

  Dylan doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. He won’t kill his former slaves. That’s why he sells them to brothels around the world. He doesn’t need the money, not at the start. But he can’t let these women go either. He can’t afford the risk of exposure that this will bring.

  These women are, without exception, dead inside. Some vital spark of life has disappeared, leaving a void in its wake. I can only hope that with enough care and nurturing, with enough therapy, Pamela can find her way back.

  “You want to buy this one?” the pimp next to me sneers. “Are you sure? This one’s been around the block. She’s been here almost twenty years.” He looks disdainful. “That is one loose cunt, if you know what I’m saying. We’ve got younger girls.”

  I’m not opposed to brothels if the women are there out of their own volition, but this concrete hell-hole isn’t that sort of place. It is a slave camp. These women don’t see any money. Their bodies buy their pitiful shelter and meagre rations. And Pamela is reaching the end of her useful life, judging by that ‘loose cunt’ comment. In a year, she might even be dead. Dylan might be unable to put a bullet through the head of his slaves when he is done with them. Others have no such compunction.