by Maggie Ryan
Zoya could close her eyes but she could not close her ears as both the roar of approval from the men and the gasps or cries of shock from the women rang out. It took a waft of air blowing directly onto her skin to have her realize that Michael Gardenzio had stepped close and was bending down, his lips at her ear.
“You must scream,” he said with what she thought was an insane request. Of course she’d be screaming from the moment she felt the first lash. He didn’t allow her to jerk away, continuing to speak. “I promise, I’m not going to hurt you, but we must put on a show. Trust me.”
When she gave a strangled sob, he repeated his words. “I know you don’t believe me, but Zoya, you must trust me.”
She wasn’t given time to think as he stepped away while Poplov questioned him as to what was keeping him from beginning. “Do you need me to assist you? I’d be quite delighted to do so.”
Michael straightened. He ignored Poplov, giving a small nod to his companion. “George, hold her.”
George said nothing but stepped forward and took Zoya by her arm, and after Michael finally released his hold, George led her to a section of the stage where there was no one currently standing. The other guests who had begun to surge towards them stopped as the whip cracked through the air, snapping and popping like a live wire as Michael lifted it again and again.
“Shh,” George said when Zoya couldn’t stifle a whimper. He turned her to him, her front to his, her wrists held securely in his hands. “Trust Stry… Michael,” he whispered. “I’ve got you, and he won’t truly harm you.”
Zoya couldn’t fathom how that was possible. She was stark naked, every inch of her flesh tightening in terror, her mind unable to comprehend what was about to happen, her ears flooded with the crack and snap of the whip. The only thing that kept her upright was this tall, strong man holding her wrists, pulling her against his body, his height allowing him to easily look over her head though he was looking down at her.
When he released one of her wrists, she didn’t even attempt to pull away. He pulled her hair over her shoulders, baring her back to offer his partner an unimpeded target. Keeping the golden strands in his hand, he took her wrist again. She felt him move, bracing his legs a foot apart. It took her a moment to realize the room had gone silent. She broke that silence with a shriek when she felt something touching her between her shoulder blades.
It wasn’t the whip; it was Michael’s hand. Though he was a man and not a woman, she knew that what he really was was a warlock instead of a witch. He was the male version of Baba Yaga; the monster all Russian children learned was just waiting to catch a naughty child. A monster who took the greatest pleasure in capturing wayward children to then tan the very flesh from their bones before adorning herself with the flesh worn about her waist.
“Try to relax. Trust me… trust us,” the monster said softly, giving her flesh a long stroke before stepping away, the sounds of his boots telling of his departure. Looking up into the blue eyes, she saw the request reflected there, as well. But she’d learned that trust was an illusion—she’d trusted Katarina and now, here she was, about to be publicly whipped in front of the most evil human beings on the planet. Closing her eyes against those of sky blue, she laid her forehead against his chest, her fingers clutching his coat. Part of her—the most desperate part—prayed that she was wrong. That instead of monsters, these men were some sort of avenging angels and yet, hearing the whirl of the whip, she knew they couldn’t be.
The first stroke landed against her back, causing her to arch and gasp. Before she could fully process the sensation, another landed to the right of the first. She gasped again, her eyes flying open to see her knuckles turning white with her grip.
“Relax,” George whispered.
Her eyes lifted but didn’t find his as he was staring over her head, evidently watching… waiting for the next lash to fall.
It did and she couldn’t contain a cry as the leather touched her then lifted away. George’s hold was like iron, unyielding, and yet he whispered again, “Relax.”
How in the hell could she obey? Another lash, another cry, this time drawing her onto her tiptoes as the stroke had landed across the flesh of her buttocks. Following was another, then another, and yet why wasn’t she screaming? Why wasn’t she begging for mercy? Did she not have any sense of self-preservation remaining? Had she totally given up?
As she considered these questions, the lash continued to fall. Each one had her giving some sort of response. Each one drawing a yip, a squeal, a gasp, a cry from her. Each one causing her body to jerk, to tense, to lift or to wag to the side as if to make his target more difficult to find. Yet his aim never erred as stroke after stroke touched her flesh, warming it… caressing…
Wait? Caressing? How can I think that when he is whipping the skin from my body?
But was he? Yes, it was painful. Yes, it was terrifying and yet…
“Oh, God.” Her whimper was met with a tightening of George’s hands around her wrists and a softly uttered, “Shush, you’re fine, but you need to start yelling. Give a scream or two to stop this.”
Her mind was whirling just as the whip whirled before it struck. She couldn’t think… couldn’t put her feelings into words, but his words finally penetrated the fog of confusion. He was telling her to scream… just as Michael had. Why? Another stroke painted its line of fire across her bottom again, and its flare of pain allowed her clarity for a brief instance. Of course, Poplov and these men expected her to be in excruciating pain. Desired to hear her scream, to observe her writhing and begging. The whipping would continue until she gave them exactly what they expected, what they demanded.
The next stroke landed against her back again, and she threw back her head and screamed. The sound surprised her and yet with it came a release and a desire to vent—not her pain—her anger. The next one was met by a louder scream that reverberated around the stage and drew some response from the audience as men began to mumble.
“Again,” George said, his tone different than before, almost as if he was extremely pleased or amused that her act was convincing. Hell, was it really an act? No, it… this was real.
She screamed again and again, her body bucking and her feet lifting as if to escape and yet going nowhere. Another scream rent the air before she realized she’d given it without benefit of feeling a stroke… well, not a stroke from the leather. Instead, she felt the warmth of a hand as fingers splayed against her lower back, right above the curve of her ass.
“Good girl,” Michael said again. “Very good, Zoya.”
With his words, she collapsed into sobs, her cries muffled by the broad chest she leaned against. What the fuck had just happened? She didn’t want to hear him praise her. The man… the monster had just whipped her! When the hand moved against her back, she flinched.
“Don’t!” Though her voice was barely audible due to her position, it was enough to have the warm flesh lifting from her skin.
“Well, that was quite impressive, Gardenzio, though from your slave’s continued insolence, it is obvious it wasn’t enough. Hell, you didn’t even break her skin. I think a little blood running down her back would go a long way to showing this slut exactly who is her Master.”
Zoya tensed, not at his words but at Michael’s growl. “I don’t particularly give a fuck what you think, Poplov.” She gasped when she felt a new weight descending upon her, and felt her wrists being released as she was turned to be helped into the coat Michael had removed and was now buttoning to cover her. She looked up to see dark eyes flashing in anger as his hand gestured towards the others. Zoya saw men grinning like fools or leering in lust while the women she’d come to know were mostly curled up on the floor, some weeping quietly, some looking like they were in shock, a few bleeding. That thought had her realizing that she felt something fluid on her leg. Had he struck her there? Slipping a hand beneath the coat that hung almost to her knees, she swiped her fingers over her thigh. Somewhat terrified to pull it free, she
listened as Michael continued. “Unlike these fools, I do not break toys for which I’ve paid a great sum of money. We’ll be leaving now.”
“To each his own,” Poplov said as if the very notion of any sort of leniency was a foreign concept. “I’ll get your papers.”
As Michael nodded and George moved to stand beside him, Zoya pulled her hand free. Her fingers, while glistening, were not stained red. It wasn’t blood she’d felt… it was… oh, God, it was her own liquid… her own essence. One she’d only experienced with arousal but that… that was impossible.
Chapter 5
Stryder had taken a huge risk by speaking to Poplov in such a manner, but he didn’t give a damn. He was a man, and a powerful man at that. He had every right to do whatever the fuck he wanted to do with his… slave. Hell, he’d whipped the girl for all to see. What more could this fucker expect?
He hated doing it, but it really was the only thing he could think of without actually forcing the woman to have sex with him. He was good with the whip. Although he had only used it on consenting women up until now, and the aftermath was always a night of crazy, hot sex. So this was definitely not how he would have liked to use a favorite implement of his. But he knew he wouldn’t cause any damage, and the sound and the sight would definitely come across as harsh when, in fact, it was far less awful for Zoya than if he had shoved his cock in her mouth.
Looking at Anson, who had grabbed hold of Zoya again even though she tried to resist his touch, Stryder tilted his head slightly, signaling that it was time to leave. He needed to get the hell out of there, and fast. He didn’t know how much longer he could restrain himself. And he didn’t trust that Zoya wouldn’t do something foolish and force him to have to save face in front of all these men.
Anson took his cue and gently led Zoya off the stage. Stryder glared at Poplov one last time and silently swore to himself that the next time he faced the bastard, a gun would be resting between the monster’s eyes.
“Don’t touch me,” Zoya screeched as they reached the last stair of the stage. They were no longer in plain sight for all to see, but Stryder still needed the woman to be quiet.
“Enough,” he whispered in her ear, grabbing her by the arm as he headed toward the exit. “This is not the time to draw attention our way.”
“Moudak!” she spat, but did lower her voice as she cursed.
“Yes, I’m an asshole. But this asshole is about to save your life.”
She tried to pull her arm away, but Stryder held firm as he took long strides toward the door in which they had entered this hell. Anson was on the other side of Zoya, holding her steady as well. Just a few more steps and they would be—
“Gardenzio!” Vasily Poplov called out. “Leaving so soon?”
Stryder spun on his heel and plastered the fakest smile on his face that he could. “Yes. We have business to attend to. Our flight leaves tonight.”
Poplov’s face was near impossible to read. Stryder sensed he saw a little doubt, but couldn’t be sure. And for a split second, he wondered if Anson and he were up for a run. Were they close enough to the exit? Would they even have a fighting chance? Hell, even though they might, there was no way Zoya could—not in those heels.
Poplov reached his hand up and signaled for his security guard to come over. “Ah, very well, my friend.” He looked at his security guard and in Russian said, “Please give Zoya’s papers to her new Master. He may be needing these to leave Russia.” When the security guard reached in his pocket and pulled out an envelope and a passport, Poplov gave Stryder a wicked smile. “I do try to think of everything.”
Stryder nodded. “Thank you. That does make this trip much easier. I don’t have to bribe anyone now.”
“Oh no. You have definitely paid enough for one night.” Poplov looked at Anson, who stood with his jaw clenched and his hand still holding Zoya’s arm. “I do hope you both come back again. Surely you need a slave of your very own.”
“Oh, we will be back,” Anson said in the gravest of voices Stryder had ever heard him use. “You can count on that.”
Poplov, not catching the venom in Anson’s veiled threat, turned to Zoya. “You behave, sweet one. I have a feeling these men are going to get their money’s worth with your tiny little body.”
Holding back the urge to punch Vasily right in the nose, Stryder reached for the items the guard held out for him and turned without saying another word.
“Where are you taking me?” Zoya asked as they walked out into the bitter cold.
“To safety.”
“Where?” she asked again, shivering as the cold air hit her bare legs. He glanced down at the toned muscles of her calves and thighs accentuated by the black heels she still wore, and was relieved that at least his jacket covered up her nakedness. Anyone could assume she was just wearing a very slinky, short dress under it. Luckily, they didn’t have far to walk, or she surely would have frozen her tight little ass off.
Shaking off her questions and her distractions, he and Anson marched forward with one mission in mind: Focus on the rescue. They were not in the clear yet. Not until they were out of Russia and back at The Black Stallion Ranch, and they didn’t have time to deal with this little girl’s need to be in control. She wasn’t, and she needed to get that through her head fast.
She struggled again, doing her best to break free of his hold, even collapsing her legs, forcing them to drag her forward. “I’m not going anywhere with you! Yowb tvoyou math!”
“You will, because you know you have no choice. You know the power of that man back there who just sold you to the highest bidder. Do you really think you can walk out of here on your own? There is no one who can help you but us. So shut up and do as I say.”
“You are a real sick fuck, you know that?”
Losing what little temper he had left, Stryder snapped her body up against his chest, breaking her away from Anson. He held her tight as she pummeled his chest with her tiny fists. Between clenched teeth, he quietly snarled, “Listen to me! You can tell me to fuck off and call me whatever name you want, but not until we get you out of here. Unless you want me to march you right back inside and give you to one of those men who wouldn’t hesitate to fuck you in the ass for all to see, I advise you to shut your goddamn mouth.” He held onto one of her fists and squeezed hard enough for her to stop her attack. “I am going to tell you what you are going to do, and you are going to follow my directions to a tee. We are going to walk to the main street. I need you to act like everything is perfectly fine. A car will be parked and waiting for us, and I expect you to get in, sit down, and remain quiet. When we get to the hotel, my brother and I will explain what is going on. Are we clear?”
When she didn’t answer but only looked up at him with defiance in her eyes rather than fear, he asked again but with more force and dominance in every single word. “Are. We. Clear?”
“Yes,” she snapped, fury sizzling behind her crystal blue eyes. “We. Are. Clear. 'Khu i.”
Being called a dick by someone he was supposed to be helping, infuriated him. Trying to regain control, Stryder took a deep breath. The vixen was working his last nerve. He was trying his best to understand her situation and maintain patience. He knew she was scared, hell… terrified. And he knew she didn’t know they were there to help. But when she glared up at him with that look and responded with that voice of insolence to his command, he wanted to spank her little Russian ass like the deserving brat she was and teach her a lesson she wouldn’t soon forget. His nerves were shot, his temper high, and he was in no mood for a pretty little blonde to fuck up his operation.
“Stryder,” Anson said, breaking him from his thoughts, “we need to get going. Now.”
Knowing his brother was right, he turned Zoya around, who finally willingly walked between them toward the waiting black town car. It was a huge risk that Zoya wouldn’t just scream for help. If police were called, chances were it wouldn’t help the situation. Stryder knew they couldn’t trust the authorit
ies. There was no telling who Poplov had paid off or not. No, if they were going to get out of Russia alive, they needed to do it on their own, under the guise that they were leaving Russia with their paid sex slave by their side.
When they reached the car, Zoya shot daggers his way as she eased herself into the vehicle, but at least she was being obedient and doing as he ordered. Stryder quickly slid in beside her, and released the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. They were one step closer to safety, and at least now they wouldn’t be nearly as vulnerable as they had been. He had never wished for his gun more than he did right now.
Zoya’s body shook next to his, which instantly extinguished the flames of his temper and made him want to wrap his arms around her frightened and freezing frame to give her comfort. “Take us to the Radisson Royal Hotel. And can you turn up the heat?” His Russian was rusty, and he knew Anson was holding in a laugh as Stryder no doubt butchered the instructions.
Those were the only words spoken for the entirety of the drive, which wasn’t very far but felt like a lifetime. Both he and Anson were constantly, but subtly, glancing back to see if they were being followed. So far, everything seemed to be going smoothly but the tension he felt was giving him a headache from hell.
When they finally arrived, Stryder helped Zoya out of the car while Anson paid the driver. Leaning close to her ear, he whispered, “We are going to walk in and go straight to the elevator. There are cameras everywhere, so do not do anything but hold my hand and stare straight ahead. Say nothing. Do nothing. All of our lives depend on it.” He reached for her hand and held it firmly.
