Gavin couldn’t fill her glass fast enough. She swallowed the drink and stared at the ceiling, welcoming the first hazy wave of inebriation. But the faces of the candlelight vigil didn’t fade. Chloe’s face didn’t fade.
“Fuck,” Mariane whispered to no one in particular. Her chest ached. She couldn’t stop herself from seeing the young man at the bar four years ago, asking her weird questions and claiming that the DJ had stolen his sister. She had seen him climb into Demetrius’ truck. She still heard the gunshot, heard the guy shout. He never came out of the truck.
Mariane had kept herself safe with the knowledge of what Demetrius did by keeping quiet all these years and even bringing girls into the club for him to consider. He never had, and Mariane was glad of it now. Maybe she would have actually been all right if she had offered him a stranger even though she only did it to eliminate any concern he might have about her squealing. But he had taken one of her best friends.
An hour passed. Mariane lost track of how many shots she’d taken. Her limbs were pleasantly numb. People had begun to fill the barstools around her, chattering and drinking and shouting. They were obnoxious. The TVs over the bar got louder along with the crowd and blared various announcements about various sports Mariane couldn’t have cared less about. She was stifled by the noise, the pointlessness of it all.
“Gavin!” Mariane shouted louder than she had meant to. “Close me out, baby. I’m going home.”
She had just gotten her coat back on when a few members of the crowd beside her shouted, “Turn this one up! Turn it up!”
The flat screen just above Mariane’s spot at the bar got louder, unbearably loud. The reporter’s voice was so loud that she seemed to be in the bar itself.
“Tonight students at Hollington University held a candlelight vigil for Chloe Leroux, a student missing since September.”
Mariane’s heart stopped. The screen flooded with footage of the vigil. Dr. Leroux was there, bearded and bespectacled as Chloe had always described him to Mariane, his eyes red but dry of tears. Mariane suspected he had run out of tears weeks ago. She stumbled back and hurried out of the bar as his voice followed her.
“The police are doing all they can, but if anyone has any information…please…help me bring my baby girl home.”
Mariane burst into tears. She rarely cried, and never this hard. It was like a geyser had exploded. Her sobs were so violent that she had to kneel in a closed store entrance. God dammit. God dammit. She took out her phone. Damn Chloe. Damn Demetrius. Damn everything. She couldn’t handle this anymore. She had to do something. She brought up the internet and typed in Dr. Leroux’s name. He was wrong. The police weren’t doing what they could. She had been around the Oryx long enough to have seen money change hands between Demetrius and the local cops after bar fights. She didn’t see any reason for that not to extend to his activity outside of the club.
Mariane’s finger hovered over the number to Dr. Leroux’s Cleveland office. She took a breath and hit send. Chloe loomed in her mind, pressed against the glass wall at the Oryx as Demetrius pushed Mariane aside to get to her.
The receptionist’s recorded voice irritated Mariane’s ears. “If you would like to make an appointment, please leave your name and number after the tone, and we will get back to you during regular business hours. Have a wonderful day.”
The beep of the recording stole Mariane’s breath for a moment. She cleared her throat and made her voice as low as possible.
“Demetrius Heart. He has Chloe.”
Chapter 20
November 10, 2011
Twenty-One awoke just before the wail of the alarm sounded. She heard the shiver of chains as the slaves around her jolted awake, stirring the chains attached to medical cuffs that bound them to their beds. The attendants filed into the room as the alarm faded, keys in hand. Twenty-One waited patiently for Gabe to unlock her wrists and ankles. It had taken her a few days to adjust to sleeping on her back, her arms and legs spread as wide as the single mattress would allow. Now she couldn’t imagine sleeping without the firm grip of her restraints.
Gabe flashed her a smile before she brought her gaze down.
“Good morning, sweetie,” he unlocked her cuffs. Twenty-One curled her legs beneath her and sat At Attention as Gabe released Seventeen beside her. She waited, listening to the familiar sounds of her morning. The attendants’ chatter bounced off the cement walls of the slave sleeping quarters. The rows of beds creaked with the slaves’ every movements. She filed behind Seventeen and moved with the line of slaves out of the sleeping quarters.
Twenty-One watched her feet make the same path they tread the past few days; through the open training room with its rows of tables and through the banquet hall, the room where she had first seen her fellow slaves being herded as they were now. The outside air held a pure, cold chill against her naked skin as the group moved across the backyard to the baths. Frost crunched beneath her bare feet. Twenty-One had long ago lost track of how much time had passed in this place, but the air smelled like snow. In Ohio, the threat of snow did not narrow down a date for her. It could have been the end of October or mid-December. She no longer cared. Life had become a rigid and unchanging routine; the baths, serving breakfast and lunch for the attendants, the group training sessions, a private training session with Demetrius, sleep. Though the group training sessions were frightening, having to interact with a multitude of slaves after so long in isolation, she found the routine comforting. She especially looked forward to her time with her Master, of being alone with him. She had a very difficult time when he participated in the group training sessions. When she saw his hands on another slave, her heart quickened in a sickening way.
Breakfast was slower than usual this morning, as the glass slaves who cooked were exhausted from their training for the dinner party. Twenty-One smiled at Three, who stood behind the counter of the restaurant-style kitchen. The little slave piled seven eggs and eight sausage links onto Twenty-One’s plate. Twenty-One trotted out in a line of slaves to the banquet hall, where the attendants sat waiting for their slaves to deliver their meals.
“Good girl,” said Gabe, ruffling Twenty-One’s hair as she delivered his plate to him. She accepted the few grapes from his palm with her mouth and knelt beside him on the floor, savouring the sweet fruit bursting on her tongue. Gabe kept a hand near her head, sometimes petting her like a dog, which she now knew to be a nervous habit. She didn’t look up at him, so far above her at the table, but she couldn’t stop herself from listening in on his conversation with Rodney, who sat beside him, shoveling his breakfast into his face.
“How far along is she?” Rodney asked.
Gabe sighed, “About three months. I mean, I’m happy, but I don’t know, we weren’t expecting it.”
“Shit, dude. You gonna marry her now?”
“I was planning to before this,” said Gabe. “I’m gonna get the ring after the auction.”
Twenty-One smiled as she finished the last of her grapes. Gabe was going to be a father. He seemed the family type. He took such good care of her, she could only imagine he would make an amazing parent.
Breakfast continued as normal, until every attendant had finished his meal. They had their crisis drill, where an alarm sounded and every slave dropped to her stomach until her attendant ordered her to rise, and filed into the group training room for their first session of the day.
The slaves knelt in a line, waiting for the Mistresses to come down the stairs from the secret door in the study. It didn’t take long for them to hear the clicking of heels coming down the stone steps. Twenty-One’s heart sped up a bit, as it always did when the twins entered the room. They wore black head to toe today, which made their green and purple hair all the bolder. They held stacks of long tapered candles and lighters in their arms. Twenty-One swallowed a lump of tension in her throat. In her weeks living with the other slaves, she had been gently cropped, she had been spared much of the humiliation her fellow slaves experienced.
Demetrius forbade anyone to touch her without his permission, forbade attendants from using her at their whim as they did with the other slaves in the baths or during their meals. Only the other slaves touched her, and only during group training sessions, under her Master’s eye.
“Today, leather and steel slaves will be learning the wax game. It’s one of Abigail’s favourites,” said Charity.
Twenty-One didn’t know who Abigail was, but the twins mentioned her often when speaking to the attendants about their training. Twenty-One guessed that she was a Mistress, but did not allow herself to ponder any further. She was a slave. She would not question.
Faith held up a candle. “Two slaves will have their arms bound behind their backs, and will hold lit candles in their mouths.”
“They will use a third slave as a canvas to draw a shape on her stomach with the melting wax,” Charity chimed in. “Whoever makes the best picture gets rewarded by their canvas.”
Twenty-One bit her lip, willing herself invisible. She did not like the idea of this game. How would she be able to draw a shape with a taper candle in her mouth? She was relieved when Six and Eleven were called to participate as the “artists.” But her relief was short-lived.
“Let’s give our Model Slave a little treat,” Charity’s voice was edged with something that knocked Twenty-One’s heart against her ribs. “Twenty-One will be our canvas.”
Gabe’s warm hand on her back did little to soothe her.
“Come on, sweetie,” he said, giving her a reassuring pat. “You can do it.”
Twenty-One rose on trembling knees. Her breath quickened as she filed in line with Six and Eleven. She had had minimal pain training; a crack of the crop here and there as she and the slaves went about there day, but nothing like hot wax. She tried to keep as calm as possible when Six and Eleven’s attendants brought a training table over to them, and Gabe ordered her onto it.
“Keep your legs still, sweetie,” he warned as he snapped the cold metal shackles around her wrists. “No wriggling around.”
“Yes, Sir,” Twenty-One murmured, trying to hide the shiver in her breath. Attendants bound Six and Eleven’s hands behind their backs with simple rope and led them to stand beside the table. They tied Six’s long red hair back. Eleven’s black hair was cropped short and wouldn’t be an issue with the wax.
Twenty-One’s limbs tingled, agitated. The shackles on her wrists had never felt more confining. For the first time in an eternity, thoughts of escape flittered about the edges of her mind, etched in fear. She beat them back, whispering her mantra to drown out the pulse in her ears.
“I am Twenty-One. I am a slave. I will obey. I will be used. I will not question. I will please my Master. I am Twenty-One. I am a slave.”
The attendants slipped the tapered candles into each slave’s mouth.
“All right, boys,” came Charity’s voice from somewhere nearby, out of Twenty-One’s eyeline. “The prize for this one is a two hundred dollar bonus for the week. Place your bets now.”
The cellar erupted into shouts. Twenty-One focused harder on her mantra, forcing herself to breathe slowly and deeply. There was no escaping this. She would behave as best she could. But when the attendants lit the candles and Six and Eleven leaned over her exposed body, she feared she would lose what little bravery she had.
“Begin,” said one of the twins.
Twenty-One braced herself as best she could, but she couldn’t have prepared for the searing sensation that ignited her skin. Wax dripped onto her bare stomach like molten raindrops. Twenty-One’s back spasmed into an arch. Every droplet of wax was a shadow of the pain she’d experienced when she had been branded. Her mind flooded with the memory of her Master striking her skin with glowing steel again and again. She clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms. She fought to keep her lips sealed, but cries escaped her nonetheless.
“Stop,” she heard Gabe’s voice above shouts and cheers. “She isn’t doing well.”
“It’s almost over,” came Faith’s cold tone. “It’s just wax. Where is she in her pain training?”
The uncertainty in Gabe’s voice stung Twenty-One nearly as much as the dribbling wax. “Demetrius has only done private pain training, so I’m not sure.”
“What?”
Twenty-One didn’t hear the order but Eleven and Six retreated, leaving a trail of cooling hard caps on her aching skin. She took a shaky breath. The pain that had seemed so intense had gone so quickly. Her cheeks flushed. She had panicked over nothing.
Gabe appeared beside her, a hand on her shoulder.
“Stay on your back, sweetie. Let’s see who won.”
Twenty-One lifted her chin up to look at the decorations on her stomach. She saw no pattern whatsoever, only swirls of white and blue wax. She hadn’t heard the twins announce the shape they were to draw on her.
“It looks like Eleven’s was best,” said Gabe after a quick study of the wax.
Attendants cheered and booed simultaneously.
“Twenty-One, stand up,” Charity ordered. “It’s time to reward the winner.”
Twenty-One rose with an ache in her limbs that surprised her. Wax clung to her stomach, sealed to her skin. Her flesh was pink and tender where the hot wax had struck her. Eleven’s attendant rewarded her with a couple of grapes and led her to Twenty-One. Twenty-One kept her eyes down, waiting for an order. She wanted nothing more than for Gabe to take her to the baths and clean her up for her private session of the day. She buried the thought, lest Faith or Charity sensed her reluctance and punished her for it.
Faith’s voice came with an irritation that prickled along Twenty-One’s skin.
“What are you waiting for?” she snapped. “Fuck her already.”
Twenty-One tensed. She looked up at Eleven, tall and elegant with smooth ebony skin and the sculpted face of a runway model. Other than Seventeen’s assistance in her orgasm control training, Twenty-One had never had sexual contact with another woman. She didn’t know where to begin. Her gaze caught Eleven’s mouth, full and plump and glistening with juice from the grapes. After a moment of hesitation, Twenty-One rose on tiptoe and kissed those lips. She felt Eleven immediately return the kiss, but the slave’s hands remained limp at her sides, passive. Twenty-One reached up and cupped Eleven’s face. A swarm of low chuckles swept through the crowd of attendants around them.
“How romantic,” Eleven’s attendant sneered, shaking his head.
“Just get to it,” Faith’s voice snapped Twenty-One into motion. She didn’t want to fail this exercise. She had only been used in this house; a submissive bedfellow eager to obey. For the first time, she had to make decisions on how to proceed. She dropped her hands to the small, pointed breasts of the slave in front of her. Eleven’s nipples hardened against Twenty-One’s palms immediately. She heard her fellow slave’s breath quicken. The sound raised gooseflesh on Twenty-One’s arms. She felt an all-too-familiar heat bloom between her legs. She kissed the hollow of Eleven’s throat, her collarbone, tasting a hint of salt on her skin, and found her way to one of the firm little breasts. She flicked the nipple with her tongue and Eleven shivered, a soft moan escaping her lips. Her long hand curled into Twenty-One’s hair, urging her on. Twenty-One closed her mouth around Eleven’s breast and she sucked gently, tracing the nipple with her tongue. Eleven gasped, making Twenty-One moan against her breast.
“Cut the foreplay,” one of the twins ordered, Twenty-One could not tell which. “We don’t have all day.”
Twenty-One almost whispered, “Yes, Mistress” into the soft skin against her face. She pulled back and looked up at Eleven. She didn’t know what to do next. Eleven’s brown eyes met hers. The hand on Twenty-One’s hair tugged her lightly downward. Twenty-One responded by sinking to her knees. Eleven gave her the slightest of nods. Twenty-One knelt in front of the slave. She tried to remember what Seventeen had done to her during her training sessions. She even struggled to recall lovers from her life before this place, but nothing
came to mind. Eleven’s sex was close enough to kiss, hidden but for a small slit between the slave’s legs. Twenty-One took a breath, pressing her hands into Eleven’s thighs for support. She leaned forward and kissed Eleven’s sex, flicking her tongue along the slit. Eleven threw her head back, widening her stance, her hand tense in Twenty-One’s hair. Her sex opened and Twenty-One could see a hint of dark plum-coloured folds, just barely glistening. Twenty-One delved into the slit and tasted the other slave. Roars erupted from the attendants, growling laughter. Twenty-One lapped at Eleven’s sex, hot and faintly musky, encouraged by their cheers. She could only hope she was doing well enough to avoid punishment.
“Twenty-One.”
Her Master’s voice stopped her heart as well as her tongue. She looked in the direction of the voice before she could stop herself. Demetrius stood beside the twins behind her, his arms folded over his chest, face unreadable. The twins looked tense, but no tenser than they usually were around Demetrius.
“Eyes down, slave,” said Faith.
Twenty-One obeyed, her cheeks burning. How could she have looked her superiors in the face? She knew better than that. She peeled away from Eleven and pressed her forehead to the floor in a perfect Supplication pose.
“What is she doing?” Demetrius’ voice was a little strange, but Twenty-One could not figure out how.
“Rewarding a slave,” Charity responded. “We taught them Abigail’s favourite game today. Eleven won.”
Twenty-One Page 17
