by Brianna Hale
The Black Fox
The Dirty Heroes Collection
Brianna Hale
Contents
The Dirty Heroes Collection
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Finding His Strength - Sneak Peek
Chapter One
Also by Brianna Hale
About Brianna
Copyright © 2020 by Brianna Hale
Published by Brianna Hale
Cover Design - Jay Aheer (Simply Defined Art)
Formatting - Raven Designs
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language, and sexual situations. It is intended for adult readers.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in the work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
Once upon a time, a scorned Queen opened a box, unleashing horrible evil on the world's heroes.
Instead of gallantry and chivalry, they now possessed much more perverse traits. They’ve fallen victim to their darkest and most deviant desires.
This is one of their stories...
Blurb
For fifteen years I was the Black Fox, the hero of Spain, the good-luck devil. I made my enemies dance to my tune and fall to my sword.
The day must come when every hero hangs up his cape, and for me, it was the day I outsmarted the curse. I would not die for love, because I didn’t love the woman I married. Valeria Hernandez didn’t love me.
Then I met her. Lolita. Fresh from boarding school, as beautiful as a rose’s thorn and poised to pierce my heart. Little Lo is as dangerous as sin and twice as forbidden. She hates me, but she loves her Black Fox. Her savior. Her devil in black.
How she loves to call him daddy.
Author’s note: The Black Fox is a novella of 25,000 words. All characters are over eighteen. Zacarias is married.
Prologue
Zacarias
I dig a knee into my prisoner’s throat as the clock in the church tower starts to chime midnight. Beneath me, he growls and thrashes about, but his efforts are futile. I tighten the ropes binding his chest and arms, and then hold up a finger.
“You hear that?”
The man stops struggling. Each of the deep chimes sound through the still night air. I wait for them to end, and then say, “It’s my birthday. Today I’m forty years old.”
“Happy fucking birthday,” chokes my prisoner, and goes back to thrashing about.
“That is kind of you.” I leap to my feet and haul the man’s dead weight over my shoulder. As if out on nothing more than a midnight stroll, I whistle under my breath. The steep streets of the village of Atienza are deserted at this hour. Up ahead, a skinny cat slinks along the laneway, its tail caressing the ancient stone wall.
“I find I’m in a very good mood tonight,” I tell my prisoner, giving him a friendly pat on the rump. “Not only is it my birthday, but I’m going to be married. Fifteen whole years as the Black Fox, but it’s time to hang up my cape.”
“Felicidades,” my prisoner spits. “You couldn’t have retired last night?”
I ignore that. “I never thought I’d be married, because of the…” I swallow and swerve the conversation in a different direction. “I never thought I’d be married, but I saw her, and I knew.”
People say this often, that they fell in love at first sight. For me, it wasn’t quite like that. I met Valeria Hernandez, and I was overwhelmed by a sense of confidence. I was thirty-nine. Falling victim to a curse was a young man’s folly. I would marry Valeria and simply outsmart it.
“Valeria is my destiny. I feel that in my soul.”
“Good for you,” snarls my prisoner.
“But do I love her?” I muse aloud, as if my prisoner has asked me. “Oh, not exactly. What is love, when you respect each other? She likes me as I am, and she doesn’t need to change anything for me. I will find a new hobby. Golf, perhaps.”
I grimace. All right, not golf. But it’s time for me to step out of the shadows and my life as Zacarias to begin.
“As you’re hanging up your cape, Señor, maybe we could come to some sort of arrangement?”
The man’s wheedling tone makes me slow to a stop, and I cock my ear. “An arrangement?”
He tenses on my shoulder, and I sense his excitement. “Think of it as a birthday present. No, a wedding present, for you and your good lady. Something for you to retire on and live out your days in comfort.”
I study the church across the square, black and faceless against the night sky. “What did you have in mind?” He names an obscene amount of money, and I shift on my feet. “That is…very generous of you.”
“No more than the Black Fox deserves,” simpers my prisoner. “For keeping Spain safe all these years. Your exploits have been fine, and many.”
That sort of money could buy a yacht for my wife and me to sail around the Mediterranean in, before returning to her hilltop castillo. I jostle my prisoner on my shoulder. “And you? What will you do if I let you go?”
The man’s voice is syrupy with contrition. “Señor, I have learned the error of my ways. I will live a life beyond reproach from now on.”
I rub my free hand over my jaw. “I was going to hand you into the chief of police. He lives at this address, I believe?” I indicate the nearby white stucco house, all its lights extinguished and shutters drawn.
“You can put me down here,” the man says in an eager whisper. “I’ll make my own way home. Tomorrow, a messenger will come to your house with a suitcase full of money. Used notes. The least I can do for you on your birthday and for your impending nuptials.”
“The very least,” I agree. I drop the man on the cobbles at my feet, and then hoist him up and slam him against a post. “But still not good enough.”
“Wha—what are you doing?” he wheezes, the breath knocked out of him.
Instead of answering, I tie him to the post, and then yank down his pants and underwear. His privates shrink up in the cool air. From behind my mask, I grin at him, my hand drifting to the hilt of my sword.
The man’s eyes widen in horror. “You wouldn’t!”
I draw my sword, and he all but sobs with fear. With the tip of my blade, I tickle the end of his floppy privates. How pathetic they look in this state, like the wattles of an old chicken.
He gasps and twists, trying to escape. “No, please!”
I sheath my sword w
ith a theatrical sigh. “Well, all right then. But I was just starting to have a little fun.” I dig something out of my pocket. A small cardboard sign, which I tie around his dick and balls, yanking the string tight. Maybe they’ll drop off by morning.
I draw my sword once more and hold the tip against his throat, not a trace of humor in my expression now. The man’s Adam’s apple bobs against the blade.
“Bastardo. Fucking asshole. I’ll kill you for this.”
His threats might have more impact if he wasn’t whispering. He still thinks he’s going to get out of this without any consequences. “Why are you not screaming for help? Afraid to shout and wake the chief of police?”
The man just glares at me, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the moonlight.
“Or are you worried about drawing the neighbors to their windows?” I press the blade against his throat, drawing a thin line of blood. “Because they’ll recognize you, won’t they, Police Chief Martínez?”
Martínez’s face goes slack with shock.
“Photographs. Stained clothing. Ropes. They’re all on their way to police headquarters in Madrid,” I tell him. “To an officer who can’t be bribed.” I lean close and whisper, “Like I can’t be bribed.”
Above his head, I carve a mark into the post, as fast as lightning. Then I salute him ironically and saunter away. Come morning, the townspeople will find their chief of police tied to a post outside his own home, a sign dangling from his cold, pathetic genitals that reads VIOLADOR. RAPIST. Above his head will be three slashes. The letter Z.
I melt into the shadows for the very last time, and the Black Fox, as Spain has known him these past fifteen years, is no more.
1
Zacarias
Two months later
“To us, mi amor.”
Valeria holds out her wine glass to me, and the ruby red liquid flashes in the midday sun. I smile broadly, toast her, and take a mouthful of wine.
“To us,” I agree warmly. I cast my eyes over my new wife. She’s forty-three, a divorcée, and a handsome woman with a crown of thick chestnut hair. Her cheekbones are high and angular and her wide mouth proud. We met at the opera in Madrid; or rather, I was passing by and saw her in a gold, floor-length gown. Framed in the doorway, she dripped elegance and beauty, but that’s not what had me following her inside.
I knew that this was the woman I had to marry.
I felt…nothing for her. I’ve held women in my arms, going through the motions and saying all the right things in the hopes that love will spring forth. Always, my heart remains empty. It’s been many years since I sought out or pretended to feel love. It causes too much pain for everyone.
With Valeria, I don’t have to pretend, and the relief that she doesn’t mind almost feels like happiness. I watch her as she lifts her toy poodle, Blanca, into her lap and makes kissy noises on top of her head. She’s more affectionate with her dog than she is with me.
A moment later, Valeria checks the slim gold watch on her wrist, and her expression hardens. “She’s late.”
We’re waiting for Valeria’s eighteen-year-old daughter to join us. Lolita. She’s been tucked away at boarding school in Switzerland these past months and I’ve never met her. Now she’s finished high school and she’s coming home. I glance around the square, trying to spot a younger version of my wife. The medieval village of Segova sits among sandstone hills and vineyards. It’s peaceful and wealthy. Atop the hill, at the end of three miles of winding road, sits my wife’s castillo.
Valeria regards me uncertainly, pursing her perfectly painted red lips. “Are you sure you don’t mind that Lolita is coming to live with us?”
“It’s a large castillo, and it’s more her home than mine. Of course I don’t mind.”
“You say that now, but…” Valeria hesitates, and then finishes in a rush, “My daughter can cause problems.”
“Oh?” I want to smile, imagining the petty sort of problems an eighteen-year-old schoolgirl might cause.
Valeria takes a fortifying sip of wine. Under her breath, as if she’s ashamed, she whispers, “Lolita is a liar. She makes things up. Harmless little things, usually, but as she’s grown older, the lies have become more dangerous.”
I feel a prickle of unease travel down my spine. “What sort of lies?”
“We wrote to each other weekly. Lolita kept me updated with her progress at school and she told me how well she was doing this year and that her marks were excellent. When I got her report card, I found a very different story. She failed most of her classes. I don’t know what she’ll be fit for, now. And she—” Valeria breaks off, clenching her hands in her lap. “She tried to seduce two of her professors.”
My confidence of a few moments ago evaporates. I wanted a peaceful life, and now it sounds as if I’ll have a little troublemaker on my hands.
“I don’t know where I went wrong with her,” Valeria confesses. “I failed her somehow. She barely knew her father before he died, so it must be all my fault.”
I reach out, and Valeria puts her hand into mine. The diamond ring I gave her sparkles in the sunlight. “I’m sure it’s no one’s fault. Some teenagers are troubled, but she’ll grow out of it.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Valeria doesn’t sound like she believes me. She glances over my shoulder and sits up. “Ah, here she is.”
I turn and look. A slender young woman with long, long dark hair is coming across the square toward us. She picks her way over the cobbles in high-heeled espadrilles. A spaghetti strap on her sundress slips down over one olive-toned shoulder, and she raises a hand to slide it back up. I swear I can feel the way it slides against her delicate flesh; hear her soft intake of breath.
The church clock starts to chime midday. Each peal gets further and further apart as the world slows down.
Down.
Down.
Distantly, I hear a woman’s maniacal laugh. A cruel laugh, one I’ve heard only in my nightmares.
Lolita. Lola. Little Lo.
The lines of her body are graceful and curvy, and her breasts are full and bounce as she walks. It’s not even that she’s a beauty that’s making my heart pound and my mouth go dry.
It’s that she’s mine.
I know it with more certainty than I know my own name. This girl is mine.
Time has become molten as I get to my feet. I reach for her hand, the milliseconds ticking past like centuries. Her cool fingers touch mine, and in that moment I know I will kill for this girl. I’ll slay anyone who keeps me from her.
“Darling, this is Zacarias. Your new stepfather.”
Her brown eyes gaze into mine. Whole universes are held within those warm depths and I want to tip forward and fall into them, floating in bliss forever.
The last hour chimes.
My world shatters.
Stepfather.
“Hola,” my angel murmurs, a shy expression in her eyes as she looks at me through her lashes. She comes up to my chin. Her waist is perfectly proportioned to be encircled by my arm. The way she sings in the shower makes flower blossoms patter against my heart. Watching her talk with her hands when she’s excited by an idea is a balm to my tired soul. I know all this as if I’ve already witnessed it. How do I know all this?
The laugh goes on and on, ringing in my ears like the peals of doomsday.
“How did you go in your exams, darling?” Valeria asks.
I blink, and realize we’re all sitting down and a waiter in a white shirt and black apron is handing us menus.
“Three As and two Bs, Mama,” Lolita murmurs, looking down the list of dishes.
Valeria shoots me a pained look. Lolita’s barely said hello and she’s already lying. As I watch, Lolita leans down to her handbag and her dress rides up her thigh. Plump, soft flesh that my fingers could dig into as she pants my name.
I snap my head to the side and glare across the square. Stepdaughter. Stepdaughter.
“I want to move tables.”
Di
stractedly, I turn back to my wife. The petulance in her voice makes irritation prickle down my spine. “Why, mi amor?”
Valeria shivers a little in her seat, though the day is warm. “That ridiculous statue. I’m sitting in its shadow.”
The sun moved while we waited for Lolita, and a large shadow has fallen over her. The nine-foot statue dominates the square. It’s of a man, fists pressed proudly into his hips and his cape sculpted to look as if it’s fluttering in a breeze. On his head is a broad-brimmed hat and his eyes are concealed by a mask.
Lolita gasps in shock. “Mama! The Black Fox is a hero.”
She gazes up at the statue with reverence in her eyes. The town erected this statue to me ten years ago, when I saved the residents from a series of burglaries that were damaging local businesses. I was just starting to gather a following and the residents of forgotten, corrupt towns were grateful to me. I didn’t do it for a statue, though. I grew up in a forgotten, corrupt town.
“They should tear it down,” Valeria says, taking a sip of her wine. “Carrying on like he’s some sort of hero when he only caught a few embezzlers and petty thieves—something the police should have done themselves—makes this a monument to our national shame.”
Two spots of color burn in Lolita’s cheeks. “He never asked for this statue. He never asked for any reward or acknowledgment at all. The people did this for him and he gives them hope. He gives me hope, too.”
