by Brianna Hale
He smiles into my stunned face, and then strolls out of the room.
I stare at the box in my hands. The books I won from him, but at such a dear price. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a terrible thing to be married as soon as possible. At least it would get me out of this horrible house.
5
Zacarias
A tense morning gives way to a long, scorching afternoon. Valeria is shut up in our bedroom preparing for tomorrow night’s ball. I left her lying on the sofa in our suite with slices of cucumber over her eyes.
I prowl the long corridors of the castillo like a trapped animal. I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know why I never noticed before how cold my wife is. She’s the same with Lolita, barely looking at her daughter as she arranges her life for her without a please or thank you. I should leave this place.
I walk out through the French windows onto the terrace. The turquoise surface of the swimming pool sparkles in the sunlight. Sitting cross-legged on a sunbed beneath a huge umbrella is Lolita. She’s bent over her books and making notes, wearing a loose, see-through white kaftan over her bikini.
I clench my hands into brutally tight fists. Here is the number one reason I should leave. I can’t trust myself around Lolita. I’ve already acted despicably, using what I know about her lies and her powerlessness to manipulate her into situations in which she has to do as I say.
She shifts on the sunbed, and I catch sight of her smooth inner thighs. I should leave, and yet here I am, hungering for what’s forbidden.
With all the strength in my body, I turn and head back into the castillo. The lounge isn’t safe; Lolita might come inside at any moment. I retreat to the kitchen, empty now while the staff take their afternoon siesta. I sit at the kitchen counter with my head in my hands, trying to come up with a way to free myself from this mess. As the Black Fox, I want to cherish Lolita and keep her safe. Love her. Be with her. As Zacarias, I feel dark compulsions toward the girl. I want to hurt her. Torment her.
Sandals click on tiles. I lift my head and see Lolita. She stares at me for a few seconds, frozen in the doorway. Then she turns and goes to the refrigerator, ignoring me.
I wish it was that easy for me, but I am painfully, achingly aware of the soft curves of her body, her gentle breath, her pulse that thrums beneath the fragile skin of her throat. As she reaches for a cold drink, the hem of her kaftan rides up, revealing the peachy curve of her ass. I could grab her. Bend her over this counter and rub my forefinger back and forth along the length of her slit. Hook a finger into the fabric of her bikini and draw it aside, baring her pussy to me, and plunge into her tight, wet heat.
I leap to my feet, and the stool I’m sitting on topples to the ground with a clatter. Lolita whips around, her eyes round and frightened. I clench my fists either side of my head as if it’s about to split open. The pain that sears me is blinding. I let out an animal groan and double over.
“Zacarias? Are you…okay?”
I hear a hesitant footfall in my direction, and the scent of flowers fills my nostrils.
“Get out of here. Get out!” I roar at the top of my lungs like a cornered beast. I can’t control it much longer, and if she comes any closer I’ll snatch her up and do terrible, unforgiveable things to her.
There’s a gasp, and then the sound of running feet fading into the distance. Slowly, I straighten, my chest heaving. The black spots dancing in front of my eyes settle as I get my breath back.
I look around. I didn’t hurt Lolita. I didn’t chase her down. I can resist these horrible impulses. I’m the Black Fox, and I’m stronger than lust. I’m master of myself.
I can beat this curse.
Lolita spends the rest of the day out by the pool. I watch her from one of the castillo’s high windows, telling myself that it’s for her own safety; that I have to know the instant she comes back inside the house so I can keep out of her way. I end up sitting in the window for hours and hours, ignoring all discomfort, hunger and thirst, drinking in the sight of her bent over her books, her hand moving across the page as she writes.
My sweet girl, I think, watching her sweep her long hair from one shoulder to the other. Mi niñita.
Mealtimes are under strict control and everyone must dress neatly and come to the table at eight—except when Valeria feels unwell. Apparently she has a headache tonight, and lies on the sofa in our bedroom with a scarf over her eyes and a hand to her brow.
“Can I bring you anything, mi amor?” I ask from the doorway.
“No. Just go away.”
Blanca, the little dog, jumps into her mistress’s arms and is greeted with affection.
I head downstairs alone. Just two for dinner, then.
The housekeeper has set out cold meats and salad in the kitchen. I sit on the rear stairs, out of sight, waiting for Lolita to make up her plate and disappear to her room before finally daring to get some food myself. I tong lettuce leaves onto my plate, my insides feeling twisted and shaky as if I’m recovering from a long illness.
I take my dinner out by the pool and watch the swallows diving for insects in the dusky light. The garden is fragrant and peaceful. Olive groves and grape vines sweep the valley below, and in the distance the hills roll beneath an open sky. This place is paradise on earth, exactly the retirement I wanted for myself, and yet I feel trapped. Trapped and alone.
An hour later, night has fallen, and I walk with heavy steps up to the master bedroom. The door is open and I can hear Valeria splashing about in the en suite. Blanca blocks my entrance, her lip curling as she growls at me.
My wife comes out of the bathroom and pads toward the bed, one hand across her brow. “Mi amor, I still have such a headache. I’ll keep you awake with my restlessness. Go and sleep in the spare room, won’t you?”
It’s not the first time I’ve been banished to a different bedroom because Valeria claims to have a headache, but it’s the first time I haven’t minded one bit. My own head is splitting. I cast a final glower at the dog, who seems triumphant now that her mistress has ordered me out, and head down the hall to the guest bedroom without a word.
Sleep eludes me for a long time. I lie awake in the canopied bed, images of Lolita dancing through my mind, her body drenched in sunshine and her silky hair cascading down her back. My dick is rock hard at the memory of her sobbing so sweetly in my arms. Clinging to me. Needing me.
She’s no more than a few breaths away, her naked body lying tangled in sheets.
One breath for me to leave this room.
Another breath to walk silently down the hall and open her door.
A third to get up on the bed with her and wake her gently with a kiss.
Would she scream if she opened her eyes to see her masked hero in bed with her? Or would she wrap her arms around his neck and pull him down to her, offering up her soft breasts and tender thighs to his kisses, and her slippery, tight sex for the plunder of his cock?
I groan and cover my face with a pillow, willing this night to end.
When I finally sleep, it’s in fits and starts, with unsettling dreams that have me waking in a cold sweat. The next day only brings even more torment.
I manage to avoid Lolita all morning and afternoon. Valeria is shut up in our bedroom and has her maid hurrying in and out with herbal teas and hot and cold compresses for her brow. I hear her moaning and crying dramatically over how her head is splitting and she’s going to look dreadful for the ball.
Lolita remains closeted in her own room, and there’s silence from within. I’m dreading tonight. I begin to fantasize that our attendance at this ball is going to be canceled, because no one seems to be in the spirits for it. Valeria’s maid finds me at four in the afternoon in the lounge and bobs a curtsy before my chair.
“Señor, the mistress asks if you’ll be ready to leave for Madrid in an hour.”
I throw my newspaper aside and get to my feet, growling my assent. So much for our attendance being canceled. The maid calls after me that my tuxedo h
as been laid out in the spare room, and she’s packed my overnight bag. The ball is to be held in one of the city’s grand old hotels, and we’ll be sleeping there rather than driving back tonight.
I shower and shave and dress in my tuxedo, and then check my overnight bag to see what the maid has packed for me. There’s some space inside. I stand over it, thinking. The last few days have been a torment with only one moment of respite. When I became the Black Fox, I was able to do the right thing. Press a kiss to Lolita’s palm and walk away from her. I need the Black Fox tonight. I need him to remind me that I’m a good man. To become him if I feel myself falling to temptation.
I take my overnight bag into the storage room and pack my vigilante attire. Cape. Mask. Sword. Then I head downstairs and reverse the black Mercedes Valeria gave me as a wedding present out of the garage. Once my things are packed into the trunk, along with Valeria and Lolita’s bags, I wait, leaning against the hood, hands deep in the pockets of my pants.
Valeria emerges through the front door in a floor-length red lace gown, heavy gold jewelry around her neck and wrists and her hair swept up into an elaborate knot. She pauses, framed in the doorway, to adjust the red silk stole around her shoulders. With plump, self-satisfied lips, she descends the stairs toward me, no trace of pain lines or any puffiness to her face. You would think that she never had a headache.
I hold open the front passenger door for her and drop a quick kiss onto her cheek. “You look beautiful, Valeria.”
She settles herself into the seat without a word, and we wait for her daughter.
And wait.
Ten minutes later, Valeria leans over and presses the car horn, the sound reverberating through my skull. A minute passes, and then Lolita appears on the top step. My heart gives one hard pound, and then seems to stop altogether.
Lolita wears a gown that sparkles like champagne and clings to every curve of her body. Her dark hair has been lightly curled and cascades over her shoulders. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her with makeup on, but today her natural beauty has been highlighted with darkened lashes and a brush of pink lipstick on her lush mouth.
She comes slowly down the steps toward me. I find myself drifting toward her, aching to take this angel in my arms. It’s a moment before I realize she’s gazing at me with loathing in her jewel-bright eyes.
Faced with her loveliness, I forgot that she hates me.
If you so much as look in another man’s direction, I will see to it that he dies a slow and bloody death.
I hold out my hand to her to help her into the car, but she swerves around me. Or tries to. I step in front of her on the pretense of reaching for the door handle.
“How lovely you look tonight,” I murmur. She’s so close that I don’t need to raise my voice. Behind me, her mother is shut up in the car, the windows closed. “I hope you haven’t forgotten my request, mi niñita.”
“You mean your threat,” she says through her clenched, pearly teeth.
I raise an eyebrow at her. “Shall I open the door so you can repeat that for your mother?”
Lolita snaps her eyes away, an angry red flush creeping into her cheeks. I chuckle and open the car door, and she gets inside. The skirt of her gown is full and I lean down to scoop some of the tulle into the car.
“I can do that.” She tries to brush my hand away. Our fingers touch, and a bolt of electricity goes through me. Her eyes meet mine, and shock has driven all hatred from her face. We stare at each other for several long moments. Lolita doesn’t move, her lower lip softening and her breasts rising and falling in short, soft breaths. I reach out to her lovely face, wanting to cup her cheek and draw her lips to mine.
A horn sounds, and for a moment I wonder if it’s the clarion of doomsday. Then I realize that Valeria has grown impatient and sounded the horn again. I snatch my hand away and straighten.
“Hurry up with your dress, Lolita, or we’re going to be late,” I snap. I wait with one hand on the door while she scrambles to pull all the tulle safely inside, and then slam it closed. I pretend that my turmoil is irritation as I stalk around to the driver’s side, get in, and start the engine.
My eyes catch Lolita’s in the rearview mirror several times on the drive to Madrid. I don’t know what I’ll do if I see her near another man tonight. There could be blood on the dancefloor before midnight.
The ball is being held at the Carossa Grand Hotel in the center of Madrid. Valeria sweeps down the royal blue carpet to the entrance on my arm like a Hollywood movie star, her smile white and blinding.
The inside of the ballroom is lit by enormous crystal chandeliers, reflected in ornate gold mirrors. Flower arrangements cascade over side tables and potted palms dominate the alcoves and corners of the room. There are so many glittering diamonds and white-toothed smiles that my eyes are dazzled.
My wife introduces me to this dignitary and that aristocrat. I’m hyper-aware of Lolita trailing behind us, unimportant to Valeria until she spots a tuxedoed man who isn’t wearing a wedding ring. Then she drags her daughter forward and is all tender smiles and kind words about Lolita, as I stand off to one side, my whole body rigid with fury as I watch some cur looking at what’s mine.
Coveting what’s mine.
Undressing with their unworthy eyes what’s mine. Mine. Mine.
“Shall we dance, mi amor?”
“Hmm?” It seems Valeria has run out of men for the moment and has turned to me to show her off on the dancefloor. “Fine.”
I draw my wife into the waltzing couples, and immediately lose sight of Lolita in the crowd. Valeria is too busy cataloguing the guest list in a steady monologue to notice that my attention isn’t on her. As she discusses the merits of this dignitary over that for her daughter, I’m scanning the crowd for Lolita herself.
Valeria gasps in pain. “Zacarias! Must you grip my hand so tightly?”
I realize I’m clenching her in anger, and loosen my grip. As soon as the music ends, I deposit Valeria on the edge of the dancefloor with a friend of hers, mutter an excuse she doesn’t hear, and head off in search of my stepdaughter. If she’s dared disobey me…
I finally run her to ground by the refreshments table. She’s reaching for some punch, and another man is making a bee-line for her, his arm outstretched to put a cup into her hand. I get there first and step in front of him.
“Dance with me.” I hold out my hand to Lolita. It’s not a request.
She glances around for a friend. Her mother. But there’s only me, and I’m going to get what I want.
Reluctantly, she places her hand in mine. We’re on the edge of the dancefloor, and I step back and draw her into my arms. My arm slides around her waist as if it has done so every night for a hundred years. Lolita’s scent blooms in my nostrils, and I close my eyes briefly as she settles one slim hand on my shoulder. Euphoria fills me, and it’s all I can do not to bend down and nuzzle her neck through her hair and nip her throat with my teeth.
Lolita gaze up at me through her lashes. “You’re very strange, Zacarias. I don’t like you at all.”
I take a deep breath and remind myself of my intentions. I’m only doing this so I won’t have to see her with other men. In a few hours’ time, she’ll be locked in a bedroom upstairs, and come morning I’ll drive her back to the castillo where there are no other male eyes but my own.
Where no man can look upon what’s mine. Mine. Mine.
“Yet you’re dancing with me,” I point out.
“We’re in public. There are a hundred people in this room. Do I have to fear you even now?”
Especially now. I’m learning your scent, Lolita. I’m imprinting the curves of your body on my mind. I lean close to her lips and murmur, “Tell me, did you really try to seduce two of your professors?”
Her cheeks turn pink. What a little minx she is. I let my gaze slide down her body, wondering how far those papery old fools got with my Lolita. If I find out they touched her before they reported her, their lives won’t be worth liv
ing.
Lolita gazes past my shoulder, craning her neck this way and that as I sweep her around the dancefloor. “Are you looking for someone?”
“I thought perhaps…” She trails off.
“You thought perhaps the Black Fox might make an appearance?”
She starts, and her cheeks turn an even deeper shade of crimson. For a moment she’s flustered, but then becomes defiant. “Everyone thinks he’s disappeared, but he hasn’t. Criminals in Spain should watch themselves.”
Her eyes flick disdainfully over my face, and I find myself smiling broadly. I lean down to whisper in her ear, “But I have you to watch me, mi niñita. I’d much rather have you than a ridiculous masked man.”
Now that my lips are against her ear, I can’t wrench myself away. I wrap my arm tighter around Lolita’s waist, feeling her breasts crush against my chest. I can’t let her go. Not ever.
6
Lolita
His mouth against my ear makes a shiver run down my spine. Not a cold shiver, either. A hot, forbidden one. Slowly, Zacarias moves his lips against my earlobe, and then down to my throat. Surrounded by strangers and under the dim, shimmering light of the chandeliers, he kisses the tender spot behind my ear.
I hear myself gasp. I’m reminded of how it felt to be in his arms. It isn’t right that my stepfather makes me feel like the Black Fox did. My eyes drift closed and I whisper, “Please let me go.”
Zacarias’ lips move back to my ear and his hands tighten on me possessively as he breathes, “But we haven’t finished dancing.”
I try desperately to imagine that I’m in my hero’s arms, and that’s why heat is sparkling low in my belly. It’s the Black Fox’s large hand splayed on my back. The Black Fox’s chest that my over-sensitized nipples are rubbing against. The Black Fox who is making me pant and my core quiver with need as his hand dips further down my lower back until his touch is almost indecent.
