“Perhaps,” she said. “Do you speak from experience, then? Is this what this is all about? Was there some poor, pretty village girl in your youth who you knocked up and who subsequently—”
“No.” Blazes, why had he abandoned the game? He peered down at the cards wistfully. “Birthing a child is far from safe,” he continued. “And then there is the way that men treat women that they pay. For instance, what I am supposed to be doing to you, even now.”
“Yes, but I would never allow a man with the twisted desires you supposedly have into my bed,” she said.
“How would you stop me?” he said, blinking at her.
“I am not unarmed.” She reached into her collar and drew out a small sheathed dagger.
“You wouldn’t always have somewhere to hide that.”
“There is one under the pillow.” She gestured to the bed.
“Even so, if it is a struggle between you and a man, you are not guaranteed to prevail against him. Most men are stronger than you are, I wager.”
“Once a man has shown himself to be… undesirable, he is blacklisted from all working women in Rzymn,” she said. “No woman will take his money. No woman will service him. It is how we protect each other. And if this does not deter him, often times, he is dispatched. I retain assassins on the payroll for such purposes.”
“Hmm,” said Chevolere, thinking about it. “So, if I had truly molested your girls and been persistent about it, you would have had me killed?”
She smiled. “This is not what you actually wish to know, however, is it, Chevolere?”
He sighed. He got up from the table and walked over to the bed. He brushed his fingers over the silky coverlet. “The entire idea of having a woman seems… brutish to me.”
“I suppose there’s some truth in that. There are things that separate us from the beasts in the field and wood, but this is not one of them. In this, we are all brutes.”
He glanced at her. “Yet, you still enjoy it.” He turned back to the bed, dragging his forefinger over the coverlet.
“Don’t you enjoy it?”
He lifted his hand from the coverlet and rubbed the side of his neck. “I… no. That is, I suppose I’ve never truly made an attempt.”
“You, Chevolere, who is said to have a ravenous appetite for female flesh, has never taken a woman to bed?”
He rounded on her. “I can trust you with this, can’t I?”
“Of course. I am nothing if not discreet, but I must admit, I don’t understand why you’re telling me now.”
“Neither do I.” He sighed again. “Do you suppose it’s been long enough, or ought I stay here another quarter hour?”
“It’s that Abrusse girl, isn’t it?” she said. “You want to attempt it because of her.”
His shoulders slumped. “Perhaps.” He went back to her and sat down opposite her in the chair.
“You want to practice with me?”
“No.” He was horrified. “Of course not.”
She laughed. “I shall try not to be wounded by that response.”
He began to sweep the cards back together in a pile. “It’s not a commentary on you, Vadima. You are very… well, I have never thought of you in that way, truly, but you must not be insecure in your charms or beauty.”
She laughed again. “Don’t trouble yourself with that, Chevolere. May I ask you something?”
“You’re going to ask me why I’m a virgin,” he said. “I don’t want to answer that.”
“It’s bad, then?” Her voice was soft.
He looked up at her. “Nothing was done to me, but… I witnessed… I really would rather not discuss it.”
“Well, you wouldn’t be surprised to know that many of the women who work for me were victimized in some way,” she said in that same soft voice.
He began to shuffle the cards. “No, I suppose I wouldn’t.”
“You might think that women who had been through such things would not be interested in ever taking another man to bed,” she said. “But it is not that way. The brutish part of ourselves? The animal part? I don’t think it breaks the way that the mind does. It is simply trying to fulfill an instinct, you see, like eating or drinking. So, though we may build the act up inside ourselves, make it mean all manner of things, in the end it is just a natural inclination.”
He continued to shuffle the cards. “I don’t know if I understand what you’re trying to say.”
“More often than not, when I speak to these women, they are ashamed of themselves for still feeling their own urges. They say, ‘How could I not be ruined for this forever? How could I still take pleasure in such a thing?’ They worry that what was done to them has altered them, made them wanton and sinful. And I tell them that the fact that they can still feel pleasure is a triumph, not a moral failing. I tell them that they must take charge of their own bodies and their own desires, and that they must indulge, because that is the way to healing.”
He stopped shuffling and set the cards down.
“It’s remarkable the way the human spirit can heal itself, isn’t it?” she said.
He surveyed her. “Perhaps,” he said. And then, more quietly, “Perhaps.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Chevolere wasn’t sure what to make of what Madame Vadima had said. He thought perhaps there was some truth in it, but he also felt it was a sad, dark fact of the society he lived in that women who had been hurt by men were tossed aside like refuse.
The whorehouse was full of victimized women because there was nowhere else for them to go except to the sisters, and that was a punishing life full of denial and repression in service of the blaze.
So, they were forced to continue servicing men, forced to continue surrendering their bodies. It became their only source of livelihood. He wasn’t sure it could really be such a healing experience if they didn’t have a choice.
Madame Vadima preferred her position in the city. She thought women had more freedom as whores than they did as wives and daughters. That didn’t mean everyone agreed with her.
At any rate, Chevolere supposed that in his case, he did have a choice. He could try to heal.
But he was frightened, and he did not know if he could bear the prospect of it.
The feelings that rose within him when he saw Ziafiata divested of her clothing, they were incredibly powerful. They seemed to seize him, to take control of him, like a ferocious wave crashing through his body, and he was frightened that he would be swept away by it, and that—in that frenzy—he would hurt her somehow.
He was afraid he would become like those men who had hurt Allicionne. He was afraid that brutishness lived within him somewhere.
He had been so young when it happened. He had been a boy, not Chevolere Vox but little Cecil Mullins, the farm boy from Dumonte.
Certainly, he’d had some idea of sex and women before it all. Certainly, he’d had some unformed and burgeoning desire. Maybe that desire would have been pure, if he hadn’t been tainted by the violence of it all. But now, it was all twisted up inside him whenever he thought of it, and what if… what if he was a beast? What if he was a monster?
He was terrified of that being true.
He could not live with himself if he caused Ziafiata pain.
Not when he’d already done so much to hurt her already.
He was thinking about this when he came back from Madame Vadima’s, and when he let himself into the tavern, which was still open, but would be closing soon. The music on stage was done, and now the place was just conversation around tables for the few straggling patrons who had yet to leave.
Ziafiata was not downstairs, though she usually was.
He looked about for her, but then he was distracted by one of the musicians coming to ask about having someone come to tune the harpsichord, and he set about making himself a note to contact a tuner. After that, there was one thing after another, and he did not climb the stairs to the upper level for nearly an hour.
At the top, he noticed that Ziafiata’s do
or was shut tight.
He rapped on it softly with his knuckles. “Ziafiata?” he called. “Are you all right?”
No answer from within.
She must be asleep.
He turned away and went into his own room. He shut the door and reached back to untie his mask.
His door burst open.
He turned, slamming the mask back into place.
But it was only Ziafiata. “Well, you’re finally back, then. You were certainly gone a long time.” There was an edge to her voice.
He removed his mask. There was no point in leaving it on. It was more comfortable without it, and she had already seen him without it on more than one occasion. “I thought you were asleep.”
“What did you do with her? With your madame?”
He raised his eyebrows. “I told you, we play cards.”
“Oh, that’s all, then.” She snorted.
He furrowed his brow. “Listen, I did this precisely because the caporegimes noticed and threw it in our faces as proof of something. I went to see her for you.”
She scoffed.
“I don’t understand why you’re angry with me.”
“Do you ever ask her to let you see her body?”
“No.”
“Do you take off your mask for her?”
“You are remarkably irrational and insecure all of the sudden.”
“Oh, fine. Yes. You go off to spend hours with a whore, and then you insult me.” She folded her arms over her chest. “I don’t want you to see her anymore.”
He blinked. “All right. May I inquire as to why?”
“Even if you’re only playing cards. Even if there is nothing occurring between you, people will think there is, and I don’t want people to think that.”
“Because?”
“Because how am I to convince my father that you let me go if you’re still obsessed with your whore?”
“Right,” he said. He supposed that made sense. It was rather at odds with what they seemed to be attempting to convince the caporegimes of, though, wasn’t it? He puzzled over this, rubbing his chin, and then he was distracted by wondering whether he’d forgotten to shave that morning. There seemed a bit too much growth there.
“After all this is done, you may go back to her and play all the games of cards you wish.” She turned and swept out of the room.
He gazed after her, feeling horribly confused about whatever had just taken place.
* * *
Ziafiata woke to see Chevolere sitting at the foot of her bed. He was clad only in those loose trousers he slept in. His chest and face were bare.
She blinked at him.
“Oh, good, you’re awake.” His voice was gravelly.
She sat up slowly. “I am now.” She couldn’t help but let her gaze travel over his bare shoulders. His skin was smooth and his shoulders were broad. She liked the way he looked without his shirt and mask. She liked that she was the only person he allowed to see him this way.
“I feel as if I need to protest that I’m not interested in Madame Vadima. That I’m not doing anything with Madame Vadima. I don’t like the thought of your being angry with me. For some reason, I can’t sleep for thinking about it.”
“I know you aren’t doing anything with her,” she said quietly.
“Do you?”
She nodded.
“You have no reason to be jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“If you wish to possess me, rest assured, you do. I am utterly yours.”
This affected her. She made a little noise in the back of her throat. She reached out, as if she would touch him, but then she stopped herself, balling up both of her hands in fists instead. She lay them down in her lap.
“I don’t suppose there’s much use in knowing I’m devoted to you. What would you do with me? I’m worthless as a man.”
“You’re not… worthless,” she whispered.
“Perhaps if I have some time,” he said. “Maybe someday…”
“Someday what?”
“I want you to take everything off,” he said. “Everything. I want you to show me it all.”
Her insides clenched in a dark and thrilling way.
“You can say no,” he said. “But I don’t wish you to refuse me. Please?”
She pushed the covers aside and climbed out to sit on top of them.
He looked her over, swallowing visibly. “Is that all you’re wearing, just that nightdress?” His voice was scoured at the edges.
She gave him a small smile and then tugged it over her head and tossed it on the floor. “No,” she said. “I’m not wearing anything at all.”
He let out a whistling breath, his eyes going half-lidded with desire. His gaze traveled slowly over her, lingering on her breasts.
She could almost feel his eyes on her. Her nipples tightened in response.
His gaze went lower, settling on the place where her legs met her thighs. “I want to see…”
“All right,” she said.
“Lie back,” he rumbled.
She relaxed against her pillow, but she kept her knees tightly pressed together, giving him a little teasing smile. She waited.
He breathed noisily. “Spread your legs.”
She moved her knees apart slowly, revealing herself to him an inch at a time.
He sighed, lips parted, watching her, his expression hungry and eager.
She stopped moving.
“Wider,” he commanded hoarsely.
She smiled, feeling triumphant somehow. She opened herself entirely to him.
He gazed at her with single-minded interest. “You’re so… delicate there. I…” He reached up and ran his thumb over the outline of his own jaw. “Do you ever touch yourself there?”
“Every time you look at me like this, after you leave me,” she said.
“Truly?” he said, his voice cracking. “On this bed?”
“Mmm.”
“Show me.” He passed this thumb over his bottom lip.
She put one hand on one of her breasts and one hand between her thighs.
His gaze darted back and forth between the two spots, settling between her legs. He watched her stroke herself.
Her breath quickened as her fingers moved slickly over the center of her pleasure. She shut her eyes for a minute, and then opened them again, because she liked watching him watch her.
His expression was savage. His breath rattled as it passed through his lips. When she made a noise of pleasure, he echoed it, seemingly spurred on by her enjoyment of this.
She was loose and slippery but also taut and constricted. Her climax would come on her before long, and she quickened her fingers in anticipation of it. She made a breathy sound.
He let out a low groan. “You’re building toward something,” he whispered.
“You could touch yourself too,” she said. “If it’s your own hand and not mine—”
“Stop,” he said in a strangled voice. “Don’t ruin this, please?”
“Sorry,” she whispered.
“Go quickly again, as you were,” he commanded. “Tell me, how does it feel?”
“Good,” she said, feeling shy.
“Only good?”
“Very good,” she moaned, laughing a little.
“Go on,” he urged.
“Exquisite,” she said. “Like nothing else in the world. Like sweet sparkling wine trapped in a bottle, ready to gush out all at once.”
He grunted, and his body convulsed.
“Did you just—” But she couldn’t finish her sentence, because her apex had suddenly overtaken her, wrapping itself around her, tight and wondrous as it pinned her down and forced itself through her. She tensed—each second deepening the sensation of goodness until it was overwhelming—and then she let go with a cry, her hips bucking into the bed, her entire body bursting over and over again.
When she opened her eyes, he had pulled his legs onto the bed and he was crouched over her, balancing
on his hands, openly ogling every aspect of her nude skin.
She let out a throaty chuckle, basking in the look he was giving her.
“Scoot over,” he said.
“What?” She was confused.
“I want to lie next to you,” he said in a low, rich voice. “Give me space.”
She scooted, and he tumbled down beside her. He propped himself up on one arm and looked down at her.
She shot a glance at the crotch of his pants, but it was dark, and she couldn’t tell if he’d…
He seemed… different, though. He gave her a smile, and he looked boyish and happy.
She wanted to touch him. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair and trail her touch over his neck and shoulders.
She didn’t.
He laughed. “I shouldn’t feel so proud of myself. All I’ve done here is witness you pleasuring yourself.”
“Do you feel proud?”
“This is the most satisfying thing I think I’ve ever accomplished.” He arched an eyebrow at her.
She giggled. “Well, I feel quite satisfied as well. I must say, I’ve never quite understood it. It doesn’t seem as if the act itself is designed for maximizing female pleasure.”
He considered this. “Seems it could be, though, if proper care were taken.”
“Would you take proper care?”
“If I were capable, I would.” He grinned at her.
“I thought you said… with time…?”
“Yes,” he said. “Maybe.” He flopped back on the bed on his back. His shoulder was touching hers, and he didn’t move it away.
She liked it. It was a tingling touch, their shoulders—their bare skin—against each other. It was good. “I suppose you don’t touch yourself?”
“No,” he said. “Not in many years. Sometimes I have dreams…” He let out a breath. “It all seems to function, anyway, even if it terrifies me.”
“It’s not so frightening,” she said.
“How would you know?” he said. “You’ve never seen it.”
“Show me, then.”
He laughed—high-pitched, uncontrolled. “Maybe another time.”
“There will be another time?”
“I hope so,” he said. “I confess, I still wonder how it is that someone like you could want this with someone like me. And if I truly do kill your father, perhaps you’ll decide you want nothing to do with me.”
The Beast of the Barrens Page 16
