The Pawn and the Knight

by Skye Warren

  I kneel, the floor hard and painful beneath my knees.

  He moves to stand in front of me, nothing but solidity and shadow, his white shirt open at the neck, revealing a dusting of hair. His hand clasps my neck loosely, a gentle threat. I swallow against his palm, nerves overcoming my desire to submit.

  Then he curves his palm around so he’s cupping me, fingers gently stroking the sensitive skin at my nape. He could hurt me like this. He could use me.

  He pulls me close until my cheek rests against his thigh. It’s like he’s blessing me, absolving me, but how could that be possible when he’s the worst sinner of all? He can’t save me.

  “Little virgin, do you know why your father lost his business?”

  I stiffen. “Because of you. You bought it from him, and then—”

  “By then it was too late for him. Only a desperate man would try to cheat the devil. How did someone with so much money lose everything?”

  The question has haunted me since the trial. I blamed Gabriel Miller for the form of retaliation, but why had my father cheated him? Why had he gambled with his largest business?

  Gabriel’s rough fingers stroke my skin, back and forth, soothing me. “Do you want to know the answer?”

  It’s a fair question, because even as I’m dying to know—I’m afraid that the answer will be the end. I’ve stood by my father this entire time. Through the trial and the horrible press. Trading in my college fund so that he could pay restitution instead of jail time. I auctioned my virginity so that we could keep the house and pay for his medical care.

  He’s a good father, a good man. He doesn’t deserve what Gabriel has done to him.

  The entire time a quiet question echoed in my chest. What if I’m wrong about him?

  Gabriel leans down to whisper in my ear. “Please me, and I’ll tell you.”

  He straightens, and I know what I have to do. My fingers feel numb as I work the fastening of his pants. He’s already hard inside, his cock leaning heavily from the placket once free. Impossibly hot, burning my palm. I stroke him with both hands, working him until his breath comes faster.

  “Your mouth,” he says roughly.

  And I need some semblance of power, so I lick at the tip. I mouth the hard length of him. I press a chaste kiss to the base, where coarse hair tickles my lips.

  He growls low in his throat, the vibration running down his body, through his cock. “Suck me, little virgin. Take me inside. Let me fuck those pink lips. I need to feel your throat.”

  His words spark a flame inside me, and it’s with humiliating arousal that I slip him into my mouth. Salt smooths over my tongue, the taste of his weakness. He may not care about me, but he wasn’t lying about the sex. He needs it as badly as I need answers.

  He clasps his hands behind my head, murmuring, “Open for me. Open. Just a little bit. I need to use you like this. I need to—fuck, Avery.”

  I relax my jaw and let his cock slide deeper, the ridge slick over my tongue, the head thick in my throat. My body jerks once, resisting, but he holds me still—taking my air—until I relax. Not exactly trusting. Accepting what he does to me. That’s the only kind of prayer I know.

  His hips move against me, faster now, finding his rhythm, thrusting into my mouth the same way he would between my legs. His groans are an uneven symphony, cataloging his descent.

  And that same animal instinct that made me run recognizes his power. His strength. I’m subservient to him in every way, desperate for his protection, submitting to his desires. My body readies itself to ease his way—saliva coating his shaft, arousal damp between my legs.

  His smooth movements grow erratic, rough thrusts startling in the dark. I choke on the length of him, but he doesn’t ease up. Doesn’t give me room to breathe. I have to suck in air through my nose, panicked for a moment, eyes wide open.

  When he comes, it’s not deep in my throat. It’s with the head of his cock against my tongue, pooling salt where I’ll taste it most, slick and warm. My swallow makes it disappear, but the flavor of him lingers even when he pulls away.

  In the aftermath I pant, my forehead pressed to his leg, his trembling hand in my hair.

  “I should hate you.” My voice is hoarse, still raw from his cock.

  His leg presses between mine. “It’s all right, little virgin. You do.”

  “Then why does it feel like this?”

  “Because you need to come. Like this. No one can see you.”

  My breath catches, because the top of his foot nudges between my legs. It’s horrifying to think of coming like this, rutting against him on the floor, the taste of his come in my mouth—but now that the idea has bloomed, I can’t think of anything else. My hips move on their own, rocking against him, every glance of my panties against the Italian leather of his shoes a sweet relief.

  No one can see you. He sees me, every terrifying desire, every secret fear.

  His hand fists in my hair, pulling me against him with the same rhythm he fucked my mouth. My body conforms to him naturally, accepting the heat and muscle of his leg in place of a real embrace, welcoming the crude stroke of his shoe in place of a caress.

  “That’s right,” he says, voice tight. “Oh fuck, you’re perfect.”

  Something moves by my face, and I realize it’s his fist. He’s stroking himself, groaning as if in pain so soon after coming, unable to help himself.

  It’s the spray of hot come across my cheek that triggers my own climax. I bear down on his leg, moaning with the weight of my own debasement. Pleasure sparks everywhere that he touches me—between my legs, knee pressed between my breasts, the tip of his cock sliding against my cheek. I’m made of some other material, inhuman, alight by the things that should disgust me. This man, his treatment of me. The unbearable beauty of surrender.

  I’m floating in some otherworldly space. Reality can’t intrude in these four walls. It can’t penetrate this strange light. Distantly I hear the rustle and zip as he straightens his clothes.

  Something small and white floats down in front of me.

  Then he’s gone from the room. I don’t hear his footsteps, but I feel his presence disappear. The force of him, gone. I’m alone here. Again.

  Slowly, carefully, as if recovering from a great blow, I wipe my cheek. His come is sticky and cooling against my fingers. A handkerchief. That’s what he dropped at my knees. I look at the fine fabric, probably imported Italian silk. Monogrammed with the letter M with intricate scrollwork. I use it to wipe him from my skin before tossing the fabric in a small wastebasket in the hall. Discarding it like trash, the same way he left me.

  As I descend the steps, I can see that the pawn isn’t on the bottom step anymore.

  Instead there’s something rectangular. A book. Small. Leather-bound. My heart beats faster. I stumble the last steps until I can pick up my mother’s diary. I hold it close to my chest, throat tight. I don’t know how he got it back, whether he kept it all along or bought it from the auction winner. He teases me and toys with me, he demeans me and degrades me, but all I feel right now is gratitude. If he hadn’t guaranteed the money in the escrow account, I wouldn’t have been able to attend the auction. If he hadn’t sent the limo early so I would have time in the house, I would never have found the diary. And if he hadn’t caught me in his web, I wouldn’t have the answers inside.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next morning I visit my father, and the nurse gives me a genuine smile. “He’s been awake on and off. I imagine you’ll be able to talk to him today.”

  My heart thuds in anticipation. He used to be my rock, my sole family member after the loss of my mother years ago. And he never remarried—never wanted to, that was how much he loved her. So it was just the two of us, playing chess or hosting society events in the ballroom. Now here we are—me living out of a cheap motel, him bedridden on the charity of his sworn enemy.

  “Daddy, can you hear me?”

  His eyelids flutter, but after a moment he goes still again.
Sleeping. Disappointment wars with relief inside me. I desperately want my ally back, my family, but I know that even he can’t be that. He needs me to give him support. He doesn’t have any left himself.

  I leave the book of history on the table and pull out the diary. I stayed up late last night, reading from the beginning. One story of her and Nina Thomas sneaking out of a coming-out ball to take a canoe across the lake had me giggling through my tears. She wasn’t quite as proper of a lady as I was told, but that only makes me love her more.

  She longed for adventure before she settled into her role as a society wife.

  I flip through the pages filled with her elegant, now-familiar scrawl.

  And the man I truly want has no money, no standing. No chance of winning my hand. We both know that it’s impossible, but the heart doesn’t believe in boundaries.

  Who was this mystery man? Did my father ever know him?

  I flip ahead to a part I haven’t read yet, where she’s engaged to Daddy, and read aloud.

  “‘Mother wants the best of everything. The flowers. The cake. Anything less will seem like we can’t afford it, and that would be vulgar. Of course the truth is that we can’t afford it, but Geoffrey graciously agreed to cover everything. He says we’ll share everything in a few months anyway.’”

  That sounds like Daddy, incredibly generous. Completely in love.

  Whatever happened with the mystery man, it hadn’t changed her decision.

  “‘It seems like there’s a party every week. Officially I attend with Mother, and sometimes Father, but I always know that Geoffrey will be there. He does make me laugh.’” A smile touches my lips. “You make me laugh too, Daddy.”

  But he must have smiled more before my mother died. There was always a tinge of sadness to him, as if he couldn’t stop remembering her.

  The fact that I looked so similar just made it harder for him. I shudder as I remember Uncle Landon’s marriage proposal, the way I would have been a replacement for her. Disturbing. Disgusting. There’s a difference between wanting someone and loving someone. For my father, who genuinely loved my mother, the likeness had been a sad reminder of what he would never get back.

  I turn the page. “‘Tonight he asked me to sneak to the boat house with him. I know he wanted to kiss me. Maybe more. I told him I couldn’t risk leaving, that we might be caught.’”

  That gives me pause. I know that she sneaked out with Nina Thomas. Multiple times based on the way she described their antics. So why had she lied to Daddy back then?

  But it was still a big deal to be alone with a boy then, especially in high society. It was even a big deal now in the upper echelons of Tanglewood. Girls like me were supposed to attend women-only colleges, to get a nice degree in something demure, like ancient mythology, before marrying a nice boy like Justin. And only then should we have sex, according to the strict boundaries laid out by society matrons. That would have been my life. I would have gone into that darkness willingly, never knowing that the nice boys purchased women at dark-room virginity auctions. At least Gabriel Miller is honest about his intentions.

  “‘He asked me where I want to go for my honeymoon,’” I read over the gentle drone of the machines. “‘I told him it doesn’t matter. As long as we’re together I can be happy anywhere.’ Well, you guys were just too adorable. I love it.”

  My father murmurs something indistinct, eyes still closed.

  “Can you hear me, Daddy? Do you recognize her words? I feel so much closer to her, reading this. I know her so much better. Like I can hear her voice in my head.”

  No response. I hold back a sigh. He might not wake up, despite what the nurse said.

  “‘And so he told me that we’re going to Greece.’” I stumble over the last word. All the times I had talked about mythology, all the times I had dreamed of visiting the ruins, he never told me he’d been. “‘He said I’m the most beautiful woman in the world, his very own Helen of Troy. We’ll leave right after the wedding, that very night.’”

  My father’s head thrashes side to side. His mutters grow louder, more disturbed. Something’s bothering him. Is he in pain? But the nurse said he was doing better today.

  I lean closer. “Daddy, what’s wrong?”

  He makes a low keening sound. The hair on my neck rises.

  “Oh God,” I whisper. “Can you hear me? Is it hearing about Mama that’s hurting you?”

  “Helen,” he says, like last time.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy. I thought you would like hearing her diary, but I’ll stop.”

  His eyes flutter open. Confusion clouds his eyes. “Helen?”

  “It’s me, Avery. I’m here.”

  Slowly he focuses on me, eyes bright with tears. “There you are, my girl. I’ve missed you.”

  For months I took care of him every day. Feeding him. Bathing him. I couldn’t afford the kind of full-time care he needed, so I did it myself. And it brought us closer, even if it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Where did you go?”

  The day of the auction, two weeks ago, I left the house and never came back. Gabriel Miller hired a full-time nurse to compensate. But Daddy would know I was gone.

  “I didn’t want to leave, but I had to do something. I was trying to…” I swallow past my grief. “I was trying to save the house. I’m so sorry, Daddy. It didn’t work.”

  His eyebrows press together. “Your mother?”

  “I know. She left me the house in trust. But Uncle Landon… I’m sorry. I know you were friends with him, but he borrowed from my trust.” He stole from it, the way Daddy stole from Gabriel Miller. “And when it ran out of money, the court took away the house.”

  “How?” His voice is rough from disuse. “How are you paying?”

  I realize he means the nursing home. He knew we couldn’t afford full-time care before. Now he’s in the most exclusive facility in the city.

  I can’t bring myself to say Gabriel Miller’s name right now, not so soon after confessing that we lost the house. “Someone is helping me pay for it. Don’t worry, Daddy.”

  Sorrow fills his eyes. He doesn’t know the illicit details, but he can guess. “My good girl.”

  It was the same thing he said to me after I bested him in chess. He always looked more proud after I beat him than when he would win. Except I haven’t won this game. I’ve lost.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Harper and I order a pizza with everything on it. If we’re not getting wasted, let’s at least load up on carbs and dairy. A movie beneath static on the small TV.

  “I didn’t even know there was still this kind of station, like it’s not cable.”

  I finish off the crust on my third slice. “Me neither. It’s kind of fun not having a guide station. Or really having that many things to choose from. You get what you get.”

  “Like Chatroulette meets Netflix.”

  A snort escapes me. “We are truly ridiculous.”

  She leans back against the headboard. “And stuffed. I’m done.”

  I peek under the lid of the box. “There’s still half a pizza in here. We should offer it to Will.”

  “I already invited him inside when the pizza guy came. He told me to fuck off.”

  He isn’t winning any personality awards, but I have a soft spot for the guy who spends most of the time outside my door. He has a lost quality, as if he’s waiting for something he knows will never come. He’s not waiting for half of a cheap pizza, but it’s all I offer him outside the door.

  With a reluctant nod of thanks he accepts the box, still sitting against the building.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come inside? We’re watching Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks be cute together.”

  “Sleepless in Seattle?”

  “You’ve Got Mail.”

  He shakes his head. “Those kinds of movies piss me off.”

  “Ones with happy endings?”

  “Ones with rich people,” h
e says roughly.

  Okay then. I duck back into the room and curl into bed beside Harper. I’m not looking forward to when she goes back to school. Mostly we don’t talk about it, preferring to trade insults and threats instead. I know she’s here partly to escape her own demons—namely, her stepbrother. But it’s been an incredible solace to have someone on my side during this time.

  A true friend, the kind my mother had.

  We watch Meg Ryan struggle to save her store, only to lose everything.

  “This is hitting a little close to home,” I say.

  “Yeah, but she had that store for so long. You have your whole life ahead of you. A career. A family. All that jazz. This is not the end.”

  “This is not the end,” I repeat, tasting the words. It’s comforting. “I think I need to get that tattooed on me somewhere so I don’t forget.”

  “But how awkward will it be once it is the end and you’ve still got a tattoo that’s wrong.”

  A loud knock comes from the door.

  I glance at her. “Did you order another pizza?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m never eating again.”

  “Maybe Will changed his mind about the movie.”

  I open the door to find a standoff outside. Tension radiates from the bodies of three different men, violence simmering in the air. Will stands in front of the door, blocking my view. In the narrow space between his arm and the doorframe I can see Justin standing there, blue eyes blazing, dark shadows beneath making him look sinister.

  And behind him I recognize Harper’s stepbrother, looking just as fierce. Christopher has a clean-cut style that’s completely betrayed by the coldness of his eyes. He’s warm enough to me, but when it comes to his stepsister his temperature drops below zero. Where Gabriel Miller is a lion, wild and golden, Christopher’s is a sleek panther with dark eyes and black hair.

  “Uh, Harper?”

  “Who is it?” she asks, digging through the makeup bag that has her nail polish. “And what do you think about Helter-Skelter as a color? It matches my mood.”