by Olivia Ryann
Monster nods, tying the rope loosely around John’s neck so that there are two ends sticking out. He holds one and offers the other to me.
“Take your vengeance,” Monster urges. “Do your worst.”
I shake my head. “No. I can’t.”
“You can.”
“Monster, I can’t.” Tears well up in my eyes.
His lips turn upward. “Such a soft little heart you have. You are certain?”
I nod, my lips numb. I lick them, anxious for this all to be over with.
Monster removes the knot, reshaping it to a noose. When he slips the noose over John’s head, John starts to protest.
“No one cares,” Monster informs the captive as he tightens the noose. “No one is here to see you in your last moments. I hope that I see you in hell.”
Then Monster plants a foot on John’s chest and starts pulling. John makes a strangled noise, his face going red right away. But he’s trapped, held immobile by Monster’s foot.
I look away, queasy. Monster pulls the nose harder. There is a sudden popping crunch of bone, which gives me gooseflesh all over my body.
Monster releases the noose with a flourish, looking satisfied. “It’s as simple as that.”
I can’t bring myself to look at John’s body, but Monster comes over and turns me toward him.
“Look,” he urges. “See what you were a part of?”
I look at John, who has gone still. His face is still red, his head cocked a little. His eyes are open but vacant.
I start to cry, even though I know that the world should not mourn his loss. Monster embraces me, and I burrow into him, closing my eyes.
“You did well,” he purrs. “Very well.”
“I want to go home,” I whimper.
Monster smiles at that. “That’s where we’ll go, then.”
His arm around me, he guides me out of the factory.
9
Fiore
The whole ride back to the house, Monster doesn’t take his hands off of me. While he’s not usually the most touchy-feely man — for from it, actually — just now he’s acting ravenous for the smallest amount of my affection. He kisses my neck, running his stubble down my skin.
I demur, looking at the driver, but Monster is unconvinced.
“Don’t worry about him,” he whispers, kissing my ear. “Focus on me.”
I submit with a sigh, closing my eyes. The second I do, Juanita and John’s dead eyes come back to me. As Monster’s hand comes down, sweeping aside the dark blue satin of my dress and baring my breast, I am still unsettled.
Even though he deserved it, I still essentially killed John. Standing as judge and jury, I stood by and let Monster play executioner.
What does that say about me?
I whimper as Monster pulls me onto his lap, straddling him. He pushes the other side of my dress aside, then teases me by running his hand up my thigh underneath my dress. I’m aware of how naked I am, how Monster isn’t the only one who can see me.
Still, I moan softly as he toys with the top of my panties. With him, I always seem to want more of whatever he’s dishing out.
“You are so lovely,” Monster whispers in my ear. “And I liked what happened today. You saw what needed to be done, and you let me do it. I feel like you should be encouraged.”
His fingers slip lower, nudging the flimsy material of my panties aside and brushing tantalizingly close to my clit. I let out a soft sound of pure need. He kisses me and shifts a little, hitting me in just the spot that I want.
Breathless, I writhe against his fingers, desperate to soothe the ache he’s started there.
He pulls his face away from mine, watching the emotions on my face. “You’re a good girl, Fiore. You know what happens to good girls?”
My breath hitches as the SUV slows. I open my eyes and see that we are in New Orleans, in our neighborhood. I shake my head, praying that he doesn’t stop.
But of course, he does. He withdraws his hand as we pull up to the house. Monster leans in, his breath tickling my ear.
“Don’t worry, princess. Good girls get fucked five ways to Sunday.”
My heart practically flies at those words. With that, he moves me off of his lap, getting out of the car. I follow. My hand entwines with his as he leads me across the lawn and inside the house.
Once we’re inside, we make it to the living room before Monster throws me on the couch. He falls on me like a starving wolf, tearing at my clothes. I’m eager too, pulling his shirt out of my pants and unzipping his zipper.
He flips me over on the couch, leaving me to hang on to the back on all fours. He presses his face between my legs and makes a mmmm sound as he finds my clit.
I cry out as he pulls my hips back toward his face, dropping to his knees. After he laves my clit, licking circles around it, he gets back up. I feel his cock press against my wetness.
“Yes,” I urge him. “Fuck me, Monster.”
Almost before I can get the words out, he’s pushing inside me. We both groan as he thrusts the first time. He fills me up, completes me in a way that I didn’t know was possible.
Oh, God… could I love him?
Could I love the Monster that enslaved me?
“Fuck, you’re tight, princess,” he hisses, withdrawing and thrusting again. “God, your pussy is so fucking hot, so wet for me. It’s the best I’ve ever had.”
I grip the back of the couch, tingling as much from his words as from what he’s doing to my body. Maybe I have started to grow on him, too?
That’s probably just fooling myself, though.
He begins to start moving faster, his thrusts wilder, more frenzied.
“Rub your clit,” he orders roughly.
I slip my hand down between myself and the couch, obeying his command. My fingers trace figure eights around my clit. I close my eyes, feeling so full of him, stretched to the brim.
As I start to tighten, winding up like a spring, he continues to ram his cock into my pussy. When I’m almost there, about to come, he gasps the words I didn’t know I needed.
“Come for me, princess.”
I explode, my body tightening and clenching, and back bowing with my release. Monster comes as soon as I do, pounding his release into me.
Spent and sweaty, I crumble, folding my top half over the couch. Monster is not content with that, though.
He scoops me up, discarding my dress on the floor, and carries me upstairs. To my surprise, he doesn’t carry me to his room, or to mine.
He carries me to the third bedroom, which was once Tony’s room. It looks completely changed, though. The walls have been painted a soothing light blue, the furniture replaced with a single, giant poster bed, the four tall posts done up like a fairy’s dream in frothy white hangings. There are two bedside tables too, with twin lamps.
“Monster!” I say, scolding him as he tosses me on the bed. “When did you do this?”
“Recently,” he admits with a shrug. “I thought perhaps you would like to sleep in here with me.”
I give him an odd look. “You’re giving me an option?”
He looks uncomfortable for a brief second, then brushes it off.
“I’m tired of my bed. It’s too small. Besides, it doesn’t have these.” He slaps one of the posts, giving me the most wicked grin. “Just imagine what good use we will make of these, Fiore.”
I get under the comforter, sinking back into the pillows. “It’s perfect, Monster.”
He slips in beside me. “I’m glad you like it.”
He kisses my shoulder, chuckling at the tremor that runs through me. I turn my back to him, offering him the chance to spoon me. He doesn’t for a minute, shifting his weight.
“Don’t think that I’ll be satisfied by this, just because we’re in a new bed.” He kisses the back of my neck, and I shiver.
“I wouldn’t dare,” I say.
We’re quiet for a while. I start wondering what the new bedroom means because I love to over
think things.
Is it just a way for him to erase Tony more completely from the house? Or is it more than that?
“You asked about the future,” He says, out of nowhere.
I glance at him, surprised. “I did.”
He looks uncomfortable for a second. “I didn’t handle it very well.”
I shrug. “Dryas put the question in my head. Now that I think about it, it must have been to upset you.”
A look of displeasure crosses his face. “Well, it was effective.”
I shrug again, not knowing what else to do. “I’m sorry.”
He clears his throat. “You couldn’t know that it would set me off. Besides, I’m glad you asked.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You are?”
He glances away. “Yes. It got me thinking about the future.”
I don’t say anything, wondering where he’s going with this. He looks back at me, his gaze pinning me.
“I see you and me together, in my future.”
My eyebrows raise again. “You do?”
He nods. “Mmhmm. And I see a change of scenery, eventually. A change of country, perhaps.”
“How does that square with your job?” I ask, biting my lower lip.
He shrugs. “If I’m honest, I have lost whatever drive I had to win over the city and rule with an iron fist. I just… don’t care, not the way that I used to.”
I pause, thinking. “What does that mean, exactly?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I haven’t figured it all out yet.”
“Do you think you’ll leave New Orleans, then?”
His steely gaze pins me. “I think that depends on a lot of factors. Would you like to leave?”
“I… I don’t know. Maybe?” I reply. “I’ve honestly never thought about it before.” I pause. “If you don’t want to do your job anymore, what job would you like? Where would you want to live, if anything was possible?”
He frowns, thinking. “I don’t know. This has been the only thing on my horizon for so long, it’s hard to see past it.”
I shift my weight, readjusting on the bed. “How long have you been doing it?”
Monster shifts too. “Since I was a kid. My brothers and I fell in with the Cypriot—”
“The who?” I ask.
“The Cypriot. The mafia, where I come from.”
I trace a pattern in the comforter. “And that’s Greece?”
“Cyprus,” he says patiently. “Its people are mostly Greek, but the island is closer to Turkey and Syria.”
He just told me, just like that. I try not to let my elation show. “I see. You said you and your brothers joined young?”
“I think I was ten at the time,” he says, nodding absently.
My eyes widen. “Ten? You were a child!”
“It was a different world for us then.” His mouth forms a thin line that does not beg questions. Instead, he moves to kiss my neck, his hand grasping my hip. “Enough talk.”
“And what else are we supposed to do?” I tease gently.
With a growl, he sweeps my body beneath his own, and we are lost in each other for a time.
10
Arsen
I take Fiore to the French Quarter in the bright midday sun. The bodyguards are with us, but I make sure they stay back, out of our way. She clings to my hand as we make our way to a little patisserie that I like, walking on the sidewalk, under the balconies. Almost every place is a business, advertising by hanging heavy signs overhead.
Fiore is quick to point out the funny ones, especially the one that reads “Hotel Beaucoup — Haunted and Not Haunted Rooms Available”. She thinks the sign is funny, her lips lifting as she reads it aloud.
“Are the rumors of ghost hauntings true?” I ask.
She slides me a look. “It depends on whether you believe in them, I suppose. But I swear, I’ve been in the Lalaurie Mansion over on Royal Street and I’ve felt the presence of spirits. Oh, and don’t even get me started on that hotel on St. Louis Street… they used to have the slave market there.”
She shivers. I try not to roll my eyes. I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe in anything that isn’t concrete. But Fiore seems entertained by telling me about the various voodoo shops around town, so I just let her without comment.
“Wait,” she says, tugging my hand toward a doorway. The sign over our heads simply reads The Bakery. “This place makes the best beignets in the world.”
“Is that so?” I say, cocking a brow. “I’ve never tried one.”
Her eyes go wide. “What? Oh, you have to!”
She pulls me inside the tall wood and glass doors, insistent. As soon as I step inside, I’m nearly assaulted with the incredible scent of sweet fried dough. At one end of the cafe, there are customers standing behind a glass partition and watching the white-coated employees cut dough.
They throw it into a deep fryer, where it sizzles and pops, before dumping the beignets onto plates and dusting them with powdered sugar from a tin shaker. At the other end, the line of customers stretches to a cash register where people pay the receive fresh beignets.
Fiore pulls me into line, eagerly watching the employees work. I smile. “How many times have you seen this?”
She looks at me with a grin. “I used to come here after going to Mass every Sunday.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Catholic Mass?”
Her cheeks color. “Yes. My father insisted that the whole family go. Or at least, he did before my mother died.”
“I didn’t realize that you were religious.”
She shrugs. “I’m not, not particularly. I think that the only reason we even went was my mother. I think that having God looking over my mother’s shoulder was appealing to my father.”
I nod. The line moves quicker than I anticipated. I fish my wallet out of my slacks and pay the cashier for a steaming hot plate of fried dough and two coffees. I hand the two paper cups of coffee to Fiore and follow her to a little table.
It’s nice here, by the windows. Bright sunlight streams in, people walk by outside. At the table next to ours, a bunch of middle school aged girls giggles over their paper cups, sliding me secretive looks. Fiore sees me noticing the young women.
“Tempted?” she asks, taking a seat.
I huff a laugh. “I think not.”
One corner of her mouth crooks up in a smile. “Sure, you say that now. What will you say in a few years, though?”
She takes a beignet, cupping her hand underneath to catch the powdered sugar that falls off the top. She closes her eyes and takes a bite, letting out a mmmm of satisfaction. I feel as if I am being tested, even though she acts as if it doesn’t matter.
Reaching out, I grab her chair and pull her close. “Give me a bite of that.”
She opens her eyes and arches a brow, but she offers it to me. I take a bite, the sweetness hitting my tongue first, followed by the fatty deliciousness of the dough.
Swallowing, I sip my coffee.
“It’s pretty good,” I admit with a shrug. “And Fiore?”
She looks at me questioningly.
“A few years from now, I will still have my hands full with you, I think.” I give her a winning smile. She rolls her eyes, but I think that the little flush I see in her cheeks means that my comment didn’t go unheard.
She pushes the plate of beignets toward me. “Have another.”
I do, following the sweetness with more bitter black coffee. I think to myself that Fiore and I are very much like beignets and black coffee. She’s all sweetness, I’m strong and bitter.
We suit each other in a way that’s every bit as strange as sugary doughnuts and coffee.
“Now I’m in the mood to spend some money,” I say as we walk back outside. I look at her. “I want to see you in some expensive lingerie. Do you have any recommendations?”
She ducks her head, her cheeks glowing pink. “Maybe.”
“Lead the way,” I instruct.
We stroll and
shop. There’s plenty to see, showcased in the windows of the shops on Royal Street and Decatur Street. Art galleries, jewelry shops, antique shops. I enjoy seeing her point at things in the shop windows, commenting on whether or not they are practical, or whether or not they would be a good purchase.
She does take me into a fine lingerie shop. I insist on watching her try on some corsets and garters. To the delight of the saleswoman, I insist on buying everything that Fiore touches.
After all, what is the point of having a lot of money if you don’t spend any of it?
We leave the shop, the bodyguards each carrying bags with the name of the boutique emblazoned on them. I follow Fiore as she continues window shopping, paying special interest when she stops before a pricy jeweler’s shop. Though she is merely browsing, I do notice that her eye catches on a beautiful rose gold and emerald ring.
Maybe she has more plans in mind than I know about. Or maybe, given her naiveté, she’s just glad to be out of the house for once. I purse my lips as I imagine Fiore wearing my ring.
Would that be the same as having her wear a collar? They are both the same shape, made of the same thing.
But one of them makes me the master, and the other makes me…
What? The husband? The partner?
My lips turn downward. “Let’s go get a drink. I’m tired of window shopping.”
“Sure,” Fiore says agreeably, grabbing my hand again. “Whatever you want.”
Whatever I want, indeed.
We head inside a place that I know, a cocktail bar named Tonique. Even though it’s sunny outside, it’s dark in here, making me squint for a minute as I step inside. The walls are painted black, the bar stools in ill repair, their red leather cracked. The place is small, just a horseshoe-shaped bar and two big chalkboards listing what the specials are.
There is no one here at the moment, just a lone bartender. The guy looks up from polishing glasses and nods to acknowledge us. I usher Fiore over to a seat, looking up at the specials listed on the menu board.
Fiore leans over to whisper in my ear. “I’m not old enough to order anything in here.”
