XXX - 145 Enslave: The Taming of the Beast (2 page)

“What are we going to do?” Jelena asked her father, stunned, after Nadia disappeared.
Irina was crying, loud, dramatic sobs, until her father shocked them all by slapping her sharply across the face. Now, she stared at her father, petulant and afraid.
“Nadia has bought us some time,” he said, and Jelena wasn’t sure if he was convincing them, or himself. “She’s done more than I ever could have asked.”
“What are
we
going to do now?” Jelena clarified.
He stared at her with profound sadness. “What can we do?” he asked softly. “Your stepmother is pregnant. We have no money.”
“You have the money from the stolen car,” Jelena pointed out, wondering how much her father had made.
Was it worth it, compared to losing his daughter?
He shook his head. “I didn’t make nearly as much as I should have—if I’d known who I was stealing from when I bargained the price…Besides, even if I gave him every dime I made, it’d be a drop in a bucket for a man like Dominic Luder. You heard him. The car is irreplaceable. We’re only lucky he decided to…” He cleared his throat. “The best we can do is make sure your sister’s sacrifice was not in vain.”
Jelena gasped as the import of his melancholy words sank in. “You can’t mean we’re just going to let her stay with that man? Let him do…” She couldn’t even begin to imagine what the frightening, scarred, vicious-looking man would do to her poor sister. “He could kill her!”
“You think I don’t know that?” he yelled. Then a hopeful look crossed his face. “Your husband is rich. Perhaps he can help us.”
Jelena blanched. “I can’t ask,” she said quickly. “Not for this. He’ll tell me to go to the police.”
“The police.” Her father spat the words out. “We can’t trust them. You know that.”
He’d been in prison in Russia. They had not helped her family. She nodded, knowing his answer before she’d even finished her own sentence.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” her father said instead. “It’s not safe. He knows where we live. He could decide to come back anyway. We’ve got to protect the baby.”
Irina looked nauseous. “He could come back?”
“You don’t know what this man is capable of,” her father said, and his voice actually trembled a little. “He’s a legend. He used to be on the West Coast somewhere, before a big mafia family in Las Vegas took him on. Killed his first man when he was seventeen, they say. Used to be really good-looking, I hear, but vicious. He was on his way to inheriting one of the biggest crime syndicates in Las Vegas. Then, once he got in that explosion…” He shuddered. “They say he’s absolutely brutal now. They call him The Beast. There’s an open contract out on his life, but he’s like a ghost. No one can touch him. Anyone who crosses his path dies—or wishes he did.”
Deidre was crying silently, her hand splayed over her large, protruding belly. Mikhail put a protective arm around his young wife.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Irina said, looking at Jelena now. “You’ve got to help us!”
Jelena sighed. “I will help you move. You’ll stay in a hotel tonight.”
“You will pay for that?” her father interjected.
Jelena felt a snap of anger.
You stole the fucking car. You’re the reason we’re in this mess. Why can’t
you
pay for it?
“I’ll pay for it.”
Her unhappiness must have been obvious on her face. He took a step forward, his chin jutting forward defensively. “I was putting the car money aside, for an emergency, or for after the baby was born. I would think you’d want to help your family.” He looked at her with reproach, and guilt burned in her chest like acid. “As your family has helped you.”
“Of course, Papa,” she said, bowing her head. “Let me make some calls.”
“And talk to your husband,” he added, straightening, looking more like the patriarch.
Jelena buried herself in the details of moving them out, gathering only essentials, leaving things behind. She’d been through this too many times before; it was a familiar routine. But her thoughts kept returning to Nadia. Nadia, whom she had resented for never being forced to marry, being their father’s favorite.
Nadia, who she now realized had often disappeared just before their father had gained something of value. Nadia, who never complained, never asked for anything. Perhaps there was a different reason that Nadia was her father’s favorite.
Jelena closed her eyes. Perhaps Nadia had not gotten the better end of the bargain, after all, in avoiding an arranged marriage.
“We must do something before that beast kills her,” Jelena whispered, but no one in her scurrying family heard her.
I just thought you’d want to help your family
…
It would be up to her, then. No matter what it took.

Nadia rode silently in the man’s opulent car—a Maybach, unprepossessing but more expensive than most ostentatious luxury cars. The leather seats felt like butter against her skin; even the air was perfumed with expense.
Where is he taking me?
He obviously was very rich, and very dangerous. Even in the spacious car, he seemed to engulf the interior, forcing her to unconsciously scrunch against the door.
“Driving too fast for you?” he growled.
She jumped, suppressing a squeak. “No,” she whispered.
“Then maybe you can let go of that handle.”
She looked down to find herself white-knuckling the handle on the door. With effort, she forced herself to release it.
After an hour in the pitch-black desert, the environment changed. She could make out the silhouette of trees under the full moon. A forest? In Nevada?
They pulled off the interstate, going onto a gravel road, then a dirt one. Her heart beat quickly. Was he going to kill her, and leave her out for the animals in this godforsaken place? Somewhere no one would ever find her?
She didn’t have anything that could be used as a weapon. She hadn’t even brought her purse. Her gaze darted around the car: nothing she could use.
Oh, God. Oh, God
.
She bit her lip, hard. The sharp pain forced back the beginning hyperventilation.
Focus, damn it. Panic solves nothing!
She was so intent on calming down that she didn’t notice the looming gates until the car pulled easily onto the paved driveway. Lights flooded the vehicle, and she was momentarily blinded.
The gates swung open slowly, as if recognizing his car. He pulled up a long and winding drive until they reached a mansion. Her eyes widened as she took in the scope of it. More than a mansion. It was practically a palace, here in the middle of nowhere. A huge garage door swung open, revealing an immaculate, meticulously organized garage.
“Get out,” he said, killing the engine and opening his door.
She opened the door and did as instructed, glancing around, still gauging options for potential weapons. If he was going to kill her, she wasn’t going out without a fight.
He must have noticed her intention, because he smiled, causing the zipper of scarring across his face to ripple. “Most of the really heavy tools are in the cabinets, but there’s a tire iron to your left, in that metal toolbox.”
She glanced at the box. It was easily three feet away. A few steps, at best.
Before she could move, he was suddenly looming in front of her. How did someone so massive move so quickly, so quietly?
“I wouldn’t, though.” His light eyes gleamed, like fire trapped in ice. “If I were you.”
She swallowed hard, and crossed her arms.
“Follow me.”
She did, or tried. His long stride forced her to jog to keep up with him. He was moving quickly enough that she could barely get the details of the dimly lit house. The place was cavernous, comprised of dark woods and dark-tinted windows; jutting rock masonry, and the suggestion of shelves, although she couldn’t make out what was on them. What in the world did a man like this display? Books? Artwork?
She blanched. Or did he show off a different type of trophy?
Her heart was racing and adrenaline flooded her system like poison. Tears stung at the corners of her eyes as she fol lowed him down a long hallway. He opened a dark mahogany door, and turned on the lights.
“This will be your room.”
She stepped inside, then paused, confused.
It was a lovely room—no, a lovely
suite
. It looked like something that would be offered in a luxury hotel on the Strip, maybe something reserved for the biggest-spending high rollers. There was a king-sized bed, dressed with a chocolate brown and robin’s egg blue comforter, surprisingly stylish. On the wall, there was a large-screened plasma television. There was even a large desk. Through the open door, she could see a bathroom, complete with stall shower and deep, sunken Jacuzzi tub. The only thing missing was a refrigerator and a personal safe. Maybe she hadn’t seen them yet.
She glanced at him, puzzled. “Here? I stay…here?”
“I’d keep you in the garage, but the last girl I kept made a terrible mess near my favorite car.”
She gasped, taking a step back.
“For God’s sake!” he exploded, and now she cowered. “I’m not going to kill you, so stop cringing. I said, this is your room. This is where you…you know, where you’ll
sleep
.”
Stay focused
. She didn’t know what his game was, but he was scaring the hell out of her, and she was letting it engulf her. No. She was here with a purpose. To save her family. If she was lucky, to even remove a threat to her family.
She took a deep breath, and stepped silently across the lush Berber carpet. “It’s a nice room,” she said, proud that her voice held steady.
“Glad you approve.” The sarcasm in his voice rasped at her.
Anger flashed momentarily, and she clung to it, grateful to displace the fear with any other emotion. “So if you’re not going to kill me, what are you going to do to me?”
She forced herself to look squarely at him as she asked the question. In the gentle incandescent light, she could see him more clearly.
She’d already noticed his eyes, his scars. Now she took in the rest of him. He was tall, and built out of pure, solid muscle, draped in what surely was an expensive suit. His hair was shaggy, at odds with the careful details of his wardrobe; wavy and unruly, the long ends curled slightly over his collar. His longish bangs covered part of his face, she could tell. Perhaps deliberate?
No. She couldn’t imagine this man trying to hide what he was from anyone.
He moved again, that quick, fluid movement, like a wolf. There was a wet bar, nestled into the wall; he poured himself something amber, a Scotch or a whiskey. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” he admitted in a low voice, his back still turned to her.
She crossed her arms tightly against her chest. He couldn’t possibly…was that remorse she heard in his voice?
“You’re the one who said I could do whatever I wanted until your father returned my rose,” he mused, and his tone was so bitter, she realized that she must be imagining the regret. “So perhaps you can tell me what you’re planning to offer that can even begin to replace what I’ve lost.”
It was like plunging into the frozen lakes back in the Ukraine—a shock so sharp it was numbing.
“Or I’ve got a better idea,” he drawled, turning back to her. “Maybe you should show me.”
“What do you want me to do?” she hedged, buying time.
He leaned against the bar, drink in hand, sardonic amusement etched on his face.
“You’re the sacrificial maiden, here,” he pointed out. “You’re the noble one offering herself for her family. I’m just trying to figure out why, exactly,
taking
you was worth giving up vengeance against a man who stole the one thing in this world that meant anything to me.”
Anger tinged his words again. He was starting to question their bargain, she realized, her palms sweating.
He was absolutely right in one thing: she’d made this bargain. If she was going to save her family, then she had to stop acting like a scared little mouse and get
on
with the thing, already.
He wanted sex. Didn’t all men? So she’d give him that. It might be painful, but at least it wasn’t difficult. She would get through it.
Without ceremony, she kicked off her shoes, then took off her clothes with clinical, detached speed. She tugged the sleeveless T-shirt over her head, then unzipped her loose-fitting jeans, dropping them to the ground. She peeled off her socks. She didn’t look at him once, biting her lip as she reached behind her back to unclasp her plain pink cotton bra. She dropped it on the growing pile of clothes.
She made the mistake of looking up as she reached for the waistband of her panties…white cotton, sprayed with violets, cut high on her thighs. The way he was looking at her made her pause.
He stared at her like a starving man. No, like a starving lion, something that wanted to pounce and devour her. The tension in his frame was palpable, even if he still stood, trying to seem bored, trying to seem removed from what was going on.
Slowly, she eased the panties down, past her thighs, down her legs. His eyes followed her every movement, until she was finally completely naked, standing in the middle of the room. She stood, awkward, unsure of what to do next.
He wasn’t bored. He put his glass down on the counter blindly, close to the edge, and pushed away from the wet bar. He took a step toward her, and it was all she could do to stand her ground. She lifted her chin instead, challenging him.
Here I am. Take me
.
He circled her, reminding her again of some fierce, feral animal. But he kept his distance as he looked at her, she noticed. He was wary. Wary of her, the naked and defenseless one.
She frowned. Why in the world would
he
be cautious?
She felt the heat from his hand, close to her body—but not quite touching her. Her skin burst out in goose bumps that had nothing to do with the slight hum of the air conditioner, chilling the room. His hand grazed her hip, her shoulder; she felt the warmth against her hair, felt it shift slightly. He stood behind her, his looming presence like a blanket, smothering her. She heard him take in a deep, slightly shuddering breath.
Was he…
smelling
her?
She turned to face him, ready to yell at him to just take her already and stop tormenting her. She turned so quickly that she caught the unguarded expression on his face.
His blue eyes were vulnerable—as if his interest in her was helpless, compelled. There was something about his face that seemed both hopeful and despairing. He wanted her, but it wasn’t just a carnal desire. Whatever he wanted from her, he wasn’t about to simply reach out and take, even though she was standing there like an unwrapped Christmas present. It was as if he were afraid to touch her.
His look was one of mute anguish, pleading for understanding. It was so gentle and at odds with the rest of him—his huge, fearsome body; his scarred, brutal face—that she felt her heart ache, for a split second.
He leaned closer to her, to her face, as if he were going to kiss her neck. He hovered there, and she felt the heat coming off his body, like a bonfire.
She bridged the gap. Her hand went up slowly, cupping his face, feeling the hardened ridges of scar tissue beneath her fingertips.
He swept her up in a lightning fast movement that had her head swimming. In the next second, it seemed, they were on the bed. He was kissing her, all but devouring her. She couldn’t get her bearings, couldn’t register any sensations beyond the ones that he was submerging her in.
She surfaced for air as he stripped off his luxurious suit with obvious, growling impatience. It was as if a dam had burst, and he was all but exploding through his civil façade. He stretched out next to her, covering her. She felt a moment’s fear, but it was dwarfed by the sheer feel of being overwhelmed by him. He had more scars: his chest was hatch-marked with them; she could feel the roughness of them against her chest, dragging against her nipples. But before she could do more than gasp, he was kissing her again, focusing on her mouth, his lips caressing hers—yes, the soft, gliding movements were definitely caresses, she thought, before his hand cupped her breast in a manner that startled her with its tender firmness. His tongue tickled at the sensitive inner flesh of her lips, not invading but coaxing. Tempting.
She would have remained frozen, but her body was responding in a way that was entirely unfamiliar to her. She didn’t know how to move, but he was somehow drawing the response from her, causing her hips to rise fractionally to meet the hard, hot length of his erection, pressed like a branding iron against her inner thigh. She opened her mouth wider, perhaps to breathe, but his tongue swept in, capturing hers, taunting it. She was kissing him before she realized what she was doing. She heard a moan, too high to be masculine.
She was moaning, she realized. She was gasping, moaning beneath his fingertips. He played her like a violin, and her body sang.
She could feel the ridges of his scars against her neck as he suckled her throat, her collar bone, her shoulder. She shivered and cried out as he reached lower, between their bodies, reaching right for her heat. It was a shock, and she winced, making him pause ever so slightly. His fingers didn’t thrust inside her, though. Instead, they stroked, rubbing at her clit, gently penetrating her curls, nuzzling between the folds of skin until he found her quickly hardening nubbin. She found her hips bucking against his fingertips as he maneuvered against her, the dampness of his cock dragging against her flesh echoed in the surprisingly swift rush of her own wetness. When his thick fingertips finally pushed inside her, her body was more than ready for the onslaught. He delved deep, stroking inside her, still rubbing her clit with his thumb.
She was close to orgasm, her breathing rushed and ragged. Her mind felt wild, overwhelmed.
He maneuvered his wide hips between her thighs, covering her like a huge blanket, enveloping her with his heat. She closed her eyes, trying to process everything, feeling powerless but at the same time swept up in it; not drowning, but instead riding an incredible wave, letting it carry her of its own volition…
When he plunged inside her, she gasped loudly. His cock was enormous, and the pain of his entry was momentarily shocking.
He froze, and she heard his muttered cursing. She felt bereft. Then, slowly, he moved, his hips gracefully pressing against hers, the feel of his body pushing against her clit helping ease the transition. Her body stretched, accommodating him. The pain ebbed.
He reached between them again, even as his mouth claimed hers. The kiss wasn’t invasive; rather, it was tender, perhaps even apologetic.
She wasn’t sure when she started kissing back, only that it felt natural to do so.
He withdrew by an inch, then pressed forward. Repeated the action, gently, without causing pain. Slowly, maddeningly slowly, he would withdraw further and then delve deeper, his body rocking against hers.
The pressure was building again. She could feel it, the creeping edge of orgasm that had been hinted at earlier haunting her, moving closer, dancing across every nerve ending. She found her hips rising up to meet his, felt her thighs pressing tightly against his pelvic bones as her breasts dragged against his scars. She gripped his shoulders loosely, biting her lip.