Tortured Soul (5 page)

Larz grunted. “What is it with you kids and that shit anyway? What ever happened to a good ol’ fashioned fuck? Y’all had to go and tinker with it. Haven’t ya heard the expression, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it?”

Bomber and I grinned shaking our heads in unison.

“You’re talking like an old man, Larz. Anyone would think you’re getting ready to be put out to pasture,” I thought out loud. Larz stretched out in the chair he was sitting in and crossed his legs at the ankles. He was one of the fittest men of his age I knew; his body still radiated power, and his mind was sharp as a tack.

“Well, now that you mention it...” he went on.

“You’re only forty-five, hardly retirement age,” I scoffed. “Anyway, Jonas is fifty-two, remember? He’s much older than you or I, and he’s one fucked up kinky bastard, so maybe it’s you old geezers that started mixing things up.”

“It’s been confirmed that dildos dated as far back as fifth century BC, so I think it’s safe to say us kids have merely taken what you ol’ perverts had already thought of and simply perfected it.” Bomber grinned.

Larz had far too much patience to counter or argue back. He simply turned around and took in the quiet water around us before turning his attention back to me. I ran a hand down my face. I hadn’t got much sleep once I had returned Emily to the yacht. Three hours at most, certainly not enough to stay sharp.

“All quiet up here?”

“Uh-huh. Not a peep,” confirmed Bomber.

“We need to move.”

“Already on it. There’s another quiet inlet a little further north, thought I might pull in there for the night,” said Larz.

“Sounds good. Maybe you and Gabbie can take first shift tonight? I need a couple of hours shut eye, and I want Gabbie close on hand if Em needs anything while I’m on watch. I think she would feel more comfortable with another female around rather than two hairy-ass intimating men.”

Bomber snorted. “I assume by hairy-ass, you’re referring to Larz.”

Larz gave me a heavy slap to the back as he stood. “Not a problem, kiddo, I know how it is with you young fellas—all huff and no puff.” He glanced Bomber’s way before taking a sip of his coffee. “And if I so much as catch you looking at my ass, kid, I will neuter you.”

Bomber grinned. “It is one fine ass for a man of your age,” he countered.

I left the men bickering and took the stairs back down to the lower deck. I found Emily quietly seated on the large sofa, her hands resting in her lap her gaze downcast. The kitchen had been carefully cleaned; she was quick. When she saw me, panic flooded her features and she fell elegantly to her knees, straight into her submissive resting pose. I sighed at the sight, and I felt rather than saw Emily’s confusion. She knew I didn’t want this, but her mind reacted on sheer instinct. Her body tensed as if preparing for punishment, perhaps a berating or beating.

“Em?” I said softly. “Bring those pretty blue eyes back to mine, Malen’kaya.” It had been a long time since Russian words had spilled from my lips so freely. But the term for ‘little one’ seemed fitting for her. She didn’t hesitate when she looked at me, and that filled me with a sense of pride. I knew I was confusing obedience with trust but I couldn’t help but hope. “Things like this are going to happen from time to time. Old habits die hard, but they will die. We’re going to create new habits, okay.”

She nodded, and her eyes filled with unshed tears. Not a single one fell though, she kept her face as neutral as possible as she cautiously watched me.

“If you feel you need to respond to me when I enter a room, how about you simply stand, or if you’re already standing simply look my way, give me those pretty blue eyes, or we could work on doing nothing at all. Which would you prefer?” I was trying to give her a choice while still maintaining the roll as her master.

“I can stand, Shakhta,” she offered.

“Good girl. Let’s go with that for now then.” I held my hand out to her, and with only the slightest hesitation, she took it. I pulled her carefully to her feet, and she looked right into my eyes, just as I had asked her to. I gave her a warm smile, or at least my interpretation of one. My life hadn’t really been full of smiles and laughter, but I got the feeling that Emily’s was even less frequent. I hadn’t seen her smile yet, not once. I imagined she had a beautiful smile and the fact that Jonas had made it disappear made me want to kill him even more. The son of a bitch was going to feel pain unlike anything he had ever felt before. Jonas Levier thought he knew what the term cruel and unusual punishment meant. The fucker really didn’t have a clue.

EMILY

Shakhta sat at my side, his head rested back his eyes closed. He had put a movie on, a romance by the look of it.
My Best Friend’s Wedding
he had said, but I had paid little attention. In the short time that he had left me alone, I had become incredibly anxious, second guessing myself, doubting my ability to be the perfect submissive for my new Master. His wants were so different from anything I had been taught. He wanted to adopt a less stringent relationship, and though my heart yearned for such things, my mind fought like a feral beast to remain perfectly submissive, to adhere to the strict rules and regimen I had learned from Master Jonas. I winced at my internal mistake. Just Jonas, not Master Jonas.
Jonas,
I repeated in my mind, testing the empty name, letting it echo through my thoughts. It felt wrong and liberating all at the same time. Part of me mourned the loss of my former Master. The monster had destroyed me, stolen so much from me, and here I was missing his heavy hand and ruthless dominance. I hated that feeling of loss; it made me feel even more soiled and defiled. How could I regret the loss of someone so heartless? I began to do something I hadn’t done in a long time—I fidgeted. The perfect submissive sits quiet and still, hands at rest, body relaxed and ready. My body was so tense I was sure I might crack if I moved. My fingers rubbed at the newly acquired scar on the underside of my forearm. I had rubbed at it so hard the freshly puckered skin had reddened and began to sting. I don’t know if Shakhta had noticed or simply sensed my disquiet, but his head rose as he observed me. That just made me even more anxious.

“Rebecca told me something about you,” he murmured. My eyes snapped to his as I wondered what on earth she had said. “You used to like having your hair brushed.” His eyes took in my short hair. I didn’t say anything, I was completely confused as to why Rebecca would have told him that. “Did Jonas make you cut it?”

I shook my head, running my fingers nervously through the soft wavy locks. “No, Shakhta. I asked Mast...” I paused, fear forcing my words to stop. Shakhta’s eyes were not berating; his features were calm and relaxed. “I asked Jonas to have it cut, to stop the other men from pulling it.”

Shakhta sat forward, his arms rested on his knees. “I’m sorry you had to endure that,” he murmured.

I couldn’t understand why he would be sorry. He didn’t do it.

“I’ll be right back.” Shakhta stood abruptly and disappeared into the bedroom, returning less than a minute later with a brush in hand.

I watched him cross to me, his movements perfectly noiseless and almost seductive. Such masculine beauty made my heart race just as his smile had done. Was this feeling attraction? Attraction was dangerous. I had been attracted to both Jonas and William at one stage, and both of them had taken turns in systematically destroying my soul.

“Would you like me to brush your hair?” Shakhta offered.

No one had brushed my hair since I was a little girl. The idea spiked a rush of excitement in me. “Yes please, Shakhta,” I whispered.

“Would you mind sitting on the ground here, I can sit behind you more comfortably then.” I slid to the floor and watched as Shakhta sat down behind me, his strong legs framing my small body. At the first sweep of the brush through my ridiculously short hair, my body trembled and a war broke out between my heart, body, and mind. The former two very much in favor of the familiar strokes, the latter was caught somewhere between shock and fear. He followed each stroke with a gentle caress of his palm and the tenderness was a reminder of all that I had lost. I shouldn’t be letting him touch me like this. Even though he believed that he too had sinned, the depths of his depravity had nothing on the things I had seen and done, but I selfishly wanted to cling to this moment.

I vaguely remembered my mother brushing my long hair. She would hum as she did so, one hundred strokes of the brush so that it would grow long and healthy or so she said. Back in the days when the most difficult things I encountered were sharing toys and being scared of monsters in my closest. Then following one warm April evening my parents were gone. God saw in His infinite wisdom that He should snatch them from B and I, leaving us alone and afraid. I had been a wistful, energetic child, and following my parents death, I stepped it up a notch. I was angry, confused and demanded the world show me some sort of beauty. I lived with defiance. I was stubborn, fearless and full of dreams. I left Claymont, I left B, and in my wake I left nothing but a measly note trying to explain my need for freedom. In an attempt to find that freedom, I found nothing but captivity. My body and soul had been taken from me, my heart shattered, and my search for proof that there was beauty to be found in this world, ripped away from me. I had lived an ugly life, surrounded by ugly people in what I had come to realize was an ugly world. But right now, in this one simple moment, I found a small glimmer of peace. As my eyes shuttered closed, my mind seemed to drift with the gentle rocking of the opulent yacht I was trapped on. The soothing strokes pushed the fear of the liquid depths surrounding me away, and for a single moment in time they made the ugly world I had lived in seem like a distant memory.

A low cough brought me plummeting back to reality. My eyes snapped open and took in a woman standing just outside the glass door that separated the elegance of the yacht’s interior from its exterior. She was tall, with a golden tan that made me instantly jealous. Her long thick chestnut hair was drawn back into a high ponytail, and her brown eyes were lined with thick lashes as they took in Shakhta and me. She was wearing tan cargo shorts with a fitted black tank top over ample breasts. I wasn’t jealous of the woman’s exotic beauty; I had seen plenty of beautiful women and I had been told of my own beauty often enough to believe it to be true. But beauty was skin deep and the toxic hate inside beautiful people tarnished the outside, so no, I wasn’t jealous of beauty. What did bother me though was the way she arched a brow in our direction and seemed to take in Shakhta with enough familiarity for me to realize they had some sort of a past. I was not oblivious to relationships where sharing was common place. I had been Jonas’ submissive; he had collared me, yet he allowed others to touch me frequently. Perhaps Shakhta had a similar relationship with this woman. The thought actually made a sick feeling coil in my stomach.

“Emily, this is Gabriella; she works for Montgomery Securities. Gabbie, this is Emily.”

Gabbie
. She had a nickname that rolled off Shakhta’s tongue almost affectionately. And I had been delegated to Emily rather than Em. I didn’t like it or the feeling that accompanied it. This was why I wanted to be numb—emotions and feelings were too hard—they hurt.

Gabbie smiled and it was full of honest sincerity. “It’s nice to meet you. I thought I’d see if you would like me to set up the grill. I thought maybe we could grill some fish, make up a salad.”

Shakhta stopped brushing. “We only had breakfast a couple of hours ago, but you know me, I’m always up for food.” Gabbie smiled warmly at Shakhta. She cast us one last curious glance before turning to leave, and I found the nerve to speak up without my Master’s permission.

“Thank you,” I said quietly.

Gabriella glanced over her shoulder, a question in her perfectly arched brow.

“For the clothes,” I explained. Her smile was genuine.

“Couldn’t have you sauntering around the yacht naked. Bomber is a breasts man, he wouldn’t have been able to pry his eyes away. Larz wouldn’t have been able to stop blushing, and Mr. Possessive here would likely have beaten them both to a bloody pulp for just looking.” With that she left us alone again.

I felt more than heard Shakhta’s soft sigh behind me. “How’s your head, Em? The sedative I gave you can sometimes cause a lingering headache.” I was all of a sudden Em again. I silently chastised myself for the foolish hurt I was feeling. I was a broken submissive being delivered home by a temporary master. Nothing more, nothing less. I took note of my body, of my head, searching for pain or discomfort. I was far too accustomed to pain. I had lived with it on a daily basis for so long it was almost peculiar not to feel it. A low ache at the base of my skull confirmed the presence of a headache but it was hardly worthy of notice.

“I’m fine. Thank you, Shakhta,” I whispered.

“How about you help me put a salad together?” Shakhta suggested.

This made me nervous for numerous reasons. First and foremost, I didn’t know how to cook. I had never had a need for it. Master Jonas…Jonas had a house chef always on staff. I glanced over my shoulder, and Shakhta had a sexy smirk on his face that made my stomach flip with anticipation. Anticipation of what, I wasn’t sure. My body was responding to him, to the way he looked. I was most definitely attracted to him.

“From the horrified expression on your face, I am assuming you don’t cook much?”

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. Blushing was a physical response I thought I had long ago done away with. In the life I had been forced into, there was no room for inhibitions or embarrassment. However, Shakhta had brought color to my cheeks without any effort or use of sexual innuendos. The smile that followed his playful smirk began low on his lips catching at one corner and led to a full-fledged grin that made his eyes crinkle in the corners. I followed the path of his joy, my eyes taking in every inch of happiness, my own lips frozen like stone in a frown that felt perpetually unbreakable.

“Come on, I’ll teach you.” Shakhta easily stepped over me and I quickly stood and followed him to the state-of-the-art kitchen.

Once all the ingredients were set in front of us, Shakhta had me slicing tomatoes. Easy, I could do this, and it would help keep my mind off the movement of the yacht. Well, it had done so until I peered out the window and found myself wondering if we could possibly hit an iceberg or something and sink. I looked back down at the tomatoes and tried valiantly to ignore my fears.

“Shakhta?” I couldn’t help but seek out his permission to speak.

“Hmmm?” Shakhta answered as he expertly diced and sliced the leafy greens, while I slowly and painstakingly dissected a tomato.

“What did you say your boat was called, Shakhta?” I watched his lips twitch with the need to smile.

“My
yacht
is called Utonut' Moi Grekhi.”

I was watching Shakhta handle the knife at my side like a pro, and I tried to emulate his movements. “May I ask what that means, Shakhta?”

“You may ask me anything you wish, Em. It is Russian for drown my sins. Larz thought it was in bad taste to have a vessel with the word ‘drown’ in its name, but I’m the type of man that cannot be deterred once I have set my sights on something.” The depth of his statement was profound as his dark eyes pierced mine. I was unable to hold his gaze so I invested all my concentration on the tomatoes before me.

“You speak Russian, Shakhta?”

“I do. My stepfather is Russian. I was taught from an early age though I rarely use the language anymore.”

I tried to discreetly watch Shakhta from the corner of my eye. “Not even with your family?”

His gaze looked sad for a moment. “I don’t see my family anymore, Em. You almost finished?” He changed the conversation swiftly, his voice void of emotion.

In my haste to finish, my hand slipped, and the knife sliced my finger.

“Em!” Shakhta suddenly cried out.

The force of his voice caused my hands to drop, my head to lower submissively. I had upset my Master; my body immediately sank to a position of forgiveness while tensing ever so slightly in preparation for punishment. Shakhta’s strong hands gently took my injured finger and wrapped a clean dish towel around it to stem the flow of blood. While holding my hand against his chest, his other hand cupped my chin and lifted my gaze.

“No punishment, Em, I promised remember?”

I nodded. I had remembered, but I still didn’t trust him. There was always punishment—always.

“I’m going to take a look and see if you need stitches.”

I nodded again. As if unwrapping a fragile gift, Shakhta pulled away the towel. Blood pooled from a deep gash in my finger.

His gaze darted to mine for a moment. “I don’t think it will need stitches. Let’s clean it up and put a small bandage on.”

I nodded again, woodenly and despondent. My body was still guarded, as if awaiting the flogging that would surely come. Shakhta led me to the bedroom, pushed at my shoulders in a silent request to sit, and I did. He disappeared into the bedroom and came back out with what I assumed was a first aid kit.

He knelt before me and began another careful examination of my finger. “This is going to sting a little.”

I watched him raise the bottle of liquid and pour it directly over the cut. There was some pain but nothing unfamiliar and not entirely uncomfortable. Shakhta watched me carefully as he continued to dry and wrap the cut. Once he finished, he sat back on his heels still vigilantly watchful.

Just before I had a chance to become uneasy with his meticulous consideration of me, he spoke, “It bothers me that this doesn’t bother you.” His head nodded toward my hand that now rested in my lap.

It was just a cut. I wasn’t sure what he expected from me. Tears? Flinching? I had endured worse, much worse.

“It was the same in the hospital; your reaction to pain is one of indifference.” Not quite sure how to respond I kept quiet. “It’s not a normal way to react to pain.”