Bluebeard (2 page)

Who wouldn’t want to marry a rock star?

That’s what Petra told herself when she agreed to fly from Minsk to Los Angeles—a mail-order bride to the lead singer of Bluebeard, one of the most popular American rock bands of the twentieth century.

The question really was—why would a rock star want to marry her? Find out in this modern take on the Bluebeard fairy tale by Selena Kitt!

Warning: This title contains elements of BDSM including domination, submission and spanking. It also makes mention of sex, drugs, rock and roll, masturbation, German philosophers, Hindu goddesses, and an incorrigible pug dog who likes to steal things, including your heart!

By Selena Kitt

Who wouldn’t want to marry a rock star?

That’s what Petra told herself when she agreed to fly from Minsk to Los Angeles—a mail-order bride to the lead singer of Bluebeard, one of the most popular American rock bands of the twentieth century.

The question really was—why would a rock star want to marry her?

She asked herself that question a hundred times a day as she wandered around his big house—their house, he insisted whenever she slipped and said it aloud—touching the framed platinum albums on the walls, the priceless artwork, the expensive upholstery on chair frames made some time during the Renaissance.

For a heavy-metal goth-rocker, her husband, Blue, had exquisite taste.

The house was a stunning, ostentatious symbol of Blue’s wealth. He had promised her the world, and he had given it to her. She wanted for nothing. There was no material thing he couldn’t or wouldn’t provide for his new bride. She only had to barely mention some whim or fancy and it was presented as a gift. Her little Pug dog, Milyi, had been placed at the foot of her bed in a white satin box tied with a thick, red velvet ribbon when she had wistfully talked about the dog she’d left behind.

Milyi followed her through the maze of hallways, already far better acclimated to the twists and turns than she was. But both dog and mistress knew their way to the kitchen, where Petra was headed in her white silk nightdress, too hungry to get dressed before breakfast. Besides, she liked getting there before Mrs. Ribya, the cook. She preferred making her own meal to being waited on, even if Blue chastised her for it.

“Яйца, Milyi?” she asked the little Pug, pulling a carton of eggs out of the double-wide refrigerator. She still spoke Russian when no one else was around, mostly because she still thought in Russian and the words she spoke out loud to herself were just her thoughts anyway.

She had eggs in the pan and bacon on to fry and was just pouring herself coffee, chattering to her dog in Russian, teasing him about the pink bow the groomer had tied on his collar, when Blue came into the kitchen, startling them both. The Pug ran for cover under the leather bar stools along the counter. He was afraid of Blue. Everyone was.

The man was formidable—six-foot-three and built like a tank, the broad expanse of his shoulders impressive even when he was wearing a suit and tie, like he was today. His dark eyes missed nothing as he glanced at a trembling Milyi huddled under the barstool, to Petra, standing just as knock-kneed at the stove, spatula in hand, her mouth suddenly gone dry.

Blue frowned at them both. “Good morning, Pet.”

“Morning,” Petra managed as he strode toward her, bending to give her a brief, chaste kiss on the cheek. He had never shaved off his signature beard, although he kept it trimmed close these days and had long since stopped dying it bright blue. It tickled. “Breakfast for you?”

“Can’t,” he apologized, opening the fridge and taking out a quart of orange juice. “Have to catch my flight.”

She’d forgotten. Or maybe she’d just pushed it out of her mind. Even if they often spent their days alone, Blue in his study or up in his music room, Petra wandering the house and grounds, investing a great deal of time in the indoor pool, she’d grown used to his presence. They always came together to meet for dinner, taking up just one end of the expansive, formal dining table, even if their nights were separated by a long, cold hallway.

“Besides, you shouldn’t be cooking.” Blue frowned again as he tried a friendly overture toward the dog hiding under the stool. It growled and cringed backward. Blue took a long swig of orange juice.

“I am liking feeling…” Petra searched for the English word, turning back to the stove, flipping her eggs over easy. “I am liking feeling useful.”

“You are useful.” He put the juice on the counter, coming up behind her, sweeping her long hair aside so he could kiss her neck. “You’re… my wife.”

She stiffened, her breath shallow in her throat. “Am I?”

“I have the piece of paper to prove it.” His fingers brushed over her skin, oh-so-briefly, before he moved away, reaching for the juice so he could put it back. “You’re mine.”

His words made her knees go weak. She wanted to turn and put her arms around him, kiss those full, soft lips that she hadn’t felt touch her own since their wedding day—but she knew better.

If I’m yours, then claim me!

Her heart beat faster at the thought. She struggled to put what she was feeling into words he might hear and accept.

“I wish for you not to go,” she confessed wistfully, sliding the eggs onto a plate and using tongs to put the bacon, nice and limp, beside them. Milyi whined from his hiding place, his attention focused on her food.

“I have to.” He stepped back, clearing his throat. “It’s business.”

She didn’t know much about his business, except that he wasn’t a rock star anymore. He did some endorsement work and received royalties, of course, but he had hinted at other ventures that kept him busy. She imagined this was one of those.

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning.” Blue paused in kitchen doorway, his gaze sweeping over her, making her blush all the way down to the pink-painted toes peeking out from under her silk bridal nightgown. She’d worn it the first night of her marriage, waiting anxiously for him to come to her, and had fallen asleep that night—and too many nights to count thereafter—with it tangled, moist and clinging, between her thighs.

“I will be missing you.” Another confession. She swallowed, feeling her blush deepen.

He hesitated, head cocked, contemplative. “You’re in good hands. The staff will be here. Mrs. Ribya will cook—if you let her.” He gave her a long, steady look. Could she blush any redder? She wondered. “Max will take you shopping, if you want to go out.”

“Thank you.”
Spasiba
. She repeated the words in her head in Russian, putting her plate down at the counter, feeling Milyi licking at her toes, but she couldn’t take her eyes off her husband. He was still standing in the doorway, watching her.

Will he miss me? Will he think about me? Does he care about me at all?

Sometimes she thought he did—he must. He lavished her with gifts and was even generous with his time, his attention. They sometimes did jigsaw puzzles together in the evenings and once or twice she’d even convinced him to sit through an episode of “American Idol” with her. He seemed to enjoy her company. He said he loved her laugh. He told her often enough that she was beautiful. She’d caught him staring at her with those dark, wolfish eyes, a thrill going through her every time.

So why has he never taken me to his bed?

“Listen, Pet, if anything happens…” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a key ring attached to a leather fob. It only contained one key. “This is a master key to all the doors in this old house.”

Blue’s twenty-thousand square foot Tudor-style home had many historical accuracies residing within. The dining room floor had been reclaimed from a French chateau. The ceilings were outrageously high, as were the hand-carved fireplaces. Petra had one in her bedroom. And every door in the house had been salvaged from a castle ruins in Wales, which, quaintly, all had one master key.

He approached her slowly, his movements graceful, languid, especially for a man so large. He’d been like that on stage too. She was so curious about him after they’d met the first time at the “show-up”—where all the mail-order brides from the agency met the men who were interested in finding a wife—that she’d scoured the Internet for concert footage afterward. Although she regretted it later—all the screaming, the drama, the theatrics. The blood. She shuddered.

That wasn’t the Blue she’d met that night. He wasn’t crazy or out of control. The man who had courted her was reserved, almost to the point of being laconic. And yet, thousands of people knew that blue-bearded, wild-eyed man as the lead singer of a band they once followed from town to town, groupies who stalked him like prey, or who attached themselves, like remora to a shark.

There were still fans who came to the front gates, who waited. The paparazzi, too, like vultures, hovering. This house had been their sanctuary since their wedding day, and she understood that it had been his, too, in the years since the group has disbanded.

“Surely Max or Mrs. Ribya…?” She reached for the key he held out to her, frowning. What could she possibly use it for? He had always made sure her every need was met.

His fingers brushed hers, lingering, and she met his eyes, surprised at the frequency of his touch this morning.

Blue winked. “In case you want to go for an early morning swim or something.”

She blushed. Before she’d known that the entire house was monitored by closed-circuit motion-detector cameras, she had once woken before dawn, flushed and aching, full of a longing she didn’t understood, but could do nothing about. Instead, she had crept down the stairs in her nightgown and made her way to the pool for an early morning swim.

Nude.

Ever since, Blue insisted she had to ask to have the pool unlocked when she wanted to go swimming. He didn’t want any more “accidental” nude swimming tapes recorded.

“I don’t intend to give Max another show.” Max was Blue’s butler, driver, and head of security. She soon discovered that the older, gray-haired man who used to haul sound equipment and stand guard outside Blue’s stage room door, who had run his concerts like a well-oiled machine, now ran his household the same way.

“Good.” He gave a satisfied nod, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “Oh and Pet, remember… don’t go into that room I showed you.”

She swallowed, remembering the first tour Blue had given her of the house, Max and Mrs. Ribya in tow. It had been a whirlwind, all so new to her, and she was sure she wouldn’t remember how to get to the bathroom let alone the kitchen. But there was one room she remembered. Yes, she remembered that one very well. All the doors in the house were old, heavy wood, but this door had also been ornately, intricately carved.

“What’s in here?” She couldn’t help touching it, her fingers tracing over the snake-like tongues of gargoyles.

“No.” Blue had reached out and grabbed her hand, his formerly casual, light demeanor gone in an instant. “It’s… dangerous.”

Her eyes had widened as she stared at her new husband, expression dark, mouth grim. They had gone on without a word, Max showing her the garage where Blue kept his cars—there were fifteen of them stored at the house—but she hadn’t forgotten that moment or that room.

“Is there a monster you keep down there?” Petra tease, a smile playing on her lips as she fingered the leather fob, turning the key over in her hand.

“Sometimes,” he replied, cryptic. He was standing close now, his words urgent. His presence alone made her feel dizzy, like she had to sit or she just might faint. “Just please. Trust me. Do what I ask.”

“Of course I do what you ask,” she assured him, putting a hand on his arm. She heard his slight intake of breath as he shied away from her gentle touch

“Thank you.” He breathed a slow sigh, leaning in to brush her cheek—the other one this time—with a goodbye kiss. She closed her eyes, savoring the prickle of his beard, breathing in his earthy, dark scent. More than anything, she wanted to throw her arms around him, kiss him fully, properly, like a wife should kiss her husband.

Instead, she sighed, opening her eyes to see him looking at her with that wolfish gaze of his. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll be on the red-eye home from Chicago tonight.” He was still standing so close. She could barely breathe. “How about I take you to lunch tomorrow at
Spago’s
?”

“I would be liking that.” She smiled, glancing down at the dog whining at her feet. He yelped in protest when she reached down and scooped him up into her arms. “Say goodbye to your master, Milyi.”

Blue reached out to pat the dog on the head but he growled violently, baring his teeth. She shook him gently, admonishing him in Russian, then in English. “You bad boy!” She looked at Blue, shrugging helplessly. “He’s a wicked little thing.”