Unholy Promises (23 page)

“Whoa, crazy girl, do you really think that I am going to scar my forearm with a brand?” Master demands.

I look at him hard. He doesn’t realize how tightly I am squeezing Thomas’s hand beneath the covers or that my hand is shaking with excitement and terror. “Yes, I do, because I trust you, and having given you that trust, I have allowed you to do anything you want with my body. This is the first thing that I’ve ever asked of you.”

That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But, it is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it, and think how different its course would have been. Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day.

~ Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

January 10

London, UK

WODC’s Private Hospital

He isn’t here? It takes a few minutes to register what the nurse is trying to tell me. I close my eyes against the bright glare of overhead hospital lighting and am immediately assailed by the noise level in the room, random whirrs, paced beeps, laughter coming from the hallway, rain hitting the windowpanes, and a television somewhere in the beyond but annoying just the same. The nurse’s shoes shuffle across the floor as she rearranges where my IV tree stands. Does it really matter which side of my bed the damn thing is? Politely, I say, “Could I have a few minutes alone?” Inside, I’m screaming, just get the fuck out of my room already!

“I’m sorry miss, there has been only one visitor, not the man you describe.”

“It’s fine, I’m just tired.” I smile as brightly as possible with half of my face swollen to the size of a cantaloupe. She nods and I am left fighting the tears that threaten to spill over my cheeks any second as the full impact hits me. Luka isn’t here, hasn’t been here, and obviously doesn’t care if I lived or died. Liam was right about that at least—Luka only returned for his brother.

Voices coming from the hall indicate I am not free to cry yet.

“Of course you can go in now. She’s awake; only for a few moments though, all right?”

“Oui, Yes, of course.”

Henri?

“Eva,” Henri says my name, but I keep my eyes closed, letting the choked, raw emotion clogging his throat infiltrate my brain, not even opening them when he lifts my hand from the bed. No, I open my eyes only when he offers, “We thought we’d lost you.”

His head is bowed, crying over my hand. I have never seen him cry, never seen any emotion from him whatsoever.

“I’m fine, Henri.” I lie, of course. I’m not really fine. I can’t bear to think about what happened, pushing everything from my mind—the visit to the warehouse, Liam, what happened with Liam, knowing I’m strong enough to survive this. I just need a moment alone. I need one moment alone…

“I want to go home, Henri.”

Henri nods. “Oui. In a few days, after you regain your strength, we will move you to one of the safe houses. Or you could come and stay at the townhouse with me.”

“No, Henri, I want to go to my apartment, I want to go home. I want to go home today!” I demand, sounding like a child even to my own ears. I try to wipe my face, but too many IV tubes and wires I had no idea were attached to my body or why tangle and confuse my brain. Trying to focus, I almost manage to yank free one of the IVs from the bend of my inner elbow, but succeed only in causing one of the machines to alarm, emitting a shrill scream of sound.

Covering my ears and closing my eyes, I scream, feeling like my brain is going to explode. Fighting to sit up, I realize, I can’t, I’m too weak. Crying out in frustration, I demand, “My God, what is wrong with me?”

“You are weak, child,” Henri answers, “That is all. It will take time, but you are a survivor. All will be well soon.”

I do not answer him, but think, “Yes, I will live. I always do … even when I don’t want to.”

A nurse enters, efficiently readjusting the machines, and checks all my IV lines, makes tsking noises. She finally pulls the sheet to my chin and turns off the blinding overhead light. With a firm hand on Henri’s elbow, I see that she is steering him toward the door, “She needs to rest, let her sleep tonight. You, too, need your sleep. You must take care of yourself. She will be fine now, the worst is over.”

The nurses of the Intensive Care Ward hate me, and I admit, I am a troublemaker.

Once my head cleared enough to decipher the mystery of the wires and tubes, I was able to maneuver around them enough to get myself sitting in a chair. The doctors decided it was in my best interest to move me into a room with fewer rules, else it was going to get ugly. I still insist that I am going home—today—the doctors just manage to give me their company-issued scowl. I wonder if they learn to scowl in their very first agency briefing?

This is how you scowl, you try it. Yes, that’s right, exactly right. Your scowl will keep you alive. A child’s giggle erupts inside my head and I know for a fact, I’ve lost my mind.

Henri and a nurse I have not met before arrive with a wheelchair. There are no introductions, no agency-issued smile, and no agency-issued scowl. The nameless, blank-expressioned nurse insists I sit in the wheelchair and something in her very blank eyes causes me to acquiesce. One elevator and three corridors later, we stop before a door.

“Voila! We are here, your new room away from those mean ICU nurses,” Henri states with a grand flourish as I am wheeled into my new hospital room by the nurse with no name.

My greeting is a hundred bouquets of calla lilies.

“Ohmygod!” Tears spring quick and unexpected at the sight before my eyes.

“You had thought perchance he had forgotten you, mademoiselle?”

“I, yes, I don’t know what to say. Where is he?”

“Don’t worry about where he is, just worry about getting well enough to leave—

soon. His deliveries are driving everyone to distraction and he has promised the delivery of a dozen calla lilies every hour that you do not come to him.”

“Luka,” I whisper to myself, hoping he can somehow hear my thoughts and reaching for Henri’s hand to make sure I am not dreaming. He squeezes my hand and the tightness on my fingers make me realize how badly I’m trembling. This is real. It’s really happening.

I’ll teach you to jump on the wind’s back, and away we go.

~ James M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Garrett’s Penthouse

Celia’s eyes are wide and she is already covered with a fine sheen of sweat. I know how terrified she is after having witnessed Garrett’s branding. I’d played with him hard, raising his endorphin levels, and still he screamed, though it wasn’t like a little girl, more like a warrior’s growl, deep and primal. I hope that I can have such dignity when it is my turn. The lights are dimmed in the library and a fire glows in the fireplace, sending interesting shapes of shadow and light to dance across the walls. Outside a spring thunderstorm breaks and, this high up, the sound is intense, so I am surprised that Celia seems oblivious to the racket, so afraid is she of storms.

“I love you.” She holds him, kissing his forehead, voicing her gratitude as I heat the metal mold a second time. I will be next and Celia will administer the brand.

“It’s ready.”

Her entire body is shaking as she takes the handle from me, holding the red-hot brand away from her body. I know she feels the heat though. It is an impressive thing.

“I’m not so certain I’m ready though.”

“It’s fine. You can do this.”

“I’m going to be sick.”

I laugh, “This was your idea!”

“It was a stupid idea.”

“Kitten.” Garrett’s voice holds an edge of warning. He insisted on going first, getting it over with, because he knew he wouldn’t do it if he watched it being done first. “I swear I will hogtie you both…”

“I’m doing it!” she interrupts, knowing he was going to say he would do the job himself.

I hold out my bared forearm and she aims for the marked area. Her hand shakes as I take a final deep breath and hold it in as the heated metal makes contact with my skin. I exhale, thinking, this isn’t so bad, the heat not registering as pain for a second, not until the smell of searing flesh hits my nose. But by then she has pulled the mold away and I am left looking at an angry, red, very fresh brand. I grit my teeth to keep from cursing.

Losing badly. “Jesus!”

Celia lays the mold down and drops to her knees, sobbing.

I kneel beside her, holding my burned arm away from both of us to keep from accidentally touching it.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry,” she cries against me. I kiss her forehead. “You will remember this day for the rest of your life, as will we all. We belong to each other now.”

Garrett stands, white gauze covering the damage done to his own arm. “Come here, Kitten.”

She backs behind my legs, “I don’t want to play.”

We’d agreed that both she and Garrett would do better if the branding was part of an intense scene. I help her stand, leading her to a chair. “You don’t want your endorphins up?”

“I don’t want to do it at all.”

I kneel in front of her, showing her my arm. “See? I’m okay. You did a wonderful job. I didn’t even scream.”

She pouts. “You screamed a little … when you were taking the lord’s name in vain.”

“I screamed a little, but it’s okay now.”

I watch her looking down at the fresh wound, the outline of the brand a painful dark shade of red, surrounded by a wide band of dark pink where the skin is reacting to the damage. She reaches out to touch it, but doesn’t. “It hurts?”

“It hurts like a burn hurts. You’ve been burned before. Remember when you tried to make cookies for Thanksgiving?”

“That hurt a lot!”

I smile at her. “It is going to hurt.”

“Lie down and I’ll tie you now.” Garrett tells her.

She shakes her head. “Please don’t tie me up. I won’t move. I promise I won’t.”

“Your arm will jerk, Kitten. You want your brand to be pretty, don’t you?” he asks.

Tears fall over her cheeks. “I’m scared.”

“I think that’s pretty normal, under the circumstances.” I tell her, kissing her forehead. “Now sit down and we’ll just tie your upper body enough to make sure that your arm doesn’t move, okay?”

She sits and I wrap the length of rope around her chest, followed by securing both arms to the wooden desk chair. She closes her eyes when she sees Garrett heating the mold, fear making her shake.

He turns to me. “Ready when you are.”

I lean down and whisper in her ear, “Ready?”

She nods. “Stay close to me. Hold me, please?”

Kneeling behind her, I wrap my unburned arm around her chest. I press my cheek against hers. “Is this all right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to watch?” Garrett asks.

Her eyes are still tightly closed and she answers, “No!”

The mold strikes and I hold her against me tight, feeling her muscles contract with the shock of pain flooding through her arm. “Oh God! Oh God, oh God, oh God!”

Garrett backs away and we both look at the mark made by the mold. “Open your eyes, Kitten.”

“Oh God, oh God, oh God!”

“Open your eyes, Sophia. It’s finished,” I command, our cheeks still touching, my arm still holding her tight against me. “Look at your arm.”

Her gasp tells me she has opened her eyes. “Oh!”

“It’s beautiful, sweetheart,” I whisper into her ear.

She turns to look at me and smiles. “I love you. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

She bounces in her seat. “You’ve made me so happy!”

“I love you, Sophia. You make me so happy.”

From beside us, Garrett clears his throat.

Kitten smiles at him, her entire faces lighting up. “Thank you.” She wiggles in the seat. “You can untie me now.”

Garrett waggles his eyebrows. “I think we still have a scene to play out first.”

Kitten glares at him and I start laughing, knowing she would slug me if she could.

“You started this. I told you a long time ago to be careful who you played with and aren’t you so happy to now have two sadists at your beck and call?”

I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing.

~ Anais Nin

Six days later, restrained to my bed, I am no longer floating on clouds. I will kill the person who brings the next flower delivery into my room—once I escape the restraints.

Restrained for my own protection; I snort at the absurdity.

Restrained because I will kill the next nurse who comes in with a thermometer, needle, or other device of torture. They tell me to rest and then insist on taking my vitals every hour on the hour; they force me to swallow pills to help me sleep and then write in my chart that I am a danger to myself and others because they keep waking me the fuck up.

Yes, I am dangerous. Especially on meds that make me want to sleep.

Restrained because my last attempt to escape found me clinging to the sides of the elevator shaft, because I was too exhausted to climb any farther. It was humiliating to be rescued by the same agents I have fought beside on numerous occasions. What is wrong with me?

I close my eyes and count to ten and then ten again.

I will not cry, because I want to go home. I will not cry.

I am going to kill whoever informed the doctor that I am able to escape most bondage situations. This isn’t funny. Whoever heard of a wrist cuff with a thumb collar? I am still stuck in this fucking bed because of thumb bondage? Please, someone, kill me now!

The words finally came. I was discharged but not free to do my own will. I left the hospital ten full days after my arrival in Henri’s custody though I am not a criminal …

just an agent … one suddenly deemed rogue and, to The Agency, it is only one step above treason and death. Granted, Henri’s townhouse is not the Bastille Saint Antoine. I could probably walk away if I chose to, but where would I go? I manage to contemplate this as I soak in Henri’s antique iron tub on gold-plated clawed feet. I turn the white ceramic knobs, labeled COLD and HOT in royal blue, with my toes, adjusting the water temperature. Steaming hot water numbs my toes and feet as they are covered. The old iron tub was icy against my back when I first climbed in, and as I sat shivering, waiting for the tub to fill with deliberate slowness, I had way too much time to think.