The Parlour (VDB #1) (40 page)

He didn’t reply, just sneered at whatever it was the man was trying to suggest and watched the bouncer begin to open the door. He coughed a little to announce he was not to do so. The man could open his own fucking door, and preferably trip his way down the fucking steps and break his neck after doing so. What the hell was he doing? Why? Watching him casually skipping down the steps, hands in his pockets as he wandered across to his waiting car, whistling like he’d just had a day at the park, did not settle his nerves at all.

His beloved immediately sprang to mind – the only one he could trust with any clarity. He was the only one who knew enough about games to decipher what the fuck the man had been talking about. He was back at his phone in seconds.

“I am coming over,” he said, the moment the line had been picked up, not bothering to check the time as he paced the space.

“Why? It’s 1.30 am and you were here yesterday. I’m not in the mood for–”

“I am disturbed,” he snapped, irate with the lack of compassion.

“You are constantly disturbed,” the man replied, huffing at the tone.

“No, I have been threatened,” he said, pacing about yet again and looking for his cane. Where was his cane? “I am under threat, as are you if we are being honest.”

“How exhilarating,” Alexander replied, bored already by the dramatics that he couldn’t see but surely knew were occurring.

“I’m serious. Jon is plotting something extravagant,” he said, scanning the room and eventually finding it propped up against the safe. His mind instantly thought of the memory stick and swung his eyes to the table.

“Jon is an old man. He’s just trying to keep his hand in… anything that moves.” He sighed and looked under the table. No memory stick appeared so he slumped down onto the sofa and stared at the ceiling.

“He has something on me.”

“Everyone has something on you. You’re not exactly clean, are you?”

“I am. You made me have those infernal tests.” He snarled, still scanning for anywhere that might be hiding the stick, and already knowing that the bastard had taken it. “He has stolen my stick.”

“I’m bored, wound up, and have a bottle of Cognac to finish, Pascal. So if you haven’t got anything of interest to say, then–”

“My memory stick, containing all the documents regarding my… trading.” Silence greeted him at the comment. “And it has something to do with Lucinda as well. She is involved, scheming.”

More silence, which was then accompanied by some rustling and grumbling of some description. “And he was talking in riddles. He hasn’t done that since he buried Andreas.”

“That was years ago, and you told me it had nothing to do with you. Unless you were lying?”

“No.” He cringed at the lie. For now, though, it wasn’t necessary to divulge the truth. “Why would he start again now? And with me? I have done nothing to interfere with his businesses.”
Lately.

Nothing more than silence came down the line at him. “Can I come over? I need to discuss this. It is most relevant.” And yet more silence. “Alexander, I am vexed. Potentially even worried.”

Silence.

“Bring more Cognac,” the man eventually growled, ending the call and leaving him with nothing but yet more of the abominable silence to contend with.

More Cognac. Hmm.

“Why are we in here?” I ask, slowly taking in my surroundings and trying to keep the chill out of my bones.

“To train, Lilah.”

I watch him crossing the dungeon type room and wonder why I need to be in such a place. It’s not a dungeon. It’s a room off the side of the basement area at Eden, but it does feel like one. Its bare brick walls are exposed and there’s little else in here other than a tall cupboard in the corner, a chair, and what appears to be a metal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He didn’t meet me at the entrance like a gentleman. No, he made some woman bring me here. I’d never seen her before, but the bruising around her throat and the look of humiliation near took my breath away as she crawled along in front of me. She simply pushed on the door and then scuttled away back down the hallway, indicating that I should enter. So here I am, looking at all the hooks and ringlets lining the walls around us while a rather unfriendly stone floor beneath me keeps me tense and feeling on edge. He made me take my boots and tights off the moment we came in. Apparently, I need to feel the chill through to my core. It’s the way to understand true submission according to Alexander. I swing my eyes around the space again, looking for anything to help me out if I’m not happy. He’s locked the door behind us and hung the key on the wall in front of me, too high for me to actually reach. It’s not helpful.

I gaze at him again as he stands on the other side of the room, watching me. He looks as if he’s just come from a business meeting, dressed in a dark blue suit. He looks completely out of place in the room, and yet he still somehow owns every inch of it.

“How does this space feel to you?” he asks, staring me down with those frigid blue eyes and putting his hand in his pocket.

“Cold. Unwelcoming,” I reply. That really is how I feel in here, and those eyes don’t help. It’s the type of place I’d never voluntarily put myself. It reminds me of the streets with its freezing façade and its harsh stone walls. There’s nothing caring about the area, nothing to denote warmth or safety. Just crumbling brick, darkness, and harsh stone.

“And that is exactly how you need to feel to be in here, regardless of whether you are sub or Dom,” he replies, smiling a little and beginning to walk towards me. “This is where you will need to feel at your freest? Do you understand?”

“Not really.” How could anyone feel free in this environment? He chuckles and grabs my wrist to drag me toward a wall. He places both my hands on it and shoves my cheek into the run-down masonry.

“Can you feel the pain?” he asks, scraping my head a little on the surface. “You need to appreciate how it feels on the other end of the whip you’ll wield for him.” I grimace at the sensation as he lightly holds me there and then presses me further into the wall, all the time moving his own body closer and letting me feel his weight behind me. The slight scratching becomes a harsher grate as he sniffs my hair and then eventually lets go of me. “Stay there.” I turn my head towards the brickwork and notice smears of old red etched in, presumably blood. I quickly raise my hand to my own face. There’s nothing there. No blood. Just a tingling feeling that’s been left behind. Hearing his shoes clipping on the floor, I twist to find him walking back towards me with three lengths of rope. It’s blood red, not unlike the marks on the wall, and I find myself mesmerised as he begins to unloop it and twirl it around his hands with precision. “Strip.”

What? I glower at his emotionless face and turn to him. I will not be getting undressed for him. This is training. Why would I need to be naked?

“No,” I spit. “I’m not here for that.” He slings the rope and comes at me so fast I have little choice but to cower at his approach. Four strides have me pinned to the wall as he starts yanking the clothes off my back. His hold is so fierce, much stronger than Pascal’s. There is no hesitation in his movements as he strips the material methodically from my body. My shirts goes first. It rips and tears, as if he’s peeling an apple. I try to fight back, but I’ve got nothing as I attempt to twist in his hold. There’s no avoiding what’s happening. There’s not even enough time to scream at him as I try to get away. He has me pinned by the neck by the time he’s torn the last of my skirt off and discarded it in apparent disgust, leaving me standing in nothing but my underwear as his strong grip twitches at my throat. His face comes in close, so close I can feel his skin brush me lightly.

“That’s lesson one over and done with then,” he grumbles. My gasp as he squeezes yet tighter and pushes me up the wall does nothing to relax the moment. It only heightens the fear that is suddenly racing through me as he holds me on tip toes. His other hand begins to find points on my body, just as Pascal did, but there’s nothing gentle about his touch, nothing. He’s harsh, bold and unabashed as he travels over my skin and fingers exactly what he chooses to. He backs away a little and looks at my eyes, just stares at me as he flexes his hand over and over again, causing my lungs to labour and then allowing me a breath.

“Can you feel that coursing through you, Lilah? It’s fear. You’re scared. Do you know why you’re scared?”

I shake my head rapidly, although I know I’m fucking scared because I have no idea what he’s going to do next. He could rape me and I wouldn’t have a fucking hope. Whose stupid idea was this? Christ, I can’t breathe.

“Come on, Lilah. Why are you scared of me?” he drawls, amusement now etched across his features as he continues to toy with my neck like a stick he could break any minute.

“I don’t know what you’re about to do,” I squeak out in reply, desperately trying to remember this is him, and training that I asked for, not three men in an alley.

“Good,” he says, instantly letting go of me so that I slump down on the floor. I stare up at him in bemusement and grasp at my throat for comfort that it’s still attached to my body. “That’s somewhere near the level you’ll need to achieve with him.”

“What?”

“For his tears, Lilah. To break him.” I’m gaping as I search the room for an exit again. I can’t do that. Why would I want to, for God’s sake? Why would anyone want to scare someone they love? Love. I’m in love. I am in love. With Pascal. Stupid as that might be. What a preposterous position to get myself into. I stare at the barren floor and imagine his face. His body. The way he moves effortlessly. His composure, deportment. The air of ease that seems to radiate off him with everyone else, but not with me. I can see more than that. I can see his weaknesses. I can feel them in those moments we have. His tenderness, his softness. The man behind the façade who’s clearly in turmoil about something. My body hauls itself up the wall to stand my ground again, trying to forget the fact that I’m very nearly naked.

“Don’t ever say no to me again in this room,” he says calmly, not bothering to look at me as he twirls his rope again and starts making a knot of some sort, then stretches it across his knee to pull it tighter.

“What if I don’t want to do something?”

“Who said anything about what you wanted?” he replies, slowly tilting his head towards me and laughing. “This isn’t about you. You asked for my help, Lilah. This is help.”

How could this possibly be help? Ripping someone’s clothes from them and degrading them in a dungeon is not helpful. Nothing good can come of this. There’s nothing about being cold and slightly pissed that could, in any way, make me understand Pascal more clearly. Which I thought was the point of being here. Rallying myself back together and frowning at his amusement, I think about how to play this. The last thing I need is an angry Alexander. The version of him I saw last night, while we drank together, put me at ease about all this training, but this isn’t what is supposed to be happening.

“I did ask for your help, but not for you to hurt me, and certainly not for me to be naked and used like some cheap whore while you laugh at me. Sadist or not, this is not helpful.” He just laughs again and points at the large thing that looks a bit like a chandelier.

“I’ve been in there,” he says, still chuckling to himself and glancing around the room.

“What?”

“The cage. He put me in there a long time ago and left me there,” he says, wandering across the room and beginning to tie the rope to a hook on the wall. “We got drunk, or rather he got me drunk, and then he tricked me into it. I was in there for nine hours and fifty-four seconds precisely. He even put a night clock on the cupboard so I could watch time tick by on my own in the darkness.”

My frown deepens.

“Why would he do that?”

“To try and break me. I’m claustrophobic,” he replies with a small shrug, moving to another hook and tying a knot onto that one. Then another, and another. “He likes to play with his toys while they’re still pliable enough for his whims. It’s his method.”

“Oh.” Amazing as that thought is, it does make me feel a little calmer for some reason. “So you went through this type of training with him?” Why someone like him would need training of any kind is a mystery. Training for what? What could anyone possibly do to his wall of steel? “How did you handle it? What did he do?”

He doesn’t answer me. He just carries on with his knotting and looping and I find myself hypnotised again by the movement. Loops and knots, crisscrossing over each other to form a pattern on the wall. If I wasn’t in a dungeon with a sadist, I’d think it quite pretty really. It’s exact, precise, and yet it has an air of femininity about it. Soft, appealing somehow.

“Come over here.” I stare at his offered hand and then glance at the web he appears to have created against the wall’s surface. It looks just like some of my internet research suggested it would the other night. Intricate. Bizarrely, it seems so unlike his persona. Who would have thought a man like him would have the patience for such art? I wander over without bothering to cover myself and gaze at the rope. “Step into it.”

I scowl at the possibility and rub at my throat, remembering his grip there just minutes ago. “Lilah, I have no intention of fucking you or hurting you beyond your capabilities, but you do need to feel this. It hurts, but it’s necessary if you want him.”

Well, that makes me feel so much better.

I gingerly take a step forward and place my feet behind the webbing so I can creep my body up behind the ropes, and within seconds, he’s laced parts of the rope around my wrists, pinning me again. He then does the same to my ankles after yanking them apart.

“Comfortable?” he asks, a smirk firmly adorning his face. Wanker. Before I’ve finished that thought, another piece of rope has been passed through my lips to hold me fast against the cold wall.

“I could really dislike you,” I mumble through it. He doesn’t smile. In fact, the relaxed face that was there a minute ago seems to have disappeared entirely as he stares at me and then starts to pull on the end of the rope dangling beside him. The whole web constricts around me, coiling around my skin to near painful rigidity and strapping me hard against the icy stone behind. He ties it off casually and turns to walk for the cupboard again. I watch him nervously and wonder what he’s going for now. Having opened the door quietly, and then closed it, he wanders back twirling a damn switchblade around his fingers.

“What are you doing with that?” I ask, still mumbling, my eyes as wide as I can make them. He doesn’t answer, just returns as coolly as he left and begins to cut my underwear off me. I try to protest, move, anything, but I don’t budge, and the mumbled snarl of annoyance from me has no effect on him in the slightest. He just keeps slicing. The steel of the blade only heightens the cold as he grates it back and forth along my skin, dragging out the sensations as long as he can and furthering the nerves building inside. Eventually, I’m left standing with nothing but a cage of rope to cover me.

Fuck.

“I want a safeword,” I force out through the rope between my lips.

“You don’t get one if you want to play with him,” he replies instantly. There’s no hesitation in his voice. Gone is the slightly jovial tone he had a few minutes ago. There’s no velvety texture or charm about it anymore. It’s calm and devoid of anything but exacting words slicing through the air. He moves away and faces me with one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “If I told you I was going to fuck you now, how would you feel?” My frown descends at the same time as my head swings from side to side and I tug at the rope in hope. It still doesn’t move. Nothing moves. “Would you be nervous? Or do you want me to do it?”

I don’t want that. I don’t think I do anyway. He tilts his head and pockets the switchblade. “You see, every time we’ve met, you’ve had this look about you. It makes me question what you are. He says you’re a Domme. I’m not sure you are, Lilah. I think you’re a little whore who wants to beg for it. I think you want me to hurt you. And I’m sure you’d be more than happy scratching around in the dirt, waiting for me to give you the fucking you deserve.”

Still nervous, and now slightly pissed at his comments, I scowl back at him with what I hope is enough venom to prove I’m not any of those things.

“How many did you fuck on those streets?” he asks, standing still with nothing but a dead look etched across his face. He looks empty again, just a mass of body with little else other than aggravation glowing off his frame. It’s palpable, like I can feel it in the air around us, amplifying the cold again. “Did they pay you with food? Cock sucking for survival, were you, like a good little whore? Did you take it in the ass for anyone? Two, three at a time maybe? I can guarantee that cunt’s slack, used, isn’t it? You’re really just another slut, aren’t you, Lilah James? A filthy fucking whore.”