Wicked Ways (Dark Hearts Book 1) (2 page)

“How do you run away from things that are in your head?” - Anon

Zorie

I made it to my hotel room and let the door close behind me, walked robotically to the bathroom. Everything went in the rubbish bin. Dress, underwear. I could see the stains, even some smears of blood, but refused to look in the mirror.

Fuck this. What a fucking night.

The heat of the shower only fogged up my head more. Tired, so tired. I could barely keep my eyes open. So nauseated. My stomach roiled with heaviness.

So overwhelmed.

What they’d done to me...

It had been magnificent. Eyes shut, with the warm water cascading over my head, I remembered being held against a wall, somewhere. They’d alternated finger-fucking me, both vaginally and anally, then taking me in both places. My orgasms had shattered me, shaken me to my soul. Simply thinking about that made a little frisson rock me.

My lips had parted and I was panting.

I closed my mouth and swallowed before opening my eyes, staring through the splatter of water at the polished granite of the shower wall. Condoms, he’d made them do that. Thank god.

You’re mine now.
When he’d carried me to the alley, he’d said that. I shivered, my nipples peaking as I clasped my arms about myself, beneath my breasts.

After drying my body, I wrapped myself in the towel and wandered out to the bed area.

I didn’t know if I knew who I was anymore. There was something within that wasn’t me. Not a parasite or a creature, no. It was
his
presence. His words. His wishes. They were twisting me out of shape into something ugly.

I fell to my knees and leaned down until my forehead met the rug, then stayed there, rocking. In a minute, I’d have to think this through, think everything through. That was going to devastate me.

Lying on the carpet was tempting but I revived enough to go to the bed and curl on my side on the quilt instead.

Most of my memories had blurred together. Faces were absent because I’d never looked. Had my eyes even been open? The men at the other table. Could it have been them? Yes. But...I buried my face in my hands...I didn’t know. It might have been any of the men at the restaurant.

Had all this been the result of my own desires? Maybe it
was
me? Maybe I was really that wicked? Blaming someone else was wrong, except, what men did that to a woman they’d just met? A woman who wasn’t a paid whore. And really even a whore deserved better.

No. It wasn’t me. Couldn’t be. I must believe that.
Must.

Why did that man have such a hold over me? Every time I thought of him, I wanted his hands on me again. And yet I didn’t know his name.

I am not a whore.

I drifted, my thoughts a jumble, having decided nothing, because I had no clues as to who it had been except for vague assumptions. No way of even knowing why they’d chosen me to be their fucktoy. That disgusting word, if ever it could be applied to anyone, it was me, this night. My depravity made me despair as did my cravings for more of the same.

I put my hands between my legs to amplify the ever-present throb of my pussy, the sting of their scratches and bites, and even the ache in my asshole. I’d never had anal before but had been so aroused...

I shook my head. So dirty. “Fuck. Why did I let this happen?”

Everyone said fuck, but everyone did not let themselves be the star of an impromptu gangbang.

His cock inside me, fucking me, that pivotal moment was what was going around and around in my head when sleep mercifully overcame my loop of insanity.

“I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul.” - William Ernest Henley

Zorie

The trill of the phone penetrated my daze and I jerked into a sitting position, horrified by something unknown lurking in the room.

Reality arrived and it was worse than any nightmare. I had done bad things. Clamping my eyes shut, I thrust away the memories and summoned some calmness. Then I lunged for the bedside phone.

“Hello.”

“Ma’am the tour organizer wishes to advise you they will be leaving in five minutes for the scheduled day trip to Kakadu.”

“Oh.” I blinked and cleared my throat. There was no possibility of me going. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well. Please tell him I’ll not be coming today.”

There were people out there who thought the world was the same as it had been yesterday. Not me. I’d broken through a barrier into some alternate time and place where I wasn’t Zorina, the respected lecturer; I was a broken sexual thing.

“Thank you, ma’am, I’ll pass on that message. If there’s anything I can help you with?”

“No. Thank you.”

When I hung up, I stayed there, propped on my elbow, staring at nothing across the room. The urge was there. In full force. Today, he’d said. But sleep had brought some clarity, some newness, and some distance. I could feel an edge of uncertainty and resistance. It was a weird, but there, like a solid object, like a piece of paper I could lever off the ground at my feet if I wanted to do it
enough
.

What if...

I switched gears and thought elsewhere. My forte. My strength. Thinking outside, around, anywhere else but inside the box. Stay away from the nasty.

Be me.

And I am not a broken thing.

No man would do that to me again, ever.

I sat up and dug my nails into my palm, watching my skin go pale around them.

I needed to return to Sydney today. Yes. To prepare for next semester. So many of my students needed me there, like, in full helper mode. I lectured and I was there for the ones with the need for more – students like Cherie Wolfe. I latched onto that detail, needing a solid fact to anchor to my new-found determination. Such a great student and a lovely person who tried so hard. I wanted to drag the girl through exams any way I could, as long as she learned the subject well.

The urge nudged me.

Shut up.

The airport? I found a seat returning to Sydney, in two hours. Booked it. Told the hotel receptionist I had to go back early due to an emergency. Excused myself from the tour. All done.

I packed on automatic, fast, efficient, not thinking about...anything else. Breathing, packing, breathing around the panic that threatened.

In the plane on the way back, I had too much time to think.

They’d held me down across the car’s hood.

I remembered the cold smoothness on my stomach as one of them hauled back my hair, painfully. The heat across my ass from someone smacking me there before, while they laughed again, their cocks out, thrusting into my mouth, one after the other. The burn as a cock slid into my asshole, made slippery with my own juices. They’d laughed over that too, how wet I was. He’d said dirty things like
my little whore
and how pretty I looked being ass-fucked with my mouth wet with cum. All this, after he’d pulled out of me. He’d come inside me seconds before. He’d made me open my eyes and look at him while he talked, while a second man fucked my ass, and while the side of my face was cum-stuck and sliding back and forth and the other one grunted and swore and shoved into me.

It had hurt. It had made me climax. All that and now, here, I was squeezing my thighs together in this plane seat and desperate to masturbate on the spot.

My pretty whore.

And I couldn’t remember his face.

The need to go back to him struck full force and I clawed my nails into the arm rests until my nails hurt from the pressure. Something had to bring me back to the now. I wrestled my mind into thinking elsewhere. Even so, wanting the impossible taunted me for the rest of the flight.

Disembarking was a foggy exercise. I barely remembered to collect my bags.

The taxi ride home brought contempt for what had once happened, once upon a time, as the streets wove by. It was fairytale. A bad fairytale. The sounds and smells of Sydney settled in. Big cities exuded traffic smells and people smells in some subtle and not-so-subtle ways. The skyline filled with buildings, like friends crowding around, wanting to hear about where I’d been. Grains of familiarity cloaked the past, smothered what pulled at me. The urge was sinking and distant.

What I’d done, no...what I’d let done to me, it was gone. An episode of madness.

I should call the police but knew I wouldn’t and couldn’t. I wasn’t to tell anyone. That part of him had stayed strong even if I’d managed to sidestep that urge he’d somehow installed in me.

Hypnotism, it must be something like that. Maybe when it wore off, I could call the cops.

Maybe.

I unpacked at my terrace house and lay awhile on my quilt with the pattern of seashells and postcards from the sea, then I went out to my little wall-cozy mini garden, with the topiary and the art-nouveau-style fountain. I sank into a wicker chair. And I wept.

The tears gave me room to lose the last of his influence.

Or so I thought at first.

It wasn’t quite true.

There was a tendril of remembrance and perhaps I’d never lose that. A mere slender tendril that tugged less and less as the hours went by.

I made the rounds of my neighborhood, letting mundanity sift in by sipping coffee in my favorite café among the laughter and sounds of people chatting and eating. I walked through the park and stood under the old fig tree marveling at the birds flitting to and fro, from branch to branch, chiding each other. Late spring, so the mating dances of little creatures were in full fling.

I went to sleep that night with a smile on my face. Tomorrow I’d catch up with friends, maybe think about the course plans. It was work but I needed that.

From the edges of sleep I remembered...

Fucking.

That made me roll over and blink at the ceiling, in the darkness. The wind strengthened outside, throwing shadows on the timber louvres and rattling the windows on this upstairs bedroom. It would be a while before I was brave enough for sex again.

Would any man ever match...that? Scared, manhandled, fucked into oblivion.

I squeezed my thighs and knew my clit was swollen enough to nudge at my panties, knew the crotch was damp, already. The caress of cloth teased my nipples. Where had this wildness come from?

Sleep.
I turned over and dragged my second pillow over my head, ignoring the call of my body.

“Remember my friend, that knowledge is stronger than memory, and we should not trust the weaker” - Bram Stoker

Zorie

A year went by and it was summer holidays. I’d survived a year and that man – the man I dreaded might walk up to me and claim me – he’d never materialized.

I wasn’t sure I’d even recognize him if I saw him.

The students had mostly gone home, though a few always stayed over at the accommodation colleges. I’d done that the year my father had died.

Soon after that, my mother had suffered a breakdown and had been placed in a hospital, here in Sydney. There’d been no point in me going to a deserted home. My parents hadn’t believed in pets. Dusting cupboards and shit while worrying wasn’t my thing. Stalking the university grounds and chewing my nails was far more fruitful.

Those holidays, I’d learned exactly how many buildings there were on campus.

Money had become a problem. My mother had been migrated to a high-care retirement home at the age of fifty-three. I made up for the shortfall in my finances with waitressing and barmaid work. When my older sister, Amelia, now physiotherapist and married, had taken over the paperwork with a power of attorney, I’d gone back to study. My mother had died within the year. I’d been left minus a family except for Amelia, and then my sister had gone back to Perth, thousands of miles away across the other side of Australia.

Relatives in Poland had sent condolences.

My world had been suddenly empty but I’d survived. I had to. The minuses of being born to older parents, I guessed – being left alone.

The pluses? Inheriting. It wasn’t a fair trade. I’d rather have had my mum and dad back.

No one had seen fit to turn back time and fix that small problem.

Now? Who could I have told about what had happened in Darwin even if that silencing command hadn’t been in place? Friends? My slightly rebellious but really socially compliant friends? Nobody. My sister would have either scoffed, or fainted.

I hadn’t spoken a word. Bottled it up. Let it stew. Hated myself most nights with the strength of a thousand suns.

Of course, the one time when I’d been tempted to tell, only a few months ago, my tongue had frozen up. His words had remained a solid force. That had been scary.

A year had gone by and now a man was interested in me. Grimm. What a name for a librarian.

We’d met at the university library a few weeks ago and had clicked within minutes of talking. That he was big, tattooed, and an ex-bouncer had added to his appeal. The combination amused, attracted, and even flustered me, especially when he’d come past and sat on the edge of the desk at which I was working. There was something about ink curling across a man’s bulging bicep that invoked the dance of horniness.

After he’d stood and walked on, marking the exam papers had been difficult to concentrate on.

The sexual appeal worked both ways, it seemed. Funny how a man and a woman knew when things like that were happening. He was the first man since the Darwin fiasco who’d rung my bell in the slightest. I’d been wondering if I was asexual.

The second time we’d met, he’d asked for a date. Only now I couldn’t recall if he’d said his last name. That was probably a dating blunder.

This café date had been a soft option, though he was late.

Sitting at a table on the footpath conjured a Parisian ambience. The slow, almost walking speed traffic through the little street next to Zirrango’s, made it even more pleasant, as did the draping ferns screening the street, and the accents of timber and stonework in the décor. A breeze stirred the fronds, the magazines, and the newspapers patrons were reading. This was a beautiful place to spend a lazy Saturday morning having brunch.

A year or more since my meal at
Pee Wee’s
in Darwin. Since my crazy gangbang fiasco.

“Nice here.” A male voice.

Lost in the past, I started as a large man stepped across my street view – black pants, ivory shirt, with his hand settling on the back of the opposite chair. “I was wondering if I could join you?”

I smiled up at Grimm. “Depends on who you are.”

My amused eyebrow twitch must have prompted his next words.

“Who would you like me to be? A prince? A villain who likes sweeping ladies off to my lair?”

“Hmmm.” I pretended to think as he sat down.

Grimm was so big and fit looking, with such a rugged face, that he could’ve been a villain easily. The little scar through his eyebrow, plus his sun-bleached, tied-back hair, said devilish in the extreme.

His metal-and-black plastic chair made squeaks and creaks as he scooted it in closer to the table. Any man who could torture a chair with his weight impressed me.

Villains. I knew all about those.

My grip on the cold wine-glass stem was making my fingers ache. If I snapped it and cut my hand, I’d end up in hospital getting stitches. I cleared my throat then took a small gulp of wine. Fuck, was I going to let that night ruin my life forever?

“A villain?” I ventured.

“I’ll be the sort that is sweet beneath the evil. And I promise not to bite.” The bass note of his words rumbled through me.

Sweet. Evil.

Jesus H...

I almost breathed in wine. Toying with Grimm in conversation was proving hazardous.

“I think I can see you as a villain, the sweet kind.” Warmth suffused between my legs. Biting by a man enticed me. Always had.

Grimm looked like biting would be a minor hobby. He mightn’t wear a Hell’s Angel jacket or have skull earrings, but he looked like he’d be dangerous in bed. A madly dangerous librarian cross bouncer.

My fingers assaulted the wine glass stem, again.

“So.” He shifted forward and placed his elbows on the table. “Zorina is an unusual name. You never told me where it came from. Sounds European, as well as pretty. I’ve ordered another bottle by the way.”

So assured.

“I’m not into getting supremely drunk on a Saturday morning.” The wine glass in my hand made me smirk. “Much.”

“I just prefer a red. Though you can get supremely drunk if you want to.” He smiled.

Had I been too weird? That big male aura that overcame me when I was this close to guys was possibly making me stupid. Though a man wanting me drunk skated close to a danger sign too.

Ahh. Damn it. My past was making the dating game a minefield. Grimm was normal. It was me.

How many women went out and learned to shoot a pistol so as to kill a man if he ever turned up again? How many kept that pistol in a drawer beside her bed despite the law saying a gun safe was mandatory? How many ruled out learning self-defense as useful because I just knew one touch from
him
would have me surrendering myself? Though I’d taken kickboxing and self-defense classes anyway. It couldn’t hurt.

Grimm was staring.

I fumbled, trying to recall what we’d been talking about.

“Zorina is Slavic, so it’s European, yes. My parents had a thing for different names. Where does Grim come from? Seems rather dark.”

“It’s two
M
’s for Grimm. Mum liked Grimm’s fairy tales. Along with my last name, it’s good for scaring people but not much else.”

Now I had to ask. “You have a scary last name? I probably saw it on your name tag at uni. If it’s not Reaper, what is it?”

A waiter arrived with a bottle of cabernet and placed a second wine glass before Grimm then, at my nod, he plucked the bottle of chardonnay from the bucket of ice. He filled my glass then changed bottles to fill Grimm’s with the red.

“Thank you,” Grimm said to the waiter, before turning to me again. “My last name is Heller.”

“Grimm Heller? Mine is Brown.”

He nodded. “I know who you are. You’re a lecturer. I’ve seen your name many times. Noticed you last year, in fact.” He chuckled. “I promise I’m not a stalker.”

I found my cheeks heating. Of course he’d know. “I have a boring last name.”
Grimm Heller
had rolled off my tongue like honey, though maybe that was the chardonnay working on me. “Heller does sound scary. You should be a spy or a jet fighter pilot with a name like that.”

In the middle of tasting the wine, Grimm coughed and had to wipe his mouth with the table napkin. “Thank you, Zorina, I think.”

The man saying my name made my heart pick up pace. I grinned and made a throwaway gesture. “Change your line of work. But, Zorie, please. I don’t really use the full name anymore unless it’s for students.”

My food arrived, as did his. I’d ordered light while he had some monstrous breakfast. Watching him shovel it all in was breath-taking. Magicians had nothing on this man eating food.

Grimm was good company – smart, funny even. I even found myself giggling at his stories. The bottle of chardonnay was barely halfway down and I was laughing at his jokes. Grimm seemed daring yet polite and for some reason that bothered me. Still, for a date with a man who was way above my grade in sexiness, things were going swimmingly.

Coffee and dessert arrived. My stomach squeezed in with anxiety.

The end of the date was approaching. Why did that worry me?

Because he was a man, and men had done bad things to me.

A touch as light as one of the fern fronds brushed my neck, sending tingles cascading down my body, making my eyelids quiver shut, making me wet and my nipples spike into my bra.

Him.

Somewhere near.

Then the touch was gone.

The world crushed in on my heart.

Breathing with quiet, strangled gasps, I peered around the cafe, finally daring to turn in my chair and look at everyone – pedestrians, cars, patrons, waiters. No one stood out.

He’s not here.
The man I lost a year ago is not here.
But I wasn’t quite convinced.

“Zorie, are you okay?” Grimm took my hand.

I shook loose and stood, shoving my chair back so fast it tipped then banged back down onto the pavers. “I have to go. I’m sorry.” My mouth firmed as I returned his startled gaze. “I’m sorry. It’s not you.”

No time. No time. Get out of here.
Why not use Grimm as a guard? No.

“What?” He frowned. “Did I do something?”

“No.”

I couldn’t trust him. Maybe he’d brought this on...somehow.

I pulled some cash from my purse, put it on the table, and I fled.

That night, I contemplated running. But where to? Seated in the kitchen with all the doors and windows of my house locked tight, I thought the incident through, over and over. It had been a one second feeling at most. Maybe I’d imagined it?

I glanced at my phone as it made the text message sound. It’d be Grimm again. My response could wait until tomorrow.

When another text bleeped in, I gave in, picked up my mobile phone and texted back,
Sorry, I get panic attacks. Just me. My past. I’m fine now.

Reading his five or eight text messages was pointless. He’d never want to see me again but that was probably for the best. For a barely there boyfriend, he sure liked texting. I guessed I must’ve looked freaked out.

Even stepping into my upstairs bedroom gave me a panic attack. Every corner had to be examined. I put the pistol on top of my bedside set of drawers. Hands loosely clasped over my chest, I watched the grayed ceiling for hours. Gigantic spiders in horror movies had nothing on my fears. Sometime well after one AM, I sank into a restless sleep.