Chapter Twenty-Six
In which Scarlett experiences Elysium.
Wallace…
My wife’s face is buried in my chest, smelling the smoke, brushing a bit of ash out of my hair.
Scarlett is not disgusted. Or afraid. The smell comforts her.
“How is your arm, love?” I trace my fingers down her skin, looking for bruising or swelling.
“It’s okay, I’m a little surprised,” she admits. “It really hurt at the time.” She rotates it gingerly. “It’s fine, nothing some ibuprofen wouldn’t fix. But - this is important, she threatened Morgan. I have to call her, I-"
"Shhh..." I kiss the worried wrinkle on her forehead. "I've had two guards trading off, keeping watch over her twenty four hours a day. I'd suggest not telling her that."
"Thank you!" She hugs me fiercely, "Yeah, she'd be so pissed off."
The smell of smoke is transferring from my skin to hers, but she dinnae seem to mind.
Smoothing the rough tips of my fingers along her skin, I watch a little spray of goosebumps follow.
I’m instantly hard. Trying to think before all the blood drains from one head to the other, I ask Luna to get my wife some painkillers.
Stepping back for a moment, I watch the cousins cluster around my wife.
“Not to be rude, but your stepmother really sucks,” Afton says bluntly.
“Oh, it’s not rude,” Scarlett says matter-of-factly, gently rotating her shoulder. “She’s horrible, and the stepbrothers are even worse.”
“No need to worry about them now,” Kenna says. “They’re about to have a whole new set of problems to tackle.” Her wicked smile reminds me a bit of Morgan the witch.
Scarlett’s eyes sparkle, and she laughs and banters with the others as if she’s known them her whole life. Like she belongs here.
“Wife,” I wrap my arms around her from behind, whispering in her ear. “Are ye ready to go? There’s…”
Do it, ye fecking coward.
“I want to show ye something. A place.”
Her bay blue eyes gaze up at me, trustingly. “Okay, let’s go.”
“Where are we?” she asks, looking up at the weathered stone edifice.
We’ve driven through a dozen tiny streets in downtown Edinburgh, a couple of alleyways and ended here, in a discreet parking lot.
There’s music echoing faintly from the darkened windows, though there’s nothing on the exterior aside from a plain, polished black door.
“Somewhere I’ve wanted to show ye,” I say, taking her hand. “Do ye trust me, wife?”
She leans closer, the mingled smell of smoke along with her vanilla scent and a sharp bite of citrus. “I shouldn’t, you know.”
“Aye, most likely,” I agree.
“You kidnapped me, made me marry you,” she points out.
“This is true.”
“You saved my life. Twice. You’re keeping me safe.” She grins wickedly. “I’ve been riding the O Train every day since we got married.”
“Also correct.” I say, stroking my hand over her throat, feeling her swallow.
“Yes,” she says. “I trust you. How could I not?”
Kissing her fiercely, I whisper, “Remember that.”
Knocking on the door, I hold up my silver skeleton key for the blonde concierge to see.
“Welcome to Elysium, Sir. Madam. Please let me know if there’s anything…
” She’s tall, cadaverously thin, in a tiny silk dress with two huge round breasts that look like balloons strapped to her chest. She leans forward to give us a generous view.
“Anything we can do to make your stay more pleasurable.”
Glancing down at Scarlett, she seems more amused than offended. “That won’t be necessary,” I say, handing the girl a stack of bills.
The hallway I lead my wife down is featureless, no pictures, painted a deep charcoal gray with ivory crown molding. There’s a series of black doors, and I open the sixteenth one.
Biting her lip, she steps through. There are two black cloaks hanging on an antique rack, one with a white satin lining, one with red. The room has a couch and dressing table with lotions and perfumes. Another door faces us on the opposite wall.
“Take your dress off, wife.”
“There’s not like a sacrificial altar at the end of this evening, right?” She stands still, letting me pull her zipper down. “We’re not going to be holding candles and chanting?”
I slide her dress off her shoulders, the silk puddling at her feet. “Ye dinnae have to do anything we see tonight.” I strip off my jeans and sweater, pulling my cloak on before bringing her close to me again. Kissing my way down her neck, I whisper, “Or we can do all of it.”
“Oh, my god, I get it now,” she sighs. “Why am I not surprised?” She’s being brave, standing there, so pretty in her black lace underwear, her flaming hair tumbling down her back.
“What do ye need, Little Cinder?”
Her pupils flare in her eyes, she sucks in a deep breath. “A safe word?”
“Have ye ever been in a club like this before?” My fingertips feel her throat bob before she swallows back a gulp.
“I think you already know the answer to that,” she says, then puts her chin up defiantly. “But I’ve read a lot of books. I know things.”
I smother my amusement; she would not appreciate it. “Your safe word is ‘fever.’ Ye can stop me at any time by saying the word. We can stop and talk about it, we can slow down, we can end it.” Her pretty breasts are rising and falling as she breathes faster. “What is your safe word?”
“Fever,” she whispers.
“So brave,” I murmur, fastening her cloak and slipping a mask over her eyes. It’s an elaborate, stiff lace silver one that makes her blue eyes even more vivid. “Pull on my hand if ye want to leave a scene, aye?”
“Uh, huh.” She squares her shoulder like we’re eighteen and heading into a mosh pit and lets me take her through the other door.
Blinking rapidly, she freezes for a moment.
The main room is not for scenes. It’s a high-ceilinged chamber, with black chandeliers giving the place a low, sultry light.
There are couples and thirds and foursomes kissing and writhing in dark corners, but most club members are relaxing, having a drink before moving on to the next series of rooms. There are long tan suede couches with curtains in a deep red that can be pulled across the booth for privacy.
“How much have ye had to drink tonight, Little Cinder?”
She reluctantly pulls her gaze away from two men bracketing a woman, who turns to kiss one, and then the other. “Um, just one.”
“Would ye like a glass of wine?” I squeeze her hand.
“Yes please.”
I draw her over to the glass bar that runs the length of the room. There’s a prettily painted man tending the bar. “A glass of Riesling and one from that bottle of Jameson 18 Year.”
“Of course,” he smiles, fluttering his false lashes at Scarlett. She chuckles, blowing him a kiss when we walk away.
Lightly tapping my glass to hers, I grin.
It’s hungry-looking, I know. Probably unsettling.
But my cock is hard enough to chop wood and this cloak is all that’s covering it.
“To new experiences, love.” She smiles and gulps half her wine in one swallow.
“You’re nervous, ye know I’ll take care of ye, aye? ”
“Yes.” Her voice is a bit stronger now.
Two enormous bouncers wearing nothing but latex thongs, nod to us as they open another set of double doors. This room is far more industrial looking; concrete floors, all kinds of platforms and a larger stage, hooks and straps fastened into the walls and ceiling.
Scarlett straightens her mask self-consciously. “All these rich and powerful people, flaunting their bodies while hiding their faces behind their masks. There’s a freedom in that, I guess.”
I draw her over to a suspension scene, and she tilts her head trying to figure out the elaborate rope knotting. Oh, the ropes I want to wind around her perfect skin, marking it up slightly, just a welt or two for after, not letting her forget. My hand smooths over the velvet of her robe.
“Dinnae that look beautiful?” I murmur, enjoying her wee shiver. The man’s bouncing his writhing partner on and off his cock, her legs spread wide as he swings her back and forth in her complicated harness. “His cock pounding into her, she’s helpless to do anything but take him. Look at her face.”
The woman’s sweating, bright red, her eyes blissfully closed, mouth open as she moans and gasps.
Scarlett’s sweet vanilla and citrus scent is rising over the scent of smoke, perspiration gleaming on her forehead and neck.
“Does that interest ye?” I suck her earlobe into my mouth.
“N- not here,” she stammers and I chuckle.
“No, not here. I’d never show ye to anyone. Come now, there’s more to see.”
Scarlett…
I do not know how to process this. This is something I’d voraciously read about in one of my books that Morgan calls “lady porn.” Not in real life.
Not to me.
Cocktails with the girls… an attempted kidnapping… and now.
Taking another gulp of wine, I look back, stumbling a little as the bound woman screams her finish.
I’d be terrified at any other time. With Wallace’s warm hand holding mine, though, I feel brave. Sophisticated, maybe.
The next room has a series of crosses, subs bound to them, stranger’s hands running over their exposed flesh. Another section has posts, one ecstatic man groaning as he’s flogged aggressively by another. A platform, where a man is setting his sub’s back ablaze-
Wait. What?
Wallace’s arms go around me again. “Fire play. It requires the deepest kind of trust. The willingness to force down your body’s instinctive resistance to flame.”
The man’s skilled hand sweeps flames across his sub’s breasts, and extinguishing them rapidly. Aside from the couple in play, the other platforms are empty and there’s a very interested crowd around them. When Wallace starts pulling me toward the platforms, I dig in my high heels. “Wait- I-”
Fire? On my naked body?
“Shh, love. Not here.” His big hands slide under my cloak, cupping my ass.
“Never in front of anyone.” He’s kissing me greedily, his tongue sliding through the seam of my lips, moving me against his extremely large erection until I’m loose-limbed and a little breathless.
“Do ye trust me?” he asks again, cupping my face in his hands.
“Of course.” I say it without thinking, but it’s true. Whole heartedly true.
There’s another long hallway with a series of black doors.
Wallace leads me confidently to the third one, which opens to a similar platform.
It’s quiet in here, soundproofed from the moans and cries outside the door, with low lighting and soft rugs underfoot.
Ropes and blindfolds hang in neat rows on the wall, along with floggers and spreader bars.
“We dinnae need any of those. I’ll not tie ye down. This time,” he smiles, so hungry. “This is about ye feeling safe enough to be still for me.” He turns me, carefully coiling my hair and putting it on top of my head, fastening it with a few hairpins.
My heart turns to lead in my chest. If he takes off my cloak, he’ll see my back. He’ll see everything. I clutch the two sides of the fabric together, bowing my head. His hands stop, resting on my shoulders.
“Complete trust, remember, my wife?” He steps in front of me and pulls off his cloak, turning his back.
Oh.
Oh…
Knotted scar tissue covers his back in cruel lashes of rough, raised skin. Some of it is bumpy, with harsh divots carved into the surface, and streaks of white tissue, pulled tight. The scarring runs from his neck to waist, curving around the left side of his ribcage.
One of Dad’s foremen caught his arm on fire at one of the cannabis warehouses. I went to see him at the hospital with Dad, because Marlena refused to.
I know what burn scars look like. This, though… It’s as if Wallace’s back had been pressed to the burning walls of Hell, but he’d fought his way out.
The scars are covered with tattoos.
His back is covered in fire. Brilliantly colored, horrifyingly detailed tattooed flames soar up his back.
There are faces in the inferno, mocking, sly faces distorted by the heat.
It’s violent. It’s scary and heartbreaking and beautiful.
It spreads up to his shoulders, with a curl of flame going up his neck.
Wallace stands utterly still, letting me look, though he stiffens when I take a hesitant step forward.
“May I touch you?”
He clears his throat. “Aye.”
Leaning forward, I put my cheek against his back, feeling the uneven surface against my skin. I kiss the faces in the flames, each one. I kiss his shoulder blades and rising on to my tiptoes, I kiss the back of his neck, exposed by his bent head.
With a sigh that sounds more like a shudder, my husband turns around, his amber gaze steady.
He showed you his… you show him yours, Scarlett.
My fingers are clumsy, shaking as I open the clasp that keeps my cloak closed. Wallace already piled my hair on top of my head so my cover, my protection is gone.
My cloak drops, I turn my back to him and I show him mine.
I know what he sees. The vicious crisscrossing of scars over my back, a starburst of them spiraling brutally out from my left shoulder blade.
It’s been two and a half years since the car crash and some of them are still as red and irritated as the day the surgeon stitched me up.
The shattered glass from the rear window shot into my back like bullets when the semi-truck smashed into us, jagged shards still buried in my skin when the EMTs ripped my car door open.
Every time the Wicked Steps called me ‘Scar’ with those ugly grins, they knew I remembered every detail of that night.
“May I touch ye, love?”
I give a half chuckle, half sob. “Aye.”
He doesn’t kiss the scars. He runs his tongue over them, delicately, the pointed tip stroking and tracing over each red line.
It cools my scars and makes the skin around them warm, almost hot.
When he drops to his knees to lick over the two slashes at the base of my spine, I flail blindly back, wanting to touch him.
Wallace catches my hand and kisses it. He kisses the globes of my ass, and makes his way up my spine and by the time he reaches my shoulder, my head is turned, my mouth desperately seeking his.
This kiss is different from all the others. We share breath, and pain, and relief, then it turns into need.
“How do ye feel, Luaith Bheag, my Little Cinder?” He takes my chin, holding me steady, his gaze searching my face.
I feel seen.
I feel healed.
“I feel beautiful when you look at me.”
“And ye are,” he says, kissing me again. “So fecking beautiful.”