12. Zane
TWELVE
ZANE
“I want him stripped completely down,” I tell Bill.
Bill gapes at me like I’ve completely lost my mind, and maybe I have.
No, I definitely have.
“Hair down and everything,” I add. “If he doesn’t want to strip, he can leave.” I point to the bathrobe I’ve left nearby. “He can wear that after you’ve checked him.”
Stefan would be protesting, but Bill is the one who has to deal with me right now.
In a way, I pity him, but I haven’t been able to shake the agitation and restlessness. Being shot at had brought memories forth that I’d never wanted to experience again, and few things can clear my mind when I’m like this.
Maybe Colt could.
But he’s dead, and I’ve just invited his murderer into my home.
His murderer, my would-be assassin.
Why am I doing this?
Even if I strip him of every weapon he’s carrying, there are still plenty in my home. Forget guns; he can turn household items into weapons if he puts his mind to it.
Both of us can, but he might have the edge on me.
So why am I doing this?
I need to get rid of the itch beneath my skin.
The ache.
I still don’t know if he’ll be able to give me what I need.
I like to think I can take more than eleven lashes.
“Don’t call Stefan,” I growl at Bill. “Be smart about dealing with Cuore.”
Ha.
Be smart, like that’s what I’m doing.
Bill nods, but he doesn’t look very confident.
I think about the blood-soaked dress Hyacinth Cuore had been wearing, and I wonder what Stefan told him. I can’t say I blame Bill for being unnerved.
I run a hand through my hair, pacing across the living room. Bill watches me right up until the point when there’s a knock on the door.
I gesture to it, my pacing slowing down. “Go ahead.”
Bill opens the door. I hold my breath in anticipation.
I’d expected Hyacinth to appear in another dress, or a goth-styled dress shirt like when I’d seen him at the warehouse.
Instead, he’s wearing a loose t-shirt and a pair of sweats, with leather boots that don’t match at all. His hair hangs limp and damp.
I’m not dressed up any more than he is, wearing only a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt of my own, but it still startles me to see him so dressed down.
It doesn’t make me let down my guard. He’s every bit as deadly dressed down as he is dressed up, and it wouldn’t surprise me to find that he has several weapons on him.
“You’re going to strip,” I tell him, my voice hoarse as I stare at him.
What will he look like with his back streaked with blood?
What will he sound like when I fuck him?
“Everything comes off,” I continue. “Then I’ll take you upstairs, and we’ll see if you can take more than eleven lashes with my whip.”
Hyacinth glances at Bill. “In front of him?” he asks.
My eyes flick to Bill.
He’s no one.
He’s nothing.
I shouldn’t care that he’s here.
But something dark inside of me doesn’t like it.
I remind myself that it had been my idea to have Bill keep an eye on Hyacinth while he strips.
“Is that a problem?” I retort, my voice odd to my ears, fraught with something barely contained.
“You’re under my roof. You might try to kill me before the night’s out, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to make it easy for you. ”
Hyacinth shrugs. “If that’s what you want.” He easily pulls his t-shirt off and drops it to the floor. He stoops down to remove his boots, then takes off his sweats and underwear in one movement.
My mouth goes dry as Hyacinth stands up to reveal his full, naked glory to me.
I’d known his hair was bleached, but the dark, neatly trimmed curls around his cock prove it. It’s slender, delicate like the rest of him, and I wonder what it tastes like.
There’s no other visible hair on him. His flat stomach has a beautiful set of abs.
Naked like this, there’s no mistaking him for a woman.
I frown when I notice his nipple piercings are missing, but that’s the least of my concerns. I want this; I want him.
I need this.
My voice is hoarse when I tell him, “You can wear the bathrobe if you’d like.”
Bill has averted his eyes, which makes him really fucking useless right now, but I can’t say I mind that he’s not looking at Hyacinth.
Beautiful, dangerous Hyacinth, a deadly flower like no other.
“Do you want me to wear the robe?” Hyacinth asks. He makes no move to put it on.
“No.” I lick my lips. “Upstairs, second door on the right. Go.”
Hyacinth keeps his head held high as he takes the stairs.
I follow behind him. My eyes linger on the scars on his back. One looks like a whip scar, but others are less neat. The bullet scar I’d already seen on his shoulder, but he has a jagged line on his side, and a burn mark near the small of his back.
His shoulder is bandaged, because of the bullet that grazed him today.
“You can stand outside the door,” I tell Bill, but I don’t look back at him.
“Boss,” he protests.
I spin around to face him, unsure of what to do with all of the agitation beneath my skin, and snap, “Do you really want to see what I do in private, Bill?”
Bill’s lips purse, and he shakes his head. “Stefan is going to kill me,” he mutters.
“Is Stefan your boss?” My lips curve into a dangerous smile.
He has the courtesy to look chagrined. “No, Boss.”
“Good.” I turn again, following Hyacinth up the stairs.
Is it agitation, now, or anticipation?
Either way, it’s cutting into my cold calm, threatening to sever the control I covet so deeply.
Hyacinth places one hand on the doorknob, but he doesn’t open it.
“I need you to do it right,” he whispers. “I need—” He cuts himself off and shakes his head. “If you’re going to kill me, I do request an orgasm first.”
The words startle a laugh out of me. “Only one?” I ask, coming up behind him and wrapping my arms around him. I inhale his scent, which is that of a fresh, neutral soap. I’d expected something fancier, more floral, but in his line of business, perfumes must be dangerous.
“At least one,” Hyacinth amends. He places his hand over mine and stretches his neck for me.
I drag my tongue along the curve of his neck, then bite down, sucking hard on the skin until it bruises. I need to mark him for everyone to see.
“I think that can be arranged,” I murmur against his throat. “Come.” I reach around him to help him turn the doorknob.
I don’t use this room often. In fact, the last person I used it with was Colt. I wait, but the rage I should feel at his death doesn’t come. Maybe I really am one cold bastard, to not even mourn a man who’d knelt so submissively for me.
I think Hyacinth will be more alluring.
I flick the light switch on, illuminating my play space: the St. Andrew’s Cross, the spanking bench, the tools neatly hanging from the wall and tucked away in cabinets. The colors are all warm shades of brown, making it inviting to anyone who finds this kind of play attractive instead of daunting.
Hyacinth inhales sharply and takes a shuddering step inside.
Then, without prompting, he gets onto his knees and bows his head. His long hair spills over his bare shoulders.
I was right.
He’s perfect.
Almost everything in this room could be turned into a deadly weapon, but it won’t matter once I have Hyacinth tied up.
This is as safe as it can be.
I close the door behind me, then circle around Hyacinth. I pause behind him, stroking his soft hair, but this isn’t what I want.
Neither of us want gentle pets and touches.
I want to ask him when he’d last knelt, but we aren’t lovers. We aren’t friends. He’s the man sent to kill me.
All that matters is that he kneels, and that he does so beautifully. He won’t be kneeling long, but I take a moment to admire his form.
His back is straight, hands on his legs with his palms up, and he keeps his gaze down in a show of submission. Who taught him to kneel like that? Who else has he submitted to, this man who can easily kill anyone in the room?
My jaw clenches.
Why do I care?
It isn’t like Hyacinth belongs to me.
It isn’t like he ever will.
But he came to me despite knowing he has little chance of surviving the night, and in a way, I do own him… if only for a few hours.
I wonder if his eyes are blazing with defiance or heavy-lidded with desire.
I tangle my fingers in his hair and urge his head up so I can gaze into them.
Hyacinth stares back at me. His gray eyes seem darker now, wilder than even when we’d been neck-deep in another man’s blood.
“Please,” he says softly.
I don’t think he says please often.
I think he means it even less.
I want to watch him for longer, but I want more, too.
I yank him up by his hair, shoving him in the direction of the cross. “Up,” I tell him, my voice weirdly hoarse. “Go stand against the cross. I’m going to cuff you in place, and you aren’t going to fight me. If you do, this is over. But don’t think for a second I’m going to go easy on you.”
I meet his eyes again.
“Can you really take it?”
Hyacinth nods. “I can take it all.” It would sound like bragging from anyone else, but his tone is steady and matter-of-fact.
He walks over to the cross and lays his hands across the beams, his bandaged arm moving as smoothly as the other one.
I follow him, reaching out for his wrist. I touch it almost gently at first, then my fingers close around it, tightening painfully before I secure it into place against the cross. He doesn’t want gentle.
Neither do I.
After the shitshow tonight was, after the emotions and memories racing through me, I need something else.
Something more.
I cuff his other wrist and stalk around the other side of the cross so I can gaze at him, bound and helpless in front of me.
I could easily kill him here and now. I should kill him here and now. I don’t know that I’ll ever get another chance this perfect.
Why don’t I? What’s stopping me?
“Do I need to cuff your ankles, or will you show me how good you are at keeping your legs spread for me?” I ask him, trailing my fingers down his back.
I imagine it dripping with blood.
I won’t have to simply imagine it for long.
Hyacinth drops his head forward and widens his stance. He breathes deeply, then says, “I don’t need the ankle cuffs.”
But does he want them?