Page 16

MARGOT

T he garden is bigger than I thought it would be.

When I bolted from Arseni, I beelined toward it, thinking I could bob and weave so he wouldn’t see which direction I exited, but the place is such a jungle-in-process, it doesn’t belong in Las Vegas.

I hurdle bushes that are half-grown and sidestep hundreds of lilies, their purple hue giving the dark garden color. When I finally make it to the end, the grounds feel so open, I almost stop and hide. But I don’t hear Arseni, and if I let him catch up, I don’t know what that’ll mean for me.

The pit bull who met us outside barks at my feet as I break through the garden as if he’s been waiting for me.

I trip on him before collecting myself and sprinting toward a tall fence that looks like it was made for a prison, which …

fitting. It looks so far off in the distance with the pit bull at my side, my muscles permanently tense bracing for him to attack.

Right now, the dog just chases, barking at my shins.

“Margot!” Arseni calls, his voice sounding far away. Instead of a feeling of security, it only makes me run faster, my bound arms jolting in front of me while my legs soar over the too-green lawn.

When I’m ten feet within the fence, I can hear Arseni approaching.

“Margot, stop!”

I crash onto the fence, my bound hands slowing me down but not stopping me. My feet do most of the work while my hands cling to cold chains to keep me from falling.

I look up at the top of the gate as I approach it, but when I’m just about to reach the thick wire at the crown, Arseni grabs me around my waist.

“No!” I reach for the stars while he yanks us to the ground, my back crashing on top of him. I try to get away, but he takes my waist and pulls me back.

“Let go of me!”

He yanks and flips me to my back before pinning me with his body. Loud breaths pelt my chin as I arch my neck to look at the free land behind me.

So close. I was so fucking close.

“The fence is electric,” Arseni says through heavy breaths. “Look up at the wire you were about to touch.”

A sad, desperate, bitter laugh pops from my mouth as I bring my eyes to Arseni’s. I don’t need to look. I saw it. “ So ?”

His brow furrows as he watches me. He doesn’t respond.

“Why wouldn’t you just let it shock me? Wouldn’t it be hilarious ?”

“It’s not for cattle, Margot. It could’ve killed you.”

“Isn’t that what you want?” I yell in his face, anger prickling my ears. “Or are you not finished torturing me?”

He looks around my face but says nothing.

“We both know what this is coming to.” I sniff in air that feels even colder than before, like it absorbed the chill from my oncoming fear. “You’re not letting me go, and I’m not going to be your boss’s whore. I’d rather you just killed me.”

“You would?”

My heart pauses at the lack of emotion in his tone. He sounds so matter of fact, so ambivalent, that it breaks through my anger and seizes my throat.

I just stare at him, trying to work up the courage to nod. I don’t want him to think I’m more afraid of death than I am of being someone’s whore. I won’t prostitute myself for anyone or anything, and I want him to know it. But I don’t want to die.

I want to escape. I want to find a way, because there must be a way.

I turn my head so I don’t have to look at him and avoid answering. Part of me wonders what it would be like if he killed me. It’s a strange thing to wonder, but as his lips press to my neck, I can’t picture it.

Would he be cruel? Would he make it hurt?

He turns my head so he can kiss my lips, his warm, urgent tongue entering my mouth.

If he cares that I don’t kiss him back, I wouldn’t know it.

He doesn’t slow down. If he’s angry about me stubbing a cigarette out on his hand, he doesn’t show that either.

He brings the wounded hand down my body to cup between my legs.

He kisses his way across my cheek to my ear, curling his fingers into my skirt. “Things got too personal earlier,” he whispers. “I don’t wanna fight with you. Or hurt you. Or kill you.”

When his fingers move to rub my clit, I suck in a gasp.

“I just want this,” he whispers, grabbing me tightly again before rubbing.

“Aren’t you angry about your hand?” I speak with as strong a tone as I can manage. I want to sound as indifferent as he did, but I don’t quite manage. His rubbing makes my pitch too high.

When he removes his touch, I think maybe he is angry. Maybe I shouldn’t have reminded him. But then he pulls off his shirt and takes my cuffed hands. His palm flattens mine against his chest as he leans to whisper in my ear again. “Feel.”

My hands move across his chest at his insistence, feeling my way over a valley of scars. Some are lines, some are rough patches, all hold a story. It makes me think of my dream, of licking my way across them.

“I’ve been a prisoner too.” He kisses my ear. “My captors weren’t as nice as I am.”

“Should I be grateful?” My voice is small and not as sarcastic as I mean for it to be.

He pulls back to show me his face. It’s as boyish now as it was when he was seventeen, but his eyes look aged beyond his years. He isn’t the same person he was then, and it’s insane that I just now am seeing that.

He’s Arseni. He’s … deviant, playful, handsome, too handsome. But he’s harder now. And vengeful. The scars my fingers dance across hold so many sources of anger, I finally start to understand that it isn’t just me he’s angry with. Maybe it isn’t me at all.

“You shouldn’t be grateful… You should be relieved. You can’t hurt me, Margot. Nobody can. I’m not gonna punish you for trying.”

Rising to his knees, he unbuckles his belt while I steel myself beneath him.

“Do you think this isn’t hurting me?”

He meets my eyes, full, glistening lips parting. “No.” He tucks his hand inside his pants to rub. “I think this is your dirtiest fantasy.”

Still stroking himself, he nudges my legs apart with his knees and lays his face at my opening.

I look up at the stars when he lifts my skirt up and runs his hand over my wet flesh at the same pace he pleasures himself.

“I think you fake your moans with that old fuck from your office, and when he leaves you full of cum, you touch yourself while thinking of a guy like me.”

“A guy like you?” I ask, my pitch high with fright. Not at what he’ll do to me, but at what he might discover. What he might already know. The secrets he’s uncovered between when I saw him earlier and now.

He presses a kiss to my inner thigh, then drags his bottom lip up before kissing me again, higher this time. “A guy who knows how to touch you.”

With his free hand, he presses against my leg to open me wider for him. I hold my breath when his tongue slides up my slit. “A guy who knows how to lick you.” He licks me again, long and slow while my hips lift ever so slightly, giving away everything he’s accused me of.

“And suck you.” His lips curve around my clit in a kiss before he sucks, just as promised. I can’t help the cry that escapes, my bound hands lifting above my head until I’m tugging perfectly trimmed grass from the lawn.

I want to tell him to stop. I want to lie . Tell him he’s wrong, that I’m not attracted to him, that I couldn’t be attracted to him. That everything he does repulses me. That his stupid, cocky, radiant fucking face doesn’t turn me on when he’s between my thighs like this.

I wish that my sex life had been fulfilled before this. Maybe then when he fits two fingers inside me, I wouldn’t moan. My back wouldn’t arch, and my heels wouldn’t grind into the earth.

I wouldn’t want this so much.

My lips part with a gasp as he fucks me with his fingers, his tongue flicking across my clit. Every glide of his tongue is so controlled, every thrust of his fingers smooth. I hate it. It makes me feel like I’m the desperate one, squirming beneath his delicious touch.

It isn’t long before he takes my hands and walks me to the ledge, just as he did the night he came to my office. Only this time, he doesn’t hesitate to drop me.

I cry out a high-pitched, elongated “ahhh,” my shoulders digging into the ground as my body bows. My world feels like it shatters, making everything fade for a few fleeting moments. It’s bliss. I wish it didn’t have to end.

When Arseni pulls his mouth away, I roll my head to take in the pit bull, his tongue hanging out as he happily pants a foot from my face.

“Come here,” Arseni says, gently taking my arms to guide me to sitting.

I just blink when he pulls his cock from his pants and strokes it an inch from my face.

I should pull away, but I can’t. My eyes are glued to the light sheen of cum on the tip reflecting the moonlight.

Arseni pumps faster, his hand threading into my hair to hold me close.

“Open your mouth,” he orders, spreading his precum over my lips. My tongue catches a taste, and I close my eyes to it.

“ Open ,” he orders more forcefully as he takes my jaw and squeezes.

I don’t fight as hard as I want when his fingers digging into my jaw pry it open, and I suck in a sharp breath through my nose when he pushes inside.

Salty, warm goo fills my mouth as he groans, holding my head close while he finds his release.

I swallow some of the cum and let the rest ooze around his cock, spilling down my chin.

His eyes look lost in desire as he pulls out of me and examines the leftover droppings. When I go to wipe it away, he guides my hand to my side.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispers, his voice so soft and convincing that I blush.

I’m old. Well, not really, but I feel too old to be desirable. I buy the most flattering clothes, the finest makeup, and run myself thin—literally. And none of it ever seems like enough when I look in the mirror.

So maybe I don’t hate that Arseni says differently.

Maybe that’s why when he gathers a trail of his cum and brings it to my mouth, I suck his finger willingly, experiencing him with all my senses.

The taste of his pleasure, the look of wanting parting his lips, the smell of his raw scent, the feel of wet cum drying on my chin.

I don’t hate it, and maybe that makes him right. Maybe I’ve been desiring this all along.

“Good girl,” he coos, stroking my head with a gentle touch. He tucks himself away and zips up his pants while I silently die inside.

I wish I didn’t hate myself for this. It would make life so much easier.

“Come,” he says, holding out his hand for me. “Let’s get you some real food.”

Real food . If he said that with less of a serious tone, with even a trace of humor, I’d probably shrink away from embarrassment.

But he doesn’t seem to be degrading me. Ironically, I don’t know if he’s ever spoken to me with more care.

It’s almost like I’m human.