I don’t deserve anyone.
I walk up the steps to the apartment, letting myself in, tossing my keys in the dented bronze dish by the door. My footsteps are muffled on the rug in the entryway, now beaten clean, the colors showing through in a way they haven’t in some time. I don’t hear Noelle, but that doesn’t mean anything—she could be upstairs cleaning the library or in the basement doing laundry.
I hadn’t meant to make a maid out of her, but it was the only thing I could give her to do that wouldn’t make her something much worse. Guilt spreads through me, and I feel more strongly than ever that telling her to leave is the right choice.
I’ll give her back her passport, give her some money, and send her on her way,I tell myself firmly, as I set the groceries down in the kitchen and step into the living room. The thought sends a strange ache through me, as if it’s not really what I want, but even so—that doesn’t matter. I can’t keep her here any longer, or this will go all wrong.
I’ll hurt her. I can feel my sanity slipping more and more, day by day, and I’m afraid of what will happen if I keep her here. I’ll take her down with me if I do.
She can’t save me. I can only ruin her.
I glance over and notice the door to the office has been left open, which is strange. Noelle has always been good about closing up the rooms after she leaves them.
There’s a muffled sound from down the hall, and I turn, wondering if Noelle is in her room. Cleaning, perhaps, or—
A sudden, lustful ache grips me at the thought of walking and catching her taking a midday bath, or touching herself in her bed, thinking I’m gone. The voyeuristic delight of it hardens my cock instantly, sending a shudder down my spine. Not just at the thought of catching her like that, her hands sliding over her heated wet skin or her fingers moving beneath her panties, but of how I could punish her for it—how a mastershouldpunish his pet, for taking pleasures like that without permission.
That would be my being a good master, wouldn’t it?I rationalize as I walk down the hall, my pulse quickening in my chest, anticipation building. I know it’s wrong, that seeing her like that will tip me over the edge, that I’ll lose all semblance of control. Already my cock is aching, throbbing,needing. It’s been so fucking long.
I feel half-insane already with lust, and I don’t even know if my fevered imaginings are really what’s going on.
I step up to Noelle’s door—and then freeze in place, some of the lust cleared by a sudden, violent wash of rage.
The sounds aren’t coming from Noelle’s room.
They’re coming from the room at the end of the hall.
The one I told herneverto go into.
12
NOELLE
Alexandre’s office is by far both the easiest and most tedious room to clean.
He never goes in there anymore, so it’s not as if it gets particularly messy, but dust gathers nonetheless, and so it has to be a part of my routine. I stay busy in the kitchen until I hear him leave, not wanting to cross paths. As usual, I saw him this morning when he brought my breakfast plate and waited for me to kneel on the floor like a good pet before he set it down and then backed out of the room. He no longer stays to watch me eat any of my meals, as if he can’t wait to get away from me, and so, of course, as soon as his footsteps retreat, I sit on the edge of the bed with my plate. It almost feels like a game, but one that has consequences I’m not entirely sure of.
Once I know he’s left the house, I go to clean the office, enjoying the additional freedom of knowing he’ll be gone for some time. The room is tedious to clean because of the loose piles of paperwork, files, and ledgers that I have to move and clean around while trying to be careful not to disturb it all too much or look like I’m snooping—which of course, I do a fair bit of while I can.
Most of what I find, other than the bills of sale for antiques and books and such, is all boring business receipts and spreadsheets that I don’t understand. I don’t really grasp what it is that made Alexandre so much money, only that he has a lot of it.
Today, though, as I’m cleaning the desk, I find something else. Something that makes me stop everything I’m doing, reading through the sheaf of papers as a chill creeps into my bones, fear taking over every other thought I have.
I’d let my guard down. I’d started to trust him, to think he was just a sad, lonely man who hadn’t asked to be sent a girl. That Kaito was the real villain in this, not Alexandre. That I had nothing to fear from Alexandre.
I’d been so fucking wrong.
The papers I’m holding are more bills of sale, but not for art or books or antiques.
They’re forpeople.
Girls, specifically, all as broken and flawed as the other things Alexandre collects, their “defects” noted on the bills of sale just like every other item, as if that’s all they are—were? One girl was blind, another deaf, and another with a twisted foot. A girl missing fingers, a girl who can’t speak, and another with burns covering much of her body. About ten of them in all—and not a single one is still here.
There’s one bill of sale at the very bottom, crumpled, the ink slightly running and stained, as if the document has gotten wet at some point.
Anastasia Ivanova. Purchased from Alexei Egorov. 5’11, blonde, 110 lbs. Former ballerina. Feet deformed from knife and burn wounds. Mentally unsound. Buyer should be aware she has connections with American mafia and Bratva members.
Sold to Alexandre Sartre for $100,000,000.000