Master's Flame (8 page)

“Oh.” She gave him an arch look. “My apologies,
monsieur
. I thought uncontrolled dramatics were not to your taste.”

Michel heard a small sound from Jason, a light sigh over the furious racing of his blood. “Michel—” Jason began in a warning tone, but
La Vampa
had pushed him beyond temper into indelicacy. He yanked her away from the others, marching her toward the corner of the rehearsal space. He tried without success to collect himself before he leaned down to glare into her sullen gaze.

“Are you playing games with me, Miss Sancia?” he said between his teeth. “You may find such strategies blow up in your face.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, not backing down in the slightest. “Playing games? I am not the one between us who plays games, Mr. Lemaitre. I have not forgotten that night, not one second of what happened, even if you choose to act now as if nothing took place.
Miss Sancia
,” she mocked, affecting a low, French-inflected voice. “You will call me Miss Sancia, as if we’re mere acquaintances, when once you called me
mignonne
, just like a caress, and knelt between my legs?”

“Enough.” That bark, that command was generally enough to bring any disorderly person to heel. But Valentina was not any disorderly person. She batted his hand away.

“No, it’s not enough,” she yelled. “I thought you were different. I thought you were brave and that your heart was open to everything in the world. You disappoint me, Mr. Lemaitre. No, disappointment is not a good enough word. You devastate me with your manipulations and lies. I’ve tried to please you but you won’t be pleased.”

He looked over at Jason as if he could save him, but no one could save him, not now. The entire room—fifty people or more—stood still as statues, watching and listening to every word that passed between them.

He tuned them out and fixed his eyes on his dream and his nightmare. Knelt between her legs, had he? How novel of her to throw it in his face. “You have no concept of professionalism, do you,
Miss Sancia
?” he asked in a cutting tone. “Or discretion, for that matter.” He took her arm, pulling her right against him, and lowered his voice so no one else could hear. “If you have private things to say to me, you’ll make an appointment and meet me in my office like any sane person would.”

“Why not your back room?” she sneered.

He squeezed her arm, unforgivably hard, but this insubordination couldn’t continue. “My office,
mademoiselle
,” he said, giving her a little shake. “There, and only there, will we discuss the personal issues between us. You will never air them publicly again or you will find yourself on the first flight back to
Napoli
. Do you understand?” His tone had gone from cutting to vicious. She nodded without comment, going white about her lips.

He released her and pointed to the center of the practice space, where her partners stood waiting. “Now, you will go and repeat your act, and this time you will perform it with the spirit and artistry of which you are capable. Go.”

He stalked to stand just on the perimeter of the performance space, his arms crossed over his chest. Her partners regrouped and took their positions and Valentina straightened her slouched shoulders. If she hadn’t, he would have gone and done it himself, and added a great whack to her backside for good measure. How could she imagine he’d be pleased with her lackluster, robotic performance?
My apologies, monsieur. I thought uncontrolled dramatics were not to your taste.

Little hellion. He could not allow a battle of wills between them. He couldn’t allow her to win. He watched her repeat her performance with the same accuracy and control, but this time she let her flame burn. My God, she was incomparable in her artistry.

He ought to have congratulated the five of them on an improved performance, but his temper burned too brightly. Instead he returned to his place at the table and called for the next act, not sparing Valentina a look.

Michel leaned back in his chair. His private dungeon was busy, filled with friends and a selection of his past and present slaves. None of them appealed, but he had to be here to reassert his authority after Valentina had publicly dressed him down.
Was Lemaitre going soft?
everyone wondered.
Losing control of the company?

No. Just control of one crazy girl.

He stared across the dungeon at the delightful brunette waiting in chains against a St. Andrews cross. Why didn’t Kaiya’s beautiful body stir him? Why did her hair, which he’d long admired, suddenly seem a drab, dark shade?

He pushed out of his chair and approached her, willing himself to find excitement in her bondage, her submission. She pulled at the chains, putting on a lovely show. Male slaves were good for enduring his darker impulses, but for connection, for beauty, women possessed a softness men couldn’t match. Their bodies were, by default, vulnerable, composed of tender orifices. Women were designed to be invaded.

His organ stirred at the thought, not yet erect, but heading there. Was it the chains? The fear in her eyes? The voyeurs around them, studying their every move? Then someone stepped in his way, one of the more experienced Masters.

“
Monsieur
, forgive me for interrupting.”

Michel stared at the man. He would never have entered a scene in progress, except in an emergency. “What is it?”

“There’s something going on in one of the other rooms. It’s...causing a stir.” Another man stood behind him, also a respected Citadel player.

Michel blew out a breath. “I don’t want to be bothered. Have someone else handle it.” Of course, Valentina would be involved. Who else would create such chaos that they would come here and interrupt him?

Something flickered in the glance between the two men before they turned to go. Something telling. With a curse, Michel turned from his pretty, trembling victim and strode across the hall after them, toward the last of the back rooms.

He heard Valentina’s screams first, shrill, wild shrieks that made his hair stand on end. He threw open the door with a bang. People scuttled out before he could even take stock of what he was seeing. A pair of men wielding whips, marking their victim. Too many welts, some of them bleeding. Manacles. Red curls pulled up in a messy twist. A knife in another man’s hands, and a noose around the slim column of the woman’s neck.

Valentina’s neck.

Michel cursed in French, because it was the first language that came to his lips, and then in English because the men were Americans, part of a high wire act. They dropped their whips and scattered back as he crossed to Valentina and lifted her with an arm around her waist. The blood on her back and thighs smeared warm against his skin. He ripped the noose off her neck with a shudder. Damn them. If she’d passed out during their onslaught...even lost her balance for a moment...

She collapsed against him, moaning, weak, and sub-spacey. A quick inspection assured him the worst of her injuries were the angry cuts on her back. He was furious with her, but this was Valentina, who was crazy. Her tormentors should have known better. He turned to the two men who’d been throwing the whips.

“What in holy fuck possessed you to play this game with her? A noose?”

“She a-asked us,” one of them stammered. “She said she wanted to play hard. She wanted it.”

“And you said yes?” Michel tightened his grip around her waist. “We have rules here, even in the back rooms. Safe, sane, consensual.”

The men looked at each other, then gestured to the third man holding a knife. “If she fell, we would have cut the rope.”

Michel eyed the weapon, then snarled at the asshole holding it. “What good it would have done, once she snapped or injured her neck?”

“She asked us to do this,” repeated the first guy. “It was consensual.”

“But not safe or sane,” he barked. “Get out, all of you. You’re banned for one year from the Citadel. Go.”

The last man hesitated before he left, gesturing toward Valentina. “Is she going to be okay?”

“I’ll deal with her,” Michel said. “Get out of the Citadel before I have you dragged out with a fucking noose around your neck.”

“It was my idea,” Valentina protested weakly. “Don’t be angry at them.”

“I’ll be angry at them as much as I like, and angry at you.” He looked down at her in despair. What was he to do with this woman? How was he to control her erratic behavior? “How much did you drink?” he asked, shaking her from her subspace stupor. “Answer me.”

“Nothing. Half a drink.”

“Then why? Why would you participate in such a scene?”

“Because I wanted to,” she yelled, trying to struggle away. “I wanted to feel something. Something horrible. Something bad.”

“Why?” he shook her again so her teeth rattled together.

“You should know,” she said, her voice rising to a shriek. “You insulted me today. Rejected me.”

“Oh, this is my fault?” He bit back sharper words, words that would have maimed her, words he would have regretted. The idea of her risking her life because of something he’d done to her? God, it flayed him raw, and he didn’t deal well with that feeling. He focused instead on the bleeding cuts on her back. He would have to take her home and treat them, not because he blamed himself for them, but because he didn’t trust her to do it herself. “Do you think before you do anything?” he said, giving her a sharp shake. “What did you imagine you’d accomplish with that scene?”

He wanted to shy away from the pain in her eyes. He didn’t want it. He didn’t want any of this. “Don’t look at me that way,” she screamed. “Don’t touch me. I hate you. I hate you, and you don’t care about me anyway! What I do outside of work is none of your business.”

“When you try to kill yourself in my goddamn dungeon, it becomes my business,” he said, wrapping a blanket around her. “Now shut your fucking mouth before I’m tempted to whip you some more.”

*** *** ***

Valentina lay nude, face-down, on a poster bed in a half-lit, white-painted room. An identical bed stood in stark relief against the opposite wall. Besides the four tall posts making up the frames, both beds were enclosed on three sides—and on top—with iron bars.

Cages. These weren’t beds. They were cages.

No, they were beds. She was going mad, even madder than she’d been when she’d incited Jake and Damon into scening with her in the back room. She’d been hurting and she’d wanted to hurt worse, and now she hurt so bad she almost couldn’t draw breath. She felt empty, like some vast hole had opened inside her that could never be healed. She hated when she got this way, when she did dangerous, impulsive things because she didn’t have a name for the emotions inside her, or any way to control them as they swarmed in her brain.

Look
, Mr. Lemaitre had thundered as he held her in his bathroom.
Look what you’ve done to yourself.
Horrible, garish cuts and welts covered her from her shoulders to her ass and hips, and even to the backs of her thighs. It hadn’t seemed like so much in the moment but now it looked awful. There would be bruises, he said, and then he’d said a lot of other very cruel things. He’d stood with her in his white-granite guest room shower and washed off the blood, and lectured her until tears mixed with the water coursing down her cheeks.
You don’t even know them
, he’d said.
They are nothing to you. How can you give this much of yourself to them?

He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand that she’d been giving herself to
him
, not them.

But that only went to show how crazy she was. She’d wanted his attention, perhaps his regret. Even his anger. Well, she had that. She wanted Mr. Lemaitre but he didn’t want her, and she didn’t know how to process that, how to get over it.

She winced as his fingertips salved a cut on her shoulder blade, and knew she needed to say true things to him. It was the only way to reverse this horrible slide and make up for her mistakes, so when the first truth came to her she spoke it aloud in the oppressive silence. “If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t do it again.”

He moved from her shoulder blade to a cut on the tender skin near her spine. “I’m glad to hear that.” His voice was tight, dripping with something like sarcasm, but not the roar of disapproval it had been before.

“It’s just... My brain... When I start to feel—”

“If you are going to make more excuses, save them.”

She fell silent, biting her lip. “
Monsieur
—”

“I don’t want to hear excuses. I need to understand what’s driving this behavior of yours. I need to know how to stop it, because it can’t continue.”

“My grandmother said I had
il Diavolo
inside me. How do you say it? Diablo?”

“The devil,” he murmured. “What a lazy excuse.”

She sighed and turned her face into the pillow. It smelled faintly of lavender but it wasn’t girly. It smelled fresh and crisp, like the towels he’d dried her with, like the pristine white robe he’d shrugged into. Like him. His house, what she’d caught of it as he dragged her to this room, was also very crisp, with no color, no clutter. It was so unlike her own place, trashed with the various detritus she compulsively collected. What would it be like to let go of all that and stay in this plain white room, in this cage bed, forever? She started to cry. She knew why she wanted him. She wanted control, and he could control her. Not forever. He wasn’t a man to stay with a slave forever, but he could teach her to balance her behavior, to think first. To
wait
before she acted impulsively.

“I need you,” she mouthed against the pillow, too softly for him to hear.

“What?”

She curled her hands into fists as he moved to her buttocks, rubbing the warmed medicine into her cuts. His fingers were as strong and masterful as the rest of him. Her pussy reacted with a tingling warmth, even in her misery and pain. She pressed one of her fists into her eyes to smear away the tears.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know how else to get your attention.”

His fingers stopped still. “You did this to get my attention? You risked your life and endured this abuse
to get my attention
?”