Beautiful Beast (Gypsy Heroes #3)(48)

I mean, what would you have done?

Taken her to the police and walked away?

No f*cking way. I’m no Good Samaritan.

Besides, I didn’t want the police crawling all over my hotel, minding my business for me. The way I saw it, she was like a gift from heaven. Yeah, of course she was covered in bruises. Jesus, the bastards sure worked her good. Six, she told me later. But even with her entire body covered in bruises she was a raving beauty.

So I took her back. I patched her up. You have to understand she was no walk in the park. She was bloody, f*cking hard work. Those first few months were no joke. She wandered around mute and half-crazy. She used to try to scrub herself clean, scratching her skin like an animal until it was raw and bleeding. And then there were the nightmares, the waking up in the middle of the night screaming in agony as if she had a wound in her body and her soul was pouring out, the shaking, the crying, the catatonic trances.

But the funny thing is, I never thought to throw in the towel. She had been given to me. And in this shitty life it’s not often that you are given anything that special. You have to f*cking fight for every last inch, let alone a jewel like her.

My father used to say, you give a donkey a page from a fine book and it will eat it, you give a child the same page and it will scribble all over it, you give a learned man that page and he will read it. I always knew she was a page. The donkeys had tried to eat her. I knew I could never read her. But I could scribble on her for a while.

It took time before I could scribble on her. Months.

But the day came when I could part those white thighs and enter her. Fucking her was different than with any other woman. I can’t explain it. When I f*cked her it was like f*cking a child or a dumb animal. Not that I have ever f*cked either. Just what I imagine it could be like. She never responds because she doesn’t enjoy sex. She never climaxes and I never try to make her enjoy it. You see, I kind of like that she gets no pleasure from it. It’s kinda virginal and pure. Like in the olden days, when they grinned and bore it. That kind of woman doesn’t exist anymore.

Now every f*cking bitch is shoving a ten-inch vibrator up her wet cunt every chance she gets. No class at all. And I’m all about class. It’s perverse, yet it excites me to think she doesn’t want me in her body, but she allows me to because she’s grateful. Because she belongs to me. The way your pet belongs to you. You can do anything because you’re the master.

I enjoy being the owner of such an exquisitely beautiful human. I’d buy her a collar and take her out to town to show her off if I could. Maybe one day I will. I’ll take her to one of those kinky places where the men come bringing their women on leashes. And the women have to crawl on their hands and knees like dogs. The problem with those clubs is that you have to share. And I don’t think I could do that. Mine is the only dick that’s going up that girl.


Everywhere we go I see men looking at her hungrily, but I don’t see any interest in her eyes. Sometimes though, not often, maybe once or twice, I feel her wanting to fly away. She gets that look in her eyes, and those times I remind her again of that day I found her. I deliberately make her cry.

I make her realize that she’s irreparably damaged and she needs me. I’m the one who took care of her. I’m the only one she can trust. In the beginning I used to tell her that no other man would have her once they knew she was so defiled. I mean six men in one session. No man wants that.

But don’t ever make the mistake of thinking I don’t care about her. When I don’t see her for a few days I start to miss her. I miss her distant smile. I miss the taste of her skin. I miss her vacant eyes while I am pounding away into her dry little *. I miss the smell of her hair. I miss the way her tears roll down her cheeks.

Yeah, I’m missing my little pet right now.





Twenty-seven


SNOW

The sound of a woman’s voice wakes me up. I sit up. There is a toweling robe laid on the bed for me and I slip it on and go to the door. I open it a crack and hear a peal of laughter. She comes into view and I realize that she must be a relative. She has exactly the same coloring as Shane, tall with long dark hair. She is visibly pregnant. Since she can’t be much older than me, she must be his sister, Layla.

‘Well, where is she then?’ the woman demands. ‘I’m dying to meet her.’

‘Asleep, but she won’t be for much longer if you carry on laughing like a demented hyena,’ Shane says.

I open the door and step outside. ‘Good morning,’ I say awkwardly.

‘You’re up,’ Shane says with a smile.

‘Yeah,’ I say. I feel embarrassed and strange. After last night I don’t know how Shane feels about me anymore.

All I know is that I was awful. Enough to put the most ardent suitor off. I vaguely remember falling asleep in his arms after taking my pill.

‘So you’re, Snow. I’m Layla, Shane’s sister.’

‘Hi,’ I say with a small wave.

‘I hope he hasn’t told you anything horrid about me, because I have far worse secrets about him,’ she says and, coming up to me, envelops me in a huge hug. She is definitely not the typical reserved, stiff upper-lipped, English person. In fact, she is very much like an Indian, who has no real concept of personal space. I, of course, immediately warm towards her.

‘I’ve brought you some clothes. They’re not new, but they are clean. I brought all stretchy stuff so it’ll be like free size. Of course, you’ll have to fold up the jeans.’