The Black Wolf (In the Company of Killers, #5)(50)

“You love that one.”

Stunned, my hand stops moving in Izabel’s hair; for a second I’m not sure what to say in response.

“No,” I finally answer, confused by my hesitation, and drop my hand from her hair. I look at Francesca. “I don’t love anyone. But I’m fond of her. Haven’t you ever been fond of someone—aside from your brother, I mean.” I grin. And I hope my attempt to take the spotlight off me works because this shit with Izabel is making me uncomfortable.

“No,” Francesca answers. “I’ve only ever been fond of my brother. I’ve only ever loved him.” She leaves it at that.

“So you’re what they call a hero,” Francesca says with a mock smile. “Rescuing whores from the streets, turning them into respectable whores?” She laughs lightly under her breath.

“Hardly.” I pat Izabel’s head and then rest my hand in my lap. “My girls didn’t want to be taken, they didn’t want to be controlled, or…punished when they disobeyed”—I lick the dryness from my lips—“I didn’t do it to rescue them, I did it because I liked it.”

Francesca glances at Nora. “And what of that one?”

“Aya,” I call out, “tell the Madam why you like being my whore.”

Nora doesn’t raise her eyes when she answers, “Aya’s master made her whole, Madam; her master protects her and provides for her; she is happy to be his whore.”

After a moment, Francesca says, “But why whores?” She moves toward us, setting the knife down on the arm of the sofa on her way. “And I thought you looked for flaws?”

“Because they fight longer, and harder,” I tell her. “Their lifestyle toughens them up long before I get to them; they’re not afraid to fight back, they’re defiant, vulgar—they’re strong and I respect that. But most of all, training them is a challenge. I happen to like a challenge. And there is no challenge in training a girl too afraid to fight for her life and her freedom; nor is there any satisfaction in owning a girl who has already been trained. And is being a whore not a flaw in and of itself?”

Francesca purses her lips thoughtfully.

“Well aren’t you afraid one of them might slit your throat in the night?” Francesca sits down on the arm of the chair next to me; I can smell the faint scent of her shampoo she’s so close. “It’s women like you described who would be the most likely.”

“I’m not afraid at all,” I tell her, looking up at her. “Not because I don’t think they’re capable, but because I don’t fear death.”

“I would never hurt Niklas; I love him,” Izabel says, looking up briefly.

Izzy, what happened to you keeping your mouth shut?

Francesca smiles, regarding ‘Naomi’s’ innocence, but there’s nothing kind about that smile. I feel like she wants to kill Izabel, and her speaking up just then has little to do with why—she wants to kill her because she’s special, beautiful even with her butchered hair; she wants to kill her because I’m fond of her. But she won’t because Izabel isn’t hers to kill. A chill moves up my spine, and that never happens. It takes a helluva lot to set me on edge like I’ve suddenly become. This woman is insane, no doubt about it, she is as twisted as Seraphina Bragado was, maybe even more-so. What is she going to do? It’s what I keep asking myself. What the f*ck is she gonna do? Because I know she’s going to do something. Before we leave this mansion, Francesca Moretti is going to unveil the monster that wears her skin.

She stands up slowly, gracefully even.

“So tell me,” she says with her back to me, “what particular kind of flawed whore are you looking to purchase?”

She goes toward the massive desk, her movements like liquid over the floor.

“Preferably hair the color of honey, maybe black hair—I haven’t decided. Twenty-one, twenty-two years of age”—I touch Izabel’s hair again—“same age range as my other girls. Oh, and I don’t expect even your cyprians to have many physical flaws, but if you have one with any scars or birthmarks, the more interested I’ll be in doing business with you.”

“That’s quite a specific list,” she points out suspiciously. “I have to wonder if you’re not looking for a certain kind of girl, so much as a girl in particular who already has a name, who may have once been loved by someone who’s still looking for her.”

Yes, that’s exactly what Olivia Bram is—you’re a smart woman, but not smarter than me.

“When you order food at a restaurant,” I say with no expression, “don’t you expect it to look exactly as it does on the menu when they serve it to you?” I wave my hand at Izabel and Nora. “As with all of my girls, it’s just a preference.”

She ponders my words for a moment. “You are a very interesting man, Niklas,” she says.

The doors open to the right of us and in walks Emilio as sour-faced and distrusting of me as ever.

“Your room is ready, Sister.” He looks only at me when speaking; cold, threatening…jealous? Hmm.

“Good.” Francesca gestures at me with her hand. “Come with me,” she says.

I stand and Izabel follows suit.

Francesca stops, looks back and says, “Oh, and if you don’t mind, have your girl remain undressed. You can punish her in my room for her display in my great hall earlier.” She turns and proceeds toward Emilio waiting for her at the door.