Blaire Dark Romance Read online

“If you ever meet Charlie, you'll understand why. The way he looked at me in front of Maksim... spoke to me...” I get hot chills just thinking about it. “He said, and I quote, ‘I’ve always wondered about redheads’, like he was fantasizing or something.”

  “Seriously? And Maksim did nothing?”

  “Yeah.” I go right into detail about how much authority Charlie had over Maksim, how he insisted I drop him off even while he had drivers at hand. “Before that though, he interviewed me for a job; asked the oddest questions.”

  “What questions?”

  “Wanted to know if I lived alone, drove my own car... It was ages before he asked about my skills.”

  “He's up to no good, that’s why,” James says, analyzing. I can hear he’s pacing the attic. It's empty of things, other than his bed and a wardrobe. It heightens the slightest of sounds.

  “I think so,” I say. “I get that impression.”

  “Shit,” he curses, then he's silent for a moment, I imagine thinking. “Keep your wits about you, Blaire. If Maksim is getting involved with people he's nervous about, it doesn't bode well for us.”

  “I know it doesn’t.” I nod at the empty car park. “I know.”

  Whenever Maksim gets in trouble with his dodgy dealings, one of us—his arsenals—takes the fall. It's always been this way.

  “What job do they have you on exactly? Are you whacking someone?”

  “No. Nothing like that.” I tell him about the job in great detail—Maksim lets us discuss things with each other. While James isn't much of a hacker, he's a bloody good fighter—almost as good as me. I trust him implicitly.

  “You could only get, like... what... four/five minutes last time, couldn't you?” he says, referring to my access to London's CCTV system.

  “Ah-huh.” I sound almost defeated because I am. It’s going to be mentally taxing trying to grasp more time. “But I wasn't about to tell Maksim that face to face.”

  “No, I understand.” James sighs in sympathy. “Just try and get his fifteen minutes. Try. And if you can't, before you confess to Maksim that you've failed, call me and I'll come over to your place, okay? Don't tell him anything while you're on your own.”

  My heart bleeds for this guy. There's nothing he wouldn't endure if it means he can spare me of pain.

  “Thanks, James,” I say blank of emotion, knowing I'd never deliberately put him in the firing line. “I have to go.” I shove my keys in my jacket pocket and head for the private elevator that leads up to my apartment. “I'll speak to you soon.”

  3

  For the next week, in my London apartment that overlooks a gray River Thames, I test myself to the limit.

  I eat plain minimal foods to prevent feeling lethargic and scarcely sleep five hours a night because my mind is on overdrive. Eventually, I have to give up on the hypnopaedia—learning while asleep via a recorder—because I can’t handle the overload of studying. I'll come back to it of course, once this job is complete. In my personal gym upstairs, I execute my usual combat routine for four hours a day—which steals time away from my work—but I have to train. Maksim would kill me if I let myself slip. It could cost him his life. The dark computer room at the back of my apartment, hidden behind fake white paneled walls, is my prized possession—except formy Porsche, that is. Spread across the back wall, ten computer screens in two rows glow over my freckly face. They offer the only source of light in here. From wall to wall, the floating desk boasts keyboards, black boxes, and other useful gadgets that help me safely link to The Dark Web.

  I work like a dog morning and night, occasionally nodding off in the wide office chair. By day four, I manage to gain access to London's CCTV for a maximum of eleven minutes, controlling the traffic lights, certain security gates, and the city cameras, but I cannot get a hold of no more than eleven minutes. The system locks me out.

  Sweaty and hungry for real food, and frazzled to the max, I rub my forehead, then I bash the keyboard keys to put glitches in London's system, working through another night.

  Now, I have one week and one day left to train, and to add to my worry, work commitments over the weekend set me back a little. I don't have any other choice but to accept what is though, as I'm on Maksim's security detail and his life comes before mine.

  Friday night, James and I watch his back while he parties ruthlessly at a mansion in Kensington Palace Gardens. The mansion belongs to some Asian Prince who is largely in the public eye, but the public knows nothing of his taste for young girls and sex shows. They know only what the media allows them to know.

  By ten o'clock, the party becomes hard to stomach—like most of the parties Maksim attends—because the Prince has a willing little Albanian brunette on all fours in the middle of his glorious ballroom. She's getting whipped before fucked by a man in a black leather mask, their flesh slapping together so hard I can feel it in the air. A collection of suits line the walls, waiting for their turn. Some of the onlookers masturbate, while the rest get their cocks sucked by their sex-slaves who are firmly on leashes—until it's their turn to fuck the Albanian girl, that is.

  James and I remain behind Maksim with our eyes ahead, clasping guns over our laps.

  Maksim is in seventh heaven, especially when the Prince offers him a cock-sucker, which James and I have front row seats to. The sound of the tiny blonde choking against Maksim's cock turns my stomach inside out, as he refuses to let her breathe by blocking her air passage. And to make matters worse, the godforsaken fuck show goes on until early hours of the morning, the ornate ballroom whispering with soft piano music. The music isn't loud enough to drown out her cries of pleasure/pain in Albanian, nor the men's moans of satisfaction as they each have a go on her. Deep moans that remind me of Maksim when he makes me please him.

  I'm beyond uncomfortable internally. On the outside, I must look as cold as ice.

  The show gets even harder to stomach when Maksim takes over—belts the Albanian girl to the point where her back bleeds before drilling her from behind—because in a moment of raw intoxication, he presses her face into the floor and looks me right in the eyes. It's like everything and everyone in the room evaporates, the earth closing in on me. I go stiff, my chest so tight that I can just about breathe. I don’t know whether to look away or not. He’s never done this before.

  He doesn't look away. He smiles at me and takes the girl slowly, holding her hips like he's caressing her, humming with delight, his eyes hazy and full of lust.

  I stare ahead, blinking above him, trying to avoid the devil’s eye. Then, he fucks her with everything he has, making her squeal, skin smacking against skin.

  James glances at me, then steps a little closer, putting us arm to arm. “Don't worry,” he whispers, “I won't let him do that to you.”

  Though I appreciate his promise, it's empty. If Maksim wanted to do that to me, no one could stop him.

  A fuss of voices draws my attention.

  “Everyone, stay where you are,” an American guy says, yelling over the party.

  “If you move before we state otherwise, we’ll shoot,” another man calls out snappily. “Girls, get your fucking clothes on.”

  On alert, I glance about to assess the level of danger, as does James. A group of combat suited men are storming the ballroom with guns, and once they've got every man looking down their barrels, Charlie marches in, yelling for Maksim to stop. “Right now!”

  My heart drops through me. I watch in dismay as the naked sex-slaves scatter like rats to get dressed, tripping over their dresses, and then one guy orders them to line up against the back wall; starts handing out bottles of water from the duffle bag he’s holding. The men tuck themselves in, pulling up their pants and zipping up their trousers, and then they’re lined up against the opposite wall to the girls, guns in their faces. Maksim staggers off the Albanian girl he's fucking to fasten his trousers, his cheeks tinted red with lust.

  “What is going on?” the Asian Prince asks in terrible English, standing a few feet away
from Maksim. He’s looking through Charlie—who's got a blanket in one hand, a large gun in his other—and his men who are surrounding us all with a munitions store.

  “That's Charlie Decena,” I whisper to James, and he loads his gun.

  I pull back the hammer on my gun too and step forward for Maksim but James catches my elbow, making me stumble to a stop.

  “What are you doing?” I hiss, tugging to get free. “Let me go.”

  “Stay here. He's got over twenty men.”

  I gawk up at James in panic, then at Maksim who is face to face with Charlie in the middle of the room, and then back up at James. “We can't just leave Maksim.”

  “We don't want to start something if we can avoid it,” James says, his eyes trained on the situation. “I've heard a rumor Charlie Decena doesn't enjoy things like this, so he's probably just putting a stop to the show.”

  “How'd you know that?” I ask, drawing in my eyebrows.

  “What's the problem, my friend?” Maksim says, gaining my attention.

  There's a moment of dangerous silence as Charlie towers over Maksim, tapering dominant blue eyes. “This is.” He drops the blanket he's holding over the girl Maksim just fucked.

  She's panting for dear life, understandably bested after being whipped and screwed by at least ten men, so of course I'm stunned when she says, “Why are you stopping the show?” She's gazing up at Charlie through scraps of chocolate brown hair. “Who are you?”

  James and I look at each other, and then ahead at Charlie. He's dressed in jeans over black boots and a black long sleeve sweater, rather casual attire considering his men look ready for war. He passes the gun he’s holding to his right hand man and crouches down to the girl, elbows on his knees. “You'reArjana, is that right?” he says, stroking her hair back out of her face.

  She nods, an air of vulnerability coming over her.

  “How do you know my name?” she says, descending into her shoulders. She's veiled in sweat and looks weak with trembling limbs.

  He whispers something to her, his face soft and welcoming, and then wraps up her tiny naked frame in the blanket.

  What the fuck's going on?

  “Blaire,” James says quietly, “does he have dealings with the Albanians?”

  “I... I don't know,” I stutter, trying to filter what's happening.

  Standing with masculine poise, Charlie lifts the girl up into his arms, one under her knees and the other behind her shoulders, I think to avoid touching her wounded back. She huddles against him, seeming glad that he's here.

  “Anymore of this bullshit,” he warns, and leisurely pivots around, using the girl as a demonstration, “and we're all gonna have a problem—especially you, falso Prince.”

  He continues to scrutinize everyone, then his attention lands on me. His pale eyes widen and his jaw ticks. For the second time tonight, I don't know where to look.

  “Charlie,” Maksim says, ruffling his damp hair, “the girl is old enough and she's a willing participant. Tell him, Arjana...” he points out to her.

  “Willing participant?” Charlie walks up to him with the girl, hunched at the neck. “She's stolen property. You of all people should know better than to fuck with the Albanians.”

  “She is payment for a debt owed to me,” the Prince says, lifting his chin in an attempt to look proud.

  “Debt or no debt,” Charlie stalks over to the Prince, who cowers in his kameez, “we can all find ways to please ourselves without beating and gangbanging an eighteen year old girl.” There's something eerie in the way Charlie is looking at the Prince. “Fuck her in a more private setting next time or find an older 'participant', as you so nicely put it, Maksim.” He stalks back over to Maksim, holding that girl like she barely weighs a bag of sugar. “I mean, I'm all for a bit of sadism but this is bullshit.” He practically spits in Maksim's face.

  “It is just some fun,” the Prince says, lifting his shoulders in a shrug.

  “Fun?” Charlie raises his eyebrows at him, then he turns to his coward audience. “Maybe I should get all your wives here and have my men belt them and gangbang them for so long that their flesh shakes. How would you all like that?”

  The ballroom is in quiet shock, and I'm just about to pass out with it when Charlie tells Maksim, “You should send Blaire home. She doesn't need to see this.”

  The Prince arches an eyebrow, flabbergasted by Charlie’s audacity. Maksim is stunned and humiliated, stuttering to defend himself but nothing worthy comes out.

  “You'll have her on all fours next,” Charlie continues belittling my master, shaking his head at me in disgust, “getting fucked by this brainless lot.”

  I feel a surge of rage go through James and he steps forward for Charlie. The five men who are Charlie’s armor lift their guns in our direction, so I grab the back of James' sweater to stop him, my heart drumming in my ears.

  Charlie isn't bothered by James' attempt at him—and why would he be? He's got an arsenal. He shakes his head at me, pity burning in his eyes. “Since when did men start having young girls protect them?” Before anyone can answer him, he turns away with the girl in his arms and leaves just as quickly as he came. His men follow out the double doors like a pack of wolves, and they shut us in.

  No one is sure what to do—we're all just glancing at each other—but then Maksim rushes after Charlie, telling the Asian Prince, “I need to make sure there's no tension after this. That was Charlie Decena.”

  The Prince seems to know who Charlie is because he's gone white.

  “What the hell was that all about?” James says under his breath, his eyes glued to the exit doors. “And why doesn't he address Maksim properly?”

  “I have no idea,” I say, dismayed by Charlie's bizarre act of kindness to save that girl.

  Voices break through the silence, discussing Charlie and what he's just done. Some know who he is. Others don't. I try to listen in—I want to know who he is—but Maksim returns. He marches up to me, his expression tight with nerves. “Go home now,” he orders in Russian. “I'll call you if I need you.”

  What?

  “Do not stop to talk to anyone,” he says in a charge of Russian words. He can't seem to relax, looking back and forth between the exit doors and me. “Just get in your car and leave.”

  James nudges me onward because I'm paralyzed with confusion.

  Maksim grips my arm so tight I can feel his fingers digging into my flesh even through my combat sweater. “Get a move on.”

  I don't question him, even while I know this is out of character—he's never ordered me to leave before. Putting my head down, I walk through the murmuring ballroom, sort of thankful that I no longer have to endure the party.

  What Charlie saw is nothing. It'll get darker as the night goes on.

  4

  Saturday, and it's work as usual.

  I pick up Maksim from his house and drive him to his friend Rumo’s country manor. Maksim plays cards there once a month, but they always play at different times and days. Men like Maksim don't have routines. They say routines make them easy targets for their adversaries.

  Maksim is on the phone throughout the drive—arranging a place for a few trafficked girls—so I don't have to endure a conversation with him. I'm glad. After coming eye to eye with him last night while he was having sex with that girl, I'll admit, I am a little nervous. There was something in the way he stared at me… in the way he touched that girl while staring at me…

  Maksim hangs up the call as we pull up on Rumo’s paved driveway. It’s illuminated with floodlights. They're so bright that I have to squint. The redbrick house before us is a fortress; black iron bars covering the sash windows and a red laser security system surrounding the dwelling.

  Two SUV's pull up around us, the rest of Maksim's security detail. No one can get to him without a war.

  In the cold, I help Maksim out of my car by opening his door. I bow my head to him, clasping a heavy gun in one hand.

  “You look lo
vely this evening, my little pet,” he says in Russian, grinning at me with a cunning gleam in his eyes. “I haven't had a chance to tell you.”

  He looks good, too, in a sharp gray suit against a white shirt under a knee length black coat, his long brown hair curtaining his hard face. He smells nice—something spicy that makes my nose tickle as the night breezes against my face.

  I don't thank him for his compliment, nor do I smile. I just bow a second time.

  “Have you heard anything from Charlie Decena?” he asks, tipping his head. “After last night, I mean.”

  I nearly frown, peering up at him with innocent eyes. “No,cэp Maksim.”

  He studies me for a moment, scanning my expression. “So... he hasn't been to your apartment?” His golden eyes widen for an answer. “I know he fancies you.”

  “What? No, no! Of course he hasn't been to my apartment. I would have told you. You know I wouldn't-”

  “Okay.” Lifting a hand, he cuts me off. “That is good, I guess.” He scratches his stubbly chin. I cringe at the sound of his bristly beard rubbing against his nails. “But he's up to something. I just know it. I don't get why he's come to me for help on a job...” he goes on and on about his confusion over Charlie's agenda. “And what he did at the Prince's party... that wasn't him. He wouldn't do something so thoughtful.”

  So... it isn't just me who thinks he's up to no good. That makes me anxious, and the fact that Maksim is questioning me over my loyalty makes me even more anxious. He should know I'd never keep anything from him.

  I'm sweating in my uniform.

  Maksim eventually asks, “What did you both talk about when you gave him a lift to London? Did he want to know anything about me?”

  No hesitation, I spill my guts about the useless questions Charlie directed at me. “He waffled on about my car... how fast it goes... the color...” I tell him everything—leave nothing to chance.

  James appears from one of the SUV's and I almost gasp out with relief. Maksim will focus on him for a moment. He's as fond of James as he is of me.