Her Neglected Scars

TWO: To Punish the Brave One

When you dig your own grave, you better be ready to lie in it, but damn, this is one deep hole.

Bloody pupils that look and feel like it’s seen murderous things penetrated right through the small slats of the closet. He doesn’t move, nor does he stray his eyes away from mine.

Instead, his lips, captivating and sexy as they are stained with one of the guard’s blood, curved in a fascinated smirk. It was looking at something delicious to mock.

He knows I’m here and yet makes no move to find out or drag me the f**k out like any other normal people catching someone hiding themselves in a small closet would.

He doesn’t say a word and silence befalls the two of us, adding to the suffocation from being trapped in this small piece of furniture.

I want to get out. My instinct is telling me to run, like a small prey in the presence of a predator. He is a predator.

We both stay silent until a strained knock thudded on the door, as if the person behind it was debating whether to disturb the monstrosity that’s inside. That was only the time he looked away.

A bunch of bouncers, or bodyguards, or whatever those men in black suits were called, rushed in, pulling the rotting bodies off the marble floors and to the door.

How they’re going to deliver the corpses out without being caught by anyone dancing their hearts out in Eden is beyond me.

What I do know is that my heart is pounding hard in my chest at the mess I have walked myself into. f*****g i***t. I really couldn’t have picked a better room to run to?

Someone then whisks the mop around the muddy trail of blood in a hurry, like his life depended on it. Actually, his life might just be depending on it.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and stepped back once again when the man was mopping underneath the closet I was in.

Just when I thought he was about to walk away, my feet makes contact with the wooden door and it slowly creaks open.

God, why did you have to make me this stupid?

The worker looks at the stranger on the table, the very hot stranger who’s looking at me as though it was a call to f**k. “I-I’m sorry, I think there’s something in the. . .” he walks over to me and was about to open the door left ajar.

Shit, s**t, s**t. I just saw what happened to that guy. He’s not actually going to do the same to me, is he?

I mean, I’ve seen mafia movies and there are certainly tons of them in Britain, but this man, he’s far too menacing to compromise my life.

“I’m just gonna see if—”

“Leave it.” The stranger growled. It was not a request, it was a command. And like any other command, you oblige without question. That’s how much authority he exudes.

“Yes, sir.” They all turned away and left.

A moment later and the assistant stepped in, this time with another piece of folder that looks like an entire portfolio.

“She’s British, 22 years old,” he suddenly declared as though he knew exactly who he was talking about.

“She and her family migrated here in Russia. I believe her father’s stirring up plans to expand his reputation and build the business here.” The assistant looks up.

“He can try.” The stranger replied, his eyes glacial and all-knowing.

“-He’ll die trying.” The stranger added and looked back at me at the word, “die”.

Oh, come the f**k on.

By the way, who are they talking about? It’s a girl from Britain?

“She’s notorious for wrapping men up in her fingers and pulling intel out of them. Quite the skill, if you ask me. I bet you’d like her on your honeymoon.” The assistant laughed, but it soon died down when the hot stranger, who seemed like everyone’s boss, frowned.

Honeymoon and a girl.

It seems to me that they’re investigating a woman he’s about to marry.

So he’s about to be engaged . . .

Wait, why do I seem unhappy about it?! I don’t even know the guy!

However, all great s****l expectations boiled down to what he had to say next:

“Is she breedable?” he retorted, his voice echoed throughout the room.

My heart skipped a beat before it fell right down my stomach.

Screw it, he’s a jerk. An extremely hot one, sure, but still a bastard who’s full of himself. I wouldn’t even be shocked if he’s looking for a trad wife who does yoga and eats salad to look good all the time.

“W-well, she is fertile, I guess. I looked in her medical files.” the assistant coughed.

Ugh, that’s disgusting and violating at the same time. Poor girl.

“That’s f****d up.” He uttered.

“I figured you might want to know.” The assistant shrugged. “You’re that kind of man, afterall.” He added underneath his breath before rummaging back on the papers.

He’s that kind of man, huh . . .

I glance at the hot stranger only to find his red, bloody gaze already situated on me. I could feel my face pale as he sucked the oxygen out of my body.

He licked his lips.

“As long as she’s a good f**k, she’s good to go,” He muttered, all while his eyes penetrated through me. A powerful wave of both fear and arousal swept over me.

Somehow, this twenty-two British girl sounds exactly like me.

That would be too f****d up now, wouldn’t it?

***

“Wake up! Hey! This ain’t no hotel room!” I groan as something hard hit me on my sides.

I lift my heavy eyelids up to come face-to-face with a grumpy cleaning lady poking me with a feather stick.

My eyes roam the ‘bed’ I slept on last night. I stood up and instantly sniffled at the intense headache. I slept in this cramped space, the wood being my only pillow. What in the world happened?

I was seducing the new mayor and then got chased and ended up in this room, and that man. The stranger with the red eyes.

“Excuse me . . . ! Was there-I mean the man here—” I scratched my nape, the words stopping at the end of my tongue.

I’m actually not even sure why I’m asking.

She tilted her head in annoyance. “Where was the guy who used this room?” I asked, the British accent draped my words.

She looked me up and down before clearing her throat.

“I’m a cleaning lady, honey.” She replies, forcing an English accent as though I wouldn’t understand her in Russian. She turned around, a valid ‘you’re mental if you think I would know’ statement.

I sucked in a breath and left the room. There used to be blood of the guardsmen where she’s mopping but she doesn’t have to know that.

“Yebanat . . .” she murmurs. She’s also mental if she thinks I don’t understand that. It’s Russian for ‘f*****g i***t’

Thankfully, my things were discovered in the lost-and-founds. I thanked the server as she handed me my handbag. Taking out my phone, I cringe at the sight of the missed calls flashing on my screen.

“Forty-five f*****g calls?”

My mind lapses back to the reason why I was in the Eden Club in the first place. I was supposed to seduce the new mayor for intel about the money laundering casino he was planning to build in Tverskaya Street, the heart of Moscow!

Shit, s**t, s**t. I have nothing to say.

“Taxi!” I called as one passes by. I look at the window, my heart and mind racing a million miles per minute. I guess my punishment would take at least an hour in the Dark Cell.

But I came out of that closet with that extremely dangerous man alive, so maybe a few whippings wouldn’t hurt.

***

“You f*****g useless b***h!” I groan as another lash hits the center of my back. That’s where the old one was still healing. I’d need to use a thicker bandage.

The Dark Cell. Where every secret lies.

My knees hurt as I kneel on the ground. Both my hands are up in the air, shackled to the wall. This is where I’m the center of attention—at the center of the stage, but a little different from the attention I get at Eden Club or the opera.

This is hell on earth.

“The only thing you needed to do was get me some information about that casino!” another lash hits, leaving a heating sensation on its trail. The corner of my eyes begins to tear up.

“Now how the f**k will I get to enter the high circle, huh? How?!” Another lash hits as my father’s anger rips through the thin air. I clenched my teeth when this one was a lot harder than the last. My back arched away from the whip.

This is what they don’t know about Evangeline Bennington, the so-called “Bennington Princess”.

“What? Cat got your tongue? Maybe we should try cutting that off next time since you’re so adamant on talking back to the Mayor that you pumped him up to madness!”

Another lash. “Ugh . . .” I bite my lip to stop the noise from coming out.

“There goes the f*****g chance to get my hands on that casino!”

I’m dressed to the nines by all the make-up artists and expensive designers my father hired to exploit the beauty I got from my own mother, however underneath all the exclusive wool and fabric is a battlefield of old and new scars to hide.

A bloody testament of missions I failed to accomplish.

My father, Theodore Bennington, exhales and with etiquette, as if he didn’t just beat her daughter to death, wipes the beads of sweat on his hairline like the psychopath that he is.

He fixes his tie and looks down at me.

But what’s even worse is that . . .

“Your mother won’t be getting any food rations for three days.” He drops the whip in front of me.

With those words, my blood ran cold as I look down at the whip. For a moment, the pain of being lashed didn’t register. It was the hard fact that my mother would once again suffer in his hands.

The maids took off the shackles without a word. As if I was being splashed with cold water, I instantly rush towards my father with four hind legs. I couldn’t stand up, so I had to crawl.

“N-no . . . anything-anything but that, please. I’ll do anything. She hasn’t eaten last week! She can’t go on for another! Please!” I grip his legs as I plead with all I have.

Tears streamed down my face. All that whip wasn’t strong enough to make me sob, but this—this punishment is something I could never bear. Something she can no longer bear.

My mother is the only thing keeping me alive. I would have longed killed myself if I don’t have her as my mother. She’s both my savior and my demise. The sacrifice my father knows truly I will bend for.

“Oh, really?” He lowered himself as he gripped my chin tight. “Then you’re going to have to marry someone for me,” he murmured.

“W-who?” I asked, and he drops a folder on the floor, right in front of me. I slowly open it with trembling hands.

No, no, no . . .

Shit.

I was f*****g right.

The man of my nightmares—no, screw that. The man of everyone’s nightmares.

The hot stranger from Eden Club.

I’ll have to marry him?!