He pulled on his finest clothing, which was very fine, indeed. On top of whatever they paid Zaahira, his ladies always left him a generous gift, and that money was his to do with as he chose. It was the only money that was his, since he received no compensation at all from Zaahira. She owned him; his labor belonged to her.
Dressed for the evening, Aden closed the door to his room and headed toward the stairs. He was almost to the door, had in fact lifted his foot to take the last downward step, when he heard the scream. He would often think of that moment later in his long life, would contemplate what might have happened if he’d left a few minutes sooner. But as it was, he heard a woman’s terrified scream and knew instantly who it was.
He spun on his heel and raced back up the stairs and down the hallway, passing the startled faces of both whores and customers peering curiously from half-open doors. The door to the small room at the very end remained closed, however. Sana’s room. Sana had been sold to Zaahira as a small child and had practically grown up in the brothel. She’d been a pleasing little girl and everyone’s pet, but there was no room for sentiment in Zaahira’s world. When the child had become a woman, she’d become a commodity. Thirteen years old and not even a month past her first bleeding, her virginity had been a rare prize and brought a high price for Zaahira. But Aden knew Sana’s fee remained high. She was very pretty and small and delicate in build. She appealed to men who were looking for someone weaker, someone to dominate and sometimes to destroy.
Aden threw the door open. He found Sana quickly enough. She was curled in a corner, sobbing and naked, her back bruised and welted, small drops of blood visible in the welts.
“You,” a man’s voice bellowed. “Get out of here. She’s taken.”
Aden’s head turned slowly. A fat man stood on the other side of the bed. He was completely naked, and in his hand was a thin-tailed whip, stained dark with blood.
Aden saw that whip, and a haze as red as Sana’s blood obscured his vision. He leapt over the bed and grabbed the fat man, wrenching the whip out of his hand before shoving him to the floor. Lifting the whip, he brought it down with brutal intention, intending to do to this monster far worse than what he’d dared do to Sana. The fat man screamed, but it wasn’t his cry that stopped Aden. It was Zaahira’s voice, her command carrying every ounce of her authority as the mistress of the brothel, as his lover and friend . . . as his owner.
“Stop!”
Aden managed to halt his downward swing before it landed on the useless bundle of flesh cringing on the floor before him. One thin lash touched the man’s pudgy thigh, making him scream as if he’d lost the leg instead.
“Out,” Zaahira snapped. Aden met her angry gaze with one of his own, and for a few brief seconds, he wasn’t sure he was going to obey. But then Sana whimpered, and he rushed to pick her up instead, dragging the sheet from the bed and covering her before taking her out into the hallway where all those prying eyes waited. He took her down the stairs to Isabel, an older slave who worked as Zaahira’s housekeeper and cook.
That’s where Zaahira found him, helping Isabel apply a soothing balm to Sana’s poor back, holding the girl’s hand against the pain.
“Aden.” Zaahira spoke from the doorway, as if afraid she’d catch something if she came too close. He shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. He’d thought if the brothel owner had feelings for anyone, it would be Sana, a child reared in her own house. But instead, she gazed at the scene with distaste, as if calculating how much money she was going to lose while Sana healed.
“Leave that,” his mistress said sharply when he continued to help Isabel. “Come.”
His anger was so great it threatened to burn him alive. Isabel must have sensed his rebellion, because she reached out and laid her hand over his, drawing his eyes up to meet hers.
“Go,” she said, her gaze filled with warning. “I’ll take care of her.”
His jaw clenched, but he gave her a short nod and stood to his considerable full height, drawing a small measure of satisfaction from the quick flash of fear on Zaahira’s face.
“My office,” she ordered, then marched down the hall, assuming he’d follow. Which he did. Anger still simmered deep in his gut, but he’d lived with that particular fire for so long, he’d long ago learned to swallow it and take on a suitable mask of compliance.
Zaahira stormed into her office with a swirl of silk and perfume. There’d been a time Aden had lived and breathed for the privilege of enjoying that scent. A time when pleasing Zaahira had been his only reason for waking every morning. But whatever charm she’d once held for him had been lost on the day she’d chosen to rent his body to others for money. Aden had been devastated, even as he’d scorned himself as a fool for believing in the affection and honor of yet another woman.
After all, if one couldn’t count on one’s mother, why would one ever trust the good intentions of a whoremonger, no matter how prettily she wrapped herself?
Zaahira poured herself a cup of mint tea, then sat and sipped feverishly, as if she needed the beverage’s calming effect. Since she was ignoring him, he strode over and slumped into the chair opposite hers without being invited. She shot him an angry glance but didn’t say anything, simply continued her zealous tea consumption until the cup was empty.
“You put me in a bad position,” she said tightly, setting the empty cup on a nearby table. “Rasim Ahmad is demanding recompense for the injury you caused him.”
“Injury,” Aden sneered. “It was a scratch. Did you see Sana’s back? He deserves—”
“You forget your place, slave,” she said. Her voice was cold, her eyes hard and uncompromising, and Aden was reminded that this woman was not his lover, not his friend. He was a useful piece of flesh to her, nothing more.
“Consider yourself fortunate,” she continued. “He could have demanded your life, but I persuaded him you had other . . . uses.”
Aden froze. Zaahira had never ordered him to service a man. He honestly didn’t know what he’d do if she ordered it now. Was his life so worthless that he’d rather surrender it than permit himself to be used that way?
“Rasim Ahmad is waiting for you in the black room,” Zaahira told him with a dismissive wave.
And Aden forgot how to breathe.
Chicago, IL, present day
SIDONIE WATCHED the van’s red taillights disappear as she hurried to the blacked-out Suburban idling at the curb. Aden was already in the back seat, the door standing open in invitation. Or command. One could read it either way.
Her steps slowed as she drew closer. On the face of it, this moment didn’t seem like much, but it was the point of no return for her. She’d seen what Aden could do, seen the exhilaration in his face when he’d killed those other vampires. Not that she had any sorrow that they were dead. They’d been the lowest of the low, selling human beings for profit.
But a small voice inside her head kept telling her she should be horrified by the violence she’d witnessed inside that house. And she had been at first. Maybe if the vampires being so brutally slaughtered hadn’t been the merchants of misery they’d been, if they hadn’t been responsible for kidnapping and selling human women and girls. And who was to say it was only human women they sold? Maybe they tossed a female vampire or two into the mix, vamps too weak to defend themselves.
But as she’d stood there watching in horrified fascination as Aden and his team systematically annihilated the very slavers she’d spent months trying to get someone to pay attention to, her overriding emotion had been one of vengeance met. And it had felt good.
Besides, there’d been more than violence in there tonight. Aden and his vampires had treated the freed women with kindness and infinite patience. There they’d been: five big, terrifying, capable warriors, and they’d cared for those frightened women as if they were their own sisters and cousins. It had forced Sid to view Aden in a different light. Not as a violent criminal, but as a protector. A powerful male who wreaked vengeance on those who would enslave others.
Even as she’d had the thought, she’d known she was once again romanticizing the situation. After all, Aden’s competitors for the territory probably weren’t evil people, not all of them anyway, and he’d just as happily destroy them, too. He was a scary guy, a total alpha male who asked for no one’s approval for what he did. He was nothing but trouble, and a very special kind of trouble, a vampire. And she was probably going to end up dead if she hung around him too long.
But that didn’t stop her heart from racing at the memory of his naked beauty, or the hunger that twisted her gut every time she looked at him. She told herself it was just one more night. That she was tired of being a good girl, and she wanted one more night in Aden’s bed. She wanted him fresh from the fight, bloody and victorious. She wanted more.
She stepped up into the Suburban without a word. Aden’s fingers closed briefly around her thigh, supporting her as she crossed in front of him to sit behind the driver. His fingers dipped to her inner thigh when she sat down, sliding up until she was sure he could feel the growing heat between her legs. She found herself hoping he’d touch her, that he’d ease some of the ache. But his fingers stopped a hairsbreadth away from touching her cleft where it strained beneath the tight shield of her jeans.
With a soft chuckle, Aden leaned down and kissed her temple, and she felt the wet touch of his tongue. The bastard was toying with her again. Sid stiffened in annoyance and would have put the short distance available to her between them. But Aden growled a warning when she started to move, lifting his arm and pulling her tightly against his side.
“Be good, Sidonie,” he murmured.
Her lips tightened, but she couldn’t hold on to the irritation. A satisfied grin wiped it away, leaving nothing but anticipation behind. She’d wanted an alpha male, and that’s what she’d gotten. She only hoped she survived the night.
Chapter Eleven
