My Masters' Nightmare Season 1, Episode 1 Read online

  He moved the knife down to my neck. “I’m going to cut your ropes, but if you attack me, I will give you a blood necklace. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  He pushed off me then flipped me onto my front. He started muttering a prayer in Italian, one asking the Lord for forgiveness as he hacked at the ropes that bound me. Once finished, he rolled me onto my back and placed the knife against my throat. “Put your hands in the cuffs.”

  I looked above my head, seeing cuffs attached to the bed by chains. Swallowing, I put one on, then the other, which Jagger snapped shut. He then grabbed my feet and pulled them apart. What Frano had done earlier came rushing back, making me kick out, terrified that Jagger was going to do the same—or worse. He grabbed one of my ankles and sliced the knife across the sole of my foot. I screamed, trying to pull my foot away, but he gripped onto me tighter, yelling: “Stop it! Or I will cut you again!”

  I went still, no longer caring as I cried in front of him, the pain stinging, but the fear of rape worse. He quickly attached my ankles to the cuffs at the bottom of the bed. Leaving me spread-eagled, he disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a bandage, which he wrapped around my injured foot.

  He moved back up the bed. “You’re a strong one, but you will still end up like the rest: broken and sold.”

  I stared at him. I was here to break him, not to be broken. Or maybe by the end of this, both of us would be.

  He leaned down and kissed my forehead, then before I knew it, he was gone, leaving me alone with only my tortured thoughts as company. I closed my eyes, trying to push what had happened out of my head by imagining what I would do to Jagger—and Frano. Oh, I would hurt them both, but Frano the most. I would torture him, make him pay for what he had done to Matt, then when he screamed for death I would grant him it—but only after more pain, far worse than what Jagger had done to me. Despite everything, a smile once again pulled at my lips. Jagger was wrong, I wasn’t a masochist...

  I was my masters’ nightmare.

  4

  Jagger

  I stormed into Frano’s office, wanting to tear my cousin apart. He’d never interfered before, never undermined me, and had never made me look like a weak fool in front of a slave.

  Frano looked up from his desk, a smile spreading across his face, taunting me, making me even more furious.

  “Don’t you ever fucking do that again!” I yelled, heading for his desk.

  He pushed up, stretching to his full height, probably trying to intimidate me, to make me feel small. I was slim and of average height, five-ten to his six-foot wall of muscle, his frame one of a boxer’s like his brother’s, menacing and threatening, looking like he’d punch me in a heartbeat. But he wasn’t the brute of the family, Alberto was. That animale had tormented me as a child when I came to live with my cousins after my parents had been gunned down by a rival family. Alberto was seven years my senior, someone who should have known better, should have known not to hit a child. But it was Frano, the oldest of my cousins, who’d hurt me the most. He would seduce every female I showed interest in, then when they gave in, he’d discard them—like he did to my first girlfriend. I had loved her, a child’s love be it that, but I had, and he’d taken her to teach me a lesson: that all women would betray me, that they didn’t deserve my love, like I didn’t deserve my mother’s.

  I gritted my teeth, getting angrier as Frano’s smile widened.

  “Why are you so upset, cousin?” he asked, running a hand over his slicked-back hair. “I was just showing interest in your work. Isn’t it you who always berates me, saying I don’t care about what you do?”

  “You didn’t show interest, you belittled me. That woman laughed at me. A slave! What did you say to her?”

  Frano cocked a dark eyebrow. “She laughed?”

  “Sì! What did you say?”

  “Nothing about you, I swear on your mother’s grave.”

  “Don’t you talk about my madre!”

  “Apologies, Gabriel.”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  “It is your name, after all.”

  “You know not to call me it; you’re just being a cruel bastardo!”

  Frano moved around the table. “You are too soft, Jagger. That is your problem. My name belongs to my mother’s Croatian lover, yet I still use it.”

  I clenched my jaw, Frano knowing full well why I no longer used my birth name. That name disgusted me, and made me wish I could cut it out of my heart and mind. But he always used it to silence me, to push me down, to make me feel like that small child again. I was not the angel my mother named me after; I was what Frano’s famiglia made me—as well as the Donatelli, those monsters almost destroying me.

  Frano placed a hand on my shoulder. I jerked away and pointed at him. “Don’t touch the woman again.”

  “Oh, I will, and I will make her come again—many times.”

  I clenched my hands, willing myself not to punch him, because I could never win a battle against Frano, not only could he punch me until my face caved in, but worse, he could loan me back to the Donatelli, something I’d rather die than let happen. But I still had to stand my ground; it was the only thing that my cousin respected.

  “She is my charge,” I gritted out.

  “And an interesting one. Why did you choose her? Because she isn’t your type.”

  “She’s beautiful, that is my type.”

  “I thought you hated brunettes because of your madre.”

  I clenched my hands tighter. “I don’t equate all brunettes with my mother, especially not the women I am intimate with, that is sick.”

  “I think you do relate them to your madre. Do they scare you?”

  “No! It’s just a hair color.”

  “Then why is this woman the first brunette you have brought back? What makes her so different? Because she is different, nothing like the other whimpering women you bring me.”

  “She’s beautiful, isn’t that enough reason?”

  “There are a lot of beautiful brunettes out there, yet she is the only one I have seen in your chamber. So, tell me the truth?”

  I went silent.

  He smiled. “No need to answer anyway, because I think I know why you chose her. She looks like your first lover, only her hair color differing. Dye it auburn and you will have your teenage dream back.” His smile widened when I didn’t answer, because he was right, the resemblance was uncanny to the point that I almost thought it was Sophia when she first stepped into the bar.

  “Is that why you’re so upset I pleasured her?” Frano continued. “Does it remind you of what I did, what I took?”

  I clenched my jaw.

  “Your reaction is an answer in itself,” he said. “But unlike Sophia, this one is more interesting, very much so. I think I will use her many times.”

  “Don’t you touch her!”

  He placed a hand on my arm. “I will touch her however I please and you know you can’t do a thing to stop me.”

  I shook his hand off me. “Don’t touch me!”

  “It’s just a touch.”

  “You know I hate it, you figlio di puttana.”

  “Sì, I am the son of a whore, so that’s not an insult: it’s a fact.”

  “Sadist bastardo then!”

  “Says one to another.”

  “You made me like this, you and Alberto, and that vile Donatelli padre.”

  “Father Michael isn’t vile, you just hate religious people, and you’re lucky you weren’t killed for what you did to him.”

  “You believe what you will, because obviously my word means nothing.” I turned and walked out of the room, not allowing the past to encroach upon my soul again, or Frano’s denial to ruin what I’d fought to get away from. Father Michael had called me Gabriel, said I was his angel, his beautiful boy. But I was no angel; I was a devil, a sick monster like the Padre, someone who took even though it ruined lives and destroyed souls. But I couldn’t stop, I had to keep taking, because there wa
s no way I would willingly give Frano and Alberto an excuse to send me back to the Donatelli famiglia, where the Padre was waiting to avenge what I did to him. I would allow no one to hurt me like that ever again, no woman, no man—and no sick priest.

  5

  I headed for my bedroom, wanting to clean and get myself under control. I unlocked my door and entered the sparse room. I didn’t like adornments; I preferred simplicity, a place that was uncomplicated. Nothing touched the white plaster walls nor lay across the plain cabinets that Frano thought were bland, and only bleached white sheets covered my bed, everything simple and easy to clean, because no one was allowed to cross the threshold of my bedroom anymore, not even the maids.

  I stripped off my clothes and headed into the bathroom, wanting to wash away the argument with Frano. I slipped into the shower and turned it on, relaxing a little as the warm water soothed my muscles, which had bunched up in Frano’s presence, my anger always getting the better of me. I knew it amused Frano, but his smirking face made it hard for me to control my responses. I hated that he could make me feel like that small child, the one who’d walked into his home twelve years ago at the age of eleven, totally oblivious to what true cruelty was. I had thought my mother was cruel, the woman slapping me if I spoke out of turn or strapping me with my father’s belt if I’d done something that she’d deemed sinful, punishing me into obedience. But a belt to my legs and rear or a slap across my cheek was nothing compared to what I received at the hands of Alberto’s and Frano’s godfather, Padre Michael Donatelli.

  I sat down in the shower and laid the back of my head against the glass wall, allowing the water to run over my face. I didn’t want to think of the Padre, I wanted to think of the new slave, because Frano was right, she did look like my first lover, the resemblance uncanny. Was she related to Sophia? But Sophia didn’t have any relatives called Margarita, but then again, I was sure that the woman had lied about her name, because I knew liars and this woman was one. And there was no way I could look exactly like her husband, that was, if she was even married. Everything about her was off, even the contents of her bag. A ninja star? What kind of woman carried a weapon such as that around? I’d seen pepper spray and quite a few guns, a common thing in America, but nothing out of the ordinary like this.

  I got to my feet and turned off the water, wondering whether she was a plant, because she had been watching me, and not because I looked like her fake husband. Plus, the way she had rebuffed me was too intense, as though she was acting a part, or overacting it, because she wasn’t a very good actor, only her anger heartfelt, not her indifference. She was after me for a reason, purposely taunting me, and when she didn’t run from that room, succumbing to Alberto far too easily, a woman who packed a ninja star, it spoke volumes.

  I grabbed a towel and dried myself off, then wrapped it around my hips and headed for the cabinet above my sink. I pulled out a little bag and tipped some of the cocaine onto the sink’s bench, then stopped, not really wanting the effect it gave. Acid. That would get me through, help me bed Honey one last time, because that sweet woman made me feel dirty, the sex with her no longer satisfying, just laced with guilt. I pushed the powder back into the bag, licking my fingers to get the remnants off, then grabbed a couple tabs of acid, swallowing both, knowing one was enough, but preferring the stronger effect of two. I imagined Frano’s expression if he discovered what I was doing, my cousin so fucking controlling. He’d banned me from using, but he was one of the reasons why I did it: his demands, his constant orders for me to bring in more women, to train them to his standards... I was sick of it, I just wanted one strong woman who didn’t break under me so easily, who didn’t beg me like some weak puttana.

  I put everything away and headed out of my room, my mind on the new slave, on her face as she sobbed after Frano had taken her, then the anger that had followed. At least I could take comfort in that she didn’t want the bastardo, Frano not God’s gift to women as he thought. This one didn’t want him, she was after me.

  I headed down the passage, growing hard just thinking about how she took the pain, how her cheeks went red under my hand, and how she yelled at me, not quivering like the other women. I had wanted to take her right then, wanted to ruin her, but she was strong, I could see that, and it excited me—far too much, but I couldn’t take this woman like the others. Instead, she needed to be whittled down, made to feel small, made to beg for my hand to touch her lovely skin, for my tongue to enter her mouth, and for my cock to penetrate her, and I would succeed, because I was very good at my job.

  I descended the main staircase, and cut through the formal lounge. Apart from my room and the slaves’ quarters, the house was elegantly decorated, Frano’s taste in eighteenth century Italian furnishings making it feel like I was walking through the past, the rich tapestries and beautifully carved furniture along with the graceful sculptures and the grand chandelier all lovingly handcrafted from an era long gone, only the modern adornments of the television and stereo system spoiling the illusion.

  I indicated for the guard to unlock the new slave’s door as I headed down the staircase that led to her cell. I knew it was too soon to return after the slapping session, but I wanted to start working on her before Frano had a chance to undermine me again. The guard pulled back the bolt, not even giving my attire a glance, the man used to me walking in with only a towel on.

  As I entered the room, the woman instantly opened her eyes, her expression worried, the beauty probably thinking I was going to fuck her with the way I was dressed—or rather, undressed. Oh, I definitely wanted to, but I wasn’t here for pleasure, no matter how much I wished I were, I was here to do my job, the only thing keeping me from being loaned back to the Donatelli. I frowned, angry that they had asked for me again and even angrier that Alberto had asked Frano to let me go, which was all the more reason why I enjoyed fucking his wife, though, it was a charity in itself since Alberto gave her nothing, the animale preferring to rape my slaves than make love to his beautiful wife, something he did out of spite, because he never touched Mario’s women.

  I stopped in front of the slave, pushing my thoughts of Alberto aside. “I need to take you to another room,” I said, my eyes wandering over her naked body, her arms and legs still chained to the bed as I’d left her.

  Her eyes went to my towel, my cock growing in response to the delicious sight before me.

  “That’s not for you today.” I glanced back at the door. “Federico, I need you in here.”

  Knowing what I wanted, the guard came in and pointed his gun at the woman’s head.

  “He will shoot you if you attack me,” I said, releasing her legs. I moved up the bed, leaning over her body to free her hands. I glanced down as I undid the cuffs, taking satisfaction that the woman was now staring at my groin, my bulge tenting the towel. Once freed, her hands instantly went to her wrists, the skin looking red from where she’d fought her restraints.

  “Up,” I said.

  She looked at me wearily, then pushed to a sitting position, her cheeks still red from my slaps. I refrained from smiling, because it made me think about her other cheeks and how they would redden under my hand.

  “Follow me,” I said, heading for the door. When no footsteps responded, I stopped and turned around. She was trying to push up from the bed, her face in pain. I walked back to her. “What’s wrong?”

  “I have cramp.”

  “Where?”

  “Both legs.”

  I exhaled, then lowered myself to my knees, taking one of her legs into my hands. She flinched, although she didn’t fight me, probably realizing I just wanted to help. Not my usual job description, but I didn’t feel like dragging her out of the room, plus, if my cousin wanted to cause trouble, then I would intersperse some light into the woman’s dark world, making me look like the good guy, laughable as it was, considering I had kidnapped and assaulted her, but when hope was sparse people latched onto any kindness they could find, something I knew all too well.


  I started massaging her left leg, trying my best not to look at her pussy, my cock growing harder at the thought of entering her. I moved to her other leg, massaging it the same way, her flesh against my hands so erotic, the muscles not soft like the other women I’d taken. She was powerful. That ninja star came back to mind. She was obviously into martial arts, which meant she could injure me badly. It made me wonder why she was holding back, and why she willingly allowed herself to be taken, because she had been the one stalking me, not the other way round. Was she an assassin? No, she hadn’t hurt anyone. Or maybe she was biding her time, waiting for the perfect opportunity. That didn’t feel right either. I frowned, remembering the surname she had given me: Petrov, which was Russian. My mind started working overtime, the possibility of what I was thinking unsettling. Was she here to source information for the Black Russian? That made sense, because he had asked for a woman fitting her description, probably so she could be returned to his fray. But what information could she possibly get while being a slave? They were locked up, used and abused.

  I looked up at her. She was staring down at me, her face uncertain, conflicted, like she was fighting herself, not me. “All better?” I asked, wondering whether she had liked my touch.

  She opened her lovely mouth, although no words escaped those full lips, lips I wanted to kiss, or better, to have wrapped around my cock. My eyes moved to her breasts, her nipples so hard. I wasn’t sure whether it was because of me or just that it was cold in the room. I had purposely left the air chilled so she would start wanting my body to warm her own. And dear Lord, I wanted to do just that, because she was hurting me without even laying a hand on my flesh, my cock now painfully hard.

  I looked back up at her face. Both of her cheeks were flushed, betraying her arousal. I refrained from smiling, knowing this one reacted badly to arrogance, and if she was a spy, I needed to tread carefully, as well as making her fall for me, so it would be harder for her to betray me when she went back to the Black Russian. I wondered whether I should tell Frano of my suspicions. No, I’d keep it to myself for the moment, because Frano would probably take her off me if I relayed what I thought, and I couldn’t allow that to happen: she was my charge, my slave for the next few weeks, and I wanted every one of those days.