The Fates (Book I) - 2014 Watty Award Winner!

4.2 - In Hell

The woman extended a hand, to help Atria steady herself from the stumble. “Are you sure?”

Of course not. She was the opposite of all right, but it was none of this lady’s fucking business, thank you very much. Atria denied the helping hand, yanked the sharp heel from the crack underfoot. “Yeah.”

She couldn’t afford to say anything more, or to spend another second in that stunning woman’s presence. Staring into her stormy eyes seemed to have the effect of downing shots of a hundred different kinds of high-proof alcohol at once. Then going skydiving straight into a tornado. Or maybe the effect of everything was simply magnified, Atria mused, when her whole soul was broken and bleeding to death.

Either way, she had to forge ahead into the night, as ever.

When she finally reached the jewelry store—closed, of course, but with the big gold necklace gleaming like the sun behind the glass—she knocked thrice very firmly on the front door.

A man answered. He recognized her right away; she could tell. She’d noticed him eyeing her bare legs this afternoon, when strolling down this block with Eldor. Those very legs were at his doorstep now.

“The necklace in the window,” she uttered with no introduction. “How much?”

He raised his bushy brows. “My finest piece of gold…?”

“How much?” she repeated, hands poised impatiently on her hips.

He ran his hungry eyes across her thighs. “From you? Two hours.”

She smirked, dark emeralds in her eyes aglow, reaching to untie the belt of her trench. “Greedy pig. I’ll give you one.”

“Sold,” he breathlessly agreed as she strode in and shut the door.

Conveniently enough, there was a lovely bed upstairs; the jeweler dwelt in an apartment right above his store. Atria wouldn’t have minded the floor, but the bed felt good beneath her bruised and burdened back. Not that she ever spent very much time on her back, while in bed; missionary had a tendency to put her straight to sleep.

Either that, or to remind her of her first time—and her second, and her third, up to her hundredth or whatever. The master of the scary house had always liked to pin her down beneath his body weight and watch her pretty face contort in helpless pain.

Never again. Atria claimed the top now, nearly every time. And no bedfellow of hers—certainly not this jeweler—ever had complaints.

“Hour’s up,” she promptly announced at the peak of his passion.

“But we’ve only just begun…!” he groaned, groping to encircle her slim waist in his hairy arms. “You haven’t even taken off your shoes…”

“Bare feet weren’t part of the deal,” she stated, slipping from his grasp and reaching for her bra. “One hour. That was all.”

“Ah, well…” he sighed, one of his forearms resting on her lap as she fastened the clasp, “…a deal’s a deal. And yet…”

He shifted in the bed, suddenly brought his other hand up to her neck, his knucklebones against her jaw. “…what is a deal to me?” he whispered in her ear. “I’m not a man of honor… Just a greedy pig.”

For a split second, she was under him—buried beneath his body weight—he’d forced her down onto her back, in one swift motion—he was reaching to rip off her bra—he drew back for just an instant, to behold her helpless pain—for the sight would excite him, of course.

But Atria was not helpless, and she was not in pain. Never again. She maneuvered out from under him, more swiftly and more expertly than he had first attacked—the element of surprise worked in her favor every time—and in the next split second, she was back on top, stiletto heel grinding into his groin. He shrieked. In helpless pain. This, now, was exactly why she hadn’t taken off her fucking shoes.