Constricted: Beyond the Brothel Walls (6 page)

His head shook, the long hair coming loose from his collar. “Give me a moment,” he said, his voice sounding strained as if he had something stuck in his mouth. I stared at his hunched back, noting it didn’t rise or fall with breath. That was probably because his body trembled. My feet stepped forward, but he held his hand up again. “This shouldn’t happen,” he whispered to himself.

“Petre,” I said, eyeing the door and wondering if I should seek help. When he didn’t answer, I ignored him and placed my hand on his back. “Whatever it is …” I paused to give him time to explain, but he said nothing.

He groaned as he rose and faced me. “It’s nothing.”
Liar,
the word popped into my head as if someone whispered it, but only I heard
.
“Must’ve pulled something. Let’s go to the table.”

The waiter, I assumed, waited for us at the table when we returned to our seats. My stomach flipped over what Petre hid from me, and those strange words popping into my head. Liar, I knew the term well enough, but French country baffled me. That phrase was new to me. Something was up, but I couldn’t pinpoint whatever affected him in the bathroom or the source of these words. We took our seats, and he pulled out my chair as the waiter spouted off the specials. My hands shook as he handed us our menus. Petre reached for my hand and smoothed over the surface while he ordered himself a drink; I chose water.

“I can get you something stronger if you’d prefer a glass of wine too.”

The thought of drinking alcohol never appealed to me. Most of the men who visited the house came in drunk or high on something other than lust. I declined and asked what he was ordering or what he’d recommend eating. I wasn’t about to whisper that I couldn’t read across the table. We’d pretty much eat scraps or broth unless the men brought us something. Us meant the other girls more times than not. With the expense of trucking in food, meat was scarce and too expensive, but I’d learned how to grow some vegetables in the small backyard. One of the regulars even brought pots for me to use and told Jules they were a gift. I’d paid for them, but he knew better than to tell the truth, and I was smart enough not to complain or tattle.

“Petre,” I’d whispered, leaning closer in my chair, but the waiter arrived before I could say anything. He smiled at us and placed a cloth-covered basket on the table, followed by our drinks. The restaurant held quite a bit of charm, and it was cozy. The checkered tablecloths and candlelight made it romantic too.

“The chef made those for the lady,” he said, pushing the basket closer. Petre gave a polite nod, but he didn’t lift the cloth. “Mademoiselle and Monsieur, are you prepared to order?” he asked in his thick accent, but I didn’t inquire about where his was from. For all I knew, it was one of the languages Petre had spoken about, and I hadn’t needed any help feeling more insecure.

“Deux Créma of Chanterelle soupé, s’il vous plait.”
I blinked at the smoothness in his voice. The syllables rolled off Petre’s tongue. Fingers dropped, lacing into mine, and he’d flashed a charming smile that made my heart flip. I swore he’d read my thoughts though. Soup, at least I thought that was what he’d ordered, I could eat. “And if it isn’t too much trouble, could you move us to a booth?”

The waiter nodded as he scanned the small dining room. He told Petre it would take some time, but they’d accommodate or something. I didn’t follow all the conversation and kept my eyes on our connected hands. Another thing I hated; his hand comforted me. The contact stirred emotions and feelings I didn’t understand. His touch, on the train, when I had no idea who he was, I’d wondered what it felt like. The touch of a man typically made me queasy, but not his. My belly tugged, and my skin prickled in anticipation of his icy hands.

Cold, snow, ice, blustering, those were all words I related to even if he did melt my defenses. He held power over me, and even though I was afraid, Petre showed me how to let go. The voice in my head kept screaming at me to hold back, and I tried to listen. When those lips touched mine or his hand caressed my skin, the voice floated away, drowned out by the sounds of my thundering heart beating against my ribcage.

“Why a booth?”

“You’ll see, honey.” He shook his head, grinning wide. I bit my cheek to keep my eyes from rolling. I was happy with Korri. “See nothing fits. You are above all of those terms.”

“I told you not to worry about it,” I said as the waiter returned. Petre pulled out my seat, and the man led us to our new table. The booth was a tad more comfortable, and the leather formed around my achy body. When he sat down, Petre slid in next to me and wrapped his arm around my shoulder.

“See,” he said, placing a kiss on my forehead. I turned my head, and he dropped his lips to mine. The tingling spread from my cheeks down to my toes. Yes, I couldn’t deny it; his lips were dangerous. My stomach groaned; it wasn’t buying that his lips weren’t food as I nibbled on his bottom lip. “Eat some bread; your stomach is making an awful racket.”

Bread, he nudged the basket toward me, and I had a name to go with the food the chef prepared. I’d heard the word before, but I’d never had it. As hungry as I was, I didn’t move. My head rested on Petre’s shoulder, and I stared up at his sculpted jaw. The smooth, pale surface begged me to touch it, to hold it in the palms of my hands. His lips twitched as his jaw flexed; the conclusion I kept coming to was that he knew my thoughts. That might become a problem down the road, but for tonight, I wouldn’t press him. Tonight, I wanted to enjoy my birthday just in case tomorrow the bubble of my new life busted in my face.

My fingers danced over his chest. Petre’s heart didn’t hammer like mine, and the iciness radiated through the cloth. “Yes, this is much better.”

The strange clicking noise happened again as I reached for the breadbasket. My head cocked. The sound seemed to come from behind him this time. Petre excused himself, but his speech sounded muffled as he hightailed it from the booth. He moved faster than I’d ever known someone to move and covered his mouth with his hand.

My head tilted, expecting to hear the sound again, but there was nothing. I shrugged, removing the fabric covering the woven basket, and removed a small roundish morsel. Stress and exhaustion came to mind, and I had written the oddities off. Besides, I hadn’t lied earlier when I said I was starving. Warm, but not too hot, and the outside was firm. I broke open the bread. The smell was sweet and earthy, and my mouth watered before I took a bite. Just a small nibble, after all he had given me permission to eat.

Warm and chewy was my first thought, but rich and sweet at the same time. I took a sip of water to wash the nibble down, and tried another bite. This time I slathered on some of the white stuff sitting in the basket. Heaven collided in my mouth as the sweet and salty spread melted on my tongue. Even with chewing slowly, enjoying each tender bite, I realized I’d eaten half the basket.

While he was gone, the waiter brought the soup in large bowls. They were large enough to hold a week’s worth of my soup rations. Training told me to wait for him, but my stomach growled despite the bread I’d wolfed down. I stared at the steaming bowl of off-white soup. Under the candlelight, the color almost passed for grey, and chunks of vegetables –ones I’d not seen before- floated. I scooped some onto my spoon and blew gently. My lips parted, and I allowed the soup to roll over my tongue.

I moaned as the explosion went off in my mouth. Flavors collided, and I couldn’t name any of them, but the soup was earthy and tangy. Perfection in a pot; none of my soups ever came close to tasting this sinful.

“Do that again,” Petre said. His voice sounded hoarse, and his eyes glazed. I collected another spoonful, and blushed as I felt him watching me. The clicking sound returned as I moaned again. He motioned for me to continue, either ignoring the noise or he hadn’t heard the loud crack. “You are killing me, Korri.”

My eyes widened, and I dropped my spoon onto the table. The metal clattered against the side. Soup spilled, and I eyed the splatter, chiding myself for the waste. “I’m sorry,” I said, toying with the napkin in my lap and wincing as I awaited his wrath.

He moved closer, touching my thigh with his hand. My breath held, and my jaw tightened. Despite the chill, my belly tugged. My head swam trying to comprehend his touch. Would he strike me or not? “Don’t be sorry,” he whispered into my ear as my brow scrunched up in confusion. I didn’t understand; if I was killing him then shouldn’t I stop? What of the soup? His fingers squeezed my thigh, moving slightly over the velvet of my dress. “Eat.”

I did as he said, and continued to eat, although I toned down the moaning. His hand remained glued to my thigh, and I felt his breath on my neck. My belly set on fire, and each tickle or squeeze stoked the building heat. Eating became the last thing on my mind, and the soup did little to fill me.

“Why aren’t you eating?” I noted his bowl was still full. He hadn’t eaten on the train either, unless he’d grabbed something while I slept. Granted, he could’ve eaten before we left, but that seemed silly too.

His hand shook as he reached for his spoon. I frowned at the loss of him, and a chill swept over me. “You like the soup? It’s a type of mushroom.”

“Yes, I think it’s the best.” He blew on his spoon even though the soup had cooled. I glanced away, but caught him pouring the contents back into the bowl.

His brow lifted as his eyes closed. The spoon clattered into the bowl, and he turned to me, opening his eyes. “This is happening much too fast.” Those eyes glowed eerie silver, and my heart pounded in response. “Please don’t be frightened.”

“Petre …” I scooted away to the edge of the booth. My eyes locked with his. Part of me wanted to glance away, but I couldn’t stop staring. This couldn’t be happening, right? Right, this must be a dream. The mushrooms … I was seeing things because of the mushrooms. “You … you’re …”

“A monster?” he finished my stuttered sentence and dropped his eyes to his hands. “I know.”

“Eyes are glowing—”

His head whipped up. “You weren’t supposed to see …” Petre’s mouth spread into a smile, his skin cracking and changing from white to grey. My breath sucked in sharply as four fangs jutted from his gums, tinted pink with blood. My heart hammered as he reached for my arm. I screamed and pulled it away, calling for help. “You shouldn’t see them,” he shouted. I saw, clear as day err night. Two enormous silver eyes. I yelled again. Fangs. My eyes were as wide as saucers. I had no name for what I saw.

We were alone; the waiter and light-haired man weren’t there to save me. I stood, grabbing my coat from the hook, and ran for the door. Petre didn’t follow me. I glanced back to double check, and I heard him call my name. Fists pounded on the door, but it refused to budge. Tears ran down my face, and I shook my head as I
pulled
the door open.

“Korrigan.”

Shoes clicked against the sidewalk, and I glanced over my shoulder as I hurried away from the restaurant. Run, my brain screamed, run faster. The icy wind cut right through my dress, and I tossed my coat on to ease the bite. My feet slid on the surface, unaccustomed to wearing dressy shoes, but I pushed myself as hard as I could. I heard him, the clicking sound echoing in my ears, calling me back. Glancing over my shoulder, there was nothing there but a few people out for a stroll, staring at me.

I should’ve turned, screaming for help, but what if they were monsters too?

Humans didn’t have sharp teeth; humans didn’t have teeth that extended from their gums either. Petre wasn’t human. I didn’t know where I was headed or what would happen. My lungs burned by the time I reached the end of the street. I stopped, placing a hand on a street sign and using it as a brace as I caught my breath.

He was not a monster. What did he mean I was not supposed to see? I chewed on my cheek and clenched my cramped stomach.
Damn it, I wanted to know.

Petre could’ve harmed me, or whatever he did with those teeth, on the train. Why bring me to his home and give me everything if he meant to kill me? My heart rate settled, and I turned around. He hadn’t even followed me. My legs shook with each step, and even though my brain screamed to leave, I couldn’t. I reached the restaurant door and took a deep breath. His coat still hung from the hook.

“Please let me be right, God,” I prayed as I swung the door open, and walked slowly back to our table. Petre’s head lay on top of it; the food pushed to the floor. The bowls were shattered, and the grayish goo spilled on the surface.

“Petre,” I whispered through my quivering lips. His silver gaze widened as he lifted his head. Pink streaks blinked from his eyes as he smiled again.

“You came back,” he whispered, but I heard his words.

I swallowed and nodded. “You’re not a monster, Petre.” He opened his mouth to speak, but with my newfound courage I stopped him. “No, you listen.” My eyes locked with his, and I stepped over the spilled soup, lifting my long dress. “I know the monsters of this world, and you are nothing compared to the demons I’ve faced.”

“You know about the demons?” If he had meant evil then yes, I knew about the demons. Petre cursed but inched closer to the edge of the booth. His head and shoulders curved downward. “I drink blood; that’s sin.”

My gaze flickered to our surroundings. Now or never whispered into my ear. Either I faced him, or I ran again, and one of those options ended in death. I sucked in my breath as Petre’s shell cracked away. He reminded me of a small child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Yet he’d stolen out of hunger even though the cookies belonged to another.

“You know what Jules did to me?”

“Not at first.” His gaze fell to the floor, and his shoulders slumped. “The marks, I can guess now.”

His voice mimicked the same little boy. But how had he watched me, as Mellissa said, and not known the truth? My eyes narrowed, and my finger shook at him. “You had no idea he did those things?”

“Not to children, not to you,” he said. Pain flickered across his face, and I inhaled sharply; I believed him. “I knew Hampshire house as a brothel, but I saw how well he treated you and thought …”