Dedication:
To the one girl I can never have. The one
girl who haunts my every thought. The one girl who has me tangled up in her
every whim—every one of her ten fucking fingers and fucking toes. To the one girl I find myself willing to kneel for,
to give everything I have until my last breath. To the one girl, who can have
her thighs, locked around my neck and drink her very taste. The taste that has
me hooked. The taste, I yearn for.
To the one girl who belongs to another
man—a man who is unutterably fortunate. How I envy him, hearing how she can't
bear to be without him. Fuck. To the one girl who came into my life too late
but haunted my dreams far too soon. To the one girl who will never be mine, and
to whom my heart will forever bow in submission. To that one girl. I love you.
Book 1- The heart of surrender
Chapter 1
Kaius' POV
The sound of my knife scraping against the
fine china hurt on my nerves as I struggled to cut into the wagyu steak. The
dull edge made the act awkward, my table manners likely appearing clumsy to
those around me. My sharp gaze drifted to the woman seated across from me—my
business associate, and admittedly, something of a cheapskate.
Though the steak was costly, its preparation
was pitifully substandard. I longed for a chef of real caliber, someone who
could deliver a meal worthy of the price. This, however, was far from it. Not
another tiresome dinner with Madam Proché Vague, the infamous owner of The
Secret Lounge Brothel. To put it plainly, she trafficked in human lives. We
lived in an era where such depravity had become accepted, albeit discreetly.
All it took was a bit (lot) of money, and a person could buy another—a slave, a
puppet, something to control.
I forced a piece of the steak into my mouth,
my teeth grinding against the fibrous meat.
“The file?” I asked, eager to end this
miserable affair as quickly as possible. The undercooked meat was tough, nearly
impossible to chew, and I could barely suppress a sneer as I glanced down at my
plate. The meat was practically raw, blood pooling around it as if the cow were
still begging for mercy. Disgusting.
I heard the file land on the table with a
sharp thud, forceful enough to rattle the silverware in my grip. I raised an
eyebrow, not bothering to glance at it just yet. It sounded hefty.
I had bought girls before, read through their
files, though never at such a haphazard dinner like this. Usually, it was done
in more refined settings, surrounded by people too elite, too engrossed in
their own affairs, to pry.
“I want her off my hands,” she said.
I speared a forkful of overly salted mashed
potatoes, my movements deliberate, controlled.
“Off your hands? That doesn’t sound
appealing,” I replied, my tone flat.
"You enjoy a challenge, don't you?"
Her voice was soft, almost sultry, despite her age creeping into the sixties.
She had spent lavishly on herself—too much, if you asked me. She could have
done better with her choice of restaurant.
“I do enjoy a challenge,” I conceded, placing
the fork and knife neatly on the plate. “But your kind of challenge often
differs from mine. Still, I’m willing to listen.”
With that, I pushed aside any semblance of
pleasure from the meal, washing it away with a sip of wine. Now, it was all
about business.
My fingers tightened around the weighty file.
"Heavy, isn’t it?" I murmured to myself, but the elderly woman across
from me caught the comment.
"She’s been through a lot. It’s all
there in the file," she said.
“How many times?” I asked, keeping my tone
measured.
“Since she was teen.”
“Despicable,” I remarked with a sneer,
casting a sharp glance her way. At that age, it was still disturbingly
young—practically a calf.
“Orphaned,” she replied flatly. This was the
world we lived in now. The government had normalized prostitution, human
trafficking, and other dark enterprises. What had once been hidden was now
dominant, and society, disturbingly, embraced it. Poor girls were sold off to
wealthy businessmen and women, to be used at their whim. I was part of that
same system—buying girls, doing as I pleased. It was a new world, and we were
all its obedient dogs.
“Current age?” I asked, already anticipating
the answer.
“Twenty-six.”
“Retirement age,” I muttered
under my breath as I opened the yellowing portfolio that contained the details
of a single girl’s life. The retirement age begins at 25-30. They are too old
for anyone taste. She wants to sell me fucking expired goods.
The first page greeted me with a
passport-sized photo, but as I flipped further, the images revealed her fully
naked form. My lips curled into a smirk—remarkable, how stunning she was.
Her face was youthful, untouched by the years
I had expected. Her long, luxurious hair begged to be gripped, while perfectly
shaped brows framed her delicate, heart-shaped face. My gaze lingered on her
chest—her breasts were shallow, her breasts firm and perky. Her flat, toned
stomach tempted me to reach out and touch it. Her waist cut in sharply, a
perfect curve, leading to narrow hips and legs pressed together. Her pubic area
was cleanly shaved, forming a flawless inverted triangle that highlighted her
every feature.
Our eyes finally met. They were the last part
of her I had bothered to examine. Hmm. I shifted my gaze back to Madam Proché.
Her gloved hands, covered in matte black fabric that stretched to her elbows,
matched the glossy black dress hugging her apple-shaped figure.
“Tell me about her,” I said, my voice steady.
“The files are all there,” she replied
dismissively.
“No, I want to hear it from you,” I insisted,
with a growled.
She lifted her glass of white wine to her
lips, painted in a deep black to complement the rest of her dark, devious
appearance.
“She likes being in control,” she said, her
tone almost amused.
“In control?” I echoed, unsure of her
meaning. If anyone was in control, it was me. It had to be me. I didn’t spend
millions to have a girl dictate the terms. I owned them, ruled them, gave each
of my six (now five) girls their own duties—both in the bedrooms and beyond.
“The whip, the lash, the paddle striking her
until she bleeds—she’s accustomed to it. She craves domination, yet somehow,
she still manages to remain the one in charge.”
“So, she enjoys being abused?” I asked, a
smirk curling on my wine-stained lips. “She likes to be pushed around?”
“Indeed,” she replied smoothly. “Are you up
for the challenge?”
I shrugged, casually closing the file and
placing it neatly back on the table. The small, round table was hardly spacious
enough for comfort, barely fitting two. My patience was wearing thin—I needed
to end this dinner. With a glance at the white cuff of my shirt, I adjusted it
to reveal my expensive silver watch. I had to be home soon. My cock ached for
attention, growing cold beneath the restraint of my black suit pants.
“How much are you asking for her?”
“Two million. She’s a virgin.”
My hand dropped to the table, causing the
silverware to clatter slightly. I cast a glance at the unfinished steak, a
bitter reminder of Madam Proché’s cunning ways. She had once sold me a girl who
turned out to be a fucking handicap—a mistake that had cost the
girl her life.
What was her name? I couldn’t remember. It
didn’t matter. She couldn’t comply, and it wasn’t even about her will. I simply
couldn’t see myself lying with someone disabled. I needed my girls fully
functional—capable of pleasing me with their every breath. Fully sexy, fully
sensual, and fully aware that they were nothing more than my slaves. Submissive
in every sense.
Still, I had plans to marry one day, to leave
this life behind—but not yet. My cock was young, and it craved to experience as
many women as possible before settling down with a virgin, of course. After
all, a quick rinse of the blade, and it’s as good as new.
"Are you taking her?" she asked,
her voice laced with desperation.
"And why should I?" I replied
coolly.
“Don’t you love virgins?”
“Have you ever sold me one before?”
“No.”
She wasn't the only one I bought from, but
she's the main for a few, over the pass years.
“Then no,” I answered bluntly. “She’s not a
virgin. That’s just your little marketing trick to hike the price. But let me
tell you something, Madam Proché Vague—you know I could kill you. Once your
husband dies, many of us will be coming after you.”
“Well, luckily, he still has a few breaths
left in him,” she replied, her voice strained. Her fingers nervously left the
glass and found their way to the back of her iron-gray hair, which, under the
light, held a faint purple tint.
“Lucky for you,” I smiled. “But husband or
not, if I sleep with…” I paused, flipping open the file to find her name. It
didn’t matter to me, really. I rarely cared about names. They were usually just
numbered subs to me. But this time, for the record, I noted it: Violette
Madrid. She would be Sub 7, and that’s all she'd be. “If I fuck Violette and my
cock isn’t soaked in her blood, I’ll kill you.”
She swallowed hard before speaking. “She’s a
virgin. Just break her so I won’t have to deal with her again. She’s been
ruining my business with her smart mouth and taking up space.”
“I’ll do as I please,” I said firmly. “You
think I’m bringing her back? It’s my money. If I don’t get what I paid for,
I’ll make sure you pay for ripping me off.”
She let out a harsh sigh, a grumble escaping
her lips, which contorted with frustration. “Perhaps I should offer her to
someone else.”
“I’ll take her. Are you afraid?”
“Yes, for my life,” she admitted, her French
accent thickening with anxiety. “This girl… she’s very difficult to deal with.
The last thing I want is to lose my life over an orphan girl who’s worthless.
All she talks about is wanting to become a social worker to help girls like
herself.” Her voice grew more exasperated as she continued, her fingers
gripping the wine glass tightly. “So naive. Doesn’t she see how the world has
changed?”
“What?” I interrupted, cutting through her
tirade.
“When do you want her?” she asked.
“I’ll come for her this weekend. Have her
ready and prepped. And give her a little reminder about who she’s about to deal
with.”
“It really doesn’t matter. The girl is
impervious to threats.”
I chuckled. “You’re quite amusing, Madam
Proché.” My expression hardened into a cold, granite glare. “It wasn’t a
threat—it’s a reality.”
“I’ll do my best,” she replied.
I traced a slow circle on the table with my
finger. “The dinner was awful. Don’t let it happen again.”
She scoffed. “This is a five-star
restaurant.”
“Is it? Or is that just your self-delusion?
Stop being so stingy and spend the damn money.”
I gently pushed my chair back, and my butler
swiftly approached with my jacket. “I’ll see you this week. Make sure she’s
presentable.”
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