Page 42 of Kept 3
“So, you and Josephine are not yet sharing a bed?” Gerald frowns, raising one eyebrow.
“That’s none of your business,” I snap, receiving a hard stare.
In that instant, I realise I don’t like Gerald, or Jerry, or whatever the hell he wants to call himself, not one little bit.
“Quite right,” he murmurs, his smile not reaching his eyes. “Well, the servants can take my bags to any room you choose, Margarita,” he turns to her, “so be a good girl and get that organised.”
I hold my breath as I listen to his instructions. The Margarita I knew would have had a sassy comment, but this Margarita simpers and does as she is told.
Frowning, I watch her make her way back up the stairs and turn to follow.
“Wait,” Nicholas smiles, walking to me and taking my hand in his, “I want you to be privy to my discussions with Gerald, you can fill in the gaps for us about the hunter and his weapon.”
As he says this, I stiffen, I have a feeling, I can’t place it, just a very, very strange feeling, that this is not something I want to talk about with this Gerald prick at all. Picking up on my feeling straight away, Nicholas frowns and turns his head to the side, before smiling and releasing my hand.
“Actually, maybe tomorrow night,” he smiles at me, “a drink and a catch up with an old friend is probably what we both need now.”
“Yes,” I sigh in relief and turn to follow Margarita up the stairs. But I feel Gerald’s eyes on me the whole time, step by step.
“Margarita,” I say, almost casually as I stir the meal, “does Gerald make you, you know, can he make you cum just by commanding it.”
We are standing in the kitchen cooking dinner, Saut? de poulet à la marini?r, a saut? of chicken with clams and samphire. It is the second night of their stay, and we have fallen into an easy pattern of gossiping, as we once did, about our boyfriends.
“Oh God, yes,” she laughs, coming to stare down into the pot and bumping her shoulder against mine, “he does a lot more than that, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, he can tell anyone to do anything, and they would do it. He could tell me to jump off a cliff and I would – although he would never do that because he loves me,” she adds quickly.
“What?” I frown, “you mean he can control people with his voice?”
“Absolutely, can’t Nicholas?”
“No, at least not that I know of. I mean, he made me cum once with his voice, and I smacked him, told him to never, ever do that shit again.”
“You are craaaaaaazy,” she laughed, “Chiquita, if Gerald wanted to say that to me 500 times a day, I’d be as happy as a clam.”
I snort. I don’t think the clams I’ve just dropped into the hot sauce are that happy.
“But yeah,” I shake my head, getting back to my train of thought, “I mean, no. I don’t think Nicholas can do any other tricks. I mean if he could, surely he would have commanded me not to try and escape – and I’ve tried, what, three times now?”
“Maybe he likes the chase.”
“I don’t think so. If you could have seen his face the last time. I’m pretty sure ‘murderous’ is the right description.”
“You should ask him.”
“Mmmmm,” I murmur, tasting the sauce and adding some more salt, “maybe I will.”
“Has he taken you flying?” she asks, turning to sit on the bench and topping up her wine from the second bottle we have opened tonight.
“I haven’t left Ereston since I arrived,” I shake my head, “prisoner, remember? But he did take me on his train on the way here, only I was unconscious, so I don’t think that counts as a romantic journey.”
“No,” she laughs, “I mean flying,” and she flaps her arms.
“Fuck off!” I breathe, “Gerald can fly?”
“Sure can.”
