Read Online Tortured Soul by Kirsty Dallas, Ami Johnson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kirsty Dallas, Ami Johnson
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systematically destroying my soul.
“Would you like me to brush your hair?” Shakhta offered.
No one had brushed my hair since I was a little girl. The idea spiked a rush of excitement in me. “Yes please, Shakhta,” I whispered.
“Would you mind sitting on the ground here, I can sit behind you more comfortably then.” I slid to the floor and watched as Shakhta sat down behind me, his strong legs framing my small body. At the first sweep of the brush through my ridiculously short hair, my body trembled and a war broke out between my heart, body, and mind. The former two very much in favor of the familiar strokes, the latter was caught somewhere between shock and fear. He followed each stroke with a gentle caress of his palm and the tenderness was a reminder of all that I had lost. I shouldn’t be letting him touch me like this. Even though he believed that he too had sinned, the depths of his depravity had nothing on the things I had seen and done, but I selfishly wanted to cling to this moment.
I vaguely remembered my mother brushing my long hair. She would hum as she did so, one hundred strokes of the brush so that it would grow long and healthy or so she said. Back in the days when the most difficult things I encountered were sharing toys and being scared of monsters in my closest. Then following one warm April evening my parents were gone. God saw in His infinite wisdom that He should snatch them from B and I, leaving us alone and afraid. I had been a wistful, energetic child, and following my parents death, I stepped it up a notch. I was angry, confused and demanded the world show me some sort of beauty. I lived with defiance. I was stubborn, fearless and full of dreams. I left Claymont, I left B, and in my wake I left nothing but a measly note trying to explain my need for freedom. In an attempt to find that freedom, I found nothing but captivity. My body and soul had been taken from me, my heart shattered, and my search for proof that there was beauty to be found in this world, ripped away from me. I had lived an ugly life, surrounded by ugly people in what I had come to realize was an ugly world. But right now, in this one simple moment, I found a small glimmer of peace. As my eyes shuttered closed, my mind seemed to drift with the gentle rocking of the opulent yacht I was trapped on. The soothing strokes pushed the fear of the liquid depths surrounding me away, and for a single moment in time they made the ugly world I had lived in seem like a distant memory.
A low cough brought me plummeting back to reality. My eyes snapped open and took in a woman standing just outside the glass door that separated the elegance of the yacht’s interior from its exterior. She was tall, with a golden tan that made me instantly jealous. Her long thick chestnut hair was drawn back into a high ponytail, and her brown eyes were lined with thick lashes as they took in Shakhta and me. She was wearing tan cargo shorts with a fitted black tank top over ample breasts. I wasn’t jealous of the woman’s exotic beauty; I had seen plenty of beautiful women and I had been told of my own beauty often enough to believe it to be true. But beauty was skin deep and the toxic hate inside beautiful people tarnished the outside, so no, I wasn’t jealous of beauty. What did bother me though was the way she arched a brow in our direction and seemed to take in Shakhta with enough familiarity for me to realize they had some sort of a past. I was not oblivious to relationships where sharing was common place. I had been Jonas’ submissive; he had collared me, yet he allowed others to touch me frequently. Perhaps Shakhta had a similar relationship with this woman. The thought actually made a sick feeling coil in my stomach.
“Emily, this is Gabriella; she works for Montgomery Securities. Gabbie, this is Emily.”
Gabbie . She had a nickname that rolled off Shakhta’s tongue almost affectionately. And I had been delegated to Emily rather than
“Would you like me to brush your hair?” Shakhta offered.
No one had brushed my hair since I was a little girl. The idea spiked a rush of excitement in me. “Yes please, Shakhta,” I whispered.
“Would you mind sitting on the ground here, I can sit behind you more comfortably then.” I slid to the floor and watched as Shakhta sat down behind me, his strong legs framing my small body. At the first sweep of the brush through my ridiculously short hair, my body trembled and a war broke out between my heart, body, and mind. The former two very much in favor of the familiar strokes, the latter was caught somewhere between shock and fear. He followed each stroke with a gentle caress of his palm and the tenderness was a reminder of all that I had lost. I shouldn’t be letting him touch me like this. Even though he believed that he too had sinned, the depths of his depravity had nothing on the things I had seen and done, but I selfishly wanted to cling to this moment.
I vaguely remembered my mother brushing my long hair. She would hum as she did so, one hundred strokes of the brush so that it would grow long and healthy or so she said. Back in the days when the most difficult things I encountered were sharing toys and being scared of monsters in my closest. Then following one warm April evening my parents were gone. God saw in His infinite wisdom that He should snatch them from B and I, leaving us alone and afraid. I had been a wistful, energetic child, and following my parents death, I stepped it up a notch. I was angry, confused and demanded the world show me some sort of beauty. I lived with defiance. I was stubborn, fearless and full of dreams. I left Claymont, I left B, and in my wake I left nothing but a measly note trying to explain my need for freedom. In an attempt to find that freedom, I found nothing but captivity. My body and soul had been taken from me, my heart shattered, and my search for proof that there was beauty to be found in this world, ripped away from me. I had lived an ugly life, surrounded by ugly people in what I had come to realize was an ugly world. But right now, in this one simple moment, I found a small glimmer of peace. As my eyes shuttered closed, my mind seemed to drift with the gentle rocking of the opulent yacht I was trapped on. The soothing strokes pushed the fear of the liquid depths surrounding me away, and for a single moment in time they made the ugly world I had lived in seem like a distant memory.
A low cough brought me plummeting back to reality. My eyes snapped open and took in a woman standing just outside the glass door that separated the elegance of the yacht’s interior from its exterior. She was tall, with a golden tan that made me instantly jealous. Her long thick chestnut hair was drawn back into a high ponytail, and her brown eyes were lined with thick lashes as they took in Shakhta and me. She was wearing tan cargo shorts with a fitted black tank top over ample breasts. I wasn’t jealous of the woman’s exotic beauty; I had seen plenty of beautiful women and I had been told of my own beauty often enough to believe it to be true. But beauty was skin deep and the toxic hate inside beautiful people tarnished the outside, so no, I wasn’t jealous of beauty. What did bother me though was the way she arched a brow in our direction and seemed to take in Shakhta with enough familiarity for me to realize they had some sort of a past. I was not oblivious to relationships where sharing was common place. I had been Jonas’ submissive; he had collared me, yet he allowed others to touch me frequently. Perhaps Shakhta had a similar relationship with this woman. The thought actually made a sick feeling coil in my stomach.
“Emily, this is Gabriella; she works for Montgomery Securities. Gabbie, this is Emily.”
Gabbie . She had a nickname that rolled off Shakhta’s tongue almost affectionately. And I had been delegated to Emily rather than
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