D. Reynolds - Aden

Morocco, 1778

ADEN LAY BACK on the pillow-strewn bed and watched the Lady Na’ima finish dressing. He wasn’t supposed to know her name, wasn’t supposed to know that she was married to the second wealthiest man in the province. But Aden’s owner, Zaahira, was a smart woman, and this was her brothel. Whorehouses were one of the few businesses that a woman was allowed to own outright, and they were allowed that only because no man would sully himself with providing such a service. That didn’t stop those same men from using the service. Although if they knew how many of their wives made use of it, if any of them understood that Aden was far more than the bodyguard they thought him to be, those fine gentlemen might have been far more motivated to shut down Zaahira’s operation.

As it was, however, Aden’s particular set of skills was very profitable for Zaahira. She’d trained him personally, beginning on the day she’d bought him from Hafiz. For three years, she’d kept him as her personal toy, teaching him all the ways to please a woman. By the time he turned fifteen, Zaahira’s female customers had begun to inquire about him, and his mistress was nothing if not a businesswoman. She’d presented the idea to Aden with honeyed promises of money and gifts, but they’d both known if he’d refused, she would have simply ordered him to fuck whomever she’d wanted, and he’d have had no choice. He was a slave. Zaahira’s personal slave, perhaps, maybe even her favorite, but still a slave. The tattooed bands on both his biceps announced his status to the world, including the expensively-dressed ladies who showed up in the afternoons looking for the kind of attention they were never going to get from their husbands.

Zaahira knew the true identity of all of her carefully-veiled female customers. She made sure of it before she permitted them into Aden’s bed. Not because she cared that much about Aden, but because she cared that much about her business. Blackmail was the best kind of insurance for a woman like her to have.

Aden didn’t need Zaahira’s files to tell him who the women were, or even why they came to his bed. Half their time with him was spent complaining about their husbands’ many infidelities with both women and men.

Zaahira had never offered Aden to her male customers. It was mostly because he was too big, his looks too masculine, even when he was younger. Customers who came seeking that particular entertainment generally preferred pretty, delicate boys, ones who couldn’t fight back. But it was also true that Zaahira had a woman’s appreciation of Aden’s beauty—or so she’d always told him—and wouldn’t see him ruined by the kind of brutality those men favored.

Besides, from the very beginning, he’d been more than busy enough with his rich ladies . . . like the lovely Lady Na’ima. Soft-skinned and doe-eyed, she’d been married at fourteen, and now, barely nineteen years old, she had already been dismissed from her husband’s bed.

Na’ima finished dressing, pulling a heavy veil over her face before turning to him with a smile in her eyes, the only part of her face he could see. It seemed a ridiculous conceit, since he’d been buried between her tender thighs only a short time earlier, but if his ladies wanted to believe this candlelit room was too dark for him to distinguish their faces, who was he to deprive them of that?

For his part, Aden made no effort to cover his nakedness or to conceal his arousal. Lady Na’ima ducked her head in embarrassment, which only made him harder. He loved the power he had over his women, loved that he, a lowly slave, could reduce such fine ladies to begging for his touch.

He gave Lady Na’ima a wide, inviting smile, and he could almost feel the heat of her blush from across the room. She was the youngest of his customers, sweet and eager, and so very compliant. Tearing her gaze away from his body, she pulled her veil even higher and opened the door slowly, checking the hallway before hurrying out and leaving his door open.

Aden took his time getting up, unbothered by the open door. Living in a brothel made one very casual about nudity. He pulled on a pair of linen pants, tying them loosely and letting them hang down on his hips. Na’ima was his last client for the day. Afternoons were his busy time, his evenings almost always free. The female whores—and that’s what they all were, what he was, a slave and a whore—saw most of their business in the evening, when the fine gentlemen had finished with work and family. They came to the brothel seeking to entertain themselves with women who couldn’t say no, especially if their desire was to explore the more perverse practices. Zaahira gave her clients a wide berth when it came to such perversions. As long as the whore wasn’t left too scarred or too damaged to work, it was allowed… for a suitable fee, of course.

Aden changed his mind abruptly and stripped off the linen pants. He needed to get out of the brothel for a few hours, needed to feel like a man instead of a whore. By law, he was required to keep his arms bare, his slave bands in view at all times. But he was the son of a free man, the grandson of two free men. And on occasion, he chose to live as a free man. If only for a few hours.

He pulled on his finest clothing, which was very fine, indeed. On top of whatever they paid Zaahira, his ladies always left him a generous gift, and that money was his to do with as he chose. It was the only money that was his, since he received no compensation at all from Zaahira. She owned him; his labor belonged to her.

Dressed for the evening, Aden closed the door to his room and headed toward the stairs. He was almost to the door, had in fact lifted his foot to take the last downward step, when he heard the scream. He would often think of that moment later in his long life, would contemplate what might have happened if he’d left a few minutes sooner. But as it was, he heard a woman’s terrified scream and knew instantly who it was.

He spun on his heel and raced back up the stairs and down the hallway, passing the startled faces of both whores and customers peering curiously from half-open doors. The door to the small room at the very end remained closed, however. Sana’s room. Sana had been sold to Zaahira as a small child and had practically grown up in the brothel. She’d been a pleasing little girl and everyone’s pet, but there was no room for sentiment in Zaahira’s world. When the child had become a woman, she’d become a commodity. Thirteen years old and not even a month past her first bleeding, her virginity had been a rare prize and brought a high price for Zaahira. But Aden knew Sana’s fee remained high. She was very pretty and small and delicate in build. She appealed to men who were looking for someone weaker, someone to dominate and sometimes to destroy.

Aden threw the door open. He found Sana quickly enough. She was curled in a corner, sobbing and naked, her back bruised and welted, small drops of blood visible in the welts.

“You,” a man’s voice bellowed. “Get out of here. She’s taken.”

Aden’s head turned slowly. A fat man stood on the other side of the bed. He was completely naked, and in his hand was a thin-tailed whip, stained dark with blood.

Aden saw that whip, and a haze as red as Sana’s blood obscured his vision. He leapt over the bed and grabbed the fat man, wrenching the whip out of his hand before shoving him to the floor. Lifting the whip, he brought it down with brutal intention, intending to do to this monster far worse than what he’d dared do to Sana. The fat man screamed, but it wasn’t his cry that stopped Aden. It was Zaahira’s voice, her command carrying every ounce of her authority as the mistress of the brothel, as his lover and friend . . . as his owner.