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Without the collar, I had a chance, although not much of one with Arturo downstairs. But if I could get to the elevator before Martin, if the door closed quickly enough, I could make a run for it. If Arturo took pity on me, I would run. I would run and never look back.
Martin’s lips slowly curved. “Very well.” He set me away from him and rose.
My heart racing in anticipation, I watched him dig in his pocket. He withdrew the key.
“You may stand, my dear.”
I stood but kept my chin down. The flare of defiance in my eyes would give me away.
“Don’t make the wrong choice.” He brushed my hair aside. “I’m happy to give you a little freedom, but use it wisely, or my wrath will extend farther than you can even imagine. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said.
He meant my sister and Barry. I couldn’t run and keep them safe unless I ran to someone who had power over him. And the only person I knew Martin feared was his father.
Martin inserted the key. When the two sides of the collar separated, I let out a real moan of relief.
“Show me your appreciation.”
And I did.
Pretending I desired him, I went up on my toes. Twining my arms around his neck, I kissed him. He stood still at first, letting me do all the work. But as I stroked my tongue to his, he grabbed my ass and rocked me over his erection. I grabbed his ass too, squeezing hard.
Martin broke the kiss, murmuring his appreciation along my jaw and into my hair. “Beautiful, my darling,” he murmured in my ear.
Forgetting the rules in my haste to bring this—him—to completion, I slid my hands upward, touching his back, and encountered the ridges of his scars. Hard to believe, but he had more than me.
He stiffened.
I braced for the blow sure to come, but not fast enough. My head snapping back from the force of his open palm, I ended up on the floor on my ass.
“I’m sorry.” I put my hands up in the air. “I forgot.”
Strader had Martin whipped to within an inch of his life for having sex with his daughter. As a result, one of Martin’s many rules was to never look at or touch his back.
“Not sorry enough.”
His eyes broadcasting retribution, he picked up the discarded collar, and I couldn’t stop the tears that spilled from my eyes as he refastened it.
I was trapped. Stuck playing this role, subject to his whims, his twisted games, forced to endure the abuse.
I had only myself to blame. I’d gotten myself here, and I had to get myself out.
Several weeks later
“Come in, my dear,” Martin crooked his fingers, and I entered his office.
His back to the wall, he sat in a leather chair in the penthouse apartment that was much like the one in his office at Winston’s. But no stylish black-and-white photos hung here. Instead, a large painting of a turbulent ocean and a dark night sky dominated the wall behind him.
I now knew an interior designer his mother had hired was responsible for the decor. The decorator was the reason there was warmth in the space. It certainly didn’t radiate from Martin.
While he watched me with a cool stare, I set his drink on top of his glass-topped desk with the draft-table style base. I kept my gaze downcast.
It had been weeks since the terrible day Miranda had discovered me. Weeks of excruciating waiting, watching, and biding my time.
“Sit down.” He gestured to the highbacked upholstered chairs in front of his desk. As usual, I chose the one closest to the door.
“Is everything okay?” I asked, perched on the edge of the rust-colored cushion.
