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He’s intensely attractive—with bronzed skin and moss green flecks in his eyes—in a way that tempts a secret part of me to overlook the fact he stole me, drugged me, and locked me away here.
And my body knows his eyes are gliding all over me with a heat to his gaze that feels impossible to ignore.
My arms fold over my breasts on reflex because, Christ almighty, I do not want him to see my nipples hardening beneath the thin material of this shirt.
Which brings me back to the very reason they’ve all let themselves in here unannounced and proceeded to bark orders at me in the first place. There’s an event at Noire House this evening, and I am to be their sacrificial offering for the night’s festivities.
Next to the three of them, I look homeless. What the hell kind of sorcery do they think I possess to get myself ready for a black-tie event with barely five minutes’ warning?
“So this is your plan?” I gesture around the bedroom with my chin. “Lock me away in here, keep me against my will until the moment I’m useful, like some sort of pet goldfish in a glass bowl? Drug me if I don’t comply, and then what…all have your way with me?” Those final words slip out without meaning to.
My mouth clamps shut immediately.
The atmosphere in the room flips in an instant.
I’m still not entirely certain they won’t try and force something, considering their plan to own me, as Thorne so eloquently put it. And that little outburst seems to finally snag his attention.
His head whips up, and those impossibly blue eyes drill into my own. I’m squirming inside my skin within a second of his scrutiny. Fuck, why couldn’t I just keep my mouth shut? Thorne flicks his cool, indifferent gaze down the length of my body. Judging me with every quiet moment he takes in my appearance.
Before speaking, he pockets his phone, then rubs his jaw slowly with his thumb. “That’s not our style.” There’s a hint of mockery in his voice; I’m certain of it. “If any of us need a fuck, trust me, we’re all well taken care of.”
His words slap me, hard. There’s no hiding the way my cheeks start to burn. I should be sinking to my knees with relief that they’re not interested in anything sexual during my imprisonment, so why, instead, is my skin currently crawling with shame?
“You want your mother’s memory protected, don’t you?”
At the mention of her, my eyes narrow. “I told you before to leave her out of this. Don’t you fucking dare—”
“Please. Go on. Finish that statement.” Thorne’s teeth clench, and a muscle in his jaw ticks with impatience.
“She’s innocent in all this.”
Raven makes a deep, threatening noise from his sentry point beside the door.
“If you want to keep her name clean, then I suggest you do everything we say.” Ice drips from Thorne’s tone; he’s brutally cold in his demeanor, and I see exactly the type of man he is for the Anguis. “I would hate for certain information about how your mother sourced all those children for your father’s empire to get out.”
By the time he’s finished speaking I’m ready to claw his eyeballs out. My hands shake, and there’s a violence thundering like a stampede in my stomach.
“She. Had. Nothing. To. Do. With. It.” It takes effort to grind out the words while attempting to keep my tone steady. My father was the sick, twisted general who deserved to lose his head. Not my mother. Not my mother.
We’re in a tense standoff. Them in designer suits, and me, drowning in the ocean of their threats and this goddamn shirt that belongs to one of them.
The Viking speaks up for the first time. “Put the fucking dress on. Or we’ll gladly drag you out of here in chains and parade you around in nothing at all if that’s the style you’d prefer.” For how lewd his threat is, his voice is smooth. Far too fucking smooth.
I don’t doubt for a second that he’d make good on his promise. The sick fuck would probably enjoy every second of my humiliation, too.
“You belong to us now, so we at least need you to look the part.”
I’m seething. Heat billows over me like a cloud at the insinuation about my appearance.
Fuck them all. They can do whatever they like to me, but I refuse to be belittled for the way I look. Not when these three men are the very reason for my current state of disarray. So, I do the only thing left for me: I rip the dress off the hanger and swipe up the bag of makeup they’ve oh, so generously provided me with and storm to the bathroom. Slamming the door behind me, I make sure to lock it before taking in my reflection.
My nostrils are flared, and my skin is flushed.
There’s murder and hatred etched across the light blue of my eyes.
Right then, I make a promise to myself. There is nothing Foxglove Noire will not do to get out of this mess.
These men want to own me and throw me back into that world? Then, they’d better be prepared for the moment I burn them all in their beds.
