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“Obviously not.”
“Then off.”
My face flames. It’s not like I haven’t taken off my panties for him before, but I can feel the damp pad against my skin, and there’s something extra humiliating about letting him see that.
“Now, Deirdre.”
Oh, screw it. He’s not going to leave me alone until I do it. Letting out a huff of irritated breath, I shove my panties down and then I step out of the whole heap of clothing, keeping my arms crossed tightly over my chest as I do it.
Elio’s gaze falls to the bloodied pad, and the muscles go rigid in his jaw. When his eyes lift to mine, I inhale sharply, because his gaze is so fierce and heated it feels like a physical touch. That look claims me with just as much need and force as his cock did earlier, and I hate the way my insides curl needily in response.
Scowling, I stoop and swipe the panties and pad up, hustling over to the garbage can. I’m about to toss it all in when Elio stops me with a word.
“No,” he says, his voice thick with something I can’t identify. “Not the panties.”
I peel the pad off and throw it away, keeping the panties in my hand. I didn’t position the pad far enough forward when I put it on earlier, and there’s a small area of now-dry blood remaining on the underwear’s fabric. A damning splotch of dark red on the white cotton.
Shouldn’t have worn white underwear when I’m bleeding. That’s just asking for trouble.
“Now to me.”
I look over to see Elio with a hand outstretched, eyes hungry.
Of course he wants them. Of fucking course he does.
“You have a serious panties fetish,” I say, shaking my head.
“Nope,” he responds, not appearing even the slightest bit embarrassed by this situation. “Just a Songbird fetish. Now hand them over.”
I make a fist, crumpling the fabric possessively in my hand. In Elio’s twisted brain, these ones have to be extra special. They’re the ones I wore right after he claimed my virginity. They’re marked with my blood.
“What are they worth to you?”
Something flashes in his eyes. I can’t tell if he’s surprised or impressed, but either way he recovers quickly.
“We’re back to bargaining, are we?” he asks.
“Yup,” I reply. As insane as it is, it feels safe here. Safe in the dangerous place where I still owe him millions. Because money is just money.
But marriage is…
Elio shrugs his good shoulder. Then he turns and takes out a couple of bottles from under the sink, squinting at the pretty fonts with so much focus it’s as if they’re written in a foreign language. He must have found what he’s looking for, though, because he takes one of the bottles – a container of bubble bath – over to the tub and turns on the water. He bends to put in the plug, then unscrews the bottle’s cap, dumping some of the bubble bath liquid into the roiling water. Scents of vanilla and lavender bloom in the air.
Elio puts down the bottle then turns back to face me. I’m extremely aware of my nakedness, and I clutch the panties in front of me like some kind of shield. I want to dive into the protection offered by the thick layer of bubbles forming in the tub, but I’m strong enough to at least finish out this conversation first.
“So?” I ask, and I want to freaking applaud at the way my voice doesn’t shake. “How much?”
Elio rubs the scarred part of his jaw as he stares at me, his look calculating. I wonder what mental tallies he’s conducting in that messed-up head of his. Which sums he’s putting up against which others. Blood and money and what it’s all worth.
“All of it,” he suddenly says as he holds out his hand once again. “The entire sum of your debt. Null and void.”
He says it so casually. Like he didn’t just make a bomb go off in my brain.
“What?” I breathe the word, sucking it in on a hissing inhale. I narrow my eyes at him, because I know him and I’m certain there has to be a trap in here somewhere.
His face gives nothing away. He takes one huge step towards me, plucks the panties from my hand, then says, “No point in owing millions of dollars to myself. What’s yours is mine and all that jazz.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
