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“I know, baby. That Stockholm syndrome is doing wonders for you.”
I laugh. Truly, wholeheartedly laugh.
“Bastard.”
And then my soul leaves my body.
I gasp when a slap cracks against my cheek, my eyes flying open.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Kayla?” His harsh voice startles me. “Wake the hell up.”
“I’m dying,” I say, all too seriously, as he wraps an arm under my legs, one at my waist, and lifts me up.
“You’re not dying. Your body is going into shock. A man just sexually assaulted you. It’ll do that to you.”
He stands up easily and strides across the room. The second we’re out, he calls a member of the staff. “Mr. Wynne is having a private moment with a friend of ours, if you know what I mean. Make sure his privacy is respected.”
The man looks at the way he’s holding me, not daring to ask a single question, and nods. Before I know it, we’re in the car, and while the dizziness is gone, I’m shaking and feel sick to my stomach.
I huff as he starts the car, pulling out of Stoneview Country Club.
“Don’t drive so fast. I feel sick.”
“You drank tonight and barely ate anything. I didn’t see you sip on water once. No wonder you’re feeling sick. And someone attacked you, too.”
I hold on to the door, not liking how quickly he’s driving. “Your logic is undeniable,” I bite out bitterly.
“There she is,” he chuckles. “I thought we lost you for a second.”
“I thought I was dying,” I snap back. I press a hand to my forehead, hating the shivers running through my body. “I feel like shit.”
“Seriously, with all the adrenaline you must have gone through in your life being part of the Kings, you don’t know what it’s like to be in shock?”
“That kind of shit never happened to me on the North Shore.” There. He did it. He pissed me off. “Being thought of as a whore, being attacked because some rich fuck thought he could just take what he wanted, having his fingers…” I shake my head, forcing the thought out of my mind. I can still feel them. “That never happened to me on my shitty side of town! Only since you took me. Only because of you.”
He accelerates, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. “Don’t, Kayla. He paid for it, and anyone who hurts you will pay for it with their lives. He was dead the second he made fun of you anyway. I was just waiting for him to sign the contract.”
“Anyone who saw me tonight at that restaurant had a reason to make fun of me and it’s your fault! You’re the one who took me out of my life and forced me into your fancy one, with your rich cunts, your contracts, and your pretty restaurants with fucking ercasgots!”
“Escargots!”
“It’s not my fucking fault I can’t read!” I yell. Steam is starting to cover the windows, and I press on the demist button. “Now fucking slow down!”
“Stop talking shit about yourself. You can read,” he growls. “You’re dyslexic.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are, and I swear to god, you’re going to end up in my basement again if you talk disrespectfully about yourself one more time.”
Where the fuck is this argument going? I thought I was screaming at him for changing my entire life for the worst. Now he is mad at me for talking bad about myself?
“So now not only are you keeping me captive, but you’ve found yourself a new hobby of giving me a diagnosis about shit you know nothing about.”
“It’s pretty fucking obvious, but I’ll make you see a speech therapist just to prove you wrong.”
“Stop making me do anything! And fucking slow dow—”
Whatever it is, it hits us at a violent speed.
