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When we enter, he produces a key ring from his waist, and slides it in the little slot on my handcuffs. An audible click, and my wrists swing free. I bring my hands to the front of my body and flex my fingers, cracking the knuckles. I rub the tips of my fingers with my thumbs, wanting to give into my nervous habit, but one look from him and I know I don’t want to push this.
“Let’s see it,” he says. “You told me you’d stop fidgeting if I removed the cuffs.”
I stand up straight and inhale, pulling my shoulders back, staring straight ahead. I can feel his eyes on me, combing over my body. A shiver slides down my spine, but I don’t look at him. We’re almost alone, and he’s promised to exact payment for “my”—Calina’s—crimes. I have to distance myself from this. Put up a wall between my thoughts and my emotions.
My body.
I need to become the prostitute he’ll have me be to survive this.
I know without even looking there is no escape from where I am, or he wouldn’t have allowed me to roam so freely, but apparently, I’m taking too long. A split second later, he reaches for me, grabs my shoulder, and yanks me toward him. I stifle a yelp at the roughness of his grasp on me and brace for something—a blow? But none comes. Once I’m in, he turns from me and walks to another room without a backward glance.
I’m standing near the threshold, shivering, when his phone rings. He growls something into the receiver, then whips the phone so hard across the room it hits a brick fireplace at the far end and shatters into pieces. I scream in surprise, but he ignores me. Stalking to a sideboard, he takes two stout shot glasses and sloshes amber liquid into both of them, as if whipping your phone and smashing it to pieces then following it up with a drink is everyday business.
“Drink,” he orders, handing me one.
My hands tremble when I take the glass. I sniff the contents and my eyes water.
“I hate whiskey,” I protest. He doesn’t even acknowledge my protest, but lifts the glass and empties it. I watch, holding my own glass up to my lips. The very smell makes nausea roll in my tummy, and it strikes me as a bit odd he wants me to drink. I’m also curious what he’ll actually do if I disobey him, but not so curious I want to test him. I lift the glass tentatively and lick the contents.
I shudder when the fire hits my tongue.
“Eww,” I say with disdain.
His eyes narrow. “Over the next couple of months, while you pay your debt, you’ll be forced to swallow things you do not like, kisa,” he grits out. “If you can’t swallow a shot of whiskey, how will you ever be able to swallow much bigger things?” His lips twist into a leer, and the allusion is not lost on me. “Now drink.”
Kisa… kitten… his pet name for me.
I do what he says. I lift the glass, and drink. It burns and I sputter, my nose even tingles and my eyes water so badly my vision is blurred. But he makes a good point.
He takes my glass and to my horror, refills it.
“Again, kisa.”
The second shot goes down easier than the first, though I still cough and tears now run freely down my cheeks.
Taking the glass from my hand, he puts both of them on the sideboard, lining them up carefully side by side. He takes me by the elbow.
“You and I, with the exception of the servants allowed here with my permission, will be the only ones allowed in here. I take my meetings elsewhere, and no one but my cleaners and servants are allowed access to my private rooms.”
I nod. In the entryway, there’s a simple black side table with a small basket. He tosses his keys and wallet in the basket, kicks off his shoes, then wordlessly gestures for me to do the same.
I clumsily toe off my shoes and let them fall next to his. He frowns, bends, and line them up perfectly. I frown myself. Is he meticulous?
“Come,” he orders, half-dragging me through the main area. This is a bachelor pad if ever I saw one. A mammoth fireplace flanks one wall, the hardwood floor in front christened with a light brown bearskin rug. Recessed overhead lighting makes the room bright, everything gleaming in detail. The walls are a pale caramel color, sage green and ivory accents on the walls, wall art, and furniture. The entire floor is open, with a small kitchen, living area, and study, though his bedroom is off the main area.
Everything is impeccably clean, not a throw pillow out of place. Even the three huge picture windows are so clean, it looks as if there’s no glass there at all. I wonder randomly if birds ever fly into them, breaking their wings and crashing to their deaths.
