I nod at his suggestion. I don’t have any other choice. It is either accept his invitation or blow my cover that Megan isn’t my target. If I announce she isn’t mine, Joseph will claim her as his in less than a nanosecond. I don’t know why, but that bothers the fuck out of me. Megan isn’t mine, which I don’t mind, but she isn’t Joseph’s either, which I find greatly pleasing.
“She will eat with us, but she will not thank you for the meal.”
Joseph’s eyes snap to mine, the violence in them picking up. “She’s not doing it to be rude. She’s been summoned to silence as penance for an earlier wrongdoing.” Because not all my reply is a lie, it presents as honest.
Joseph quivers, news of Megan’s muteness enticing an unusual response from his body. “Come, bring her in. We will have Scarlett serve us.” He slides a hotel key across the counter. “She is also in training. Perhaps you can take her for a spin after we eat?” His eyes expose a question his mouth failed to produce:Then perhaps you’ll consider sharing your new toy?
His unspoken words have more impact than his spoken ones. It frees the chaos from my mind, finally allowing me to see things clearly. Megan isn’t my pawn. She is a toy, a new plaything for me to explore. She’s not like the dolls I usually play with. She’s more feisty—more real.She challenges me. Just the way she snuck the blade into her pocket earlier today proves this. She will be a fun way to occupy my mind until the real game begins.
“Yes?” Joseph verifies, interrupting me from my delicious thoughts.
Smiling to hide my sneer, I confirm, “Yes.”
Mistaking my validation as agreement with his unspoken question, Joseph’s eyes light up.
It is foolish move on his behalf, one I plan to exploit.
* * *
Unknowingly,Megan plays the part of a captive well. She bows her head when Joseph’s slave serves her food and waits to eat until she is instructed. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear she has been enslaved before. She is nearly a spitting image of Scarlett: same light brown hair, bright hazel eyes, and sultry figure. The only difference is she sits at Joseph’s side instead of at his feet as Joseph commands of Scarlett.
Scarlett must be a few years into Joseph’s game, as she doesn’t flinch at his sharp tone or cower when he raises his hand in anger. Megan is on the other end of the spectrum. She spends more time silently begging to be excused than she consuming nutrients. She looks uncomfortable, as if the razor in her pocket is weighing down her morals.
I really wish she would express herself freely. Joseph may be an acquaintance of my father’s, but I don’t owe him anything. If Megan wants to slit his throat because he inappropriately grabs her every time he thinks I’m not looking, she can. I won’t hold it against her.
Joseph, on the other hand. . . he needs to be reminded of the rules. Whether it is true or not, as far as anyone is concerned, Megan is mine, so Joseph has no right to touch her. Especially not directly in front of me. I don’t know if he is aware of my recent incarceration, or he has forgotten who raised me, but his insolence cannot go unnoticed for a second longer.
After placing an empty glass of red wine on the cozy four-seater dining table Scarlett set up for our impromptu gettogether, I tap a napkin at the Bolognese sauce in the corner of my mouth. The instant the stained napkin lands on my half-consumed meal, announcing I’m finished, Megan’s eyes lift to mine, her plea more apparent than ever.
I suck in a deep breath, relishing the panic rising off her before asking, “Are you ready to call it a night?”
She nods before half the words leave my mouth. I’d scold her impatience if I didn’t find it endearing. Her eyes have never been so wide, her scent more provocative. Precum has seeped into my jeans many times tonight from the frightened lamb look she’s given me. There’s just one difference between her scared expression and the dolls I generally play with. She doesn’t want Prince Charming to ride in on a white horse and save her. She wants an imp on a stallion, a monster who will slay the dragon before drinking its blood. She wants a massacre, and that is precisely what I will give her.
“Go with Scarlett and grab your coat.” My voice is husky with need, raw with desire.
Megan peers up at me, wordlessly announcing she didn’t arrive with a jacket. I shouldn’t love how easily I can read her, but I do.
“Go grabmycoat then—”
“Scarlett, get the man his things!” Joseph roars, scaring the living hell out of Megan. She snaps to her feet in an instant, her body responding to his command before her brain can register it wasn’t directed at her.
When Megan locks her wide eyes with mine, I nudge my head to the only exit, advising Megan to go with Scarlett. She is so eager to leave, she barges past Scarlett before sprinting down the dark corridor. I wait for her pounding heart to stop ringing in my ears before swiveling my torso to face Joseph head on. His eyes are planted in the direction Megan and Scarlett just went. If his eyes held the same disdain they did every time Scarlett was in his presence, I could pretend he was eagerly awaiting her return. Unfortunately for all involved, I know what caused the crinkle to his top lip and the pungent aroma in the air. His eyes were locked on Megan’s ass.
“You like her.” I’m not asking a question. I am stating a fact. “Even though she ismine,you still want her beneath you!”
The violent roar of my words secures Joseph’s utmost attention. His pupils widen as they dart between my wildly possessive eyes and the steak knife I am clutching so firmly the spiky blade digs into my palm.
“Were you aware I could see what you were doing? Or did you not care you were disrespecting me?” Although my tone alludes to a question, Joseph doesn’t answer me. That agitates me more than anything.
“Answer me! Were you aware I could see your filthy hands touching her?!”
“Yes,” Joseph answers, his head bobbing up and down sardonically. “I knew you were watching.”
My jaw clenches so firmly, my back molars grind together. “Yet you still did it? You must have a death wish.”
Joseph smiles a slick grin, remembering me as the six-year-old who peed his pants during his first hunt instead of the man who would hang his own flesh and blood with their intestines if they dared to disobey me.
His smile sags when my steak knife plucks his Adam’s apple straight out of his throat. My stab, twist, and extract technique is precise and done without hesitation. Blood squirts from his inch-wide wound, spraying the four-course meal Scarlett prepared for us. Its coloring is a cross between the Bolognese sauce and the aromatic red wine we consumed. It is a beautiful mess—almost as intoxicating as the scent of Megan’s skin when she is scared.
