She’s once again placing herself last.
That pisses me the fuck off and has my objectives changing in an instant.
After lowering my hand back to my side, I say more respectfully, “Please move.”
I work my jaw side to side when Arabella’s lips slant downward. She’s one of the whores who likes being smacked around, so she would have happily accepted my wrath, even if it hurt K in the process.
“Do you want to wear this?” I ask K, holding up the dress Arabella fetched for her. It’s skimpy, short, and I’m reasonably sure it’ll have me going on a rampage when we arrive back at Clarks.
The pulse in my jaw drops several inches lower when K shakes her head. Her shirt is grubby and far too big for her tiny frame, but she knows as well as I do that it isn’t the packaging that makes a person attractive. It’s their uncracked insides.
With a smug grin, I toss Arabella’s stripper dress onto the floor of her room. “She doesn’t want your dress—” My words are cut off by K’s hand darting out to touch my arm. She stares at me with wide, terrified eyes before she drifts them to the shoes Arabella is clutching. They’re basic and bland with only the slightest heel, however, she stares at them as if they’re Gucci. “You want her shoes?”
K’s eyes fall to her bare feet as quickly as her hand returns to her side. For a second, she doesn’t breathe, ashamed she showed eagerness for something she doesn’t own. She wanted Arabella’s mall-purchased shoes so much, she failed to consider how much they could cost her, so now she’s more panicked than excited. It’s clear she’s never been given anything without a hefty price tag attached to it, not even something as simple as a pair of wedged sandals.
When I click my fingers two times, Arabella coughs up her shoes as if she’s a genie and I rubbed her bottle the right way. “Sit.” My command is for K, and the bob of her throat reveals she’s aware of this.
After a second swallow, she does as requested, her eyes never lifting from the floor. I relieve my throat of its sudden dryness before kneeling in front of her to put on the first shoe. The high rise of my shirt on her slim thighs already makes her legs look like they go for miles, so you can imagine how much seduction a two-inch heel will add.
“Sit still, Duchess,” I command when it dawns on me the tiny shudders trickling through her body have nothing to do with her wearing shoes for the first time in God knows how long and everything to do with my hands being on her. Is it a scared shake? I don’t know. If Arabella weren’t eyeballing our exchange like a freak, I’d be halfway through testing my theory by now. Alas, I have to maintain patience—again. “Arabella is a worse cleaner than she is a cook. Even if I wanted to answer your every whim here, K, I can’t, so stop convincing me I can.”
Arabella scoffs at my insult. K smiles. It isn’t a full smile, it’s barely noticeable since her chin is tucked in close to her chest, but it sets off the pulse in my ears so quickly, I’m concerned my hearing will never be what it once was.
“There you go,” I mutter once I have the second latch done up. “Now how about a twirl?” K shakily accepts my hand before she gingerly pivots around. She’s embarrassed by my request, but the ruddy red hue creeping across her cheeks ensures it’ll occur more often from here on out.
The downpour we got caught in earlier cleared away the mess from her face and unknotted most of the bird’s nest in her hair. If you can take away the paleness of her skin, her teeny emaciated frame, and the red rims around her eyes from when she cried while coming, you’d have no clue she was held captive against her wishes. That’s how significant something as minor as a pair of shoes was to her mindset.
Once K is facing me front-on, I clear away a smear of gravy on her top lip before curling my hand around her. “Are you ready to get out of here?”
Her nod this time around isn’t concealed like the one she did when I asked her if she wanted Arabella’s shoes.
“Jim—” My words stop when he bursts into the kitchen with his coat already on and the keys for his truck in his hand.
* * *
Itell Arabella to take the next right before dropping my eyes to K. She’s snuggled into my chest, sleeping like a baby. I want to say the droning lull of Jim’s old motor is responsible for the peaceful expression on her face, but that would be a lie. She placed her ear over my heart the instant our attempts to un-bog my car caused its tires to sink in deeper. She’s as comforted by the sound of my beating heart as I am when I hear it pulsating in my ears.
“Go a quarter a mile up, then pull over. We’ll walk the rest of the way.” Nikolai kept Clarks hidden for a reason. Even with hiking not being my activity of choice, I don’t want to be the cause for anyone knowing where it is. “Here will do.”
Ignoring Jim’s grumble that Arabella is well aware of the location of Clarks, I divert my attention to K, so I can wake her up without scaring the shit out of her.
My worry is unfounded. She’s awake and peering up at me.
“We need to walk from here. Do you want to test out the versatility of your shoes or jump on my back?” My last two words come out with a husky laugh when her eyes pop open at my offer. “Piggyback ride it is.”
After thanking Arabella and Jim for the ride with a lift of my chin, I slide out of the cab of his old truck with K still in my lap. I could carry her through the desert-like valleys like a groom does a bride over the threshold, but I offered her a piggyback ride, and for once in my life, I’m going to do as offered.
“If your legs get sore, tap on my shoulder, and we’ll stop for a few.” Her legs won’t get tired from our trek. It’ll be from how wide they have to spread to curl around my waist. Our differences in size are starkly contradicting. She’s so light, my damp jeans weigh more than her, and it’s lucky if the top of her head reaches my nipple piercings.
“Dekuju.” I don’t understand a word of Czech, but considering she said the same word every time Arabella reloaded her plate with food, I’m reasonably sure it’s some sort of thanks.
* * *
By the time we reach the outskirts of Clarks, the sun is setting on the horizon. K’s faint breaths hitting my neck advise the clomps of my boots didn’t deter her from getting some shuteye. She slept the entire way.
When men from Nikolai’s crew spot my approach, they dot my chest with the scopes of their high-powered rifles. I wait for the red dots to lift to my face before squashing my index finger to my lips. Sometimes my brothers get excited about identifying a threat’s approach before the clearing, they fire shots of celebration into the air. I’m usually all for the adrenaline rush of unloading the chamber of a high-powered assault rifle, but I’d rather K stay asleep, so I downplay my eagerness.
The amused faces of Nero and Mikhail confront me when I break through the matured trees surrounding Clarks. They’ve seen many women cling to me the past three years, but this is the first time she’s clothed, and they’re not being invited to sample the merchandise. I’m all for fucking, have been since I was sixteen, but you can be as assured as fuck K will never be offered toanyman, much less the horndogs of Nikolai’s crew.
