Reminding them of what the Bishop will do if they touch me always works. They soon back off, spitting in my direction as they leave the cage.
I’d lie if I said it didn’t rattle me. It does. I’m always left trembling as I settle back in the corner, where I can keep an eye on them while they smoke their weed and watch me like I’m a snack they want to sink their teeth into.
Something has to change soon. Someone has to come for me. How long will they keep me locked up like this? This is twice now I’ve been kidnapped, but I doubt it’ll work in my favor if I try to seduce the guards this time.
A shiver runs through me when I think about it.
What does Dalton want? Money? Is he holding me hostage while he blackmails Darian? Surely not.
I’ve lost count of how many days I’ve been locked up, when cars pull up outside, their engines rumbling.
“If it isn’t my favorite cousin,” Dalton says, a gust of fresh, damp air blowing in behind him as he enters the warehouse. Two hulky, bald men in black pants and shirts flank him, and I wonder briefly if they go everywhere with him or if he’s taking extra precautions lately.
Some part of me wants to believe it’s the latter, that maybe Dalton and my uncle fear my husband’s retaliation, but a different part of me knows the Bishop’s son can’t go anywhere without bodyguards. He was born with a target on his back.
“I hope you find the cage comfortable. I had it installed just for you.”
Dressed in pressed pants, a pristine white shirt, and a black trench coat, with a fine mist of rain on his shoulders, Dalton looks like he stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine.
As he crosses the room, he takes off his leather gloves and slips them into his pocket. “I’m sorry it has taken me this long to see you. I’ve had some urgent matters to deal with.”
He stops in front of the cage and studies me disapprovingly from head to toe. “So this is what all the fuss is about?”
Silence fills the warehouse. One of the men lights a cigarette, watching me through the curling smoke.
“Cecilia,” Dalton says, notes of impatience bleeding into his tone. “Look at me.”
I reluctantly swing my gaze to him, and he steps closer. “This is who was promised to me?” He turns over his shoulder. “Did any of you touch her?”
Their heads snap to attention, and they hold their hands up. “No, sir.”
Seconds pass as he narrows his eyes on my tormentors, and then he orders them to remove the bucket in the corner of the room because it reeks. They scurry into action, crashing into each other and almost falling on their asses in their rush to please the Bishop’s son.
Dalton’s attention returns to me, his cold eyes falling down my body and leaving a slimy chill behind. He juts his chin, silently commanding the others to open the cage. One of the men appears like a genie, fumbling with a set of rustling keys, while the other Pawn carries the stinking piss bucket outside.
“What are you? A fucking imbecile?” Dalton barks, unimpressed, as the man drops the keys.
The moment he picks them up, Dalton snatches them out of the man’s hands and unlocks the creaky door.
It’s the most ominous sound I’ve heard. I can’t threaten my cousin with his father. My uncle probably condones this.
As he enters the cage, my eyes widen in alarm, but there’s nowhere to go. He’s blocking the only exit. The cage was small before he entered, but now I feel truly cornered and helpless.
I dart my gaze behind him as he drinks me in, but before I can see what the others are bringing in from the car, he walkscloser and traps me with his hands on the bars on either side of me.
“You really are a pretty little thing, aren’t you?”
The scent of fresh rain and the outdoors clings to his trench coat, and rain droplets dampen his windswept blond hair. He studies me closely, intrigued, as he roams his eyes over my face. “I don’t see it,” he says. “The family resemblance, I mean.”
Letting go of the bars, he fingers a strand of my hair. “Maybe it’s the blonde?”
My throat jumps on a swallow as he lets go of the lock to trace the backs of his knuckles down the column of my throat.
His thin lips quirk menacingly. “You’re scared of me.”
“You sound happy about that.” It’s a challenge to keep my voice steady, and my skin crawls when he hums, sliding his fingertips over my collarbones.
“I like it when women fear me.”
