“Yeah,” I say again. “I did.”
“That’s why you threw the champagne. That’s why I’m agoddamn overreaching fuckwad.”
I don’t bother answering.
His knees are spread like he’s trying to fill an entire bench on the subway. His shoulders slump. His hands dangle between his legs, as if they’re too heavy to shift. “You cost me fourteen million dollars,” he says. “And that was just today. I’m going to lose more clients.”
“You costme,” I say. My voice is hoarse. My throat is raw, like I’m parched from running a race, which might be because Mam choked me and might be because I need to make him understand. “We planned Banque Wagner for months.”
“Red Cap is a fucking parasite.” The words are worse because they’re frozen. I could shout back if his anger boiled over.
“We’ll win next time,” I say.
“I’ll turn you over to the feds next time.”
“Your clients will love that exposure.”
“Fuck you, and all your Raiders.” Every syllable is carved from ice.
I hate him. I hate everything he stands for—big money, big clients, big hammer if he decides to turn us in.
But I want—no, Ineed—that feeling when he slapped me. I need to feel alive.
So I toss the duvet and sheet toward the foot of the bed. Staring directly into his eyes, I say, “Fuckyou. And everything you do as Lone Wolf.” Then, while I still have his attention, before he can give up and walk away, I enunciate very carefully: “Green.”
His nostrils flare like he smells a distant campfire. Tension knits up his shoulders, squeezing his hands into fists.
“Green,” I say again.
He swallows.
I match my wrist to my ankle, the way he tried to do, lettingthe terrycloth belt ripple across my skin. “Green,” I say one last time.
He grunts as he pulls himself out of the chair. His hands are firm as he gathers both ends of the belt. He loops them around my ankle, yanking tight to finish a vicious knot.
I suck in a breath, fighting the fever-burn from friction. He pauses barely a second, long enough for me to yelp two syllables—yellow—or one—red.I bite my lip and shake my head.
He ties the other side then, left wrist to left ankle, pulling tight enough to spark involuntary tears in my eyes. The tears, I can’t control. But there’s no way in hell I’m giving him my feckin’ safeword.
He strides to the closet then. Comes back without his shirt, with his braces hanging beside his hips. A long length of black leather slips through his palms.
It’s a belt. A slender, supple belt.
“Open,” he says, because I’ve instinctively pushed my knees together to protect myself. I’m hiding my scars. Hiding my tattoo. Hiding the soft pink folds that ache with needy pressure.
I shake my head. I can’t comply. My body won’t follow the signals from my brain.
“Nine,” he says, calmly. Reasonably.
My knees press tight. I can’t make myself submit.
But I watch the leather flex as he wraps it around his fist. I hear the sharp report as he slaps the tongue across his palm. I imagine the fiery edges against my flesh, biting deep.
“Ten.”
It sounds like a promise, not a threat.
I can’t protect myself. I can’t escape. I’m powerless to leave this room.
