Guilt feels like anger, just like shame. Or maybe I’m angry because—try as I might—I can’t forget everything I let Wolf do to me last night. He tied me to the cross. He beat me with that whip. He used that vibrator—on my tits, on my clit.
On my arsehole.
I shudder so hard I nearly boke. I should have used my safeword. I should have made him stop.
But I let him use my body however he wanted. I came three times.
And the most disgusting thing is I’d do it all again. Let him make all the decisions. For once in my feckin’ life, surrender without a fight.
Stomping to the closet, I grab the first clothes of mine that I find—faded black sweatpants and a gray hoodie that’s been washed so many times the cuffs look like confetti. I snag a bra, socks, and panties out of the dresser, trying not to think about Nilsson’s professional fingers folding them into perfect squares. I cram my feet into my Doc Martens.
I’m halfway out the bedroom door before I remember the tray sitting by the window. I snatch up my phone and Nilsson’s card, shoving both into my hoodie’s pouch. I pour a cup of tea as well and drink it down like medicine. It’s black as tar—just the way I like it. My throat itches from the tannins.
Like it or not, I made a promise to Wolf. I told him I’d eat.
Nilsson has delivered a full breakfast. There’s a boiled egg and scrambled, a plate filled with streaky bacon andanother with sausages. There are potatoes fried up with onions and peppers, and a bowl of tiny strawberries that look like they’re meant for a doll. There’s a basket filled with muffins and two silver racks, one with white toast and the other with wheat. Three pots of jam nestle beside a round of salted butter.
I take a triangle of dry toast and cram it in my mouth.
There.
Promise kept.
An electronic eye blinks when I open the front door downstairs, and I hear a discreet chime somewhere deep in the house behind me. It’s cool outside on the brick steps. A breeze carries the scent of mulch and fresh-cut grass. Soft pink cherry-blossom petals drift across the circular drive, settling into ranks of yellow, purple, and red tulips.
It’s gorgeous.
And I hate every inch of it, because I didn’t ask for any of this, because Da sent me here without the slightest clue about how Wolf lives, because Lone Wolf paid for every single thing I can see.
I tromp over to the iron gate. It’s even more imposing from the inside than it was from Wolf’s car. An electronic pad is built into one of the massive brick posts, resting beneath a glowing red eye.
I look for a button to press, something to trigger the gate. Nothing.
I feel the edges of the pad, checking for an emergency release. Nothing.
I check the post, kick at the rocks that line the driveway, push and pull against the three closest iron bars. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
I can stand out here all day, waiting for someone to take notice. Or I can take the proverbial bull by his feckin’ horns and get the answers I need.
Marching back inside the house, I remember that Wolf’soffice is downstairs. I learned that much on last night’s abbreviated tour. It’s just before I get to the server room.
Sure enough, I hear him on the phone. “A monitoring program like that takes time to set up, Barry.”
Brilliant. He’s talking to Da. Just what I need—the two biggest gobshites in my life comparing notes with each other.
I storm into the office, fueled by little sleep and less love of my father. “Hey, shitehawk,” I say to Wolf. “I need a way past the feckin’ gate.”
“Kaitlín, love. We’re in a meeting right now.”
Da’s voice vibrates through the speakerphone, feeding me the same bollocks he always has. But Wolf is eyeing me with interest—or maybe that’s just gratitude that I’ve given him a way to end his convo with Da.
“Barry,” he says. “I’ll have to call you back.” His finger lands heavily on the screen of his phone. I figure that’s the first time anyone has cut Da off in years.
“Please,” Wolf says to me. “Make yourself at home.”
Arseholes like him always have to prove they’re in charge. It would be easy to be intimidated by all the equipment in this room. The wall across from Wolf’s desk is filled with monitors. Each one shows something different—scrambled lines of code, a calendar filled with notations for every fifteen minutes, the feeds from multiple surveillance cameras.
To my right is a painting almost as tall as I am. The background is black and the surface is covered with drips of white paint. It looks like someone scrawled a secret message, burying magic words beneath a veil dribbled from a bucket.
