Girlis what I called her downstairs when I tied her to the cross.Girlmeans she took my cat o’ nine tails, fighting to hold the wooden knobs.Girlmeans she is mine.
I watch shame and pride blend on her face, swirling into equal measures of disgust and desire, of denial and need. That one word—girl—slaps her harder than any other blow I could deliver.
She can lie now, deny she ever wanted punishment. She can put up a wall against last night, claim she was unwilling every step of the way.
Instead she twists the gold ring I slipped onto her finger in front of her clan, her priest, and her God. Stammering, she says, “I— I want to see my Granny.”
That’s not a fighter’s demand. That’s a child’s request. She’s frightened—of me, of us, of losing control over the world around her.
I could tell her no. I could pinch her neck and shake her like a trapped rabbit. I could march her downstairs this very minute and make her pay for threatening the Soutine, even though she didn’t cause it harm.
But I don’t.
I flash my hands over my keyboard, locking down the various screens where I’m monitoring a dozen client matters. I take special care to close out the email I received last night, the threat to disclose my record.
Pushing back from my desk, I twitch my pants into place, doing my best to ignore my cock’s interest in this negotiation. I’m running a business. It doesn’t get a vote.
Walking together down the hall, our footsteps are loud. The air is fresh outside, warm, and for just a moment I wonder why I’m still working behind a desk when I have more money than I could spend in a thousand lifetimes.
I shove down that thought almost as soon as it surfaces inthe graveyard of my brain. Money is how I keep score. That’s it. Plain and simple.
When we reach the heavy brick posts that anchor the gate, I automatically glance at the mirrors. The street is clear to our right. Halfway down the block to our left, a trio of girls huddle over a cell phone, elbowing each other to get a better view of the screen. Their plaid skirts and white blouses mark them as middle schoolers at St. Ignatius, around the corner. Not a threat.
My palm is steady as I set it against the white biometric pad. I lean in so the green laser can map my eye. The gate glides open the width of my shoulders.
Kate plants her fists on her hips. “I want my own access.”
The defiance in her glare makes me glib. “I’m sure we can work out appropriate payment.”
She blushes again, which was purely my intention. Pushing past me with an exasperated huff, she snarls, “You’re a right arsehole, aren’t you?”
The schoolgirls look up, immediately captivated by the promise of drama. I scowl because I prefer avoiding attention from anyone—even children. “Careful,” I warn Kate.
Her eyes gleam as if she’s just discovered a target far more valuable than my Soutine. “Careful of what?” she challenges.
“Stop calling attention to yourself.” I should know I’m waving a red cape in front of a bull.
“Thatwasn’t calling attention,” she argues. “Thisis calling attention.” She stomps to the precise center of the street. The girls have forgotten their cell phone. They’re gaping like they have front row seats at a Taylor Swift concert.
Kate looks at them. Looks at me. And then, with the precision of a jeweler carving a hundred-carat diamond, she enunciates in a voice that can be heard three states over: “Shove your fucking payment up your hole, shitehawk.”
30
KATE
Not once in my life have I managed to keep a civil tongue in my head. I need to strike first so no one thinks I’m a pushover. I need to hit hardest so no one discovers how weak I really am.
Wolf glances at the girls on the pavement. For one breathless moment, I think he’s going to grab me and drag me back behind the gate. I brace myself to fight, to spread my arms wide, to scream bloody murder until the kids run off for help.
But Wolf chooses another way. With a calculating grin, he swipes at the air, pretending to capture my words and hold them close to his heart. “Careful,” he warns me again, this time loud enough for the girls to hear. “Someone might think you’re starting to care about me.”
The kids laugh.
“Go on,” Wolf says to me, like he’s encouraging me to cross a gorge on a rickety bamboo bridge. “Tell the truth. You can’t live without me, my dear.”
The girls giggle and run down the pavement, racing each other for the corner.
My dear.
