He answers by closing the distance between us.The shelves dig into my hips, and I let go of the jar of cumin.Chef sets his hand on the shelf beside my shoulder and leans in close enough that I can smell his breath—a strange mixture of garlic, onion, and peppermint.
“Your father expects you to be charming tonight,” he says.“Do you want me to tell him you were hiding in the pantry while the guests arrived?”
“No,” I say.My voice cracks.“I came to— I just— The marinade.”
“Mmm hmm.”He sets a fingertip under my chin and lifts it a fraction, enough that I have to look at him or close my eyes.
I close them.
He laughs, low.“Blue suits you,” he says.
Next he…
I can’t think.
I can’t move.
The girl in that pantry is sixteen and afraid and trying to hold onto a shred of herself in a house that expects too much from her.So she does what girls do when grown men corner them in rooms with no windows.
She survives.
Mouth open.
Throat gagging.
Big smelly dick in her mouth.
Hammy hands on her cheeks.
And movement.Lot of movement.
When the door opens again, the kitchen looks the same as it did five minutes earlier, and I look almost the same, if you don’t know where to look.Chef goes back to the fish.I go back to the marinade.My dress is still blue.
On my way out of the kitchen, he grins again, raking his gaze over me.“Wear that again.It’s lovely.”
* * *
Present Day…
Back in Raven’s kitchen, the present snaps back over the past like a fitted sheet.I’m holding the counter with both hands, arms locked, shoulders burning.
Wear the blue thing I like.
I swallow bile.He wants me dressed the way I looked when he figured out precisely how far he could push me before I broke.
Belinda.
I shut my eyes and picture her innocent beauty, her blondness, her immature intelligence and her mature musical talent.The way she plays scales too fast because she wants to get to the actual music.
She’s not my daughter.She’s not my sister.Yet in some way she’s both.She’s the person I’d steal and lie and run for.She is what the wordfamilymeans to me.She’s more of a family to me than my own flesh-and-blood father ever was.
I can’t let the chef have her.I don’t care if he says he won’t touch her.He’d be lying.I don’t care if he thinks she’s a pawn he can push two squares at a time.She is achild.She will not learn the taste of lime and garlic marinade the way I did.
Not because of me.
Not again.
Not ever.
