“We’ll get to your fantasies later. After you behave long enough to convince me you're worth fulfilling them. Now. Fucking. Strip.”
My teeth clench, and I grab the back of the chair until my knuckles turn white. The music plays around us. The sensual vibe fills the room like it’s urging me to do what Ares asks of me, while I keep weighing my options and finding none.
Still, there's something in me that keeps me from obeying him, from doing it, especially since I know he’s only asking me to strip to see how far I’d go into pleasing him.
But I don’t get much time before he’s up from his chair, his fist resting on the table, “Strip,” he repeats, his patience visibly thinning, “or I’ll do it for you.”
I don’t know what madness comes over me, but I refuse to get onto the chair. “No,” the word snaps from my mouth as a reflex. We both know I have nowhere to run, no other choice, but I’llbe damned if I make this easy for him. “I’m not your fucking personal stripper, Ares. Get your fucking kicks somewhere else.”
His eyes gradually change to pitch black, the temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees as he studies me with the cold interest of a scientist observing the next thing he’ll dissect. “Last warning, Brynn. You fucking do what you’re told, or I’ll build a cage for you where I will keep you for the rest of your fucking days. But make no mistake I will get my fucking kicks with you.”
A chill runs down my spine. This isn’t his voice. It’s something much colder, something that even I fear waking up in him. And it’s then that I realize: the things I’ve done, my betrayal, along with discovering that his organization has a weakness, must’ve gotten to him. This isn’t something casual. He’s one moment away from blowing the roof off, and I’m not helping when that’s exactly what he’s asking of me. Help him relax; even if it’s in his own fucked up way.
Fucking shit…
I look at him like I’m about to kill him, but turn the chair around and get on it, riding it backward. The music changes. Something with a slower, more sensual rhythm, and my face burns with humiliation because I know he doesn’t just want to see me naked; he wants a performance. He wants surrender.
“I’m not good at this,”—any of it, as a matter of fact, not the performance and definitely not the surrender.
“Don’t bullshit me, you’re good at everything you do.” He leans slightly forward, smoke curling around his face. “Don’t keep me waiting, or I’ll add penalties to this equation.”
My throat suddenly turns dry as my hands find the hem of my T-shirt. I slowly begin to lift it up, even if my mind is still on jumping over the desk and wrapping my hands around his neck to strangle him.
“No... not like that. Dance while you do it.” An obvious satisfaction blooms in his voice.
“This isn’t a fucking strip joint,” I snap, looking around me as if to prove a point.
“You’re right, it isn’t. It would have been much cheaper there. Seeing as you’ve already cost me a few million.”
“A few million?” I ask, having no idea what he’s talking about. I don’t think he lost the money on Kharon because of me, so I really don’t understand what this is about.
“When youkilledmy priceless wine bottles,” he says with the bitterness in his voice that makes him seem even more off than before.
“Ikilledyour bottles?” I repeat his strange choice of words.
Is he for real?Killed?
“Do you know how fucking much those bottles were worth? How priceless they were?” He pauses, his chest heaving, like he’s grieving after old friends. “ChâteauMargaux, 1787,”he says, his voice raising slightly. “Valued at $225,000 before it was listed as priceless. Thomas Jefferson’s personal collection bearing his initials engraved on the glass.” His eyes go to my hands that are still clenched on the hem of my T-shirt. “A very poor exchange, considering I’m getting nothing in return.” I swallow the knot in my throat, finally starting to get why he’s so pissed off.
I would be pissed off at me too. Okay, scratch that. I’m already pissed off at me, because I hadn’t at least drunk them. So that’s what gets me to move. Awkwardly at first, because my body is still stiff with resentment for what I have to do, and even more stiff with what I’m supposed to bring to the table. There’s no way my dancing skills are worth millions.
I do my best to find a rhythm even though I’m pretty convinced that I look like an elephant on a tightrope, but at least it’s not just the grudge I’m holding onto; there’s also the matter of paying this debt.
I try my best not to say another word. I was never really good at keeping my mouth shut, but whenever I’m in over my head, I have a pretty decent survival instinct, so after a sway of my hips and grabbing the back of the chair like my life depended on it, I throw my t-shirt to the ground. The sound of it falling is almost inaudible, yet somehow, I feel the fabric fall in the back of my mind, in the depths of my soul.
I take a glimpse at Ares,and while there is some trace of satisfaction on his face, it’s not really there yet. “You would rather fight me for your life than do this, wouldn’t you?” he smiles, but the curve of his lips doesn’t hold real amusement. “Tough luck because I think you’re better at this than you would like to admit.”
I bite the inner corner of my mouth to hold back from saying something that would only bring me more punishment. I just untie my hair and roll my head back slowly before running a hand over my breasts. I’ve cost the man a few million; might as well give him a show.
Somehow, I try to lie to myself that this has nothing to do with the throbbing sensation between my legs or the way my core jolts every time I look at him. I make a gracious move, or at least as gracious as I can, and get down from the chair, making a full limping pirouette around it. Then I untie my pants—they aren’t the most seductive thing—and pull them down my legs, wincing as they catch on the bandage covering my wound. At this point, I think anything is seductive for Ares.
“Careful,” he says, humorless, and I can’t tell if he’s amused or he’s genuinely concerned. “Wouldn’t want to reopen that wound, would we?”
I get back on the chair in nothing but my underwear now, a little too aware of how exposed I am, realizing the music seems to have gotten louder, or maybe that’s just the blood rushing through my ears.
“Château Lafite, 1787,” he continues, like I’ve just concluded the first part of our business transaction. “Also from Jefferson’s collection. Last valued at $156,450 before being purchased by a private collector. Me.” His lips curl into a smile again that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Five more bottles to go.”
Okay, I’m in fucking trouble, and at this point, I deserve to be in fucking trouble. The problem is, I don’t even have five items of clothing left.
