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“I want to feel you coming into my hand,” he growled into my ear. It was as if cold water was poured all over my body. I suddenly remembered what I was doing and with who. I froze in his arms. As I froze, he stilled. I could feel him pull back, could feel his fingers leave my body. He sat back, putting space between our bodies so that I could see his face.
He didn’t look angry.
He stared at me with those intense, soul-shredding eyes and licked his fingers off as if daring me to refute what was clearly on them.
I’d managed to stay relatively hidden, gnawing on crudité while the Beast spoke with his men. His “friends” had already arrived when we’d left my room to join them, which made me wonder if they’d heard any of what we’d done. It was so weird to feel embarrassed or private when my situation so didn’t warrant such things.
To feel embarrassed that his “friends” would have heard me when they’d already seen me naked, seen me on display, didn’t make sense, but I felt it all the same.
The Beast was wearing what he usually wore: an impeccably tailored three-piece suit. I had to give it to the asshole—he knew how to dress. His wickedly dark jacket, waistcoat, and trousers matched with his black shirt and a black tie gave him a menacing yet elegant air. The thin, silver fob of the pocket watch that dangled from his waistcoat and went into his jacket added a certain regality.
At least what we’d done in the bedroom had wrinkled his attire some. Taking a bite of carrot from across the room, I bitterly wondered if he even used the pocket watch, or if it was just for looks. As if he could hear my thoughts, he turned and looked at me. His ocean-colored glare washed over me, drowning me, making me feel heavy and soaked and breathless. I looked away.
There was no food at the dining table. Despite his best efforts, I was sure I’d lost a couple of pounds since arriving, and he never seemed to eat anything. Apparently his friends didn’t eat anything either. I guess I’m the insane one for expecting there to be food at a dinner party. I sat down at the table and watched his friends, trying not to look too sulky.
There were six men, two I recognized as his dogs, the ones that did whatever he told them to do and bit at whatever he told them to bite. I thought their names were Arlo and Tough Tino. They had been at the club, outside the room, and were around occasionally. They hung by the door, obviously not partaking in the “festivities.” The other four I recognized immediately from the night he took me out, the night at the club.
I winced at the recollection.
Out of that dark, dingy club light, I could see them all clearly now. They all had distinguishing features, each looking like a carved sculpture from hell. Each dressed similarly to the Beast, wearing tailored suits and hundred-dollar ties. They hung near the window, sipping amber-colored liquid and talking lowly. I would have rather been left alone with a mad dog than one of those men.
The one called Pretty Boy looked over to me. I quickly averted my gaze, focusing on the way the glass table reflected the moody light. Most of the nicknames had me wondering about their inception, but I didn’t have to wonder why they called him Pretty Boy. He had coiffed hair, smooth skin, and navy blue eyes. He looked like a model, his lips begging to say sweet things, but I knew otherwise. He’d been the cruelest one that night at the club, his lips twisting in delight when I cried. I touched my cheek, remembering where he’d slapped me.
I said, how loud will you scream for us? I sighed jaggedly at the memory. How could I even start to think there was something nice or sweet about this life? Just because the Beast had shown me some tenderness didn’t mean he was tender. He was probably like a cat playing with food.
It was a real hopping party. No one was saying anything. Low haunting music played. It sounded Italian, maybe operatic. When I glanced back up, the Beast had disappeared and all the men were staring at me. Through the icy numbness I forced upon myself, the bitter lidocaine I applied to survive, I wondered if I was the party favor, if this wasn’t a dinner party but actually a repeat of what had happened at the club.
The only food was crudités and canapés, not exactly dinner. Also, I was the only one eating. Everyone else hung near the window, sipping their drinks, whispering their words and unabashedly staring at me. Like a gazelle among the lions, I could see their glowing eyes through the tall grass, could feel their murderous intent.
“Dance with me.” I jumped at the low voice, turning to see the Beast had reappeared behind my back. Sitting down, he completely towered over me. How sick is it that I was relieved to see him?
It wasn’t a request; his hand was outstretched and his eyes narrowed as he waited for me to take it. I clasped my hand in his, not saying anything about the weird timing or weird choice in music, and followed him to the divide between the dining room and living room. The Beast drew me close and I went numb in his arms.
Numb was better than nauseated. Numb was better than aroused. I couldn’t handle my feelings around him. I hated him and I wanted him. He simultaneously made me want to throw myself off a building and throw myself at him. It was best not to feel anything at all.
Beast took my hand, spinning me around before bringing me back to his chest. Pressed into his chest right as he was about to spin me out, my mind spun out to earlier that night. I’d lost myself, just as I had the day before. When he was kissing me, I had forgotten. My defenses had fallen, making what happened next even worse.
I’d told him I hated him to gain composure, to build my walls again. It’s not your love I want, he’d responded, and just like that they’d fall
en all over again.
He spun me back into his arms.
“You are beautiful in that dress,” he murmured against my ear. My eyes widened at the affectionate compliment, then dulled when I remembered why I’d picked it.
“It reminded me of a fairytale,” I whispered.
“This isn’t a fairytale, Frankie,” he said against my earlobe. I nearly scoffed. Obviously not. Men are drinking wine by the window I lost my virginity on, eyeing me like meat. They’re undressing me with their eyes because they actually know what lies beneath, because of you.
He twirled me around in circles. I let him do all the work. Twirl, spin. Twirl, spin. It was monotonous in its orchestrated grace and discord.
“Will I ever know your name?” I asked as he dipped me. His hand rested on my lower back as he held me prone. My toes were pointed, legs lifting off the ground as my hair kissed the floor. His chest pressed firmly against mine, and his eyes…his lips… I craned my neck, arching my back as far as it could go to get away from them. His intensity rivaled the music. If I gave in I would lose myself just like against the door.
Abruptly he dropped me and walked away. My ass stung with the impact. My dress spread around me. The song continued on.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I told him, but damned if he tried to stop me. He’d just dropped me on the fucking floor. He eyed me suspiciously for a moment but then it was gone, as if he knew that I was done trying anything. His eyes said everything I feared to acknowledge. My fight was gone. I had traded myself, I wasn’t some kidnapped girl. I had made my bed and I was going to lie in it—it wasn’t like I had anywhere I could run, anyway.
I finished washing my hands and stared at myself in the bathroom mirror. It was like I was disappearing before my eyes. I wasn’t upset about disappearing, though; I was upset that I didn’t have a choice. Sighing, I turned and opened the bathroom door.
