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Hawk shoves me forward, and I stumble onto the cold concrete. I know what’s expected of me, and as tears burn my eyes, I slowly crawl up the steps. He doesn’t tell me to stand, he doesn’t order me to walk, so I stay kneeling when I reach the main level of the house.
The sunshine is higher now, and it streams through the windows. I look up and find we’re in a kitchen. It’s a country style, with brass pots and pans hanging from dark metal rods which have been lowered from the high ceiling.
An island made of thick, heavy wood sits below them, and I picture a large work surface waiting for me to start preparing their food. I’m a fucking maid. But I know it’s not the only reason I’m here. They want me here for their deviant desires, and those other options leaves unease coiling in my stomach.
“On your feet,” Hawk grumbles as he tugs me to stand. “Breakfast.” It’s the only word he offers before he leaves me in the kitchen. Thankfully it’s warmer up here, and I pad over to the radiator which offers me solace for a short moment.
“Nice to have something pretty to look at in the morning,” Falcon’s voice comes from behind me. I’m startled at the fact he’s so good looking. There’s a mischievousness to his expression. “We take our coffee black, strong, and we like a big breakfast,” he informs me. But I’m still in awe of him. He’s inked from under his chin, all the way down to I’m guessing his stomach because the tank top he’s wearing hides most of his body.
I was right when I thought of him as leaned, yet strong. His arms are toned, showing off biceps and forearms which make me want to touch them. Shaking my head, I fight back the scoff of stupidity crawling through me. It’s ridiculous to think any of them are hot, but I can’t deny, if they didn’t kidnap me, if I were some random girl, I would definitely be flirting.
“I’m expected to cook?” I throw out, swallowing back the desire burning through my veins. I watch as he moves through the kitchen, where he grabs a large mug from one of the cupboards and fills it with coffee from a pot.
“You’re expected to do anything we tell you to, Goldilocks,” he responds before sipping the steaming liquid. He doesn’t flinch, but I can tell it’s hot.
“Can you tell me what my father did to you?” I don’t want to know because I’ve heard the horror stories of the serial killer who would invade homes where there was a babysitter alone with the kids. I was one of those sitters, and it broke me when I realized the monster before me was my own flesh and blood.
Falcon stares at me for a long moment, before he chuckles. “I don’t think you’re quite ready for that yet, darling,” he says. “When you do learn about us, when you come to realize what you’re paying for, you’ll want to surrender and beg for mercy.”
Folding my arms across my chest, I pin my glare on him. “I know he’s a monster, I never denied it. I was one of the victims—”
“Don’t you dare fucking say another word,” the deep, rumble of Crow comes from nowhere, and when he appears in the kitchen like a shadow, my breath catches in my throat. If I thought the other two men were handsome, Crow is a sculpture right out of a gallery. They’re all unique in their looks, and Crow is no different.
His pitch black hair matches his clothes. His tanned, smooth skin looks soft and my fingertips tingle. His lips are full, the top one forming a perfect Cupid’s bow, while the lower one, thicker and more prominent makes me want to bite it. His sharp jawbone, along with his perfect nose make up a face that would make the Gods weep. Then there are his eyes—metal, silver, cold.
“You should be making breakfast,” he commands in a tone which belies his calm expression. He doesn’t fist his hands, he doesn’t seem to be angry, but his words are laced with a fury so dangerous, I gulp. He turns to Falcon then. “Meet me in the office.” Then he turns and leaves taking all the air from the room.
“Don’t upset the main man,” Falcon teases with a wink before he disappears after Crow. When I look down, I realize my hands are trembling. I’ve never come across a man so angry. I can’t imagine what my father did to them, but it must have been bad because they’ve obviously followed me to England. Their American accents are obvious, so I wonder how long they’ve been planning this.
I turn my attention to the kitchen once more and attempt to focus on cooking them something to eat. My own stomach grumbles in response to the food I find sitting in the fridge. Everything is fresh, the fruit bright and colorful, milk delivered by a milkman, not store bought. Eggs are laid out in a small tray in the door, while there is also a selection of cheeses.
