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CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
PERSEPHONE
I don’t see Constantine for the first couple of days after I am dragged back to the States. I was drugged some time during the final leg of my return. But when I wake up in a strange bedroom, woozy from the barbiturates and jet lagged beyond belief, I know exactly where I am.
The gentle wish-wash of the sea sighing just outside my window. The distinctive color and quality of the late afternoon sun, baking down on stripes of red clay and sandy grey soil. The bedroom itself, with its lofted white ceilings, smooth dark wood floors, and the choice of a black wrought iron bed frame with rough white linen sheets. It is no doubt designed to hint both at antebellum wealth and ancient Italian houses with grand columns two stories high out front. I may not know where I am, but I’ve been in this exact place a thousand times before.
In other words, I’m definitely in coastal Mississippi.
Head pounding, I sit up with a groan. I realize with a shiver that my loose black caftan is gone, replaced by a yellow sundress with a tight bodice and skinny straps. The feeling of violation that washes over me brings a wave of nausea along with it. Not only did strangers probably see my lifeless body being carried through airports and into this house, but strange hands saw me naked and changed my clothes.
My fists curl at the same time that tears prick at my eyes. Fury and helplessness make me hang my head for a moment. I suck in cool breaths and try to contain my emotions; there is nothing helped by losing my temper just now.
At length, my stomach rumbles. It has been a while since I’ve had a proper meal. I push myself off the bed, standing a bit unsteadily at first. Whatever was in the pills the strange man gave me was very potent and it’s making it hard to think.
Looking around the room, I see two soaring, impossibly huge windows that face out into the bright sun. Heading over to one, I brush aside the lacy white curtain, peering out.
We are right on the beach. Not three hundred yards from where I stand right now, waves lap gently at the shore, foamy water fanning out over the sandy ground and then retreating in a quiet rhythm.
I lean against the white window sash, blinking as I try to form a coherent thought. The brilliant blue sky seems to mock my drug-addled stillness. Out amongst the gray sand dunes, a white plastic bag whips back and forth, the wind pulling at it with frenzied, unseen fingers.
A loud noise from behind me makes me jump and whip my head around with wild eyes. The bedroom door bangs open, and I see a shiny silver clothing rack push into the room, swollen with sleek red and black clothing.
Constantine’s eyes glint when he sees me standing at the window. “Good. You’re up.”
A chill slides through my blood at his knowing smirk. “Constantine—"
“Ah ah,” he says, holding up a hands.
My reaction to that correction — ah ah — is a physical shudder of horror. How many times did I hear that when I was in a relationship with this madman? Too many times to count. I feel acid sloshing around in the pit of my stomach.
I have to get myself out of here. If I die, at least it will be fighting for my own freedom.
Constantine wheels the rack near the bed, stopping and leaning up against it. He looks ridiculous as ever in his blood red button up and maroon slacks; his blond hair is slicked back, the tendril of a curl carefully kept pressed against his forehead. His inky brown eyes glitter dangerously, and he tilts his head, his smirk growing.
“You will require a new wardrobe.” He says it matter-of-factly, as though he didn’t just take me from Africa by force.
I open my mouth to tell him where he can put his new wardrobe, but he just shakes his head, cutting off my words.
“I’ll tell you when you are expected to speak.” He gestures to the clothes. “Pick out some clothes, Persephone.”
I cross my arms, my expression tightening, and hold my ground. A note of amusement flits across Constantine’s face and he starts riffling through the garments, moving each hanger aside as he judges them.
I can’t help but notice that most of the so-called outfits are barely more than lingerie. A crushed blue velvet bikini, a lacy see through black corset, and a silky blood red teddy catch my eye. I can’t help but swallow hard as I watch Constantine flip through the rack.
I can’t stand the silence in the room. He knows it, too. He can barely keep a full smile off his face as he runs his hand over a shiny black leather bustier.
“I’m not wearing any of those,” I blurt out.
He raises his eyes to mine and gives me a cocky grin. I see that I’ve lost the little game between the two of us by letting him know how nervous I am.
“Oh Penny.” He bites his lip. “Penny, Penny, Penny. You’re going to change into one of these outfits right here, right now. You’re going to come downstairs. And you’re going to entertain the guests that I have arriving.” He sniffs, looking me up and down. “You know, you’re fucking broken. Your left hand, there? I did that. I made my mark on you once. This time, I won’t let you go until you die.”
“Fuck you.” White hot adrenaline fissions through my veins, heating me from the inside out. My voice is low, my anger threatening to boil over. “You’re not worth a damned thing. Certainly not anything to be afraid of. When I was young, I didn’t know. But I know now.”
He sucks his teeth, rolling his eyes at me. He pulls a hanger off the rack, a shiny off-white latex miniskirt and matching blocky tube top. He struts over to me, sizing me up with an icy gaze, and thrusts the outfit into my chest.
My heartbeat gallops against my ribs, a wild horse that cannot be tamed. I jerk my chin up, holding back my tears. When he pushes the outfit at me, I ignore it, letting it fall to the ground.
