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Why does that thought anger and excite me at the same time?
“Please excuse Maddox, Ms. O’Brien,” Alistair interjects. “He can be rather abrupt on how he words things, but he speaks true. We’d be in charge of everything you do. You will live in an apartment on the same floor as we do and drive a car provided by us. You will wear what we choose and eat when we say you can. We expect you to arrive at the office before we do, and you won’t leave until after we’re gone.”
Well, shit. I don’t like the sound of that, but I need to placate them. “That’s it?” I ask, trying and failing to keep the snark out of my voice.
“No, actually,” Rogan answers. “You are to keep a cell phone with you at all times, and when one of us calls or texts you, you must come at once, even if it’s in the middle of the night or you’re just stepping into the shower. There are no days off, no weekends or holidays. You must always be available and at our beck and call at all times, no excuses granted.”
I run my tongue over my teeth as I mull all of this over. Can I do this? I mean really? I’ve never been one to play by the rules, breaking them more often than submitting to them. But I can’t really say no, because if I do, then I go back to jail. If I say no, then Mitch-bitch goes into a state-run facility and Mischief ends up on the streets again or worse.
Seems my choice has already been made for me. “Anything else?”
“Just one more thing,” Maddox growls before pushing off the couch. I can’t follow him as he walks behind the couch I’m sitting on and leans his head toward my ear. “If we show up to your apartment, you open the fucking door. No other men in there except for the three of us. Failure to meet our standards is grounds for punishment.”
Punishment? Why do I have to stifle a moan and rub my thighs together at the way that word drips off his tongue?
“And the money?” I inquire breathlessly, my chest rising and falling faster than I’d like it.
“More than you could possibly imagine, Ms. O’Brien,” Alistair answers as I take another sip of scotch. “Starting salary is one hundred grand a year.” The scotch expels from my lips, and I cover my mouth with my hands, muttering an apology behind my palms.
A hundred grand…
I’ll never be poor again. Never be without heat, water, food, or electricity. Mitch will be taken care of in Runwood, and Mischief will be safe in my arms again.
The three men stare at me with shit-eating grins tugging at their lips, already knowing what I’m going to say.
“I accept.”
