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Chapter 12
Presley
I stare at the open door and wonder what the hell this man is playing at. I have just been through the worst several days of my life, and I feel like I just can’t take any more surprises. I think back to what he told me on the helicopter ride over and wonder if it is true, if I really am lucky. What were the other men and women at that auction planning on doing with the girls and women they bought? I shiver at the thought because while I want answers, I truly do not want to know anything about that. I wish I had never been a part of or seen such a thing.
On a subconscious level, I knew something like that went on south of the border. My father had warned me many times, and I had seen news stories about girls disappearing and/or being sold into sexual slavery for the pleasure of men. But I just always thought I was smarter than those girls. It would never happen to me. I had been wrong.
Now, I find myself out of the cage I had been kept in on that awful boat, but I am still a prisoner of sorts. I am in an unfamiliar place with a man trying to feed me and commanding me what to do after locking me in a room to sleep all night. I don’t know what he wants with me, and I am afraid of giving in and finding out. Part of me hopes if I fight long enough, he will let me go, but then I think of a worse alternative. He bought me for a lot of money. Even for my father, an oil king, that would be a lot of money to drop on something or someone. If I am an item that can be bought, then perhaps I can be returned or resold, and I am guessing not every woman ends up between four gorgeous walls with a luxurious bed covered din Egyptian cotton sheets. I need to play my cards carefully if I am going to find out if there is ever a way to get home again.
I look at the food I have left and approach is slowly, my eyes constantly darting to the partially open door to see who might be looking in or coming in to do who knows what else to me. But there is no one. I am interestingly enough being trusted, at least as far as I can see out that door.
The smell of the food hits me, and I can tell this has been prepared by someone who knows their way around a kitchen. The peaches had been thrown in his face along with one of the three fluffy pancakes that was a part of this breakfast I was brought in bed. I don’t know where he got off trying to feed me like we are lovers or like I am his child – I still don’t know his angle – but now that I am not pissed off, I can feel my stomach betraying me. I may be known by some to be a waif, but I am a Texas girl through and through. I like my food, and I have not eaten well in days now. Longer than that if I count the fact that my stay in Rio has mostly consisted of bar junk and cocktails. But I find, as I look at this breakfast before me, I am starving. I don’t want to show weakness by taking it, don’t want it to end up being some contract or sign that I plan on belonging to this asshole, but I need it.
I sigh, picking up the silverware and diving into the omelet, wondering what is waiting inside for me. It is fluffier than even my mother can make it and filled with smoked ham and bacon and full of cheese. It is an indulgence in the very least and a delicious feast at best. It is close if not right there as the best food I have ever tasted.
I savor every bite, blushing with embarrassment at my sometimes-loud noises of appreciation. This is some damn good food, and I feel more than satisfied as I finish the last bite I can handle, leaving nothing more than pancake scraps for the asshole or his staff to clean up. And judging by how nice what I have seen of this place is, I would gather there is staff. And I doubt that man cooked this breakfast himself.
I look around me and really pay attention to details, other than the bed, for the first time. The room is white with gold trimmings like we are in some baroque castle, and I wonder where I am. Between being kidnapped in the first place, being on the boat, and then the helicopter ride, I couldn’t exactly keep track. It isn’t like I am some geography buff anyway, though I assume I am still not in the United States.
I got to the closet, opening. It isn’t fully stocked, but there are a few things; mostly dresses that look way too pretentious for me to even. Then, I notice a pair of designer jeans and a red ruched crop top. It will do.
I slip it on, staying inside the closet as not to be seen by whoever may be lurking beyond my door, and then I psych myself up. “Okay, Presley, you are a Texas woman. You have been through hell and back. You can handle whatever this man is going to throw at you. Be fierce.”
I tiptoe out of the room, looking around the corner, unsure which way to go. One way leads further down the hall but then dead ends, so I take a right and go the opposite way assuming I will run into a living quarter.
Sure enough, there he is on a chaise lounge, his eyes already on me. I immediately notice several things at once; he is alone, and he is hot. Not that it matters, but for the first time I take him in and realize under different circumstances I would be drooling. Even under his button down and tie that remains, I can tell he must be ripped. He takes care of himself. I can’t guess his age because while he has well-trimmed, dark facial hair, he has one of the ageless faces. His skin is tan, and his eyes hold this permanent intenseness to them.
“Have you gotten your fill?” he asks, his voice smooth. I can’t tell if this is rehearsed or if his voice naturally sounds that way. I nod as he stands up, striding over to me. He does not hide the fact that he is carrying a gun, the handle of it obvious to the naked eye. Not that I hadn’t seen people carrying guns. I am from Texas for fuck’s sake, but there is something different about how he carries it – like he uses it for more than just a good pair of antlers for the wall. But I also get another sense of glitz and glam even more so than I had in the bedroom. Everything is white and gold with a few dashes of violet sprinkled in, and yet somehow, it still does not appear ultra-feminine. Just well decorated like he paid someone to come up with the theme. He probably did. I could only guess the size of the house from the parts I had seen, but it felt huge. Like a mansion.
He stands before me now with a smug smile I cannot read. It makes him appear even more debonair, but I don’t dare admit it to him considering I am undecided in whether or not he is a psychopath. “I hope you have liked what you have seen so far.”
I raise an eyebrow at his comment, wondering if he means the house, or if he is insinuating something else. Then, he gestures around him as if to answer the unasked question.
“I haven’t seen much other than the bedroom,” I snap at him, and I can see a hint of a gleam in his eye that is both sexy and sinister, like a threat. I probably shouldn’t be snippy like that when I am at his mercy, but I can’t help it. This is shit. “I didn’t feel comfortable traipsing around here alone with your goons.”
“Forgive me. You should absolutely get to see the rest of the place. Come, I will take you on a personal tour,” he offers, motioning, his stance and eyes softening. I follow him with hesitation as he brings me out into the living area and starts spouting off some bullshit about all the lavish things he is pointing out. Crystals from India, silk form China, it goes on and on from room to room, and there is one other thing I keep hearing as well – that this is going to be my new home. The more he says it, the angrier and more confused I become, and I don’t like it. I am having trouble controlling my emotions, and I have so many scenarios running through my head.
I have heard about these situations online, horror stories about women being taken and eventually chained up and forced to do sexual acts, never allowed to see or speak to their families again. I keep expecting to be led into some sick sex dungeon, but there is no sign of that. The only things I see are over expensive linens and furniture in an attempt to, what, impress me? I am unsure, but I have just about had it.
“These are the servants’ quarters. As you can see, I let them have as much luxury as myself for their hard work. If you ever need anything, you will find two maids, a cook, and even a part time butler if you would like to use him. He is here from lunch to dinner each week day.” He looks back at me and smiles on one side of his mouth like I should give some kind of reaction, and I do, but probably not the one he was looking for.
“Just stop,” I say, a little too loudly. He pauses and turns around to look at me, his hands clasped together in front of him as an impatient gesture. “Where am I, and why do you keep referring to this as my new home? I don’t even know who you are, and I expect some answers at this point. I don’t get why you would forge some marital document or why you want to be married to me. Do you know who I am?”
His eyes raking over me are intimidating, but I hold my position and do not flinch. He had got to tell me something. “You will know everything in good time, my dear,” he says, and I am legit shaking with anger.
My hand goes across his face so hard I am sure the whole big fucking house can hear it. “No! I will not accept that. And you know why? Because I was tricked, taken away from a club only to wake up on a damn boat inside of a fucking cage like an animal. I had to endure torture and sitting in a cage of my own piss and shit. I was threatened, violated to check for my virginity and cleanliness, and then paraded around like a fucking show pony only to be taken away on a helicopter by you, telling me I should be grateful. Do not test me by leaving me in the dark. I am not some pretty face you can fool. I am a southern bitch, and if you don’t tell me something I can cling to right now, I am going to find a way to take that gun from you and shoot you with it!”
Suddenly, we are not alone in the hallway. Two men have come to his aid, hands on their guns, no doubt. I scoff, not scared but annoyed. Of course, he has body guards. How many other pissed off women had he brought to this place?
He puts his hand up to stop them, and they back off, retreating to whatever hidden corner they had come from to begin with. I huff a sigh as his eyes meet mine, and there is a glint there. I can’t tell whether it is lust, pain, anger, or all of the above. It frustrates me that I can’t read him, but I do see that my slap left an ugly red mark on his tan skin. I slapped him pretty damn hard.
He adjusts his jaw, and I wait for it, whatever punishment I am going to get for this. But it doesn’t come. Instead, he tells me some of the answers I am seeking.
“You are my fiancé, and you are in Brazil. From what I understand this is where you were picked up from, so you have not gone far. I am planning a big wedding for us, and you will marry me. The documents are already prepared. I do not plan to lock you in a cage or make you some kind of sex slave, though I cannot say the same for many of the women who were your companions in that boat. That is usually their fate, if not something worse.” He pauses for a moment, and I am trying to make it all in as his mouth gets hard. “However, you should know if you cannot behave to some e extent, you will be punished.” His words are harsh now, but even if I don’t like what I hear, it’s better than nothing. “And you can call me Stefan, I am Stefan Dalca, and soon, you will be Presley Dalca,” he reminds me, making me cross my arms over my chest.
The only thing I still don’t know is why.
