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Chapter3
Is he a god, or married?
Oriana
“You’re finally awake. You’ve been sleeping all day.”
I’m sitting up in a bed I do not recognize, in a place I have never been before.
What on earth is this place?
There are beds and couches everywhere, but it’s void of people except him. My eyes findhimsitting on one of the couches, with one leg resting over the other while his hand taps his thigh.
“Where…” Ah, my voice is back. It seems everything is back because I feel like I can string a sentence together, and that’s what I do when I ask him, “Where am I?”
“In my establishment.”
Three words? That’s all I get in return.
He’s holding a cigar in one hand, the other is still tapping on his leg, though the action looks strained. Tense.
“Why am I here?” I attempt to stand, but my head spins and I instantly see stars, so I sit straight back down.
“Because I caught you in a situation last night. One you may not have consented to.”
I take him in as he watches me calmly. His dark hair is on the longer side, not overly long but enough so he could tie it back. His eyes, which are almost charcoal in color, seem somewhat intimidating—it’s as if they can see right through me. He’s tall, dressed in dark jeans, a white button-up shirt, and brown boots.
“And you believe in consent?” I ask. Though after what he did for me, I think the answer is clear.
He waves a single hand around his establishment. “You’re in a place where consent is key.”
“I’m…” I shake my head, “confused.”
“How is your head feeling? The doctor had to add a stitch or two, so you may have a few of those red locks missing.”
I immediately reach up and touch the back of my head, where, indeed, some of my hair is missing. “Thank you. What do I owe you?” I ask.
“I have a doctor on hand.” He butts out his cigar and stands. “You were drugged and you’ve been sleeping it off. In case you weren’t coherent enough, he didn’t rape you, though he was going to.”
“Drugged?” I question, my stomach sinking. “I have to go.” I stand, albeit shakily my head going a million miles per hour. Not even thinking of the possibility of what could have happened. As my bare feet touch the floor, I look around for my shoes. “Where are my shoes?”
“I checked around last night but couldn’t find them.”
When I glance up at him again, he’s dangling a pair of exorbitantly expensive pink shoes from his fingers—they’re the kind with the bright red soles.
As I step closer, I’m dwarfed by his height. “Those aren’t mine.”
“I’m aware. Take them.”
“What? You just want to give them to me? They’re expensive shoes,” I say, my brows furrowing.
“Yes. As I said, you’ve been asleep for a while, and I would like you to leave so I can open my establishment.”
I reach out for the shoes, then slide them onto my feet while he stands in front of me.
“What is this place?”
“My establishment,” he says again.
