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I repress a sigh. I know his pattern. He’ll try to get me to confess to my wrongdoing, then mete out his punishment. Only then will I be allowed to leave. Nothing I do would speed up the process—and if I try, it’ll only be worse for me.
“I’m fine,” I say. As much as I want to avoid sounding sullen, I can’t help it.
“I see you painted the meeting room.” Anyone who didn’t know Control might think he sounds perfectly pleasant. But I can hear the thread of fury running through his tone.
“I did.”
“And yet, I thought I told you to paint it some plain color.”
I should just agree with him. I know that. But I can’t help myself. “Did you? I thought I was supposed to get it ready for the Mardi Gras party.”
He steps up close to me, and despite myself, I flinch. His tone drops. “Are you sassing me?”
And that’s it—that’s as far as I can push it with him today. My eyes drop to the floor. “No, sir,” I murmur.
“What is that?”
I lift my gaze to meet his. “No, sir,” I say louder.
“Why did you go against my direct orders?”
Several responses flicker through my mind.Because you’re an asshole. Because you don’t appreciate me. Because your orders were stupid. Because I hate you.
But any of those will only make the situation worse. There’s no good answer. So instead, I give him a response that has the benefit of being true, at least partially. “I thought it would look good for the party.”
“You think you know better than me, girl?”
Yes.
“No, sir.”
He raises one arm and backhands me across the face. My head snaps to the side, and my teeth click together.
If I can keep my tendency toward smartass answers in check, this will be the worst of it. I bite the inside of my lips, forcing myself to remain quiet.
“Next time,” Control says, “you do exactly what I tell you.”
He acts as if we haven’t had this conversation hundreds of times.
“Yes, sir.”
“You can go.” He steps behind his desk and begins sorting through papers there.
I turn to leave but pause, confused. “Do you want me to paint over it?” I ask.
He glances up at me. “Did I say I wanted you to paint over it?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re lucky—my new partners liked it. Leave it up through the party—you can paint over it after that.”
He goes back to shuffling the papers on his desk, and I leave.
My cheek is throbbing where he hit it, and I’m sure it’s going to leave a bruise. But it could definitely be worse.
It has been before.
I know he meant to convince me I shouldn’t have disobeyed him—but really, all he’s done is piss me off.
