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“Damian—”
“Lock her in my room.”
He steps aside to let one of his men exit.
“No,” I cry as the man drags me away. “Damian, don’t do this.”
Damian doesn’t even look at me. He turns away, allowing the bulk of a man to burn me with his touch on my arms, shoving me past Russell and Anne, and up the stairs.
“Please,” I beg when we reach the bedroom, “don’t lock the door. I’ll stay. I swear.”
My plea falls on deaf ears. Once he’s left me in the room, he shuts the door. Through the closed door, I hear the man call to Zane for the keys. Rushing to the door, I jerk on the handle, but the guard is blocking it.
“Let me out!”
More footsteps fall outside, followed by the turn of a key. A flick of the door handle confirms my worst fear. I’m locked in.
No, no, no.
My chest closes up.
It’s nothing.
It’s not.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. It’s as if I’m trapped under water, and my only urge is to fight my way to the surface. Shamelessly, I bang on the door, a vague corner of my mind aware of the fact that everyone in the house can hear the noise I’m making, but I can’t bring myself to care.
When my fists hurt too much to carry on, I rush to the window and throw it open. I already know it’s two stories down with no ledge, but I search for something I might have missed, like a gutter pipe running down the wall. There’s nothing but smooth brick. My dress suddenly feels to tight. I claw at the high neck, ripping off a button. Forcing myself to take deep, steady breaths, I unbutton the bodice. My hands are shaking, and the buttons are so tiny it turns out to be a daunting task.
Sitting down on the window seat, I inhale as much of the night air as I can drag into my uncooperative lungs. Sheer willpower allows me to focus on my breathing until I can let my mind drift. I’m back in time, living the happier moments of my life before my mother died, until I fall into a trancelike state that allows me to escape the reality of the situation.
By the time the door opens, I’m covered in a cold sweat. Damian stands on the threshold, shirtless, carrying a tray. Kicking the door shut, he walks to the table by the fireplace. I can’t help but look at his hands when he deposits the tray. They’re clean, his nails free of dirt or blood.
I tense when he walks to me, flattening my back against the cold glass of the windowpane. He towers over me, all muscles and man, and now that I’ve seen what this man is capable of, his dominating presence is scarier.
Eyebrows furrowed, he studies me. “I’m sorry you had to see that. It won’t happen here again.”
Here. He didn’t say it wouldn’t happen again. He just won’t do it here.
My mouth is so dry it’s difficult to speak. “Why?”
“He stole from me.”
My voice is hoarse. “How many fingers?”
“Three.”
“Was that really necessary?”
His eyes darken until the black almost consumes the brown. “This will be the fate of anyone who dares to take something that belongs to me.”
I swallow, remembering he accused my family of stealing from him more than once. “Harold?”
“I have something different in mind for him. He deserves losing more than his fingers.”
My heartbeat turns erratic. I don’t ask what he has in mind for me. I don’t want to know. When he reaches out, I flinch, but I don’t move. I’m backed up against the window. There’s nowhere to go.
He wipes a thumb over my cheek. “I scare you.”
I don’t deny the truth.
He continues to stroke my cheek as he speaks. “I can’t promise to never hurt you.”
Everything inside me constricts at the confession. I didn’t expect anything less, but hearing him say it makes the fear more tangible, rising to lie shallower in my chest.
“I can promise you, though,” he carries on, “that I won’t let anyone else hurt you.”
Lies. He broke that promise even before he made it, and if it depends on Zane, he’ll break it many times over.
Dropping his hand, he walks to the table and picks up a glass and plate, which he carries back to me.
“You haven’t finished dinner.”
I take the plate on autopilot, grimacing at the lemon pie. My appetite has vanished, and the thick layer of meringue makes me want to vomit.
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I can’t.”
He hesitates but exchanges the pie for the glass. The whisky, I drink. I need the burn that opens my throat and dulls my senses.
“Tea?” he asks, still standing over me like a doctor scrutinizing a patient.
“What?”
His fingers brush mine when he takes the glass. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
