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“No!”Yes.“Your brothers are also the sons of a brutal and famous don,” I spit back in defense. “My articles were truth.”
“Your articles were trash.” He grabs my left hand, moving faster than a rattlesnake, and claps a cuff around my wrist again, then he grabs my right and does the same so they’re bound together. Which is only a slight improvement on being cuffed to a bed. “Your articles were nothing more than an opinion based on rumor, and they were only on the front page because of your name. No one else would get the same placement for such shitty writing.”
“Shitty writing?!” I explode. “Shitty? I am an award-winning journalist!”
“You’re a nepo baby.” Rolling his eyes, he crawls backward, drawing his thighs and hips along my legs until his feet are on the floor. Once he’s standing, his hands come to the fabric circling my ankles. “You’re nothing more than a gilded princess, born into money and a title that will ensure you’re always invited to the good parties. You haveonecritical reviewer who speaks badly of you, but it’s not because you’re just that good, it’s because your prestige demands respect,or else.Not even ‘Anonymous’ is brave enough to use their real name and back up their opinion.”
“That reviewer is a wannabe,” I scowl. Because dammit, I knowexactly who he means. “I know who they are behind the cowardly tag, and I know they, too, wish they were a writer worth reading.”
“Uh-huh.” He mocks me with his smirk. “But if you entered your pieces in a blind competition, with no names and no status attached, you wouldn’t even come last. You’d only get a participation award.” He reaches into his pocket and produces a knife, pressing a button on the side that has the sharp blade flinging out to glisten in the low light. Instantly, my bowels liquify and sweat beads along my spine. “You’re not talented, Darling. You’re privileged.” He grabs the silky fabric circling my ankles and swipes his knife through to free me from my restraints. “Breakfast?”
“I demand to go home.” I shove up on the bed, using my stomach muscles to support my weight and keep me upright, because the alternative would be to spread my legs and sit crisscross. “Now.”
“Home wasn’t an option.” He grabs my bound hands and yanks me to my feet so fast, my blood pressure dips and my head swims. If he wasn’t holding on, I’m not sure I’d remain standing.
I slam my eyes shut against the darkness already stealing my vision, and when that doesn’t fix the wooziness, I open my mouth and breathe. I draw a deep breath in, filling my lungs and expanding my chest, then I exhale until there’s nothing left and I feel it’s safe to open my eyes.
Unfortunately, I find myself still in Felix Malone’s bedroom, his eyes boring into mine, and his brows pinching tight in whatcouldbe described as concern. “You okay there, princess?”
The pet name, spoken with pure disdain, sets my temper alight. “Jebi se! Release me now.”
He snorts and lets go of my hands, decidedly certain I won’t fall. Then folding his knife and sliding it back into his pocket, he turns and starts toward the door. “I don’t know what you just said, Ms. Cannon, but it sure sounded unkind. I’ve left your legs unbound, but if you try to run—or worse,” he glances back over his shoulder, “kick me—I’m gonna make you regret it. Let’s go.”
I can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t think. Because my entire being is wrapped up in the view I got the moment Felix turned away and presented me with his back.
Scars.
So many scars. Welts and tears. Evidence of stitches that appear to have been placed by a toddler, based on the resulting mutilation left behind.
He’s all healed now. Everything that was done to him, committed years before this moment. But the scar tissue is thick. Thetorture—because surely, that’s the only word I can use to describe the damage done to this man—constant, consistent, and repeated.
He was hurt. He was healed. And then he was hurt again.
And again.
And again.
When the silence drags on too long and my mind focuses only on the disfigurement inflicted by someone else, Felix spins back and drops a hand into the front of his pants. “If you’re gonna stare at my ass, Darling, might I suggest you stare at my cock instead? I’m not interested in the back door—mine, anyway—and I get the feeling that’s not your thing, either.”
“Wh-what happened to you?” My voice crackles with fear… and curiosity. Worse, sympathy for a monster. Empathy for a man who takes lives just as casually and carelessly as his father did. “Felix, your back…”
“Sexy, right?” He flashes a wolfish grin, giving himself away by revealing that, when he feels vulnerable and exposed, his inclination is to smile and deflect. “I’m hungry, princess.” Charging back my way, he grabs my bound hands and tugs me across the room. “And it would seem we have a lot to talk about. I was being polite before; now I’m telling you. Breakfast.”
“You’re an asshole.”
I stumble as we cross from bedroom to hall. But it’s not until the soles of my feet touch cold tile that I look down and wonder where my shoes went. My pantyhose. My dignity.
“What did you do to me?” I try to slow us down. To study every inch of the long, dark hall. To catalogue the paintings on the walls, and the sconces beside them. I peek into every open door, though most are closed, and sway when we reach the top of the stairs and I look down to find they simply go onforever. “I feel like I drank a gallon of tequila last night and made bad choices.”
He starts down the stairs with a chuckle, his hand still wrappedaround my cuffs, so I’m forced to lean forward or risk being tugged down and injured. “Good old-fashioned Rohypnol. Bought it from the fourteen-year-old dealer on the corner.”
My nose scrunches in disgust. My foot, tingling with readiness to arc forward and kick this jerkoff down his own flight of stairs. A solid plan, except for the very real chance his hand would remain around my cuffs and he’d drag me down with him. “Really?”
He snorts and slows his progress, frustrated at how unhurriedly I move. “No, Darling. We use the good ketamine around here. Feeling a little woozy? Eat something and you’ll feel better.”
“I don’t want your food.” I slow my steps further. Partially to alleviate my dizziness, but also, to piss off the man taking such liberties with my person. “I don’t want your hospitality. I want to go home.” Then my eyes flash with a thought. “My colleagues will come looking for me. And my driver. And my father!”
Well, not the last. But still.
