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It’s not technically heavy. But somehow, it feels like it weighs the exact same as Clara would if she were in my arms instead.
Raizo grins, wide and unsettling. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Zakrevsky.”
40
CLARA
It’s no villa in the desert, but it’s also not exactly what I expected from a man like him.
It’s nice, don’t get me wrong. But as we pull up into the driveway, I’m struck by hownormalthis place seems. The outside walls are a mottled pattern of stone bricks, an adobe archway over the front door, and long panels of glass where windows hint at vaulted ceilings inside.
No signs of slaves, guards, or anything that would suggest a human trafficker lives here.
Again, The Bearded Man—“Master”—opens the passenger door for me, and even holds his hand out for me to take and steady myself on my heels. When we walk to the front door, he wraps his arm around my waist and acts like this is totally normal for us. Like there’s an “us.”
Which I guess is smart. No telling who might be watching, even though the nearest neighbor isn’t close enough to see or hear anything.
“We’ll be staying here until my business is done,” Master informs me once we’re inside. He shrugs off his suit jacket and unclasps his cufflinks, rolling his sleeves up to just below his elbows. To my relief, he loosens his tie instead of his belt.
I don’t know what he wants or what he wants to do to me first. What Idoknow is that silk ties hurt a lot less than leather belts.
“I need a drink,” he grumbles. He flicks two fingers at me to follow him, so I do. “Take those shoes off. You’ll scuff up the floors.”
The sigh of relief catches in my throat when I slip off the heels and stretch my ankles. I set them aside in the foyer and quickly pad across the marble floor, following him into the dining room.
A low fire glows in the brick fireplace. Master pokes the logs with an iron poker a few times, and for a moment, I’m terrified that he’s going to turn around and hit me with it.
But instead, he sets it back in the rack, wipes his hands on his pants, and turns to the minibar nearby. He pulls out two shot glasses, then fills both with what looks like vodka. With one gulp, he knocks the first one back. Then he grabs the second and turns to me.
“My… but youarebeautiful,” he murmurs. His eyes roam my body from head to toe, taking time around my midsection before returning to my face. When he approaches, I force myself to lean against the dining table so I don’t give into my urges and run for the door.
“So fucking beautiful.” Master slowly runs his fingers along my bare thigh, then pushes my dress up and to the side until both my legs and my ass are exposed to him.
Don’t start shaking… Please, don’t start shaking…
I can’t let him see how scared I am. I can’t let him know how much this bothers me—how his touch makes me want to run away to the opposite side of the room.
“They were right: I am going to enjoy having these legs wrapped around me,umnitsa.”
His rumbling laughter makes my skin crawl. The way his fingers dip between my legs makes me shudder. But I have to be good. I have to play my part.
I have to keep Willow safe.
Even if I never see her again.
He turns and barks out an order to men I didn’t know have been standing by the door. At least four file into the room and approach the table we’re standing in front of. None of them look like they’re surprised to see me there. Thankfully, none of them look at me with any sort of desire. I don’t know if I could handle that kind of introduction to this new life.
Master rumbles another order.
I’m suddenly yanked by both arms and dragged onto the table. Instinct has me kicking to right myself, but the other two men quickly grab my legs and hold me down.
“Now, now,umnitsa,” Master croons in a sickly soothing voice. He pats my thigh and I hear the flick of a blade. “Hold very still. I’d much rather cut up this pretty dress than your skin, understood?”
A whimper of fear is all I can manage. I want to rip myself free and run, so bad, but the first touch of cold, sharp metal to my hip makes me freeze.
“There’s a good girl.” He cuts and rips at the fabric, following the seam up one side. When he reaches the strap, a quick flick snaps it apart—he does the same to the other side. One of the men pulls the ruined dress from my body with a hard yank.
Now, I’m completely naked, pinned face-down on this sick man’s dining table. Trembling, trying not to cry, and terrified of what he’s planning to do to me. “What are you doing?” I finally squeak out between deep, panting breaths.
