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Her frame is stronger than it looks, a line of muscles running through her calves and thighs. She wears a black hoodie, cropped at the waist. Her tiny black sports shorts have a high waist but barely cover her curves, dipping down into the curve of her ass. Medium length dark hair pulled into tight braids. Her bright blue eyes sparkling like sunlight over the rippling water of the Adriatic. Her porcelain skin flawless and creamy under the streetlight.
She looks around the parking lot, clearly not wanting to go with me. “Where’s Dad? Did he come tonight?”
“He brought me to the Pit. We watched you fight. He gave me some very specific instructions about your care. Then had his driver pick him up and take him home.” I grip the door. “Get in the car.”
Finally, she climbs inside.
She sits beside me, her face flushed from her fight. She’s got a pink butterfly backpack slung over her shoulder. She lets it fall to the floorboard. She lives comfortably in her skin but doesn’t seem to think she’s better for it.
From what I’ve heard, like her mother, she enjoys the expensive clothing that enhances her figure, the spa treatments, the pretty things. But she’s just as happy in shorts and a T-shirt, trying to beat her brother’s friends at hoops.
Still, she’s a pretty little rich girl and I’m wary of her. I want to take her bright, shiny gleam and make it dark and dull, overpower her and take away her sparkle because I know what girls like her are capable of.
But I can’t. And I won’t.
Don’t go to the past. Don’t take what she did to you out on Paisley. It’s not fair.
I will not lay a finger on her. Not in that way at least but I’ll punish her when she’s bad. Teach her to obey. Keep her safe. Make sure she knows her privilege does not exclude her from following the rules.
Then I’ll deliver her, untouched, just as pure and clean as she is right now.
I’ll hand her over to her equal, a man raised in this world. Unlike me, someone who was thrust into wealth and glamour and still hasn’t gotten used to being called sir or having seven digits in my bank account instead of a negative balance.
I still feel the desire to leave an angry red handprint on her ass.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“Thought you might like to tour your new Hamlet home.” She doesn’t say anything in reply. Surely her mind is churning, wondering why I’m the one here instead of her father and why I’m not taking her straight back to her parents’ house. I can feel the unease, the tension radiating from her, her shoulders stiff, her face tilted toward the window. “We need to talk. And I think it’d be better in private.”
We ride in silence, winding through the woods that will lead us to one of the rear service gates to enter the Hamlet. The quiet is broken by her soft voice. “My dad knows I go there.”
“How’d you know?” I ask.
“I may be innocent but I’m not naïve.” She says it matter-of-factly without sass. “The Bachmans have better tech than the US military. Do I really think they don’t keep tabs on me outside of the Hamlet?”
“Makes sense,” I say, keeping my tone level.
She gives a small sigh before continuing. “My dad grew up Bachman. The first in the family to grow up in the Village. He knows firsthand how stifling it can be. And he’s always been my number one supporter, always getting into my hobbies.” She turns to me. I keep my eyes on the road, but I can feel the heat of her gaze on my face. A little sass creeps into her voice. “I’m not stupid. I know he lets me go to the Pit.”
“Did you know he watches you fight?” I ask.
There’s a pause in the conversation as she absorbs this information.
“No,” she finally says. “I had no idea.” Her voice warms. “That’s crazy sweet. I don’t know if I’d be able to watch in the same situation. Especially seeing me get my ass kicked.”
“I thought you did alright,” I say. “She was quite a bit bigger than you.”
“Unfortunately, me losing had way less to do with her size and way more to do with the fact that she’s just way better than me.” She gives a self-deprecating, good-natured laugh. I like the sound and I find myself warming to her.
“I can show you a few things, a way to shift your weight to compensate for a larger opponent. You know Damian. He trains all the new brothers in mixed martial arts. I don’t see why he couldn’t start training Beauties as well.”
“I’m done with all that,” she says. “But thanks.”
“Regardless.” I shift my weight in my seat, gripping the leather wheel tighter. “You know those little outings are over, right? When we go on this trip, there can’t be any more of your adventures.”
“Mm.” She sounds a million miles away.
“Mm?” I glance over at her. She’s looking out the window, hands clenched in her lap. I can’t read her face. “What does mm, mean?”
