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It’s a whole other thing for someone else to see me as a literal obedient lapdog.
He must sense the shift in me because, instead of absentmindedly taking the almond from my fingers, he looks into my eyes as he wraps his lips around it—and my fingertips. His tongue flicks lightly against them, then stops.
That’s when I know he sees the tears brimming my lashes.
I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to humiliate myself any more than he’s already managed. But my stomach is in knots and I really wish I could just disappear from this dinner party, from this compound.
From thislife.
Regret flashes in his eyes. It’s a fraction of a millisecond, but it’s there. Were we in any other situation, I might dare to dream that he’d actually apologize for the way he’s treating me and defend my honor against his horrible guests.
But this is reality.
Demyen smirks and takes a long pull from his cigar. “You know me. I’m a selfish son of a bitch when it comes to a beautiful face and a tight ass. I just can’t help myself.”
And just like that, my self-pity snaps into anger.
“It’s too bad you have to pay for it,” I casually muse, plucking another chocolate almond from the board. “But hey, the more you pay, the bigger and better you are, right?”
No one finds my little joke funny.
Least of all Demyen.
He taps the ash off his cigar into the ashtray, then slowly presses it out. After a long silence, he smiles at his guests.
I don’t like that smile. It’s full of promises I don’t want him to fulfill.
“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. I have some business to attend to.”
His hands are on my waist. I’m suddenly on my feet.
And he whisks me away from the table, confirming my blooming fear:I’mthe business in question.
29
CLARA
How many walkways-slash-hallways-slash-paths does this place have? I’ve lost count and Demyen shows no signs of slowing down as he hauls me away from the party. It’s another open archway path he steers me to, abandoned by guests and staff and dimly lit by solar lamps perched on each column. One of those columns is now pressed to my back—and he’s caging me in.
“Remind me, Clara: didn’t we have an agreement?”
I look anywhere but at his face. I’ll stare at his chest if I have to. It’s not a bad sight, either. The top buttons of his linen shirt are undone and the low lamplight makes his golden tan glow.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
I swallow. My mouth is suddenly dry. “Yes, sir.”
“You promised to play nice. You promised to be a good girl.” He braces a palm against the smooth column above my head as his other hand lifts to play with the ends of my hair. “You gave me your word.”
“I… I know.”
“You’ve got a lot riding on this, Clara. A whole hell of a lot. You owe me.”
I suck in a deep breath.Bad mistake. All I can smell is him and it’s so distracting. “I don’t deserve to be treated like a slave. I’ll do whatever you want, but I won’t give you my dignity.”
The fingers playing with my hair slide up and tangle at the nape of my neck—and with one sudden, firm pull, he forces my head back to look up into his stormy glare.
